#Worst Fisherman (Morgan) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mattsturniolosmuse · 8 months ago

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Father Dexter

Dexter Morgan x Daughter! Reader

Summary: You are Dexter's daughter, 17 years old. Your mother gets murdered, and Dexter is there to calm you and protect you from further harm.

Warnings: Swearing, gore

🔪♥ 🔪♥🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥ 🔪♥

*8 years earlier*

Blood. It was everywhere.

Staining your skirt, splattering your face.

Your mother, lies in the middle of it all. Her body parts strewn across the room. Her arm on one side, near the wall. Her leg by the couch. Her head resting just 1 foot away from you.

"Dad!" You scream. "Daddy!"

You sit there for hours. Hours, that seemed like days. The coppery blood dried to your face.

"Y/N, I'm home." Your dad calls from the foyer. He enters the room with a smile, holding a bouqet of lilies. Your favourite.

You begin to sob as your father calls the Miami Metro Department.

He picks you up, wrapping his arms around you protectively.

"It's OK, my angel, Aunt Deborah is on her way." He says, stroking your hair.

He carries you to the kitchen, wetting a cloth in warm water. He wipes your face gently, tears pouring down his face.

"Let's go change." Dexter says. You slip off your skirt, and Dexter puts it in a large zip lock bag. You take your shirt off. Dexter lays out some jeans and a pink sweater.

"Change, sweetheart." He says. You do.

🔪♥ 🔪♥🔪

*Present day*

"Dad? I'm going out with Joel." You call down the hallway towards the direction of your fathers bedroom.

"Hold up." He calls back. You lean on your door frame. He takes a look at what you're wearing. A nice dress, modest, though. It was down to your knees, and hugged your waist nicely. It was a halter top, showing no cleavage. Your father was strict that way.

"You look nice, my angel." He says, pulling you into a hug.

"You know the drill. No strangers, call me when you get there, if you want to leave just text me and I'll come and pick you up." He says, looking at you again.

"You're growing up. You've got a boyfriend." Dexter says, tears in his eyes.

"You can drink alcohol in less than a month, for god sake!" He says. You nod and smile.

"Bye, dad." You say, kissing his cheek.

"Bye, kid." He says. He watches with sad eyes as you get into Joel's truck. He's tried to protect you as much as he could.

The day your mother died was one of the worst days of his life. He vowed to hunt down the man who killed your mother and kill him. And so, he had found him, and it was going to happen tonight. Tonight was the night.

🔪♥ 🔪♥🔪

Dexter watches as the man leaves the bar, waving bye to a few friends. The man was a lot thicker than he was in his photo, with tattoos covering his arms and legs.

Dexter had hid himself in the back of the guy's car. When the guy got in, Dexter wrapped a metal wire around his throat.

"Go where I tell you. Or else I'll kill you." Dexter says to him, voice deep and unrecognizable.

The man follows Dexter's directions, and they arrive at their destination. An old fisherman's shack, that hasn't been used for 6 years.

Dexter followed his routine, injecting poison into the man, knocking him out. He laid him flat on the table, wrapping Saran wrap around his body, securing him to the table. Now, he just had to wait.

A few minutes later, the man gained consciousness, his eyes opening and closing due to the bright light. When he finally got used to it, Dexter spoke.

"Hey there." Dexter said, standing over him with a rigged knife. The man's eyes widen.

"What? What did I do? What do you want from me?" He asks. Dexter chuckles, shaking his head.

"Your life. You killed my wife. Which killed my daughters spirit. She was going to be an actress, you know. Until you killed her mother." Dexter says, slicing the knife into his cheek, drawing blood and dropping it onto a file.

"Who? I don't know what you're talking about." The man says, blood dripping down his cheek.

"Oh, I think you do." Dexter says, stepping aside so the man could see the photos of your mother. The man's eyes widen, his veins popping in his neck.

"She deserved it, that bitch. I am not sorry." The man said, full of venom.

"Good. Well, I don't regret this." Dexter says, swinging a butcher knife down on the man's neck, slicing his head clean off. Dexter smiles as the blood splatters over his front.

A small squeak snaps him back to reality. He looks up, bewildered, towards the front of the shack, seeing you, his beloved daughter, standing there, purse in hand, eyes wide at the mess in front of you.

"Oh my fucking God." You tremble, as you stare at the bloody mess and your father.

"Shit. Angel, it's not what it looks like." Dexter says, pulling you into a hug, coating your front in blood.

"How'd you find me?" He asks you.

"Well, you forgot to turn off your location, I guess." You say, not peeling your eyes away from the dead body. He seemed odly familiar.

"Dad, who is that?" You ask, stepping closer to the dead body. You examine his face.

"Well, it's the man who killed your mother." Dexter says, following you. It suddenly snapped into place.

The man's face, a sinister smile from ear to ear, as he forced you to watch him slice your mother's arms off, followed by her legs and head.

You start to cry. Sob.

Dexter pulls you into a hug.

"I'm sorry, angel." He says, kissing your head. You sob into his shoulder.

"You? You're the bay harbor butcher?" You snivel, looking at him.

"Yeah. God, I hate that name." He says, rubbing his face.

"But you have to understand that I only kill those who have killed others before." Dexter says to you. You nod.

"Please, angel, you cannot tell anyone." Dexter says, hugging you again.

"Can I help you next time?" You ask, genuinely. Dexter pauses.

"Of course you can." He whispers.

#Dexter morgan #Jeff lindsay #dexter #Miami florida #serial killer #the dark passenger

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authorellenmint · 2 years ago

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Arthur Morgan: I’m a shit fisherman. *proceeds to mail ten legendary fish* Yup, just the absolute worst.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #he's so bad he beats every record 10 times over

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varietydisco · 5 years ago

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Catch of the Day

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Kieran Duffy Rating: Teen and Up Tags: Mutual Pining, Crushes, First Kiss, Both of them being mildly touch-starved, Kieran rubbing down Arthur “butterball” Morgan with aloe vera Word count: 4500

Description: Arthur and Kieran let their minds wander on an unsuccessful fishing trip, and Arthur gets a sunburn.

Arthur felt his presence before Kieran even had the chance to say a word.

Kieran walked quietly, as if he were afraid to make too much noise or to assert himself into his surroundings. He seemed to slink around camp, shoulders slumped and head down, despite being surprisingly tall and just as lanky. He had an air about him, though, that was impossible to miss; sitting alone at the table scribbling in his journal, it made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up when he felt Kieran looking at him.

Kieran seemed to do a lot of looking these days, though that could have just been a coincidence.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder.

