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themurphyzone · 5 days

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Son of Darkwing AU: Just Like You Epilogue

As promised, here’s the epilogue.

Warning for mentions of alcoholism, implied substance abuse, small amount of profanity. Rating of this fic has been bumped to a T.

AO3 Link

Trash littered the floor of his old apartment, flies buzzing around moldy pizza crusts and slimy, rotten apple cores. The stench of rot reeked through the air.

The pungent smell had long driven out all the other renters in the complex, except for that stubborn, ancient geezer of a mutt on the second floor who always watched that irritating Pelican’s Island farce of a show with the sound turned all the way up. He claimed to be hard of hearing.

But that old fart just enjoyed tormenting him through the paper-thin walls.

Perhaps he oughta visit tomorrow. Have a little friendly chat about being a good neighbor and pour him a cold one, just like old times.

He’ll even slip a razor blade into the can. Why not? He was in a giving mood. The mutt deserved a special treat.

A cockroach scuttled by his foot, and he crushed it with his heel. Its guts spilled out of its disgusting little body, its legs and antennae detaching as he wiped his heel along the stained carpet.

His landlord would’ve put that infamous tightwad Scrooge McSuck to shame with his cheapness. Never bothered paying for pest control service.

Now, how should he repay the landlord for renting such wonderful accommodations to the poor, down-on-their-luck beggars and hobos of society?

He wasn’t going to repeat his plan for the mutt. That sort of revenge was boring. Devoid of any creativity whatsoever.

No, the punishment should fit the crime. Hit ‘em right where it hurts most.

The landlord couldn’t bear to part with his money, now could he? Kept it all locked away in a safe beside his desk and refused to entrust it to a bank. Even had the combination password written on a sticky note for convenience and never bothered to memorize it.

Would be a crying shame if someone were to steal all that precious loot.

Hell, he’d let the landlord watch too. Let him be the audience to his first crime after his grand comeback.

And to convey his eternal gratitude, he’d give him the honor of being the first victim of his chainsaw.

The hum of rusty metal slicing into every obstacle in its path was music to his ears.

He obliterated the old, battered couch. Stuffing and fabric scattered everywhere as he thrust the deadly, whirring blade deep into the frame. The enormous cut was jagged and messy, just the way he liked it.

Then he turned to the coffee table. He picked up the remote and hurled it into the TV. The glass splintered with a loud crack, a gorgeous spiderweb forming on the screen.

He cleaved the coffee table in half, hacking away at the furniture until it was nothing more than useless scraps of firewood.

His chainsaw wreaked destruction upon everything it touched. It didn’t matter what he tore through. Wood, paper, glass, the foundation of the apartment itself.

Nothing mattered except for beautiful, destructive chaos.

To hell with the world. It didn’t give a damn about him, didn’t give him the adoration and accolades and admiration he deserved while he was in his prime. The shelf he’d reserved for his trophies was barren and filled with nothing but dust and cobwebs.

Though the memories were hazy, he remembered owning several golden, shining trophies at some point in his life.

They were gone now, most likely stolen by some thief looking to make a quick buck.

He sold the trophies himself. Cashed them in at a sketchy pawn shop in one of the roughest neighborhoods of St. Canard. Probably got less than their actual worth, but alcohol was alcohol.

He swung his chainsaw at the empty shelf, taking out the plaster and drywall behind it as well. Half of the shelf flew into a wilted, dying potted plant, knocking it down and spilling topsoil and leaves everywhere.

Despite this, a single leaf remained green, clinging stubbornly to life.

A useless effort.

The chainsaw sliced the leaf to an insignificant green pulp.

He laughed at its demise. Why bother trying to live if the rest of the plant was rotting away?

Why should he give a crap about anything when all the world had ever done was turn their back on him? He’d wasted so much of his life trying to entertain a fickle audience who would never give him what he wanted.

He’d pushed his body to its limits by performing all his stunts, broke his bones and bruised himself a million times over to make it look authentic, and for what?

To be forgotten as soon as the executives found a new cash cow show to mass produce toys for?

