badnewsmouse reblogged
badnewsmouse reblogged
ive been writing a gwitch band au fic...the girls they are rocking and rolling 😤
badnewsmouse reblogged
Ahh yes, the classic goth and jock romance, my favorite u w u 👏💖💞🌸💕
Blurb under the cut! ^ w ^
Source: heytherechief
badnewsmouse reblogged
Donation Commissions
In light of recent events, I’m opening Donation Fanfiction-Commissions!
DM me with proof of your donation to one of the links listed here (date & time included in receipt screenshot) and you can redeem a fic of a certain length based on the amount donated:
500-1000 words: $10
1000-1500 words: $15
1500-2000: $20
2000-2500 and up : $30+
If you are unable to donate, please reblog!
badnewsmouse reblogged
How about Donald being a model for/ helping Daisy w her designs? Or maybe they talk about their careers together?
“Thanks again for helping me with this, Donald,” Daisy said, bustling around him with a tape measure in hand and a pin cushion on her wrist.
Doing his best to stand perfectly still, Donald glanced over his shoulder at where Daisy was closely scrutinizing the pleats of the coat he was wearing. “Happy to help, Dais,” he replied. “It’s an honor to be your, uh…”
“Glorified mannequin?” she offered, looking up at him with a chagrined smile.
“I was going to say model,” Donald retorted, the sight of her smile making his own soften. “Your designs are really amazing, Daisy. I’m, uh, I’m glad you asked me to do this. One day your clothes are gonna be in magazines and fashion shows and I’ll get to say I wore a ‘Daisy Duck’ original before anyone else!”
badnewsmouse reblogged
I finally drew some fethsteel art, it’s based off @mighty-ant ‘s amazing fanfic The Man From FOWL.
badnewsmouse reblogged
lethalhedgehogs-deactivated2023
Some quick fanart for the fic Silence Isn’t Golden by @mighty-ant here on tumblr, I gushed a tiny bit about it in the tags of the post but like, I really like the scenario they set up here. It was just *kiss* amazing
badnewsmouse reblogged
Anonymous asked:
ʌ: comfort after a nightmare Dellumbra?
Penumbra knows the futility of imagining reality any differently than it actually is. Doubt and hesitation are not the warrior way, and can only lead to self-doubt and subsequent ruin. A warrior makes mistakes, yes, but they acknowledge those mistakes and take the necessary steps to rectify them. A warrior does not pause to consider a world where those mistakes were never made in the first place.
Penumbra is a warrior beholden to her ideals, and during the day she is steadfast in following them.
She sees the destruction her people have blindly enacted against the Earthers’ cities and accepts the recriminations of world leaders on their behalf. She gathers her people, with the direction and trust of Scrooge McDuck to back her, and sets to righting the wrongs they committed. They rebuild Duckburg and the other cities the moon visited its wrath upon and she doesn’t wonder for one instant if things might have turned out differently had she wised up to Lunaris’ true intentions sooner.
However, for all her determination not to dwell on her mistakes, on the what-ifs and maybes, at night she is vulnerable in a way she cannot stop, in a way she despises.
Upon retiring to her and Della’s shared bed, nightmares unlike anything she has experienced since the inception of their battle with the moon mites plague her with relentless, grueling abandon.
badnewsmouse reblogged
Could u do “ stay” w drakepad?
The studio wreckage is still smoldering when Drake gives Launchpad his number.
He’s just had the craziest and possibly worst day of his life. His hero is dead, his movie is ruined and a piano fell on his head. But he can’t stop smiling as he watches Launchpad try to juggle his poster and retrieve his cell phone at the same time because in spite of all that bad, one pilot provided more than enough good to make up for it.
Drake has never met someone he clicked with so seamlessly, who understands and appreciates Darkwing Duck the same way he does, perhaps even more so. Launchpad’s approval began mattering to him in a very short amount of time; if he believes Drake can be a real hero, then Drake believes him.
He types his number into Launchpad’s phone and hands it back quickly. Their fingers brush and when their eyes meet they’re both already smiling. Grief hangs heavily off of Drake’s shoulders, and will remain there for some time, yet hope flickers in the hitch of his breath, the anticipation curling in his stomach. He looks at Launchpad and it feels like they’re on the brink of the rest of their lives.
“So, what now?” Drake says, almost breathlessly, knowing that the path he’s chosen will be dangerous. He knows he’s doing a poor job of concealing his excitement (and slight terror) if the way Launchpad’s smile grows is any indication.
“Well,” Launchpad says.
“Well this was a bust,” Scrooge McDuck says, marching past them with his little nephew in tow. “Let’s get out of here, Launchpad, before Boorswan can come cryin’ again.”
