Mark Beaks - Blog Posts

My LGBTQ+ Headcanons: Ducktales '17 Edition

Huey Duck: Demiromantic(crushes on boys more) & Sapiosexual

Dewey Duck: Bisexual

Louie Duck: Asexual & Aromantic

Webby Vanderquack: Lesbian

Launchpad Mcquack: Pansexual & Panromantic

Della Duck: Bisexual

Bentina Beakley: Queer

Lena Sabrewing: Lesbian & Non-binary

Violet Sabrewing: Genderfluid

B.O.YD: Pansexual & Panromantic

Drake Mallard: Trans man, Gay & Non-binary(goes by he/they)

Gosalyn Waddlemeyer: Bisexual

Gyro Gearloose: Gay & Trans man

Mark Beaks: Bisexual(crushes on boys more & Genderqueer

Storkules: Gay

Selene: Bisexual

Penumbra: Lesbian(canonically)

Falcon Graves: Gay

Magica de Spell: Lesbian

Poe de Spell: Gay

Kit Cloudkicker: Bisexual

Molly Cunnigham: Queer

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Characters:

Mark Beaks, Emma Glamour (Disney),(mentioned) Falcon Graves

Additional Tags:

Physical AbuseBlood and InjuryVerbal Abuse

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-04-12Words:2,225Chapters:1/1Kudos:1Hits:4

Should have done it from the start

1anon1

Summary:

I always wondered what happened after Louie's eleven? Like with Mark beaks and Emma glamour. It must've been anything BUT good...oh no

Notes:

⚠️ BLOOD WARNING ⚠️

If there is any grammatical errors, let me know in the comments I couldn't edit it 😭

I would draw art to go with it but I wasn't born to draw🥲

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Everything felt so still.

The music died and the flashing lights had faded. The once crowded hall-room of chatter and applause to those who would perform vanished and had been replaced with complete silence. only the echoes of the party remained, lingering like ghosts in the empty space.

Half-empty glasses were scattered across the tables, the faint scent of perfume and expensive champagne still clinging to the air. Everyone else had already left.

Mark beaks sat on the steps, he hadn't really moved from this spot since it was revealed he bought his mothers phone from Falcon Graves. He didn’t really have anywhere to go to. His hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his jaw tight. His feathers still bristled from the energy of the night, but it wasn’t excitement keeping him wired—it was something heavier.

Across the room, his mother, Emma Glamour, stood near the bar, swirling a glass of wine between her fingers. She hadn’t left with the others. Of course, she hadn’t.

She was watching him. Studying. Calculating. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally—

"So." Her voice sliced through the air, cool and sharp as a blade. "That was quite the little… spectacle."

Mark didn’t answer. His grip in his pockets tightened.

Emma took a slow sip from her glass, eyes never leaving him. "Tell me, Marcus—was THAT supposed to impress me?"

Mark’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled into his hoodie pockets, he felt his nails biting into his palms, but he didn’t care. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t move.

She took another slow sip from her glass, savoring the moment. “But I’d have to admit,” she mused, tapping her perfectly manicured nails against the bar table, “I expected some embarrassment. Maybe even a little shame. But instead you're just… sulking”

Mark exhaled, looking away from her. “Yeah? And whatdda expect?” His voice came quieter than he intended it to be, but his voice was still laced with bitterness.

Emma tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe for you to finally grasp what absolute disappointment you are.”

She gestured vaguely toward the empty ballroom, where Mark's hover-board was sitting looking disheveled from the aftermath of its burning. "Did you think this little stunt of yours would make you look clever? That people would see you as some brilliant mastermind?"

Mark’s feathers bristled, but he stayed silent. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

Emma hummed, setting her glass down on the bar with a soft clink. She took a step closer. "It was pathetic, Marcus. Absolutely pathetic."

His breath hitched. The words struck like a slap, but he forced himself to keep still. Keep quiet.

Emma, of course, noticed. She always did.

She smiled. "Oh, come on. Nothing to say?"

Mark swallowed hard. His head dipped slightly, eyes burning holes into the floor.

Emma scoffed. "No witty comeback? No desperate attempt to prove yourself? Hmph." She shook her head, turning away slightly. "I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You always crumble the moment things get real." She then turned with her back facing him, pouring another glass.

Mark’s hands twitched. His throat felt tight.

He knew where this was going.

It was always like this.

And yet, no matter how much he prepared, no matter how many times he told himself it wouldn’t get to him—

It always did.

Mark barely breathed. The silence stretched, pressing against his chest, thick and suffocating. He could feel Emma’s gaze on him, the weight of it heavy, like she was peeling back every layer he had, searching for the weakest point to sink her claws into.

