I Absolutely LOVE This, Pls Continue It✨

Ain’t no way Mark beaks’s mental heath is stable. Something must have happened to him as a child.

Honestly, a little tragic when you think about it. Mark Beaks’ whole thing is just someone desperately trying to prove they’re worth something, but doing it all wrong. The bitch needs therapy 😭🙏🙏

Every single dot point is true😭

Added the same "#" as the original post

What 'Ducktales 2017' gave us

(in honour of the 4th anniversary of the finale)

Each one of the triplets having their own personality

Donald Duck being a good parent exactly as Goofy was shown to be in the 90s

David Tennant playing Scrooge McDcuk

Lin Manuel Miranda playing Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera...

... latinx Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera!

Mark Beaks, a character that is slowly becoming more relevant as time goes by

Female characters allowed to be flawed (Bentina, Gandra, Goldie, Della...)

DELLA DUCK!

Disabled Della Duck!

Tons of neurodivergent coded characters (Huey, Violet, Dewey, Webby...)

An entire episode that talks about autism without talking about autism

'I'm Boyd, I'm a real boy!'

Goldie and Daisy allowed to be more than someone's love interest

Goldie being a femme fatale with a fear of attachments

Scroldie with a happy ending!

Daisy being a girl boss who knows her worth but at the same time being a great girlfriend for Donald

Donald canonically going to therapy and good rep of what it means

Not one, but two great Christmas episodes!

A great modern rendition of the 3 caballeros song

Josè and Panchito being the former bandmates of Donald's college band

a Bond-style episode

a 'Ocean's Eleven'/'Die Hard' inspired episode

EMO DONALD MY BELOVED

Fethry, Gladstone and Rockerduck finally animated (for someone grown up with the italian comics it was a great moment)

WEBBIGAIL WANDERQUACK, MY PRECIOUS DAUGHTER

LENA SABREWING, MY OTHER PRECIOUS DAUGHTER

an honest portrayal of having an abusive parental figure, focusing especially on its consequences

this version of Gyro

'I do not wish to date an Earth... male'

Launchpad being dumb and at the same having great emotional intelligence

Drake Mallard becoming Darkwing Duck to honor what the superhero meant to him growing up (even if the actor tried to unalive him)

'They want grim and gritty, right? Well, happy to play the part!"

an iconic Halloween episode

'Sup party people!' and all the reunions that followed after (each one of them perfect and tearful)

Powerline being a canon singer in the Ducktales Universe

the Wandavision episode before 'Wandavision' even aired

Scrooge being more obsessed with adventures than money

'You thought there was a real genie inside?'

'What the...' 'Fowl!'

The moon song

The duke of making a mess

The Darkwing Duck episode an hour long

'BURRITOS!'

Catherine Tate playing Magica De Spell

The 'All I do Is Win' scene

Glomgold and all his sharks related plans

'According to the Junior Woodchuck guide...'

Sharpie

The freaking multidimensional portal that must cause problems in every Disney animated series

The mandatory Dragonball and Sailor Moon reference just like in every other Disney animated series

The poor teen possessed by the villain at a certain point, even worse if it's their abuser and they are trying to free themselves by them that happened in every Disney animated series

The finale plot twist

A great showrunner that ran a blog on Tumblr and answered our questions without giving to much spoilers

Lol

If I'm being honest, Maxley pisses me off. I mean, weren't they like enemies in the movie? Like don't get me wrong, I love it when people ship villain x hero I'm all for it but. Maxley is something that shouldn't be together. As for Yax...It's not like I *love* the ship but it has a special place in my heart.

But that's my opinion Idk

It's a strange thing for me to say, but I feel like the Maxley and Yax are very overrated and annoying ships...

I mean, it's annoying that I find things about those ships (mainly the Maxley) that Max himself does on his own tag, can't there be a minimal drawing of Max without any ships?

2024.06.05

I ain't crying, you're crying 😭

His appearance aged even just a bit shook her to her core. It was just due to losing someone so dear to him, but the change felt like he would one day fade away as well

Idea I had for a while, like.. imagine if it was that simple, and they kept looking for an exit a bit too long.

Do these stickers remind you of an artist? Cos I think Temu stole em 😭

It's final here!!!

Chapter Three: Window Washing and Wishing

Julius had always been deathly afraid of heights. When he was little, he never joined his brothers in climbing trees or leaning over bridges to watch the Seine slip by below. Even glancing up at the towering spires of the cathedrals they walked past was enough to turn his stomach.