Sure enough, Kieran was standing a few feet off, all gangly limbs and strange uncertainty about himself. He held a fishing pole and a bucket in both his hands, with a worried expression. When Arthur looked at him, Kieran seemed to jolt, as if he weren’t expecting this development, and a little like he was ready to take off and run.

Arthur gave Kieran a second to speak, and when he didn’t, Arthur took the lead into the conversation.

“Mornin’.” He greeted, despite it being closer to noon by then. He flipped his journal shut and twisted around in his seat. “Whaddya need?”

“N— nothin’,” Kieran replied almost instantly, tripping over his words.

“Well, obviously there’s somethin’,” Arthur said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be ooglin’ me.”

Kieran’s cheeks flushed hot. His eyes dropped to the ground and the words sounded as though they were tumbling out of his mouth.

“I— I wasn’t ooglin’ ya! I was just… Well…”

A lot of people commented on how much more confident Kieran had gotten since they let him loose from the tree. He still had that damn stutter, but he was slowly getting less afraid to talk to people and speak his mind. Awful with looking people in the eye yet, which was something that bothered Dutch to no end (but really, what did he expect from a glorified ex-O’Driscoll-whipping-boy?). Otherwise, he was getting better, according to the others.

Arthur didn’t seem to get that from Kieran; he got an awkward man with a secret on his mind that was eating him inside out. If Arthur were better at reading people, he might try to figure out what Kieran was hiding, but he just wasn’t, so he stayed weary of the other man best he could.

“I’m tryin’ to rally my nerves, is all.” Kieran finally finished.

“So, you do want a favour.”

“No, not exactly. I— Well…”

“You’re wastin’ my goddamn time, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran’s freckled cheeks flared red. Despite the nerves which still wracked his voice and held his shoulders, he managed to sound more assertive.

“I told yous a million times over— I ain’t no O’Driscoll. I hate when y’all call me that. I’m… I’m more van der Linde than I ever was O’Driscoll.”

Arthur sort of half-shrugged his shoulders, before settling back and crossing his arms. Quickly, he scraped his eyes over Kieran’s lanky body. There was nothing in particular to note, except that when he got defensive and annoyed he stood a little straighter and a little taller, almost enough that it made him look good. Or at least better.

Arthur didn’t want to approach where that thought came from, so he quickly pushed it right back down.

“Just tell me what you want an’ be done with it. No sense runnin’ circles.”

“I’m only— I was wonderin’ if you’d wanna go fishin’ with me.” Kieran finally said. For emphasis, he shook the bucket in his left hand; it rattled presumably with extra hooks and bait.

Arthur looked at the bucket, then Kieran, then to the rest of the camp beyond him.

As the afternoon heat started settling in, most of the people had drifted away from their work towards whatever shady spots they could find instead. Either laid-up under tents to sleep away the heat or tucked under outcroppings from the waggons while they chatted quietly among themselves, the entire camp had fallen into a peaceful hush. There was no loud talking, or nagging, and most surprisingly of all, no arguing. Usually the heat brought out the worst in people, but for some reason, not today.

A secret little part of Arthur loved the thought of getting away from camp today. If he waited too long, Dutch or Pearson or one of the girls or someone would come wandering around, asking him for this or that. An errand to run in town, a trinket to go find, a harebrained scheme that would promise them big pay for a little elbow grease. Frankly, Arthur wasn’t in the mood for any of it. A day of peace might do him good.

Arthur turned his eyes back to Kieran and narrowed them. Being skeptical was always in his best interest.

“Why?” Arthur inquired. “I thought the fish didn’t bite this time of day… Somethin’ about the sun, or the bugs on the water.”

Under his intense gaze, Kieran acted funny. He wet his lips, shifted his feet, and dropped his eyes. His shoulders slumped forward again, as if what little confidence he had before was sucked out of him.

“Well, you’re— you’re the nicest person here to me. We did good the last time we went fishin’, too.” Kieran admitted. “And I figured you— well, I figured you needed some rest. You’re always runnin’ around for the others an’ I ain’t ever— p- pardon me sayin’, but I ain’t ever seen you sit your ass down anywhere for long. An’ fishin’, it’s just…”

The words were falling quick and nervous out of Kieran’s mouth. “It’s just sittin’ on your ass. Relaxin’.”

Arthur tilted his head back a little bit. Despite himself, he cocked his brow and smirked with the corner of his lips.

“Spend a lot of time thinkin’ about my ass an’ what I do with it, O’Driscoll?”

Kieran’s eyes bugged.

“That ain’t what I said at all!”

Admittedly, his reaction made Arthur laugh. Deep and quiet, Arthur settled back in his chair as he chuckled.

Kieran’s face went red up to his ears as he shook his own head. He chewed his lip and went to turn on his heels.

“Nevermind my askin’. M’ sorry to bother you.”

Arthur scoffed as soon as Kieran started to walk away. He uncrossed his arms, sat forward and waved his hand.

“Come on, now. I’m only teasin’.” Arthur said. He waited until Kieran looked back at him to keep talking, carefully. “I never said I wouldn’t come. I reckon it’d be nice… Relaxin’, an’ whatnot.”

Kieran perked up. Despite his nerves and doubts and every other weird, squirming feeling inside of him at the sight of Arthur’s bright blue eyes that he’d rather ignore, Kieran couldn’t help himself being drawn in. He smiled, a small quirk in his lips that quickly broke into something more excited.

For a second, the sight of it made Arthur forget what he was going to say.

Kieran didn’t seem to smile a lot, but then again, why would he? Not a lot to make you smile when you were the butt of everybody’s jokes.

But he had a great smile, Arthur had to admit, whether he wanted to or not.

Arthur cleared his throat and rose to his feet. As he went, he grabbed his journal and tucked it firmly under his arm.

“I ain’t much of a fisherman, though.” Arthur warned. “You know that.”

“Don’t matter. Most of the fun’s in the company, anyhow.”

Arthur pursed his lips. He couldn’t help but notice how Kieran’s eyes flickered to his mouth.

“Hold yourself in pretty good esteem?”

Even though Kieran still had that same nervous look to him, he kept smiling.

“Not hardly. I just think… We get along good, is all.”

Something about Kieran’s genuine smile made Arthur’s heart ache. He pushed it down, forced away his own smile, and only offered a nod in reply.

“…Yeah, you’re alright.”

—30—

By the time they got to their private nook on Flat Iron Lake, the sun was high in the sky and impossibly hot and stifling. Sweat rolled liberally down the sides of Arthur’s jaw and collected in his stubble, sticky and uncomfortable. There was hardly any shade for them, so the sun beat down awful vicious. Arthur felt the burn of his shirt against his shoulders.