Emma took a slow, deliberate sip of her wine, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she spoke.

“You know what I don’t understand?” Her voice was smooth, almost bored, but Mark knew better. “Why you even bother embarrassing yourself like this.”

Mark’s feathers bristled, but he kept his head down, his fingers twitching in his pockets. He could already feel the familiar ache forming behind his eyes, the way it always did when she started talking like this.

Emma swirled the wine in her glass, her tone growing sharper. “All that effort. All that scheming. And for what? A burned-out hoverboard and a shattered reputation?” She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Pathetic.”

Mark’s jaw locked.

Emma sighed, setting her glass down with a deliberate clink. “I mean, honestly, Marcus. Did you really think you could fool everyone? That people would look at you and see anything other than what you are?”

Mark stayed quiet.

Because he knew what was coming next.

Emma’s voice dropped, slow and cutting. “You are not clever. You are not impressive. You are not—” she gestured vaguely at him, as if he was something distasteful “—anything”

Mark exhaled through his nose, staring hard at the floor, his vision blurring at the edges.

Emma took a step forward, her heels clicking against the polished floor. “But I suppose that’s always been the case, hasn’t it?” she mused. “No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you’ll always be nothing more than a desperate little boy, grasping at something just out of reach.”

Her voice softened, but not out of kindness. No, this was worse. It was that sickly-sweet, condescending tone. The kind that made his skin crawl.

“I mean, really. You bought my phone?” She let out a light, cruel laugh. “What did you think was going to happen, Marcus? That I’d be proud of you?”

Mark’s hands curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets. His nails dug into his palms, sharp enough to sting, but he barely felt it.

Emma’s expression remained cold, indifferent. “You have NO ONE, Marcus”

The words cut deep. They always did.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, trying to swallow down the lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t let her see. He wouldn’t let her see.

He forced a breath, forced himself to smirk, even as his chest tightened. “Y’know… for someone who doesn’t care, you sure have a lot to say.”

Emma’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her eyes flickered.

Then, she smiled. A slow, dangerous thing.

“Oh, Marcus.” She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

She leaned in just slightly, voice lowering to a near whisper. “I love watching you fall apart.”

Mark inhaled sharply.

There it was.

There it always was.

Mark’s heart was pounding now, his entire body tense, and all the words he’d been holding back surged to the surface. The tears he fought to keep buried, the frustration, the rage—it was all mixing in a vicious storm inside him. He couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

“Shut. Up,” he spat, his voice hoarse with the weight of the emotions. It was quiet at first, but sharp, cutting through the silence that Emma had maintained between them like a jagged knife.

Emma didn’t flinch, not even for a second. Her eyes held a glint of something—amusement? Contempt? It didn’t matter. She was waiting for him to break, and now she knew she had him right where she wanted him.

“I said shut up,” Mark repeated, louder this time, his voice trembling with the force of the words he was struggling to contain.

But Emma only smiled, her lips curling into that cruel, knowing smirk. “Why, Marcus? You can’t handle the truth?” she taunted, her tone cold and condescending.

His hands were shaking now, his body trembling as the weight of everything crushed down on him. The sting of her words, the way she just...dismissed him, it all became too much. The silence between them felt suffocating, each second like another weight pressing on his chest, dragging him under.

“Just... stop,” he pleaded, but it barely came out as a whisper, too weak, too broken to have any power. He wanted to get up and leave, but he was rooted to the spot. Every part of him screamed to get away, but he couldn’t. Not when she was still standing there, her words swirling around him like a hurricane, dragging him deeper into the chaos.

But Emma wasn’t done yet. She leaned in closer, her voice sweet like poison. “You know, Marcus,” she started, her words slow and deliberate, “It’s almost sad, really. You think you can win me over? That buying my phone will suddenly make me see you for what you want me to see. But it won’t. Nothing ever will.”

Mark’s breath hitched, and that was it—he couldn’t hold it in anymore. His chest tightened as the heat of anger burned through him, and in one swift motion, he slapped her drink from her hand.

The glass hit the floor with a sharp crack, red wine splattering across the polished tile like blood. For a moment, everything went still again.

Emma looked down at the broken glass, then at her soaked hand. Her brow lifted just slightly. “Huh…”

Mark didn’t wait for the next cruel remark.

Something snapped.

He Lunged forward.

“SHUT UP!”

He slammed into her before she had a chance to react, and they both went stumbling back. Emma’s heels skidded across the floor, her wine-slicked hand reaching out instinctively—but there was no grace in the fall. No composure. They crashed into the bar table behind her with a thud, bottles rattling on impact, and then—

They hit the ground hard.