To never land any other major role in a TV show or movie, not even as a typecast, because they thought he’d ruin the show before it ever took off?

Then there was the greatest offense of all, to never be invited to reprise his role in what would’ve been the greatest comeback in the entire entertainment industry, snubbed by his fans who claimed to worship the ground he tread upon and that prissy wannabe director who had no respect for the franchise.

And there was the worst of the lot…an ungrateful, selfish duck he’d raised from an egg and once called son.

He’d grown into a mockery of Darkwing Duck’s legacy, a pale imitator of the original. A cunning thief who’d stolen his identity, his life, and his fans.

He bellowed in rage, ripping the phone and answering machine from its wires and hurling them out the broken window. The phone broke through the fragile glass and tumbled three stories to the ground. But the answering machine laid in shambles, a shrill beep and distorted, mechanized voice emitting from its speakers.

“You have ninety-one missed messages. If you’d like to hear these messages-”

He slammed his fist against the machine. But instead of shutting off, a voice, one so insultingly timid and meek, filtered through.

“Hi, Dad. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me right now, and again, I’m really sorry I couldn’t convince Boorswan to at least give you a cameo appearance…but I was kinda hoping we could catch up? It’s been a while since we did something togeth-”

His chainsaw cut through the machine, silencing it forever. The whirring blade lodged into the floor beneath the destroyed nuts and bolts. He yanked on the handle, but the chainsaw wouldn’t budge.

Cursing, he shut the chainsaw off and kicked it in frustration.

All that buzzing had given him a headache.

He needed a damn drink. The brand didn’t matter. It just needed to be strong, bitter, and kill the migraine that pounded away at his skull.

A sharp pain traveled up his spine as he stumbled to the kitchen. He was forced to rely on the wall to keep his balance, and he loathed it with every fiber of his being.

Dirty dishes filled the sink and spilled onto the counter. He’d never gotten around to tying up the trash bags and taking them to the dumpster either. While the odor might’ve been off-putting to anyone else, it failed to compare to the Duckburg sewer he’d escaped through.

He rummaged through the refrigerator until he found a can of beer that had gotten wedged in the back. His sleeve was covered in old food stains as he pulled his arm out, but he didn’t care.

There was a voice somewhere in the back of his mind, some quack doctor straight out of med school warning him not to drink while on his painkiller prescription, listing out all the horrible side effects, and how that could affect him in the long run.

That doc could kick rocks for all he cared.

He popped a handful of painkillers into his mouth and guzzled down the beer. He’d survived things that would’ve killed other ducks a million times over. He wasn’t about to drop dead from this.

If he wanted to go out, he’d do it in a blaze of glory. He refused to die as some nameless nobody.

He crushed the empty can and tossed it aside.

It was the last one he had. Nothing else except the painkillers had any value attached to them. He shoved the bottle into his pocket, figuring it was best to keep it for his personal use.

The only other items he found that would be remotely useful were several kitchen knives, scattered haphazardly through several drawers. Small enough to conceal within his clothing, and lethal enough when he was ready to slash and stab and hack away at anybody who dared cross him.

He slipped the smaller knives into the inside pockets of his jacket. Then he tested out the largest blade in his hands.

It had a long, serrated edge, and its jagged shape would increase the risk of his enemies hurting themselves if they tried to knock it out of his hand.

If he wanted to be flashy and draw everyone’s attention to himself, then his chainsaw was the perfect tool to induce terror and create mass chaos.

But the daggers were more personal, a method to convey his hatred and deliver vengeance to everyone who wronged him. Yet a simple stab wound wouldn’t even make them feel a fraction of the pain they’d put him through.

He’d have to build up a weapon collection, but for now, this would do.

He dragged the knife along the table, the counter, the wall, and across any solid object in reach as he left the kitchen, leaving behind a horrid, shrill screech and thin white scars along every obstacle in his path.

There was only one place left to visit before he burned down this dump for good.

He had some cash stuffed somewhere in his bedroom. It wasn’t McSuck’s Money Bin, nor did he plan to pay for his fix at the next mom and pop convenience store he passed, but having a little greenery was better than nothing.