So it was with horror that day that he read the first entry on the daily list of janitorial tasks Pete had tacked to the door of their quarters: Clean Hall windows inside and out.

No, please, no, he thought helplessly, sitting down heavily on the bed and putting his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong, Jules?” Oswald asked from the table in the corner. He and Mickey sat with two cups of coffee and a stack of crepes that they were busy tucking away. “Did Pete give us stable cleaning again?”

“Worse,” Julius groaned, the list crumpled up in his fist. “We have to clean the windows today. Inside and out.”

“Ah,” Oswald said, furrowing his eyebrows. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“He KNOWS I hate heights!” Julius cried in despair. “He’s doing this on purpose!”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Mickey said thoughtfully, cupping his coffee mug in two hands.

Julius felt dread pulsing in his stomach, threatening to upend the crepes he had eaten. Meanwhile Oswald tapped the side of his mug, thinking. “Maybe you can work on the ground windows by yourself?” he offered. “Then me and Mickey can do the higher floors.”

“He’d think I was trying to slack off,” Julius muttered, then clutched his upset stomach. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Oh!” Mickey said brightly. “If you do get sick, hen he’ll think you're ill and you can lie in bed while we clean.”

“That’s a non-factor in Pete’s mind,” Oswald countered. “Remember last winter when we all had the flu? We still had to scrub floors for three hours.”

“Oh yeah…” Mickey paused. “Shoot. Well, maybe we can blindfold Julius, so he doesn’t see the ground from up high?”

“Then he can’t see what he’s cleaning, doofus. Maybe we could get a dummy of Julius and make Pete think he’s cleaning with us, and he can sneak off and work on something else.”

As they started shooting more hare-brained ideas back and forth, Julius smiled slightly in spite of himself and set the list down on his bed. “No, I can do this, guys. I’ll be fine. We’ll need all three of us to get everything done on time, anyways. If Pete wants to give me chores I hate, fine. I’ll just… stomach my way through it.”

He stood up, handed them the list, and started gathering tools from the corner cupboard to keep his hands busy. Mickey stuffed another crepe in his mouth while he read it through. His ears drooped at the massive list:

-polish furniture in the ballroom

-clean and polish the floors of the throne room

-shovel gravel on the garden paths

-set up rat traps in the cellars

-scrub ballroom stairs

-clean all the fireplace grates and chimney

-replace leaking water pipes in the basement

And that was just the first side of the paper, he realized, flipping it around and seeing another long list on the back.

“Does he think we can freeze time?” Oswald exclaimed in shock, reading the list over Mickey’s shoulder. “We can’t do all this in a day! And some of these aren’t even our duty,” he noticed indignantly, pointing to a task that read -clean musketeer capes in storage. “We’re not maids!”

“I suppose all the maids and court servants must be busy with the coronation preparations,” Mickey reasoned, although he too was frowning at the list. “We’re going to have to skip dinner and maybe supper to get this done… We should probably grab some food to bring with us.” He stood and stretched, then grabbed his musketeer hat and put it on.

Julius held out a bucket and rag to each of them. “Guess we’d better get started, then? If we hurry, we can fix those pipes before we start on the windows.” He was mostly successful at keeping the shakiness out of his legs. Mickey nodded in agreement.