Mark landed partially on top of her, his breath knocked out of him as they both sprawled across the floor, tangled in the aftermath of it all. For a second, there was only the sound of heavy breathing, the sharp sting of impact, the echo of their bodies colliding.

Emma groaned beneath him, not out of pain, but more like disbelief. Or rage. Maybe both.

Mark didn’t move.

He stared at her, wide-eyed and shaking, chest heaving.

He hadn’t meant to—had he?

But something in him refused to feel guilt for it. Not yet. Not after everything.

Emma’s lip curled slowly, and her eyes burned into him with something more dangerous than fury.

But Mark barely flinched. He grabbed her wrist and shoved her back. “You think you can just say whatever the hell you want to me?!”

“I can,” she hissed, eyes blazing. “Because it’s true.”

Emma pushed him again—this time hard enough that he stumbled, and as soon as he did, she followed it up with a kick to his shin. It wasn’t graceful, but it made him grunt in pain, and it threw him off just enough for her to grab a handful of his hoodie and yank him forward again.

He grabbed her by the wrists, trying to pry her off. “Let—go—!”

“I should’ve done this years ago!” she snapped, forcing him off balance.

The two of them staggered, grappling like two animals—nothing clean about it, nothing elegant. Just raw, ugly rage. Mark’s hoodie bunched in her hands, and his feathers were a mess, sticking up from her clawing fingers. He tried to wrestle free, but she struck him again—her palm colliding with his jaw this time, sending his head snapping sideways.

“You’re insane!” he yelled, shoving her back again with all his strength.

And this time, Emma lost her footing completely. Her heel caught on a piece of broken glass, and she tumbled backwards—landing hard against the bar with a dull thud. Bottles rattled again, one falling and shattering against the floor.

Mark panted, chest heaving, eyes wild. His cheek stung, his fists clenched at his sides. He didn’t even realize he’d been hit that hard. His breathing was erratic. He couldn’t even see straight.

Emma pushed herself up from the bar, slowly. Her eyes were narrowed to slits now, her chest rising and falling. Her hair was disheveled, one of her earrings was gone, and her wrist was red from where Mark had grabbed her—but she didn’t care. She didn’t feel it.

She backed up slowly, until her spine hit the edge of the bar.

Still watching him.

Still seething.

Then—without breaking eye contact—her hand slid to the side. Resting near one of the untouched plates left over from the catering table. Her fingers brushed over it.

Mark froze for half a second.

He knew that look.

“You’ve got nothing, Marcus,” she said, breathless, her voice trembling with rage. “And you never will.”

Her hand gripped the plate.

And before Mark could react—

CRASH!

The plate sailed through the air and shattered against his face.

It hit with a sickening crack—white shards exploded in every direction, cutting across his cheek and forehead. He staggered back again, stumbling into a chair that toppled over with him. His vision swam. Blood ran down from a shallow cut just beneath his brow, warm and fast.

Mark lay there, stunned. Hands trembling. Breathing hard.

Emma just stood there, still by the bar, hand slowly lowering from the throw. Her chest was still rising and falling, her knuckles white.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

And for a few seconds, neither did he.

Because something had broken.

Not just the plate. Not just the silence.

Something deeper.

And this time, it wasn’t going to be that easy to glue it back together.

Notes:

Follow me on Ao3 if you like this stuff or is a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

I love Mark so much and you're one of the few people who writes for him these days. Thank you for giving us the Mark representation we need!

Aw stop your so sweet 💕 He's one of my favourite characters in ducktales/in cartoon history. And even though he's done bad things (nearly killing people in the process) there has got to be a reason for it and y'all can't change my mind. 😤 I feel so bad for him 😭 he needs a redemption fr

Thanks again for the ask❤️

Wait y'all, I think I found the reason why Mark beaks can't come up with anything/new ideas. Not cause he's not creative...

Because he's a parrot -_-

Join or don't idc🤷‍♀️

https://discord.gg/JHGJhv9b

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

Other

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Character:

Mark Beaks

Additional Tags:

DepressionMark beaks DEFINITELY has depression

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-28Updated:2025-03-30Words:1,763Chapters:2/?Kudos:2Hits:14

Inner demon's

1anon1

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 2: A day at Waddle! (And also to see how much Marks inner demon's get the better of him ;P)

Summary:

Mark Beaks has everything—money, success, a company with his name on it—but none of it feels real anymore...none of it mattered, it never did.