He plunged his dagger into the underside of his mattress, lifting it into the air. There was a small collection of torn, crumpled bills and dull pennies. In this economy, the paltry amount wouldn’t cover the cost of a single stick of gum.

But it would be a useful lure. Money was a powerful motivator for any poor, desperate sap.

He snatched up the cash and shoved it into his pocket, letting the mattress slam against the frame. But the dagger remained wedged inside, forcing him to brace his foot against the side of the bed as he yanked the stubborn blade out.

Finally, the knife yielded to his demands and came out of the mattress. He cursed and lost his balance, tumbling onto his back. His elbow smacked against the leg of his bedside table.

The booze and painkillers hadn’t kicked in yet, so it still felt like some asshole set his arm ablaze.

A picture frame that was perched precariously on the edge wobbled before falling onto his kneecap, as if he hadn’t dealt with enough insults to his injuries. He snatched up the frame with the intent of hurling it out the window, but a splash of color caught his eye before he could follow through.

Within the cracked glass, there was an old drawing of-

The frame slipped out of his hands and fell to the ground. A wave of dizziness overtook him, one that he couldn’t quite chalk up to the alcohol in his system.

He was hunched over the drawing, his hands and knees on the floor like a pathetic beggar, the heroic gaze of a duck clad in purple boring through him.

A forgotten memory resurfaced from a decade long past. He’d been at the peak of his career then, the brightest star in the night sky, one that was impossible to miss.

He saw a small, timid duckling with an awkward bill that was too large for his face. Who looked up to him with adoring, shining eyes, like he’d created the entire world from scratch.

A voice, tiny yet filled with powerful determination, proclaiming his life’s dream.

“When I’m bigger, I’m gonna be a hero just like you!”

The duckling became an adult. Young, bright-eyed, and hopelessly naive to the true nature of his chosen career path.

“We’ve had our arguments. I…I know I said things I regret. But I just want you to know, you were my inspiration growing up, Dad. That’s why I’m playing Darkwing now. I’m gonna show this new generation who Darkwing Duck really is, a beacon of hope in the darkness! If a kid falls on hard times, they can look to Darkwing Duck to help them stand up and keep fighting! So come work on the movie with me! Let’s inspire everyone, together!”

His son was nothing more than a filthy traitor, an awful impostor, a cunning thief who stole his entire life, identity, and legacy.

If that backstabber wanted to become a superhero so badly, so be it. But he would have to lose those ridiculous ideals and morals about inspiring people and helping them stand on their own.

Rage boiled in the pit of his stomach, his fingers tightening around the knife’s hilt.

If his son wanted to be a bleeding heart and help people so badly, then why couldn’t he have started with his own father?

His knife ripped through Darkwing Duck, destroying his image forever.

End AN: This AU is still a tragedy for the relationship between Jim Starling and Drake Mallard. But while Drake eventually becomes a hero and adds LP and Gosalyn to his family, Jim can’t see past the end of his own beak and still becomes Negaduck in the end.

Drake had a fallout with Jim in his late high school/college years because Jim wasn’t taking care of himself and couldn’t let go of his glory years as Darkwing Duck. Jim started drinking to cope and shut out any attempts to help from Drake and his old coworkers. Jim also developed health issues later on, partially because of his unhealthy lifestyle and because of the injuries he accumulated during the original run of DWD. That said, Drake still loves his dad and wants to reconcile with him, but Jim keeps ignoring him.

As much as I love The Duck Knight Returns, one nitpick I have with the episode is that the main characters don’t find out about the movie until the day the episode takes place, and Boorswan states that the production is almost finished. I can believe that Darkwing First Darkness most likely ran on extremely tight budget constraints and didn’t have a lot in the way of promotional materials and advertising due to Scrooge McDuck being the head executive. But with Launchpad being the DWD superfan, I believe that if there were any news at all of Darkwing getting its own reboot movie, he’d be following all updates on the movie religiously and talking everyone’s ears off about it.