But, for some reason, the peace was nice. All things considered.

Kieran talked, mostly about nothing and mostly just to fill the silence. His voice regained some of that confidence people were always commenting on. While they casted their lines and slowly reeled in, Kieran’s words floated up into the hot summer air and kept Arthur entertained.

“You know I— I heard once that there’s catfish in some lakes that’ve gotten so big they could eat a man,” Kieran said. His eyes were trained on the water, as he sat on the sandy bank and reeled his rod. “Heard that’s why in some places, they… They don’t eat the catfish. ‘Cause they’ve fed on humans.”

Their conversation was following a train of thought, constantly shifting topic and moving this way and that. Considering how quiet he normally was, Arthur just appreciated that there was someone to take the lead in the conversation.

“So, if we catch a real fat one,” Arthur mused. He reached up to wipe his forehead on his arm. “We ought to assume Pearson fell in the lake and got made dinner?”

Kieran laughed, short and surprised. Arthur glanced to the side in time to see it happen, and almost wished he hadn’t.

Seeing Kieran smile and watching his eyes crinkle as he laughed made Arthur’s heart ache again. There were so many implications to it that Arthur didn’t want to think about, much less dwell on or try to dissect.

He didn’t want to think about how Kieran’s presence made him feel, or the way the hairs on his arms and neck rose when he felt Kieran looking at him. And the last thing Arthur needed to be thinking about was how Kieran looked then, and how he wished he could have immortalized the scene in a drawing, with Kieran’s straw hat pulled low to his eyes, his body pitching forward slightly as he laughed, the quirk in his thin lips and the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. Arthur didn’t need to think about how much warmth and light Kieran managed to hide in that nervous face of his.

Maybe Kieran felt Arthur staring at him, because as his laughter died he looked to the side. His smile kind of dipped, shifted towards uncertainty.

“S— somethin’ wrong?” Kieran asked. His own heart thundered so loud in his chest, he prayed that Arthur couldn’t hear it.

Arthur never had a way with words. He had them all in his head, but never the means to express them proper. Instead of answering truthfully, Arthur shook his head, turned his eyes down, and drawled out a, “Naw. It’s nothin’.”

—30—

They didn’t catch a lot, and most of what they did were too small to keep. Even though their bucket was mostly empty, it was still in good fun; the peace and the quiet was better than anything else. For a few hours, at least, Kieran was glad to be away from the loud voices at camp mocking or teasing him.

Arthur was great company, all things considered. While they fished, and after their conversation had tapered off into sparse silence, Kieran kept stealing little glances at the other man.

Progressively, over the course of their fishing trip, Arthur had been undoing buttons from his shirt, trying to invite the weak breeze onto his skin. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and all the buttons undone on his front. His shirt basically hung off his shoulders, presenting all the soft, hairy rolls underneath.

Even though he was an outlaw on the run, he was still pudgy and heavy-set. Kieran knew better than to stare, lest he be caught and teased or chastised for it, but it felt impossible to look away. The sight made Kieran smile, and a collection of feelings and thoughts rush through his mind.

Arthur’s line snagged and immediately he jumped into action. He jerked the rod, and started to reel, though quickly the line went slack again.

As frustration crossed his face, Kieran laughed gently.

“You ain’t caught a single thing, just about.” Kieran pointed out with a grin. “You’ve just been feedin’ the fish all day.”

“I told’ja, I ain’t no fisherman.” Arthur replied, trying to mask his annoyance.

He reeled in his line quickly, shook his head at the empty hook when he examined it, and then baited it up with another worm.

Kieran watched Arthur’s hands work, impossibly big and rough, yet still deft and delicate in their movements.

“It’s all in how you reel,” Kieran eventually said, after Arthur casted his line again. “I could show ya.”

Arthur held his rod out to the side. “By all means.”

Kieran took the chance to scoot in closer to Arthur. The sandy beach shifted, hot and imposing under his legs; somehow, though, when his shoulder brushed with Arthur’s, it felt even hotter.

“You’ve got a good cast,” Kieran explained, keeping his eyes down on their hands. “But when you feel a bite, y’ gotta give it a hard, quick yank. Make sure that sucker stays on…”

Kieran placed his hand over Arthur’s and adjusted it. Arthur fell completely silent, settled instead on watching Kieran.

His eyes flicked between Kieran’s face and their hands, his heart starting to race. Maybe it was because people’s hands on Arthur usually had the intent to hurt, and that’s why it felt so hot and odd. Not exactly unfamiliar, just… Different. Good, in a way. Too good. Arthur’s mouth felt kind of dry.

Then, just as soon as Kieran’s hands were there, they were gone again; taken back quick and wrapped around his own fishing rod again, as though it had been a mistake to make contact at all.

“Then you just gotta… Keep reelin’.” Kieran finished. He wet his lips and glanced towards the water, away from Arthur. Feeling awkward and strange himself, with the lingering sensation of Kieran’s hands on his own, Arthur did the same. “If you pull the line too much, it’ll… It’ll dislodge the hook. Then the fish gets away with the bait.”

Arthur nodded. Under the brim of his hat, his shaded cheeks felt hot.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem.” Kieran replied just as weakly.

Silence overcame them, aside from Arthur clearing his throat and them quietly reeling in or casting out. It took a few seconds, but Arthur soon realized that Kieran never moved back to his spot. They stayed together, shoulders barely touching.

“You’re awful close,” Arthur pointed out, maybe because he felt an obligation to. It didn’t feel quite right to admit that he liked it.

Kieran glanced to him.

“Oh. I guess I am.” There was something uncertain in his expression as Kieran smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Do you mind it?”

Arthur didn’t know what to say right off, so he mumbled, “Not especially.”

Kieran didn’t look away immediately and neither did Arthur. They kind of gazed at each other for a long moment and it left Arthur unsure and nervous, because sitting this close he noticed how pretty Kieran’s eyes were, and that was something he would rather have not to think about.

“This is nice, don’tcha think?” Kieran asked. “Nothin’ to worry about, nobody wantin’ anythin’ outta ya.”

“It’s different.” Arthur admitted. He couldn’t be sure if he were referring to Kieran’s statement or his own feelings.

“We ought to do this more often. At least for your sake.” Kieran laughed weakly. He turned back towards the water. “What, with the way they’s run you ragged at camp…”

“How many times can you see my ugly mug before you get sick of it?” Arthur inquired. “Or do you just enjoy bein’ the most competent man in the area?”

“What? No! ‘Course not.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked with a smile.

“Oh, sure.”

“Honest and true,” Kieran insisted. “Its like I said, I— I just enjoy your company.”