——————————————————————

Chapter Text

The building’s doors slid open, revealing the sleek, high-tech office lobby that bore his name. But Mark felt like a stranger in it. ‘What are you doing? You’re just standing here like an idiot. Walk in already.’ He swallowed hard, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag before finally stepping inside.

As soon as he stepped in, he was met with the usual chorus of greetings-employees flashing polite smiles as they walked past. He then gave them his signature finger-guns. It was an effortless charm he could pull off but…it felt so robotic, and hollow.

His chest tightened as he moved through the space, it was filled with people who actually belonged here. With his heart pounding against his ribs it made it harder and harder to focus, but he managed to ignore it, forcing a smile to everyone he saw. After all, it looked like he had everything under control…no one knew how bad he was really falling apart.

Mark walked forward, but he wasn’t really there. His mind spiraled elsewhere, his thoughts turning sharper, harsher, as he made his way toward the elevator. ‘You don’t belong here. You’re just playing pretend. They’re all working, actually earning their place here—so beaks, what are you doing here?’

His chest tightened again, his pulse hammering in his ears. The world around him felt distant—blurry faces, muted voices, the artificial brightness of the office space that suddenly felt too sterile, too wrong. He barely noticed the people passing him, barely registered the weight of his own footsteps. He was sinking, drowning under the crushing weight of failure, failure, failure—

A light tap on his shoulder snapped him back. He blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that he had stopped in the middle of the floor. Miss Taffy stood beside him, tablet in hand, one perfectly arched brow raised.

“I was going over your schedule,” she said, her tone careful. “Are you listening?”

Mark forced a grin, shifting his duffel bag like that would somehow make him look more composed. “Yeah, yeah, totally. Hit me with it.”

She held his gaze for a second longer before continuing.

“Okay, well, after this, you’ve got the…”

She rattled off meetings, calls, and appointments, but the words blurred together, slipping through his mind like static. He nodded along absently, pretending. Just like always.

°°°

He was now in his office, he felt so tired.

Mark sat at his desk, staring at the untouched food beside him. A perfectly plated meal—probably expensive, probably something he once would’ve snapped a picture of just to flex online. But now, it just sat there, untouched, because the thought of eating made his stomach twist. He hadn't eaten in a while, why couldn't he just eat? ‘You don't deserve it, that's why’

He leaned back in his chair, letting his head tip against the headrest, eyes drifting to the ceiling. His office was pristine, sleek, designed to impress—but to him, it just felt cold. Lifeless. It was supposed to be a reflection of his success, of the empire he built, but right now, it felt more like a cage. A glass box where everyone could see him but no one really could.

The office buzzed faintly outside his door—muffled conversations, ringing phones, the steady hum of productivity. People working. People actually doing something. Meanwhile, he was slumped in his chair, hands limp in his lap, the glow of his computer screen casting sharp shadows on his face. His inbox was flooded with emails—some urgent, some not—but all of them felt equally impossible.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand down his face.

“Get it together Marcus.” He mumbled.

‘Just answer one. Just one.’

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his mind felt blank. No words came. ‘...your pathetic’ The pressure in his chest returned, squeezing tighter, heavier.

A notification popped up—a meeting in ten minutes. He was supposed to pitch something. Something new. Something exciting.

Mark swallowed hard, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “What the hell am I even doing anymore?”

°°°

The office was nearly empty by the time Mark finally left his desk. The once-busy space had died down, the usual chatter replaced by the quiet hum of the cleaning crew working in the background. The city outside his window still glowed, alive with people who had places to be, things to do. But up here, in his high-rise office, it was just him.

He made his way to the elevator, each step feeling heavier than the last. His duffel bag dragged at his shoulder, and his body ached—not from work, not from anything physical, but from the sheer weight of existing. He should be relieved that the day was over, but there was no comfort in that. Just the knowledge that he’d have to do it all again tomorrow.

The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing him in cold, artificial lighting. He let out a breath, pressing his forehead against the mirrored wall. His reflection stared back, exhausted eyes dull and unfocused. ‘This is you. This is what you’ve become.’

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. The silence pressed in. He was going home to an empty penthouse, to another night of nothing, to a bed that felt too big and a life that felt too small.

The doors chimed open to the parking garage. He didn’t move right away, just stood there, staring out at the empty lot. The thought of driving home, of going through the motions yet again, made his stomach sink.

For just a second, he considered turning around. Maybe going somewhere—anywhere—just to feel something. But the thought passed just as quickly as it came. He stepped forward, letting the doors slide shut behind him.

