Rating:

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