I can excuse Jim Starling for not finding out about the movie straight away. In this AU, Drake tried to tell him about being scouted and his plans to audition for DWD, but Starling wouldn’t listen and later accused Drake of hiding all this info from him. Throughout the movie’s production, Drake tried to contact Starling and update him about happenings on the set, advice on his stunts, and sometimes just wanting to know how he’s doing, but Starling never picked up the phone and didn’t speak to Drake until LP brought him to the studio to watch the filming of the climax.

#ducktales 2017 #jim starling #drake mallard #son of darkwing au #darkwing duck fanfiction #tw alcohol #tw implied substance abuse #warning for profanity

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sariels-world-ella · 10 months

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Incorrect undertale quote:

Chara: at this point of my life, I don't care if you think I'm a girl or boy or enby,

Chara: or whatever fricking pronouns I TOBY DANG use,

Chara: I JUST WANT YOU TO GET YOUR STINKING BEHINDS OFF MY DARN YARD.

Chara: GET THE OFF MY YARD, YOU BASTARDS!!!

Chara: RACK OFF, YOU DANG BOZOS!!!!

Random parent: is that your child screaming at the sales people and a parent with a baby in a stroller over there?

Toriel: um... noo....? I-I, uhh... never seen that child in my life...

Random parent: are you sure that's not your eldest child, Chara, over there? they are the only human ghost that lives around here, and that's IS your house is it not? Toriel: um... that's... uh.. Asgore's child...?

*Papyrus in the distance after storming out the front door*: I AM SO DONE WITH YOUR MISBEHAVIOR TODAY, I AM NOT EVEN GOING TO BE "MR. NICE UNCLE PAPS" WITH THIS, CHARA DREEMURR, GET YOUR SORRY BITCH-ASS INSIDE RIGHT NOW, AND STOP BEING A TOTAL JACKASS BY SCREAMING AT PEOPLE,YOU ARE SO FUCKING GROUNDED,TOBY FUCKING DAMNIT!!!

Random Parent: and isn't that your brother-in-law? Toriel: uhh.... haha... maybe..?

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iggyfing · 24 days

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making up a character in my own head: oooh he's so wretched and tormented by the horrible fallout of a poor choice he once made

making up a character to play in a video game: i'm gonna make a woman that is so bastard

#more an observation on which of my ocs tend to be my favorites tbh #idk what it is about my brain vs video gaem #oc talk #profanity warning

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maegicks · 1 month

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i hate living in america lol

#gun tw #just the fact that i have to be scared that maybe one of my classmates could bring in an automatic weapon and attack us bc he doesn’t like #the professor??? like #found out that he’s been writing profane things in his notebook #i’m super scared about going to class tomorrow actually #whatever it was that he wrote was so bad that when the professor saw it it startled him so bad that he was #Looking down hallways and shit as we were headed upstairs for office hours #anyway if this needs any more trigger warnings pls reach out (nicely?) and i’ll add them!!!#i’m just super anxious now

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glimmerglanger · 1 year

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Chapters: 7/7 Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Original Female Character(s), Other PT Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Control Chip Removal and Aftereffects, Emotional Dysregulation, Pining, non-con not between the main pairing, And Occurs Off-Screen (See Author's Note for More Information), Temporary Obitine, Brief Quinobi, Therapy, Recovery from trauma, Eventual Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Some Brief Instances of Self-Harm, Coping Mechanisms, Healing, Abuse of Prisoners, Torture, Healthy Communication, relationship navigation, Implied Future Cody/Obi-Wan/Satine Hinge Relationship Summary:

The very first piece of profanity Cody ever heard came from the mouth of one of his trainers. She’d been a quiet woman most of the time, especially during training, where she mostly communicated with her hands. But she’d tripped up, once, in the mess, and hissed out, “Kark,” under her breath after the clatter of sound from her armored foot striking a chair.

OR, the one where Cody sees some of the more horrific parts of the galaxy and takes the long and difficult road to recovery afterwards.

#my writing #codywan #profane au #see above for warnings and tags #well here we go #more healing and progress #thanks for coming on this ride with me #hope you enjoyed!

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askadultsweetiebelle · 3 months

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/ Older Scootaloo: You're a loser, baby!

Older Sweetie: A loser, but just maybe if we...