Mark’s footsteps echoed through the parking garage, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls in an eerie, hollow rhythm. His car sat in its designated spot, sleek and expensive, yet it felt like just another meaningless possession. He unlocked it with a lazy press of a button, the headlights flashing briefly before settling back into stillness. He hesitated before getting in, gripping the door handle, staring at his own reflection in the tinted window. The version of himself staring back looked drained, like a ghost of someone who once had energy, drive—purpose.

He finally slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather cool against his back. The moment he shut the door, the world outside faded into muffled silence, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His fingers hovered over the ignition button, but he didn’t press it. Instead, letting a tired groan, exhaling a slow, shaky breath and resting his head on the steering wheel. ‘What are you even doing at this point?’ The thought looped endlessly in his mind, gnawing at him. He had everything—money, fame, success—yet he had nothing that actually mattered. And that realization felt heavier than anything else.

He sat there for a while longer before finally started the car, the engine purring to life, but he didn’t move. The GPS screen glowed, waiting for a destination, but he had nowhere to go. His penthouse wasn’t a home—it was just another empty space, another reminder of how hollow everything had become. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, his breath unsteady. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind—what if I just kept driving? No destination, no plan, just…away? But he knew better. No matter how far he went, the weight in his chest would follow. With a tired sigh, he put the car in drive and pulled out of the garage, disappearing into the city lights like just another passing shadow.

‘YOU are the reason your like this’

——————————————————————

Notes:

Follow me on Ao3 if you like this stuff or is a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

Other

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Character:

Mark Beaks

Additional Tags:

DepressionMark beaks DEFINITELY has depression

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-28Words:459Chapters:1/1Hits:0

Inner demon's

1anon1

Summary:

I guess that's what you get when your a savvy tech billionaire "genius"

Notes:

Writing my first series chat!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1:

——————————————————————

Work Text:

Mark didn't know what to do anymore. He is a billionaire, but he failed. He tried to make his own ideas from scratch, but he failed. He tried to live, but he obviously failed at that.

Mark sat on the edge on the bed, letting a sad groan before flopping to his back on the bed. It was a king sized bed, but that felt too big, too empty, like a stage where he was supposed to be playing the role of a successful billionaire and businessman. He looked at the ceiling with tired eyes, seeing the fan spin round and round. His phone rested beside him, the screen was dark, complete silence. No notifications-no on checking in, there was no one needing him.

He rolled onto his side so he could face the starry night, blankly staring into the window that overlooked the city. Somewhere down there, there were people living real lives while he was just…stuck. With a sigh, he grabbed the nearest pillow and pulled it over his face, muffling a frustrated groan. He had everything he could ever want and more. So why did everything including himself feel so meaningless?

Mark let the pillow fall to the floor with a quiet this before sitting up again, running a hand through his feathers. His chest felt tight…a little too tight, like there was something sitting on it, pressing down, refusing to let him breathe at all. He limply swung his legs over the side of the bed, getting up and resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor..

The silence in his penthouse was absolutely deafening, the kind that made his thoughts louder and harsher. He didn't get it. He used to love having this life! The luxury, the way people viewed him. The validation life gave him. But now? Absolutely nothing, only walls…expensive, lifeless walls.

Mark let out a hollow laugh, but it died in his throat as quickly. Fun. Well that used to be his whole thing, right? The guy who never took anything seriously, who never had to give a care in the world. But now? Now, even the things that used to distract him felt like dead weight, pointless reminders of a version of himself that didn’t exist anymore.

His gaze shifted to the large desk, cluttered with unfinished projects, blueprints, and abandoned plans. He used to pour himself into every detail, believing that if he could just make the next big thing, it would all click. But now, the papers were just reminders of how much he had failed. They were all meaningless—just scribbles on paper that led to nowhere. Just like everything else in this empty, lifeless damned penthouse. Just like him.

——————————————————————

Notes:

A short piece this time, but I will try and make the next chapters longer. Hoped you enjoyed!

Follow me on Ao3 if you like this stuff or is a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

Mark beaks: I don't see how this day could get any weird- and here we go

*Gladstone Gander and Mark beaks holding a baby whilst sitting on a bench*

Magica Despell: Gah! What the- Dude! That is so messed up!

Mark beaks: I know right? I mean, future me, wearing sandals?

Magica Despell: No! I mean your gonna steal Gladstone from me! It's supposed to be "Magicstone" not "Beakstone", you home wrecking womaniser!

Mark beaks: And it looks like I didn't stop at men.