Oswald sighed and gulped down the last of his coffee, then picked up his bucket and rag and followed his brothers out the door. It’s going to be a long one, he thought.

~~~~~~

The morning went by much too quickly for Julius’s liking, and as much as he tried to cherish the moments spent soaking wet and wrestling with pipes in the basement, before he knew it they were headed outside to begin the window cleaning. Mickey and Oswald chatted aimlessly as they walked ahead, letting Julius lag behind them. 

It frustrated the cat how easily heights filled him with terror. He wasn’t entirely sure what had borne the fear inside him- It was just the thought of being so high up in the air with nothing underneath him, falling and plummeting forever, dropping like a rock through the sky to the ground with the wind rushing by and everything so far below and nothing to catch him or save him— He shook his head furiously, heart thumping wildly in his throat. Thinking like that isn’t going to help you, Julius! Just bite the bullet and get through it. You’re just going to wash some windows 50 feet in the air. It’s not that bad. Steeling his nerves, he jogged ahead to catch up with Mickey and Oswald as they reached the shed.

The suspended scaffolding system used to maintain the higher floors of the palace was nothing more than a few rickety wooden boards lashed together with twine, two pulleys strung with frayed rope on either side, and a couple of loosely nailed-in iron railings, all of which lay cobbled together and largely unused in a shed outside the Great Hall. It was, in Oswald’s humble opinion, the worst feat of engineering in the entire world. I wonder what it would take to convince Pete to let me fix it, he thought offhandedly as they carried it around to the front and began attaching the ropes to the pulleys. 

Julius took a minute to pull himself together as he gathered the supplies and lifted them onto the platform next to a couple of dusty empty crates. You’ll be fine, it’s going to be fine, he chanted desperately in his head as Mickey and Oswald started tugging at the ropes to lift the scaffolding into the air. The courtyard fell slowly but surely away from under him, and he felt his insides once again lurching as if trying to escape his abdomen. He clutched the bag of food they had brought along with trembling hands.

“Alright, first window,” Oswald announced as he and Mickey stopped tugging and tied the ropes into place. Julius swallowed hard and tore his gaze away from the ground twenty feet below to start work on scrubbing the windows. It was slow work, but gradually the grime and muck disappeared under the determined scrubbing of the three brothers. For a while they worked in silence, save for the squeak of wet cloth on glass and the occasional splash from the water bucket; after a while, Mickey broke stillness with a small sigh. 

“This is going to take all day,” he said despairingly. 

Oswald rubbed at a spot on the window and shrugged. “Maybe, but all we can do is just keep working at it. We’re almost done with this floor, at least.”

“But we have the whole rest of the list to finish on top of this,” Mickey replied, wringing out his rag anxiously. “And Captain Pete wanted all of it finished today!”

“Honestly, Mick, Pete has to know we can’t do all that in one day. If we have to push some of those tasks into tomorrow, then we’ll do that,” said Julius resignedly. “And he’ll just have to deal with it.”

“But he’d think we weren’t trying hard enough. He’d think we’re incompetent, or… or lazy.” The small mouse dipped his rag back in the bucket with a quiet sploosh. “It’s just… I guess I want Cap’n Pete to see me as a hard worker. I want him to think I’m trying my best.”

Julius frowned. “You are a hard worker, Mick. I’ve told you that.”

“But… he doesn’t think I am,” Mickey sighed. “We try so hard every day and he still doesn’t take us seriously. And if he doesn’t think we’re hard workers, if he doesn’t think we can work together, then he won’t... I mean, we have a bad track record, but couldn’t he change his mind? Couldn’t he just see we really want to be musketeers?”

So that’s what this is all about, Julius realized. That’s what was bothering him this morning too, I bet. He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably; what could he say? He wanted nothing more than to reassure him and Oswald that of course Pete would make them musketeers, but that would just be lying. The last thing he planned on doing was sugarcoating anything for his brothers; at the same time, he didn’t want to voice his real doubts. His doubts about whether they should be musketeers at all, whether it would really ever work out for them. No, that would just discourage Mickey further. The best option, then, was uneasy silence. 

“Well… I think there’s a chance,” Oswald pitched in, hands on his hips. “I mean– Pete’s not an easy one to persuade, and it’s not like he’s ever presented the opportunity to us in the past five years, and he likes reminding us about how much he loathes us every chance he gets,  but…” he shrugged. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, so we might as well keep trying and keep hoping, right?” 

He grinned and twirled his rag jauntily, and Mickey smiled back gratefully. “Anyways, whether we’re musketeers or janitors, I don’t see the hurt in working hard. That doesn’t mean we need to bust a gut doing an impossible amount of jobs in one day, though. Let’s just take it slow.” Mickey nodded, looking relieved.

Julius sighed quietly. “Well,” he said, examining the windows one more time. “If we’re done on this level, then we’d better get to the next floor.” Mickey jumped up quickly and ran to the first pulley, Oswald heading to the other. Julius, suddenly remembering they were suspended in midair, swallowed hard and busied himself with the buckets. 

The platform had started to rise shakily, when suddenly there was a creak of doors opening below and the sound of crunching boots and chatting filled the air. Mickey gasped in excitement, straining to see down to the ground while pulling on the rope. “The musketeers are coming out to drill!” Oswald leaned over the rail to watch, his eyes glowing.

“Keep going up,” Julius reminded them, staring at the sky now, and Mickey gave an absent tug on the rope in reply. The musketeers had formed into rows and were listening to orders commanded by the hulking figure of Captain Pete. Soon the chinking of steel on steel filled the air as the musketeers sparred together. Mickey and Oswald were entranced, following every move, window cleaning forgotten. Sensing no movement, Julius tore his gaze away from the clouds to see his brothers leaning over as far as they could to watch. “Can we go UP?” he demanded impatiently. Startled, Mickey gave the rope a hard tug- too hard, it turned out.

The mossy old ropes in Mickey’s hands, unused to the sudden stress, groaned their last and snapped. Julius barely had time to yell in fright before the entire end of the platform swung downward, throwing him over the side. Oswald was the luckiest- his grip on the ropes gave him enough support to stay in place. Mickey, however, was thrown stomach-first against the railing, punching all the air out of his lungs.

In a moment of panic he gasped painfully, blinking stars out of his eyes as his feet found traction on the wood. The ground swung back and forth below, a blur of stone and gravel. A frayed rope swung through the air, snapped in half. The sounds of training below had been replaced with shouts as the musketeers stopped drilling, although their attention barely registered in Mickey’s mind.

“Are you okay?” Oswald asked, his voice panicked. “Where’s Julius-?”

A puffed up white tail appeared over the edge, followed by the terrified face of Julius as he scrabbled at the railing. “HELP-!” he yowled, terrified. Mickey jumped out to grab his hand, attempting to haul his brother back up onto the platform with much yelling and clawing and wild thrashing (mostly from Julius). Oswald, clinging to the other rope at the top, started to feel it straining and snapping under his fingers. He barely had time to close his eyes with a heavy sigh before another loud SNAP pierced the air, completely severing the ropes holding up the lift.

For a few comical seconds, they hung in the air- three brothers, a rickety platform, and a sudsy soap bucket. Then those seconds ended, and the only thing Mickey and Oswald could hear was jumbled yelling and wind whistling by as the earth rushed up towards them like a giant stone fist ready to punch their brains out.