Both: Eat shit together, things will end up differently!

#ooc #profanity warning

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adhdlion · 4 months

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If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

I did something bad at work and spent most of the week waiting to find out if I was going to lose my job over it. My girlfriend and another close friend, within the same hour no less, started a statement with “you just need to…”. I’m already past the end of my rope, and that just pissed me off. I have ADHD. If I could “just” we wouldn’t be having this fucking conversation.

To those of you with ADHD, this is probably a very familiar song. Sing along, if you’d like. For those you who don’t know it, give it a listen. This is the angry version of the song. I know there are other nicer versions you can go find if that’s more your style.

Flashback to first grade: “you *just* need to sit still!” Bitch, I have ADHD *and* RLS. I don’t get to choose when I sit still. You sure as fuck don’t and it’s not a moral failing when I can’t always do it on demand. If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

All through grade school: “you *just* need to sit down and do your homework.” I walk in the door at home and you’re lucky if I remember that I even have homework. If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Eleventh grade English teacher: “you *just* need to apply yourself!” Yeah, I probably should. Using a magic word doesn’t make it happen, and it’s not like this is a lifestyle choice. If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

College: “why can’t you *just* sit down and do it?” Fuck if I know, you tell me. I try. I bribe myself. I berate myself. I sit there like a good little boy and the words don’t come. The book doesn’t open. The effort doesn’t come. If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

When I go through bouts of depression: “can’t you *just* get out of bed and take a shower?” Bitch, no, that’s what the fucking problem is. If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

For the last several years I have barely cooked at home. “Why can’t you *just* make something simple?” If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Yes, I know my life and yours would be easier if I were *just* someone else. If I were *just* something else. If I were *just* different from how I am. That’s what everyone has been telling me for almost a half century, whether they realize it or not. Telling me that all I need is this one weird trick to being a normal human being absolutely does not fucking help. Tell the drowning man “you *just* need to swim”. It does the same good to him as it does to me. If I could *just* we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

So the next time you have a friend who is stuck on something that seems simple to you. Or the next time you see something from a stranger where they are stuck. I know you want to help. We all want to help people. But I urge you. It’s so simple. You *just* need to fuck off with “you *just* need to”.

#swearing warning #profanity #rant #just #adhd #tw swearing #swearing cw

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anondudeao3 · 1 year

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(Also, since I'm sharing random bits of creativity haha)

Please enjoy this prologue from a WIP

Disclaimer: this is simply because I cannot contain myself and I really love this and want desperately to share it haha. Do not be fooled into believing this is an indication the finished product may be coming soon. I truly have no idea. I have, like...over 50 WIPs for this account haha — I never know when any of them are going to be finished until it is upon me.

And...I beg of you. Stick with it, it's the end that I love so dearly, but the set up is necessary.

Jason is angry.

Maybe it's more accurate to say Jason is anger.

He's trying, he's really making an…effort to at least try to be more levelheaded and reasonable now that he's supposed to be a Bat again, but he's still always just filled with so much…rage. It flows under his skin, molten and burning and viscous like magma, just waiting to burst forth at the slightest opportunity, lurking there for the moment it can surge out and entomb the next unfortunate soul in his path in its inescapable, blistering clutches.

He feels like a monster.

He feels like his rage is an entire other being that forcibly wrestled the wheel out of his grasp, and yet he still feels he's entirely at fault for every action it takes in the driver's seat of his brain, because it's his. He wants those things, he wants to do those things, he feels those things, even if the smothered voice in the back of his head says it's wrong, that he'll regret it later (if he ever manages to take the wheel again. He wonders if that's even a possibility. It feels impossibly out of his grasp).

He's managed to achieve more of a balance lately, managed to unsmother that voice, and shove aside the rage sometimes even if he can't shove it back or down, but that means it's still always there, right there in the forefront of his mind, boiling his brain and frying all of his other emotions to ashes until only bitterness is left.