Launchpad turns to watch them go. When he faces Drake again his smile has twisted in apology. Drake feels bereft before he utters another word. “Sorry,” he says, the strong line of his shoulders sinking in time with his smile. “I’d…I’d better go.”
“I understand,” Drake replies, putting all his acting skills to use, to the point that he almost buys it. “And hey, you’ve got my number now! So you can-you can give me a call whenever.”
Launchpad nods at once. “Yeah, course! If you need help with packing up or, heh, if you ever need a pilot—”
“Let’s get a move on, McQuack!” Scrooge shouts from the exit.
“I’ll call you!” Launchpad says in a rush as he starts to walk backward. He trips on a piece of debris and spins around so that he’s facing the right way as he hurries over to his boss.
Drake watches him walk away, unaware that he’ll become far too accustomed to the sight.
badnewsmouse reblogged
Commission for @draketales! Based on @ducksmode‘s lovely fanfic It will come back!
(Please click for better quality!)
+ A bonus doodle because the concept of LP waking up early to make Drake breakfast in return has me crying
badnewsmouse reblogged
Just a Normal, Boring Family
Part Three
Two days before Uncle Donald disappears, a weird girl shows up at the marina.
They’re on the deck of the houseboat doing chores. Or rather, Huey is doing chores and Dewey and Louie are doing their best to distract him. It’s laundry day and Huey’s hanging the clothes Donald just washed on the clothesline outside, carefully pinning them up with laundry clips.
“I bet Scrooge McDuck doesn’t do his own laundry,” Dewey says. He’s laying on a deckchair beside Huey, his eyes closed against the glare of the sun.
“You don’t even do your own laundry,” Huey retorts, and resists the very unbrotherly urge to drop the sopping wet hoodie he’s holding on Dewey’s face.
Louie’s sitting on Dewey’s other side, his arms folded behind his head. He’s wearing a pair of novelty sunglasses he won in a bet against a new kid at Funzo’s a few weeks ago. “I bet Scrooge McDuck has an army of people waiting on him hand and foot,” he says dreamily. “There’s probably a guy to run the washing machine and a different guy to run the dryer and a whole other guy that just gets paid to fold.”
“Well Scrooge McDuck might have that but we don’t,” Huey replies. “So how about you two help me before Uncle Donald comes out and realizes we’re not wearing life…jackets.”
Huey trails off for no reason that his brothers can discern.
Dewey looks up, shielding his gaze with a hand over his eyes. “Uh, Huey?”
“You good, Hubert?” Louie asks, not bothering to move from his comfortable repose.
Huey’s attention is arrested by something on the other side of the fluttering clothesline, in the direction of shore. Without rising from their chairs neither Dewey or Louie can have any idea what.
“There’s a kid on the pier,” Huey says at last. “I think she might be lost. She keeps looking around.”
badnewsmouse reblogged
Guardian Angel
Commission for @sonicdrift2!
Donald steps off the elevator waving three pieces of paper over his head, to Uno’s bemusement.
“Boys! Uno, she’s having all boys!” he shouts, like Uno isn’t embedded in every inch of the 151 stories that make up Ducklair Tower and perfectly capable of hearing him if he spoke at a whisper, much less a normal volume.
But Uno doesn’t think he’s ever seen Donald smile so brightly, so much so that he imagines that if he too had a face it would ache in sympathy.
“What are you going on about, Old Cape?” he snarks without heat. “Keep yelling like that and your secret base won’t stay secret for long.”
Donald crosses the room in a few quick steps to wave the papers in front of Uno’s projected face like that’s an answer in itself.
“Della brought the eggs in for an ultrasound and—look, look!” he says, beaming, finally holding the papers still for Uno’s sensors to analyze. “She’s having all boys. I’m gonna have nephews!”
badnewsmouse reblogged
Happy Days are Here Again
“And what about this?”
“My foot?”
Penumbra leveled her with a glare that was desert dry and just as scathing. Della didn’t look away, giggling when their impromptu staring contest stretched into the seconds.
With an overblown sigh and roll of her large gray eyes, Penumbra was the first to relent. “I mean,” she stressed, poking at the sole of Della’s real foot with a large, alien finger, “why is it…like that?”
Della wiggled her foot in Penumbra’s lap, grinning at the unamused look thrown her way. “It’s webbed,” she explained. “To help us swim better. Y’know, evolution or whatever.”
“Swim?” Penumbra repeated, in the way of someone trying out a new word.
Della pulled her foot back and shuffled forward, so she was sitting in Penumbra’s lap instead. She hummed thoughtfully as she leaned back against Penumbra’s chest and her arms came around to cradle her close.