~~~~~~

“Are they dead?” “Sacre bleu… “It was those janitor boys again, of course." "Really? I thought the Captain already fired them." “How on earth did they do this…?” “I don’t see any movement.”

A crowd of musketeers surrounded the pile of wood and rope that lay in the courtyard, muttering and staring in shock. Dust swirled about underneath polished brown boots and swishing blue capes, and a few musketeers shook their heads, used to the shenanigans of those janitor brothers.

A small mouse, his head and shoulders poking out underneath a rotted board, blinked his eyes open blearily and looked around, dazed and disoriented. Through a raging headache he vaguely heard a booming voice commanding musketeers out of the way, not quite registering as a hulking figure made his way forward to stand, seething, over the wreckage. It wasn’t until a large, meaty hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him free from the rubble with a swift tug that he came to and realized the dire situation they were in.

Dangling in the air by his arm, staring into the cold glaring eyes of Captain Pete, Mickey swallowed hard and smiled nervously. “Morning, Captain. I, uh, guess you might be a little upset…?” Upset wasn’t quite the word for what the snarling captain was. More like collasally, tremendously, completely pissed off. Mickey barely had time to mutter a prayer to Mère Marie before he was being dragged off across the courtyard under the glaring sun to an unknown, but almost certainly painful, fate.

____

A/N: GOD, FINALLY I'M DONE WITH CH 3!! I'm literally so sorry it took so long to post, I've had so much happening in my life and then of course writer's block hit... anyways, I plan on releasing chapters WAY more frequently now! Also sorry there was no illustration this time- more technical difficulties :( Anyways thanks for reading!!

You can read on AO3, or here gang idc

---

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Characters:

Mark Beaks, Coach Beaks

Additional Tags:

Blood and Injury, Blood, Blood and Gore

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-09Words:1,020Chapters:1/1Comments:1Kudos:2Hits:6

Can't think of a title holy shit

1anon1

Summary:

...

Notes:

⚠️ BLOOD WARNING ⚠️ So this ain't canon like at all. I wrote this at 3am don't judge.

Work Text:

“I kept telling you to hit the ball—to hit the ball!” Coach Beaks' voice thundered through the empty locker room as he yanked Marcus’s arm. “But every time you try, you miss!”

Marcus struggled against his grip, but it was no use. His father’s fingers dug into his sleeve, his frustration boiling over. With a sharp shove, he pushed Marcus against the cold concrete wall.

“I thought I told you to actually participate in the game!”