*Mark and Magica getting married. Mark wearing a dress and Magica wearing a suit*

Magica: Ah! *Sobs*

Mark beaks: Agreed, always thought I was the one wearing pants in this relationship

Phantom Blot: Suspect has to speak Spanish to talk to shit about people

Ma begal: Nah, you didn't!

Phantom Blot: Yes I did

Ma begal: Oh yeah? Bet. Suspect moans like a little bitch in sound proof walls

Phantom Blot: That was one time! In *🤷‍♀️* when we went to Ohio for vacation.

Ma begal: You still did it!

*Magica Despell joins the call*

Magica Despell: Hello Begal and Blot

Phantom Blot: Oh hello Magica, what's up

Ma begal: Huh? Did I miss a chapter?

Magica Despell: What do you mean?

Phantom Blot: Yeah we can't say hi to each other like normal bros?

Ma begal: Normal bros? Oh hell no

*Pepper has joined the call*

Pepper: Huh? What's going on?

Phantom Blot: Nothing, She's just tweaking

Magica Despell: Right, like I treat Phantom like any friend would. Why is it so shocking.

Pepper: Friend?!

*Don karnege has joined the call*

Don karnege: Pepper I was eating, what happened?

Phantom Blot: Go back to eat. She's wilding over me and Magica being bros like come on now.

Don karnege: Bros?!

*Flintheart Glomgold has joined the call*

Flintheart Glomgold: Don I'm trying to sleep, it's 3 am here.

Magica Despell: Go back to sleep Flinty. Phantom are just being buddies and these guys are freaking out.

Flintheart: Buddy's?!

*Mark beaks has joined the call*

Mark beaks: You woke me up you wanker.

Phantom Blot: Oh come on! Is it really that shocking that Magica and I are greeting each other like pals?!

Mark beaks: Pals?!

*Black heron has joined the call*

Black Heron: I'm on vacation so this better be important.

Magica Despell: Go back and enjoy your vacation Heron, these guys are freaking out over me and Phantom Blot being friendly.

Black Heron: Friendly?!

Phantom Blot: You too?!

Ma begal: See what I mean? What kind of April fools prank is this! You two never get along!

Magica Despell: Oh please is it really that shocking?

Flintheart Glomgold: Yes? It is?

Don karnege: Name one time you two have gotten along

Phantom Blot: We always have?

...

Mark beaks: Even I can see that it's not true 💀

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

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Character:

Mark Beaks

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-15Words:1,149Chapters:1/1Hits:0

Distant Memory's

1anon1

Summary:

Why was he so...pathetic?

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Mark sat at his desk, idly scrolling through his waddle-gram feed. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the edge of his desk, his eyes darting between the screen and the piles of unfinished paperwork. He glanced out the window, the dimly lit city lights glowing. After a bit he put his phone down, getting up and crossing his arms, looking out the window.

He sighed, drawing a hand across his face. He checked his watch, 10:48pm. ‘Had I really been here for that long?’ he thought. Well, to be fair it was only him and his assistant still in the building, all the other employees' shifts ended. Even though technically there were physically two people left in the Waddle building, mentally…he felt alone.

Mark let out another long sigh, glancing at the empty office around him. The quiet hum of the building felt almost eerie at this hour. He turned back to the piles of paperwork, his thoughts drifting…turning darker…

He snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a knock on the office door. “Come in, Melanie” he said before quickly rubbing his eyes. His assistant walked in, a duffle bag across her arm “Mr Beaks? Do you want me to close up or should I stay a little longer to help?...” Melanie asked, peeking her head in with a concerned expression. Mark hesitated for a moment before answering, running a hand through his hair. "Huh? Oh—nah, you go ahead. I got it.” he said, though even he wasn’t sure he believed it. He forced her a reassuring smile.

She nodded, closing the door behind her, leaving Mark by himself in the room again. His smile faltered, as he heard her footsteps walking into the elevator.

Mark let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his beak before slumping back in his seat. He reached out his hand, his fingers hovering over his phone. But instead of scrolling again, he just sat there, staring at the dark phone screen, his own tired reflection looking back at him.

The reflection seemed to flicker to a younger boy that looked like him but his eyes had been blacked out, he knew exactly who it was. Mark let out a slow breath. His mind drifted—further and further, until he wasn’t in his office anymore.

The sound of arguing filled the house, sharp voices cutting through the air like a blade. Mark, no older than eight, sat curled up on the floor of his room, his oversized headphones clamped tightly over his ears. It didn’t block out everything.

“…lazy, good-for-nothing—!”

“You think I wanted this?!”

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his tail tightly in his hands—his mismatched tail feathers, the ones that made the other kids stare, laugh, and tug at him on the playground. His mom hated them. She always said they made him look ridiculous, like a walking joke.