“Nobody just ‘enjoys my company’ unless they want somethin’ or they’re sick in the head.” Arthur said it as a joke, in his own gruff way, but Kieran didn’t laugh or smile. Instead, Kieran paused, kind of furrowed his brows together in worry.

“You don’t really think like that, do ya?”

Arthur’s stomach twisted and he quietly faltered. It took him a second to shake off the comment.

“Come on, I don’t need pity from an O’Driscoll. It’s just a joke, is all.”

“Well, alright…” Kieran’s voice trailed off, and even as they both looked back to the water, he stole glances at Arthur through the corner of his eye. “…I don’t think it’s true, though. I think you’re fine company to keep.”

“You don’t know me very well, apparently.” Arthur felt a tug on his line, so he jerked the rod and did as Kieran showed him. “Or you’ve got a terrible judge of character. I kept you chained to a tree.”

“We all done things we ain’t proud of,” Kieran said. He let his own line lay to waste as he watched Arthur reel.

Arthur grunted with effort. “Who says I ain’t proud of it?”

“I like to think I know you better’n that.”

“You barely know me at all.”

Arthur tugged and reeled, and then stood up to get a better grip. Whatever was on the end of his line put up an awful fight.

Kieran’s eyes quickly looked over Arthur’s form, before they settled on his face.

“If that’s what you think, then I…” Kieran hesitated a second. “…I’d like to get to know you better, Mister Arthur.”

Arthur casted a quick glance to Kieran, part flustered and confused and unsure what to think, then pulled his catch out of the water with a great yank.

—30—

Arthur caught their biggest catch of the day because of course he did. As with all things, even though he put himself down, he excelled in the end.

Kieran didn’t have it in him to be jealous or angry about it, though. If anything, he was impressed, enthralled; starstruck, maybe, if it didn’t sound so cheesy to admit. When they came strolling back into camp that afternoon and Arthur handed his catch off to Pearson to be gutted and cleaned, people gawked and congratulated him and commented on how the fish had to be as big as Jack. Per usual, Kieran hung to the background, mostly forgotten and unnoticed. He didn’t mind.

He spent the whole day with Arthur, and that was more than he could have asked for. Except at one point, while a few people admired his catch, Kieran caught Arthur glancing over at him and giving him a small, crooked smile.

It made Kieran’s heart leap, his knees feel weak.

The smile only lasted a second, because quickly Arthur had to return to his scowl, lest people know that he wasn’t as rough, tough, and mean that he tried to sell himself as. Kieran didn’t mind, not really; he savoured the thought of Arthur smiling at him, then went about his work. He offered to help clean the fish for Pearson while the excitement around camp died down, and after that was done Kieran slunk back towards his own station by the horses. Back to the routine he knew.

Except he couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur. From his small smile to the power in his body when he rose up and reeled his fish in— it all stuck with Kieran, made him feel antsy and flustered like a teenager.

It also made him pause as he passed by Arthur’s tent, and note that the door of such was wide open.

Kieran didn’t try to be sneaky as he looked in. Struck with curiosity, Kieran openly peaked inside.

Arthur was sat on the cot, shirtless, as he rubbed ointment up and down his strong arms. His expression was stern and set. It twisted a little here and there as he rubbed himself down, no doubt dealing with the on-set sunburn from the afternoon. He applied more ointment to his hand, then reached behind himself to get at his shoulders.

Arthur didn’t look up, but his voice rang out, deep and commanding, “Kieran Duffy, quit that starin’. What d’you need?”

Kieran jolted and was suddenly overcame with the desire to run. He felt shame swell in his chest, like he was a peeping tom that had been caught in the act.

“I— I don’t need nothin’,” Kieran replied. He shifted towards the open front of Arthur’s tent. “How come you keep thinkin’ I do…?”

“Remember what we talked about? With you wastin’ my time?” Arthur twisted his body to try and reach his back with the ointment, but seemingly he had little success.

Flustered, Kieran looked at the ground.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. His eyes trailed back up to Arthur, quickly scanning over his heavy-set and half-naked body.

Watching Arthur struggle to apply his ointment was comparable to watching a seal try to wriggle back into the sea. It was like a disaster you couldn’t look away from.

After a moment of Arthur pretending that he didn’t notice Kieran was still there, and that he wasn’t getting embarrassed, Kieran spoke up.

“I could help you with that, mister Arthur.” The words felt heavy and laden with unspoken thoughts. Kieran swallowed, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Or I could… Grab one of the girls to help ya…”

Arthur gave up trying to rub himself down and motioned his hand with a scoff. He didn’t look Kieran in the eye.

“Just get in here. Close the door behind you.”

Kieran didn’t need to be asked twice. He didn’t want to see who might be watching them, so Kieran ducked inside and tied the tent door shut with his eyes set forward. It was warm and a little stuffy in the tent, as the remainder of the hot afternoon sun burned off, but it was shady, at least.

Arthur twisted himself around, to put his back to Kieran, and held out the tub of ointment. As Kieran slid down onto the edge of the bed, he took the tub.

“You look pretty worse for wear, mister Arthur,” Kieran commented. As he dug into the container, he eyed Arthur’s bright red and painful looking back and shoulders.

“Ain’t gotta tell me.” Arthur grunted. His voice tapered off and went silent a moment. “…Just call me Arthur. No sense in formalities.”

“Okay… You got it.”

Kieran hesitated a second, the ointment in his palm and his hand awkwardly held in front of him. It took more courage than it should have to actually lay his hand across Arthur’s back.

It was in part because of the tension he felt in his chest. Kieran felt almost lightheaded at the thought that he was getting to touch Arthur beyond a slap on the shoulder or a handshake or something like that. But it was also the uncertainty that it was Arthur Morgan he was touching— a man who, in the past, had shown he wasn’t to be trifled with.

They were both silent, deep in their own similar thoughts.

Kieran’s heart slammed. His eyes groped along Arthur’s naked back, as he tried to keep his mind clear. Similarly, Arthur did everything in his power not to think about Kieran— not the way he touched him, and how it was the gentlest anyone had treated him in a long while.

There was an undeniable stirring excitement between them, like a low rumble. Kieran slid his hands across Arthur’s broad shoulders and then down his shoulder blades, following the dip of his spine to the slight rolls at his hips. Arthur shifted, grimacing and sighing, as he gripped the pantleg of his jeans to keep himself focused.

Briefly, they parted as Kieran dug more ointment from the tin and Arthur let go of a deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Sorry if I’m hurtin’ you any,” Kieran mumbled.

“You ain’t, don’t worry. Been through worse than this.”

