Like Uncle Like Nephew I Guess

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

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

shows up

ruins everything

immediately dips

THAT'S MY SUPERHERO 👏💯

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

https://discord.gg/33fQzwZe

𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚍: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎, 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖, 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚜.

*𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚢*

𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚏𝚢: 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍!

*𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚍*

𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚍: *𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭*

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

I'm sorry, come again? ✨

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❤️

Hi ,

I hope you’re doing well. ❤️

I’m writing to you with a heavy heart and a lot of hope. My family is in grave danger because of the ongoing conflict, and I’ve set up a GoFundMe campaign to try to save them. 😢

Could you please share my campaign post from my profile? Even a single share could be crucial for us. 🙏 If you’re comfortable, feel free to share it on other social media platforms too.

Our campaign has been verified, and it’s entry number 264 in their Master List on their spreadsheet.

Thank you so much for your kindness and support.

Listen I am very sorry, but I'm going to have to decline this, hope you're well though ❤️