“Marcus!”

His body tensed. He barely had time to take the headphones off before the door swung open. His mother stood there, her face twisted in frustration. “Why is your room such a mess? And take your hands off that tail—you look pathetic.”

Mark quickly let go, his feathers trembling as he muttered, “Sorry, Mother…”

She was about to answer, to gaslight him, to make him hurt. But his father called out to her again, his voice cutting through the house with a shake

She scoffed, rolling her eyes before slamming the door shut again, the force rattling his shelves. Her voice descended as she moved further away from his door. He swallowed hard, pulling his knees to his chest. He wanted to disappear.

Mark blinked, the memory fading, but the weight in his chest remained. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as if that could wipe away the past. His fingers hovered over his phone again, but now, the idea of scrolling through meaningless posts, desperate attempts at validation, felt exhausting. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

No matter how many years had passed, no matter how many followers he had, no matter how much wealth he flaunted—he still felt like that kid in his room, gripping his tail, hoping to be invisible. Only now, there was no tail to hold onto. Just an empty office, an unfinished workload, and the cold hum of silence pressing in on him.

He exhaled sharply, pushing the unfinished paperwork into a desk drawer. “Fuck it, I'll finish it tomorrow” he mumbled

Mark let out a sharp breath and shook his head, as if trying to physically shake off the weight pressing on his chest. He turned his chair, facing away from the city lights outside his window.

No. He wasn’t doing this tonight.

He pulled his laptop toward him and opened it with a click. The screen’s glow illuminated his tired face as he skimmed through the latest analytics for Waddle. Engagement numbers, trending topics, sponsorship deals—it was all there. A constant, never-ending stream of numbers and validation.

This was what he was good at, right? Staying relevant. Keeping the world’s eyes on him. Making sure people never forgot the name Mark Beaks.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he pulled up a blank post. Maybe a new Waddle-Gram update? A late-night thought? Something cool and mysterious to keep his followers intrigued.

Grinding past midnight. #CEOlife

…No, that was stupid. Too generic. He deleted it.

Instead, he drummed his fingers against the desk, thinking. His mind wandered back to the memory from earlier. That stupid room. That stupid tail. The way his mother had sneered at him like he was nothing.

A bitter chuckle left his beak. “Bet you’d love to see me now huh, mother?” he muttered under his breath, the last word filled with disdain.

Without thinking, he started typing again.

"Ever wonder if success actually fixes anything? Or does it just make the silence louder? Asking for a friend."

He stared at the words, re-reading them over and over. His thumb hovered over the ‘Post’ button.

Would his followers even get it? Would they think it was just another ironic joke? Maybe they'd hype him up, tell him he was killing it, that he was the coolest, the richest, the smartest.

But none of that changed the fact that right now, in this cold, empty office, it felt like none of it mattered.

Mark swallowed hard and—

Backspaced the entire post.

No one needed to see that.

Instead, he shut his laptop with a little more force than necessary and leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. Maybe he should just go home. Get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow, everything would feel a little less…loud.

But deep down, he already knew—

Tomorrow, the silence would still be there. Why was he so pathetic?

Notes:

Follow me on ao3 if you enjoy this stuff or is a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

This happened fr

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceNo Archive Warnings Apply

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Characters:

Mark BeaksEmma Glamour (Disney)

Additional Tags:

Verbal AbuseSuicidal ThoughtsSuicidal Thoughts Mentioned

Language: English Stats:Published:2025-03-11Words:644Chapters:1/1Hits:0

“Are you finally proud of me, mom?…”

1anon1

Summary:

Parents are meant to be caring and protective, shaping children into loving individuals who seek to help others. However, children who grow up without this nurturing guidance, but others who don’t grow up with these parents, develop a sense of mistrust and emotional detachment. Lacking love and support, they build walls around themselves, using power and ambition to protect their vulnerable, hollow inner self, focused more on surviving than on caring for others.

Notes:

⚠️Suicidal thoughts Warning⚠️ Why do all of the best ideas come to me at 3am tf😭

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Parents are…well supposed to be caring and kind. Protecting their children in every aspect and possible way. Kids who have or had parents like this grow up to be loving and knowing and they often become heroes, looking to help and care for everyone and everything.