“An’ it ain’t… Weird, or nothin’?” Kieran treaded carefully. He slid his hands over Arthur’s lower back and he thought he could melt. “It bein’ me doin’ this for ya? ‘Cause I ain’t one of the girls, or, well…”

A shiver shot down Arthur’s spine.

“I don’t mind. Wouldn’t be my first choice havin’ one of them rubbin’ me down, anyway.”

“Really?” Kieran flushed and smiled a bit. His hands slid down to Arthur’s sides. “I figured you an’ Mary-Beth, just on how she looks at ya—”

Arthur couldn’t take much more. Despite the pain in his burnt shoulders which ebbed through him, Arthur twisted around. Kieran faltered himself, voice trailing off as Arthur stared him down.

“Trust me, Duffy, I’m sure.”

All the tension and emotions that had built up inside of Arthur were catalysed by Kieran’s touch. So, against his better judgement, Arthur grabbed Kieran by the cheeks and kissed him full on the lips, hard and uncoordinated.

Kieran’s eyes shot open with shock first. Arthur’s weight leaned into his skinny body and Kieran realized then that this was real; Arthur Morgan was kissing him.

So, Kieran took it in stride. He threw his hands into Arthur’s hair, pulled him in, and kissed him just as hard.

They kind of fell together like they were meant to fit against one another. Though weary at first, quickly Kieran fell into rhythm with Arthur’s moving lips and gained his own confidence. Arthur tilted Kieran’s head back and kissed more into his mouth, earning a soft moan from the latter. Ultimately, when Arthur leaned back, Kieran fell in on top of him.

Kieran’s heart raced and the extent it all hit him a second later. He realized then that he was mostly laid down on top of Arthur. With shaking arms, Kieran planted his hands on the cot beside Arthur’s head and pulled himself up, breaking their kiss.

“Uh,” Kieran started, only to be cut off by Arthur who shook his head. He sounded a breathless, and his lips looked incredibly inviting.

“Don’t say nothin’,” he warned.

But Kieran spoke anyway, with a slow smile and curious voice.

“How… How long’ve you been waitin’ to do that?”

A strange expression crossed Arthur’s face that was equal parts confused and shocked with his own actions. It settled after a second, when his eyes focused in on Kieran again. It made the latter’s heart race.

Arthur shook his head.

“Too damn long,” he replied, and then he kissed Kieran again.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #kieran duffy #arthur/kieran #people go on abt ship names n shit but tbh i... dont know any of them #aside from like. two #my fic #sorry its gay and long??#kierthur

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vanderlindeboyz · 6 years ago

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I’m not broken, Arthur x F!Reader

For @reddeadgarlicbread. In which Arthur must say goodbye. Warnings: Some sexy stuff, lots of real sad stuff. Word count: 2028

It had been a month since you’d laid eyes on Arthur Morgan. They had been planning the Saint Denis bank heist when you left, Arthur giving you a lingering kiss goodbye. You had gotten word of a lucrative bounty out in West Elizabeth, and so had ridden off after it. He promised to leave word somehow if, or more likely when, they were forced to move.

When you road back into Shady Belle, you found nothing but an empty house and four dead Pinkertons. Someone had left a note pointing to Lakay, but it had been similarly abandoned by the time you arrived. More bullets, more bodies, but no sign of the gang. Fearing the worst, you checked the papers often for news of their capture or destruction. Backtracking into New Hanover, you thought you had finally found a lead when a man matching Arthur’s description had been spotted stealing a horse in Van Horn. However, coming to Van Horn and trying to talk to the locals had been about as pleasant as pulling teeth.

Defeated and exhausted, you headed to the saloon. With the sun down, the place was packed full. You shouldered your way to the bar, slapping the wood surface twice to get the bartender’s attention. The man worked quick, bless him, and you were nursing a whiskey in no time. Leaving a good tip, you stepped away to find a spot to sit. Luckily, a pair of drunken fisherman were abandoning a little table in the far corner, and you swooped in as they stumbled off. Laying your hat down, you raised the glass to your lips, taking a slow sip. The sweet heat was a welcome feeling, easing that persistent ache in your chest that had become your constant companion these last few weeks.

You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. The noise in the bar shifted, becoming the voices of the gang. Karen, Uncle, and Javier singing; Mrs. Grimshaw hollering about this, that, or the other; Pearson calling supper time. Sean making a terrible joke; Hosea telling one of his famous stories; Dutch giving one of his grand speeches. Knowing you were just making yourself sad, you opened your eyes and slammed the whiskey back. Setting the glass on the table, you picked up your hat and pushed your way to the door.

Outside the air was cool and it helped clear the ghosts from your mind. Reaching into your pouch, you retrieved a pack of cigarettes. You pulled one out, replacing the pack in your bag and grabbing a match. The tiny flame exploded into life as you struck it against your boot, bringing it to the tip of the cigarette. As you did, you noticed a figure approaching you out of the corner of your eye. You let the match drop casually to the ground, taking a long drag from the cigarette.

“Look, mister,” you start, “I was just looking for a friend. I’m not here to cause trouble.” Letting the cigarette hang between your lips, you put up your hands in surrender.

“Well, god help you, you’ve found him,” came a gravelly, familiar voice.

Your eyes snapped over to the man, and you almost ate your cigarette when you saw Arthur standing there. Even in the dim lantern light, you knew something was wrong. He was smaller than when you last saw him, and his faithful canvas jacket seemed to hang off him.

Tossing the cigarette into the street, you pulled him into a fierce embrace. “My god, Arthur. You’ve given me such a fright,” you said, fighting back tears, burying your face into the crook of his neck. His arms circled around you, squeezing you as tight as he could manage.

“I know, darlin’. I’m so sorry for that,” he mumbled against your hair, a little too hoarse for your liking.

Pulling back from him a little, you said, “We shouldn’t do this out in front of god and everybody. Come on. I’ve got a room above the post office.”

You led him across the street and up the stairs. Once inside you set about getting the lamps lit. When you finished, you turned to look at Arthur and made a noise of shock. He was as white as a sheet, his cheeks and his eyes bloody from broken blood vessels. While he was clean, it was obvious he hadn’t bothered to groom himself in a while. His hair was long enough to brush his shoulders, and his beard was becoming scraggly.

“Arthur, what happened?” you asked, breathless.

Wearily he took a seat on the bed and told you everything. The bank, Hosea, Lenny, the boat, Guarma, Dutch losing a little bit more of himself at every turn. You sat there next to him in silence, taking in every horrible detail, one of your hands on his. When he finished, you reached up to his face, tenderly stroking his cheek.