“We’ll have to take you to the beach,” Della said. “We’re due for some classic Earther tomfoolery. Playing in the water, building sand castles, not fighting anything—you’ll hate it.”
badnewsmouse reblogged
Stone by Day
Part One
Gosalyn spends her nights following the human.
She hadn’t meant to start, really.
Downtown is so bright, with skyscrapers and giant LED billboards and so many human eyes that she finds herself sticking to the more shadowed parts of the city for safety: the warehouse district, the docks, condemned buildings. She’s drawn to the bay more and more often, mesmerized by the play of moonlight against the sharpness of the black water and how it just seems to go on and on, Duckburg’s distant shore mocking her with its deceptive nearness.
But on this night she edges just a little bit closer to the populated streets, her mind on where she’ll get her next meal. She’s hidden in shadow on a low rooftop when she sees the snap of a black wing out of the corner of her eye.
Gosalyn leaps to her feet, heart pounding, and takes after it without a moment’s hesitation, gliding across the spaces between rooftops in desperate pursuit. She catches a brief glimpse of their wings again, disappearing over the side of a building. She doesn’t dare call out, lest she’s wrong, lest someone else hear her.
Not a moment later she hears the reverberation of a gargoyle’s roar. Nearly forgoing caution altogether she runs to the edge of the building, smiling for the first time in days because she’s certain that her loneliness will end.
But it’s no gargoyle.
A human man rides astride a tremendous motorcycle, a long dark cape fluttering behind him. His bike roars like some great beast as it takes off down the street and Gosalyn watches him go with a hollowness opening up inside her.
However, her curiosity is not dimmed.
badnewsmouse reblogged
When Those Blue Snowflakes Start Falling
Happy holidays @acupofcappuccino! I was your secret santa for @ducktalessecretsanta2019
___
It was cold, bitterly so.
Snow fell steadily, to dampening effect. Even the roar of the Ratcatcher beneath him was muted through his helmet, more so than usual. He raced through traffic, cars and lights blurring past until he reached an emptier part of town.
Drake parked the Ratcatcher in an alleyway filled with slush and refuse. The silence after cutting off the engine was absolute, punctured only by his breathing as it fogged in the air. He clapped his gloved hands, rubbing them together for a semblance of warmth before retrieving his grappling hook from his belt. It was a new model, his idea and executed by Dr. Bellum, with a practically silent firing mechanism.
The night’s quietude remained unbroken as he aimed for the railing of the fire escape closest to the building’s edge, hooking on with expert accuracy. He shot up the side of the building in an instant, landing as silently as he’d made his ascent. From there, it was a small matter of climbing onto the roof.
From above, downtown Duckburg was an unshaken snowglobe, draped in gleaming white. The dirty slush on the streets might as well not have existed. Every rooftop was stark with unbroken snow, and Christmas lights glittered from within windows and wrapped around street lamps. The stars in the sky were obscured, and had instead fallen onto the streets below.
He found Launchpad leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the rooftop, in his leather jacket and scarf. Seeing him—even seeing him doing something as banal as drinking out of a steaming styrofoam cup—bruised his insides a little.
badnewsmouse reblogged
Fenton with 2 or 10 perhaps?
Be Careful What You Wish For
When Drake receives a call from Gizmoduck there’s only one question on his mind.
“How’d you get this number?”
His bitterest rival chuckles weakly. “Uh…Launchpad gave it to me?”
Drake pinches the bridge of his beak with a sigh, setting down the knife he was using to dice onions. He makes a mental reminder to tell his partner not to hand out his SHUSH-issued phone number so willy-nilly (especially not to this ninny). He also makes a mental reminder to change his phone number at his earliest convenience.
“Well, what do you want?”
“I have sensitive information that I need to discuss with you in person,” Gizmoduck says, sounding about as suspicious as a person can sound. “Meet me on the roof of the old Glomgold cannery by the wharf in one hour.”
“I’m making dinner,” Drake responds, affronted. Immediately, he covers his eyes in mortification. He seriously couldn’t have said he was fighting mobsters or anything even a little more pressing? Maybe an aggressive soccer mom?
“Please, Darkwing,” Gizmoduck says, and there’s no exaggerated cadence this time. Gizmoduck sounds young and scared. “I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important.”
Drake muffles the phone against his shoulder and groans, annoyed and drawn out. He puts the phone back up to his ear after a good fifteen seconds.
“Fine,” he spits, and hangs up. Turning around to scrape the onions into the trash, he shouts in the direction of his apartment’s living room, “Gos, looks like you can order pizza after all!”