But when other children grow up without that nurturing guidance, they don’t develop the same sense of trust or safety. Instead, carrying the weight of unspoken pain, learning early that the world can be a place of cruelty. Mark beaks learned that lesson at a young age—his parents, distant and harsh, never taught him how to love others or how to expect love in return. He built walls, grew cold, and used his ambition and power as a shield, hoping no one would ever see how hollow he truly felt inside. It wasn’t about caring for others—it was about surviving, about protecting himself from the brokenness that threatened to consume him every time he let his guard down.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, his small hands gripping the edge of the blanket tightly. The house was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that pressed on his chest and made it harder to breathe. He had just overheard his parents’ shouting match from the hallway—his father’s voice low but full of venom, his mother’s shrill and desperate, cutting through the thick walls of the house. He didn’t understand most of what was said, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to. He knew what it meant.

He wasn’t enough.

His father had said it before, but hearing it again made his heart ache with a pain he couldn’t name. "You're not the son I wanted," his voice echoed in Marcus’s head. Marcus clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threatened to spill. His throat tightened, and he tried to swallow the lump that had formed, but it wouldn’t go away. He didn’t want to cry—he wasn’t allowed to cry. That’s what his father would say. His mother would just roll her eyes. No one cared. No one ever cared.

The floor creaked under the weight of footsteps approaching his door. Marcus quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and turned toward the sound. His mother appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable but cold, like she was already distancing herself from the boy sitting on the bed.

"Stop acting like a baby," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "We don’t have time for your whining." Her voice was cold and harsh “We don’t need you here, it’s better if you kill yourself…no one would care”

Marcus froze in place upon hearing his mothers words cut through the air. He didn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t allowed to speak when they were angry…or any time for that matter, he didn’t dare too. So he sat there in silence, his small body trembling as he tried to hold himself together. He wanted so badly to shout, to ask why they didn’t love him the way he saw other parents love their kids. But he knew better than to ask. His voice wasn’t wanted here.

His mother’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before she sighed and turned away, leaving him alone again, trapped in the quiet, with the unspoken weight of being unwanted pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. ‘No one…’ the words replaying in his head, he was shaking.

He made a promise to himself that night. He was going to prove them all wrong, everyone who had ever hurt him. Because he was Mark beaks, and no one could stop him. Look out world, I’ll show you all. I’ll be someone you can’t ignore.

“Are you finally proud of me, mom?…”

Notes:

Thanks for reading chat, if you guys have ideas or want any free writing commissions feel free to ask me in the comments!

(I don’t own Mark beaks, but boy do I like giving him trauma😼the bitch needs therapy😭🙏)

Follow me on ao3 if you enjoy this stuff or a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

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?

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 😭🙏🙏

So uh, I got this twisted au I wanna do. But I can't draw so I just did the design on their original PNG's 😃

*Mark holding an ice pack to his face, tears in his eyes*

Mark: someone punched me in the face for being named Mark :(

...

Gyro: That's gonna-...that's gonna leave a-

B.O.Y.D: I made this fathers day bracelet for you

Mark beaks: Oh- you know, I'm not really a jewellery person

B.O.Y.D: You don't have to wear it-

Mark beaks: *snatches bracelet from Boyd* N- No I'm gonna wear it forever, back off

So I made a Mark beaks server for some reason, if y'all wanna join then go for it🤷‍♀️

https://discord.gg/33fQzwZe

NAHH THIS BETTER BE REAL

Mark Beaks (DuckTales 2017)

Here something to think about in the new ducktales episode “Beaks in a Shell”.

Mark beaks calls Fenton a dog for dating the enemy....

HOW DOES HE KNOW THAT SHE IS THE ENEMY? Does he know about F.O.W.L.? Or is it just public knowledge? Did Louie/Dewy post it on social media? Or is it just a one off line that does not really matter?

Mark Beaks is that type of character that could be set up for a redemption arc, but never does.

I actually like Mark Beaks... let me explain (This post is kinda messy.)

I feel bad for him at times because of his parents, they weren’t good ones, from what we seen and heard. He probably wants to be famous so people will give him attention or people will actually like or care about him. I personally believe his phone is some type of safety blanket, he cares about his phone a lot. Also something is up with him not liking touching others or others touching him. Though it doesn’t make for most of his actions he does, he still a bad guy. ( I mean I was the type of person who felt bad for Simon in Infinity Train) (I guess I like him because I feel bad for him, and I find him a very interesting character.)

(Though when calls Fenton amigo or chico it still makes feel very uncomfortable. He knows that Fenton does not like being called that, but he does it anyways to get underneath his skin, probably in the future when it doesn’t seem to have any effect on Fenton, Mark Beaks will try other names to get underneath his skin, that is what type of a jerk he is.)

That’s what I have say for now.... Goodbye

more screenshots of mark being hit xd

Some screenshots i take from the new episode.

Mark really look funny xd