“None of that explains what’s wrong with you,” you gently admonished him, voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur grimaced, then gave a wry smile. “I’m dyin’, darlin’.” He snorted, running a hand through his hair. “I made it through all of that only to come back and have a doc tell me I have tuberculosis.”

Your mouth was hanging open, a terrified look in your eyes. A million thoughts crowded into your mind, as cloistered and noisy as the bar earlier. He’d had a cough for a while, but you both had chalked it up to living in the humid swamp. It was difficult to reconcile that tickle in his throat with the ghost of a man in front of you now.

That ache in your chest was moving up, closing in around your throat. Swallowing hard, you said, “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

“I was told to go somewhere dry and warm,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Kick my feet up, take it easy. As if I had that option.”

“Well hell, Arthur. Let’s go get good and lost in the Mojave.” You laid a hand on his arm, squeezing. “After everything you’ve just told me, why stay?”

He closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “Because I have a bad feelin’. And I can’t leave the women and Jack alone to face whatever is comin’.”

You stood, sharply taking in a breath, letting it hiss out through gritted teeth. “Arthur. You said yourself, you’re dying. Now they are grown women, plenty capable of taking care of themselves.”

“And Jack? Is he plenty capable?” he yelled back at you.

“Good god, man. He has Abigail. And lower your voice!” You pressed a finger to your lips.

“Abigail is capable, but to leave her to fend for herself and the boy? I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that,” he whispered harshly at you. As he spoke, something was working its way up his throat, and it caught. A small cough erupted from him that he tried to hold back, but that only seemed to make it worse. He choked on it and started hacking, one hand covering his mouth the other gripping the bedpost for dear life. It was as if he was fighting against something, and he was losing. Left gasping, he lowered his hand and found it spattered with blood.

Horrified but still angry, you handed him a handkerchief from your pocket. “Listen to yourself. You’re broken and weak, and if you continue on this way, they will get you killed,” you scolded him.

That seemed to reignite his fire, and he rasped, “I’m not broken! And I can’t run away with you to the goddamn Mojave. There are people dependin’ on me.” He stood and moved toward the door, but you stepped into his path. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “Get outta my way.”

“Oh, so you were just going to let me wander around searching for you forever?” you said, your voice rising. You started biting on your lower lip, trying to keep from screaming at him.

He grabbed you by both shoulders, harder than he meant to. “I was tryin’ to let you get away clean, you damn fool,” he growled.

You shoved against his chest, but he wouldn’t budge. “Leaving me in the dark isn’t protecting me! I’ve spent weeks running all over Lemoyne and New Hanover, looking for you!” Tears welled up in your eyes, and while you tried to fight them, they spilled out over your cheeks anyway. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and shook him. “I love you, and you left me and you tell me all this… I don’t know what to do,” you said, voice cracking. A sob rocked you, and you felt his grip slacken.

Before you had time to react, he had your face in his hands, his lips crashing against yours. The kiss was so hard it could bruise, but you returned it eagerly. The taste on your tongue was of salt and copper. His hands came up and tangled in your hair, undoing the braid you had it in. They luxuriated in it, his fingers softly scratching against your scalp. You pushed him back towards the bed, still locked together. The backs of his legs hit the edge and he sat down, pulling you into a straddling position over his lap.

“I’ve missed you more than the flowers miss the rain,” you whispered against his lips. He pressed his lips to yours again with a hunger that you hadn’t seen from him before. Your fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, getting the first few open to run your hands through the hair on his chest. He made a low sound in this throat, his hands squeezing your hips hard.

Slowly he pulled away from you. “Oh darlin’, this ain’t what I came here to do, much as I would like to,” Arthur mumbled, helping you to stand. He did up his buttons and stood as well.

Lips swollen, hair mussed, you asked, “Well then, what did you come here to do?”

He bit his lip, looked down at his boots and then back up to you. “To say goodbye.”

His words were like a blow to the gut, and you shook your head. “No, Arthur. I’m not leaving you. Not now.”

“Listen to me, please,” he said. “Did you get that money from the bounty?”

You nodded, already feeling yourself about to cry again. “Don’t I always?”

He chuckled, putting his hands on your waist. “Good. Take that money and go. Far away. And don’t look back.” His voice was steady and serious as a distant roll of thunder.

“Arthur,” you managed to squeak out, voice choked with tears. “I can’t leave you.”

He gritted his teeth, and you could tell he was fighting the urge to cry. He cleared his throat, saying, “Yes you can. This pain will pass, and you’ll go on and live a good life.”

Shaking, you reached up to his neck, fingers threading in his hair. “This can’t be how this ends,” you said, looking into his intense green eyes.

“It’s not endin’. The way I feel for you will never change,” he said, bending his head to touch the tip of his nose to yours. “You carry my heart, and knowing you’ll be safe from this mess, well, that’ll give me some peace. Please.”

Taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, you nodded. “I’ll go. I promise.” You pressed your lips to his in a soft, bittersweet kiss. “You sure there’s nothing I can do?” It came out more pathetic than you would have liked.

He took your face in his hands, and smiled. “I’m sure. Now I have to go. I don’t want them to come sniffin’ around here,” he said. Pulling you into his arms, he crushed you against him. Your fingers dug into him, your face buried in his shirt. Separating yourselves, he took your hand and kissed it. “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

#i like to hurt myself #i loved doing this one though #arthur x reader #arthur / reader #f!reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #red dead #rdr #rdr2 #fan fic #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #request

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bosco-reforged · 7 years ago

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Americana Folklore

Long before the term “cryptid” was in use, we called them by names like The Fair Folk. You make think they’ve vanished in this new age, but traces of the past are everywhere. The hidden world surrounds us, if you know where to look.

♪ Trust the Gorton’s Fisherman ♪

That’s not a slogan. It’s a warning. If you ever meet the Gorton’s Fisherman, trust him.

No harm will come to you, so long as you do as he asks. But the moment you disobey, it’s all over. Trust the Gorton’s Fisherman.

The Morton Salt Girl

The most mysterious of the fae on this list, she rarely interacts with humans. The Morton Salt Girl will sometimes appear in rainstorms late at night. When an ocean breeze rolls in and the rain tastes salty, she’s paid you a visit.

Pillsbury Doughboy

This one is pretty self explanatory. If you make anything for long enough, it’s bound to come alive.

Captain Morgan the Immortal

Would you rather a long life or a rich life? The illustrious Captain Morgan chose both. After discovering the Fountain of Youth, he attempted to pilfer its waters for sale around the world. But fate does not take kindly to greed.

The mystical “bottled youth” turned to alcohol when it was removed. Which was still a sort of bottled youth, but only its worst aspects: prideful recklessness.