Marcus winced, the sting of his father’s words cutting deeper than the rough impact against his back. He lowered his gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry, Father…” he murmured. But the apology hadn't even left his lips before his father’s voice crashed over him again. “‘Sorry’ isn’t gonna cut it, young man!” He pinched the bridge of his beak. “God, you're such a disappointment.”

…

There was a brief pause. Mark covered his head with his hands, his chest tight as tears threatened to spill, but he blinked them back fiercely. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold it together. Coach put a hand on his chin thoughtfully. “You know,” he mumbled, “we’ve used the bat for practice and in games… Wait here, Marcus.”

Marcus didn’t move an inch. He kept his head down, his breath shaky as his father’s footsteps echoed across the tile floor. His chest felt tight, his stomach twisted in knots. Wait here. The words hung in the air, heavy with something unspoken. Then came the sound—metal scraping against metal. A locker opening. A pause. The unmistakable clink of a wooden bat being lifted.

Marcus swallowed hard. His pulse quickened.

Mark looked up when he didn’t hear his dad's footsteps anymore.

Without hesitation, he swung.

The bat struck Marcus hard across the ribs. A sickening thud echoed through the locker room. Marcus gasped as white-hot pain exploded through his side. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his ribs, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

“You wanna cry now?” his father sneered, looming over him. He tapped the bat against the floor, impatient. “Get up.”

Marcus tried. His arms shook as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, but his body screamed in protest. His ribs ached with every shallow breath.

“I said get up.”

Another strike. This time across his shoulder. Marcus collapsed again with a sharp cry, his vision blurring as pain overtook him.

“Pathetic,” Coach Beaks muttered. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his beak in frustration. He turned and tossed the bat back into the open locker with a loud clang.

“Clean yourself up before you go home,” he said coldly. “And don’t let your mother find out about this… This won’t be the last time, either.” He rolled his eyes.

With that, he walked out, leaving Marcus curled up on the locker room floor, his body shaking, his breath uneven, and his father’s words burning deeper than the bruises forming beneath his feathers. He was left there, crying and alone.

After a while, he finally managed to sit up. He leaned against the wall, his breath shallow, and coughed weakly.

Marcus sat there, his back pressed against the cold concrete wall, gasping for air. A sharp cough wracked his body. He raised a hand to his mouth, feeling something warm on his tongue. When he pulled his hand away, dark red stained his feathers.

Blood.

His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to stay calm. He pulled his knees up to his chest and cried silently, his face pressed into his arms. His tears, once on the verge of spilling, now flowed freely as his body trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to subside, but it lingered—throbbing deep in his ribs and shoulder.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

He slowly brought his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears.

Finally, Marcus swallowed hard and forced himself to move. His limbs protested, his ribs screaming with every shift, but he grit his teeth and pushed forward. He needed to get up. He couldn’t stay here. If anyone saw him like this—if his mother found out

Marcus shook his head. No. He had to pull himself together.

With trembling hands, he reached for the nearby bench, using it for support as he dragged himself to his feet. His vision swam, his legs threatening to give out beneath him, but he steadied himself. One breath at a time. One step at a time.

He wiped his mouth, trying to ignore the taste of iron that lingered in his throat.

FLASH.

"Focus, Beaks," he muttered to himself under his breath.

He slowly raised his head from his arms. Was he…

He looked around—his office. His desk. His computer, flashing with the latest figures.

It was all right there. The world he’d built. The world he owned.

The office door opened as a duck with her hair in a messy bun, wearing a black skirt suit and heels, knocked on the door. “Mr. Beaks? The board is ready to see… you…” she paused when she saw his state. “Mr. Beaks? Are you alright?”

Mark rubbed his face, brushing away the lingering fog of the dark memory. "Y-Yeah. I'm okay," he murmured, blinking again. "Just a little trip down memory lane. Nothing to worry about. I'll be there in a second, Melanie." He forced a quick, reassuring smile.

She hesitated, her eyes lingering on him, but she nodded. “Right. Ready when you are.”

Without another word, she shut the door behind her, her footsteps descending until the sound of them faded, leaving Marcus alone in his office once again. The only noise now was the faint hum of traffic outside.

He sat in his chair for a moment, staring down at his hands. The urge to cry bubbled up again, but he pushed it away with a heavy sigh. He stood and headed for the door, the sound of his talons clicking against the tile floor echoing in the silence.

He was Mark Beaks. And nothing was going to bring him down. Not anymore… Right?