Sinclair Oil’s Dino the Dinosaur

What should have been a routine drilling operation uncovered the incredible. The extent of what they found down there is unknown, but some still remember the Sinclair Railcar Carnival that boasted about its captive young sauropod.

For more of this stuff, check out my #fae facts tag, because I guess I have that now.

#fae facts #urban fantasy #modern fantasy #world building #lore #mythology #modern mythology

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ferryboatpeak · 7 years ago

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parent trap narry: family weekend

[the latest installment of an au in which niall’s and harry’s bands parent trap them back together. setup here, previous installments here, here, and here]

Niall taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, impatient to get out of the traffic and reunite with the band. It was a good idea to send them to band camp, to give himself some space to focus on the last details of the album, but it’s been lonely without them around. Even as busy as Niall’s been, he’s found himself putting off other work to send them a couple of carefully handwritten letters.

The band’s been good about writing home, too. As Niall pulls into the parking lot and follows the crudely carved signposts toward the cabins, he feels like he already knows the place from Bird’s photos and Gerry’s near-daily postcards with mundane little details about camp life. Raccoon Cabin’s easy to pick out with the Irish tricolour hanging from the little front porch.

Niall jogs up the steps to the cabin and raps his knuckles on the frame of the screen door, peering inside. “What’s the craic, lads?”

“Niall!” Bird bangs open the door and hauls him inside, where the band welcomes him with gratifying enthusiasm. They’re gathered around a large cardboard carton sitting between the bunk beds in the center of the room. Jake and Querelle are each tugging open one of the flaps.

Niall turns his head to read the print on the side of the box. “Toilet roll?”

“In the states they call it TP’ing,” Jake says, digging into the carton and tucking several rolls under his arm. “Haim told us about it.”

“We’re going to TP Deer Cabin,” Gerry adds, with delight. “You in?”

“Sure,” Niall says, grabbing a couple of rolls in each hand. “Why Deer Cabin?”

“They need to lighten up.” Bird’s maneuvers the screen door open with his foot, both hands occupied with a stack of toilet roll. “They get mad at us for being loud at night, and they’re always moping over their scrambled eggs at breakfast, and they never come over for a beer.”

“Band camp is fun,” Jake adds, with great conviction, “and they think they’re too cool to have any fun.”

“Sounds lame,” Niall agrees, following the band outside to the cabin next door. They toss the rolls of paper back and forth across the roof and through the limbs of the maple tree that stands in front of Deer Cabin, until the cabin is thoroughly festooned. Niall’s happier than he’s been in weeks, horsing around with the lads and experimenting to determine the best tossing velocity for maximum distance without tearing the roll.

“Hold on,” Gerry says, after they exhaust their supplies and stand back to survey their handiwork. “One finishing touch.” He darts back into Raccoon Cabin and emerges a second later with a jar of peanut butter.

Querelle jogs up to the bend in the trail to the parking lot. “They’re coming!” he hisses back at the band. Niall hears a burst of laughter in the distance and feels a corresponding rush of giddy adrenaline.

“Hurry it up,” he urges Gerry, and Gerry hastily unscrews the top of the peanut butter jar and shoves the lid into Niall’s hand. He races up the steps to Deer Cabin, digging his hand into the jar, and smears a gob of peanut butter under the handle of the screen door.

“Go, go go!” Querelle hustles back down the path as the rest of them are laughing and dodging Gerry’s outstretched peanut butter-covered hand. They jostle back into Raccoon Cabin and slump on the floor beneath the open windows, shushing each other and waiting breathlessly for Deer Cabin to arrive. Niall can’t stop grinning. It feels like the kind of stupid school prank he missed out on when he was a teenager.

“Hey!”

“What the fuck!”

“Morgan, I know this was you! You punks better clean this up!”

Niall elbows Jake next to him and tries to stifle his laughter at the outraged reactions, some of them in British accents. The rest of the band is doing the same, Gerry with much less success than Querelle.

Footsteps stomp up Deer Cabin’s porch and someone yelps in rage, presumably whoever grabbed the door handle. Then, perfectly timed as the other voices quiet, Niall hears someone drawl, “I like what you’ve done with the place,” deep and slow and ironic, a smile behind the words. A creeping awfulness freezes its way down Niall’s spine.

He knows that voice. God, does he know that voice. “Jake,” Niall hisses into the ear closest to him. “Who the fuck is in the cabin next door?”

“It’s Harry Styles’s band,” Jake whispers back. “Hey, you guys were in One Direction together, right?”

Niall drops his head into his hands. “Oh, god, no.”

“You weren’t?” Jake looks at him, confused.

“No, I mean, we were, I just… no.” Niall stabs his thumb in the direction of the despoiled Deer Cabin. “That’s not good.”

From outside, Niall hears a female voice, getting closer to the window he’s crouched under. “It was Niall’s fucking band, it has to be.”

He risks sticking his head up just far enough to peek over the windowsill. Two girls and three guys are striding toward the front porch of Raccoon Cabin.

Harry’s in the background, waiting by the steps to Deer Cabin, an elbow in one hand and his chin propped in the other. There’s a quizzical expression on his face underneath the bill of his fisherman’s cap as he watches his band. Niall can see the tiny holes worn in his t-shirt and the rows of unfamiliar rings on his hands. His heart lurches painfully. Cheeks burning, he drops back below the window and looks frantically around at his band. “Hide me.”

Gerry points toward the closest bunk, and Niall flattens himself on the floor and rolls underneath. He elbows a duffle bag out of his way, knocking over a row of Guinness cans with a clatter just as the screen door bangs open. The floor vibrates underneath Niall as Harry’s band crowds into the cabin.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s a girl’s voice.

“Sarah! To what do we owe the pleasure?” Gerry says. Niall hears the pop and hiss of a beer can being cracked.

“Stop trying to be cute. You messed up our cabin.”

“Your cabin?” Gerry picks himself up off the floor and unhurriedly paces over to peer out the window. “What a shame. Don’t know how that could have happened.”

“Come on, it’s obviously you lot.” A male voice, with a British accent.

“Adam, I’m offended that you would suggest such a thing,” Bird says. He and Jake and Louis have casually rearranged themselves to sit with their backs against the bunk that’s hiding Niall. Peering between them from under the bed, all Niall can see by the door is a flock of Gucci loafers with rainbows on them. Of fucking course that’s Harry’s band, Niall thinks. He wonders, bitterly, which one is the guitarist.

“Get out there and clean it up.” The girl again. A loafer stomps to punctuate the demand.

“Make us,” Gerry says, unconcernedly. The bed sinks down above Niall as Gerry sits on the edge.

Whoever’s in the front pair of loafers bounces up on their toes. “Maybe I will.”

The rest of the Gucci loafers shift back and forth uncomfortably. “Sarah…” a guy’s voice says, in a warning tone. Niall rolls his eyes. No surprise Harry’s got a band of lovers, not fighters.

“Fine,” Sarah spits. “We’ll see you out there tomorrow.” It sounds like a threat. The Gucci loafers turn and file back out the screen door, which rattles in the frame with the force of their exit.

Niall worms his way out from under the bed as soon as Harry’s band is out of earshot. “What did she mean, tomorrow?”

“Capture the Flag,” Gerry says cheerfully. “We play them first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Hey, do you want in?” Bird has somehow produced a cold can of Stella, which he hands to Niall.

That sounds like the worst idea Niall’s ever heard. “No, I probably shouldn’t.”

The band’s faces visibly fall. “But it’s going to be fun,” Jake says.

“And they’re five to our four,” Bird adds. “We need you.”

“C’mon, Niall.” Even Querelle’s against him. “The honor of our band is at stake. Are you going to let us go in at a disadvantage?”

Niall cracks his beer and downs half of it. Even the possibility of seeing Harry on the playing field makes his stomach clench. Curls caught back in a headband, tripping over his own two feet, long legs and too-short shorts. The tiger tattoo that Niall’s run his tongue along the edge of.

But it’s just Capture the Flag. How bad can it be? They’ll be running around in the woods. He can always run in the opposite direction of Harry. And he doesn’t want to let the band down. Niall finishes his beer and slams the can on the floor next to him with good-natured emphasis. “FIne, count me in.”

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spynotebook · 6 years ago

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Yes, that title is 100% correct, because of all the movies that have attempted to reinvent a childhood franchise, none, and I mean none, have done so with the grace, the dignity, the excellence of Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island. And it was direct to video!

Considering the show has existed in some form or another since 1969, I’m going to assume that everyone knows the premise of Scooby-Doo: meddling teenagers, talking dog, villains with very good drama and stage production skills, and Scrappy-Doo is the worst. Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island is not the first Scooby-Doo movie, not the only good one (Scooby-Doo and the Ghoul School), but it is probably the step-by-step example of how to update a series for a modern audience.

Premise: after being burnt out after chasing so many deranged former drama students pretending to be ghosts/monsters, the Mystery, Inc. gang is ready to reclaim their time. Scooby and Shaggy decide to be the kind of can’t-hold-down-a-job free-loaders parents always fear, Velma opens a mystery bookstore to really put her M.F.A to good use, and Daphne follows her truth to become a popular travel talk show host with Fred continuing to not fully commit to their relationship, but still try and be friends, by be being her cameraman.

Daphne decides that she wants to do a show ghost hunting and the gang gets back together. Within 15-minutes. That’s giving the audience what they want. No fuss, no muss, no let’s drag this shit out, adventure time in less than 20 minutes.

Of course back on the road, the gang re-discovers an old problem—all the ghosts and monsters are drama majors once more. Until of course they go to New Orleans home of jazz, voodoo stereotypes, and vampires. A mysterious Tara Strong-voiced woman named Lena meets the gang and offers to take them to Moonscar island that really is supposedly truly haunted.

Moonscar Island is haunted by the ghost of the pirate Morgan Moonscar and is now inhabited by Simone Lenoir (voiced by BTAS‘s Catwoman, Adrienne Barbeau), the ferryman Jacques and a gardner named Beau, who is really an undercover officer. (There also is a mean fisherman named Snakebite Scruggs voiced by Mark Hamill.)

Mysterious shenanigans ensue on the island with people floating randomly, losing control of their bodies, all while Fred decides to pull a Scully and pretend there is a secret explanation for everything (typical Fred). In prime heterosexuality, both Fred and Daphne flirt with the first age-appropriately hot person of the opposite gender they see (Lena and Beau), Scooby and Shaggy eat food and bother cats, while Velma is the only one doing any actual investigation.

I will say this about Zombie Island and the sequel Witch’s Ghost: the movies really understand that Velma is the unsung hero of Scooby-Doo.

Halfway through, it is revealed that the zombies that come at night and stalk the island are 100% real. Take that Fred! However, that isn’t the most impressive twist. The zombies aren’t the real bad guys, at least not anymore.

Simone and Lena are pagan settlers who lived on the island 200 years ago with their followers as part of a cat-worshiping religion. Then one day Morgan Moonscar and his pirates came to the island, pillage everything, and forced the settlers into running the bayou, where they got eaten by gators.

Simone and Lena escaped and prayed to their cat god for revenge (way to go helping after the fact, cat god). The result was that they got turned into cat creatures. If it had just ended there, I would say good job ladies. However, In order to maintain their immortality, every harvest moon the women have to drain the life force from victims. Which at first were plantations owners and stuff so yay, but then turned into just tourists, which is not a good look.

Eventually, Scooby and Shaggy help save the day, because never ever count those screw-ups out, and the curse is lifted, allowing all the zombies to rest in peace.

All right, so yeah it’s a good movie, but why am I calling it the perfect franchise movie? Because when you are updating a franchise it is important to find a way to keep true to what was good about the series and fixing what didn’t work—and subverting expectations.

One of the things you’ll notice is the upgrades done to Velma and Daphne. Daphne was infamous for being “Danger-prone Daphne” in the original series, so Zombie Island incorporates Daphne learning martial arts skills and being a fighter. She’s also more hands-on and is a career woman. Velma is also a career woman, but her personal arc is more about how being an investigator is her true calling. The movie really makes her the leader of the group. Not to mention she’s the one who ends up “getting the guy” with Beau.

Fred, Shaggy, and Scoob are played straight. There is a great scene of Fred trying on an ascot in the mirror before taking it off, but they don’t get that much to do. Which, honestly, is fine—they were never the most interesting and work better in small doses. However, no one changes so much they are now unrecognizable.

Plus, Zombie Island stays true to one of the defining principles of Scooby-Doo—don’t ever count out Scooby and Shaggy. Lena and Simone created magical wax dolls in order to control the rest of the gang, but left out the true dynamic duo because they are “idiots.” Little did they know that idiocy is their greatest superpower.

All in all, Scooby-Doo on Zombie Island doesn’t confuse modernizing or updating with grimdark and gritty or changing characters completely. It builds up the universe in a constructive way by telling a good story about a group of friends who solve mysteries and this time, the monsters were real. For anyone looking to update a nostalgic children’s series for a new generation (looking at you Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teen Titans, Thundercats, and Gargoyles) this is how it’s done.

(image: Warner Bros.)

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