He feels so elemental, like there's hardly anything left to make him up at all; only thin skin that barely contains a sea of magma roiling over an impenetrable wall of igneous rock around his heart, like he was almost made inside out. Isn't normal people's fire on the inside, instead of licking at the outside world through their very pores with every breath? Aren't their walls like a protective exoskeleton? Jason had failed at normal a long time ago, though, hadn't he.

There's a knock on Jason's safehouse door, and Jason fucking burns with hate at being interrupted. The little voice in his head tells him he's being unreasonable, that he's only been cleaning his weapons and allowing his thoughts to simmer through the shimmering heat-haze of his emotions that he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to get used to no matter how long he's been dealing with it. (He wonders if it's a useless endeavor to even think about trying to tune such a thing out some day. He wonders if it might even be dangerous. If his rage really is a separate entity by now, one that could maul him when he's no longer looking).

It doesn't matter what the little voice says though, he feels it, he feels it.

It matters what the little voice says. He sets down the pistol, and goes to get the door.

Dick gives him a friendly smile and a bright, "Hey!" and Jason feels another surge of haterageresentment swell in him at the sight.

But he only says a curt, "Hi."

Dick steps forward, forcing Jason to either step back or blatantly block his entrance, inviting himself in as if it doesn't occur to him that he might not be naturally welcome in Jason's space. Like he might not just intrinsically belong here.

Jason sits with this swell of anger as well, as he shuts the door behind him while Dick makes himself quite at home on the ratty couch Jason had dragged in from an alleyway that had smelled like cigarette smoke and rotting leaves and old piss, as most Gotham alleyways are wont to, in Jason's experience. At least the sofa doesn't smell like that anymore. Mostly.

Dick still looks happy for some fucking reason, as Jason approaches him. Jason stops a good meter and a half away, still standing and now crossing his arms tightly over his chest, deciding it's probably better this way. Probably better to keep him out of striking range, out of the way of temptation, far enough that it might take more than a few seconds, at least, for any errant flows of lava to reach him.

"I'm really glad you're back, Jason," Dick says, looking unaccountably earnest, and Jason doesn't know quite what to do with that. His anger roils confusedly below the surface in choppy waves, trying to surge but continually falling back on itself as it has no idea what for. "I missed you. I'm so glad you're back with us, and I just— I feel like there's so much I did wrong before, and so much more I could have done, and I don't— I don't want to lose you again. I want— I understand if it's more…difficult and you can't jump in all at once, but I want to have the relationship we never got to have before; I want to be someone you trust this time, someone you can rely on. You're family, but that's just a word if you don't make anything of it. I want to. I want to be closer this time…if you'll let me."

Jason's insides have gone still. And he's still just as lost at sea.

"I…" Dick hesitantly adds. "I know I'm not alone either. Alfred would be absolutely over the moon to spend time with you." He pauses again. "Maybe we could…all have tea some time when Bruce isn't at the manor?"

Jason stares at him, because he doesn't know quite what else to do, and in that moment, Jason…feels something in him break. He feels like something soft and raw inside him is suddenly left exposed to the elements, and the utter vulnerability makes panic flicker through him, but Dick is still holding his gaze — eyes clear and open, and friendly smile lingering, like he means it. Like he means every bit of it. And everything about him whispers terrifying, with the way he's cracked Jason open; and everything about him whispers safe, like no matter what turns out to be underneath Jason's hard, igneous shell, he wouldn't flinch back, he would open his arms and shield him from the world himself.

"Okay," Jason manages, and Dick smiles like the sun, and Jason feels another flicker in his chest. Not fear this time though, and finally — finally — not anger or its bedmates bitterness and hatred either. Something…lighter. Softer. …Hopeful? Bright. Not the fires of rage, but a warm spring sun.

#character study #jason todd #batfam fanfiction #jaydick #yes this fic is eventually going to be JayDick #obviously you don't have to read this prologue as JD if you don't want to though #in fact I think it's great if you want to interpret it platonically! I love people interpreting my art however brings them joy #but just giving that warning because I do know some people will act as if they've been 'tricked' into doing something profane somehow #if they reblog art from a quote unquote 'batcest' shipper #so that's your warning. This is JayDick. It doesn't HAVE to be if you don't want it to be...#but if you're going to act like it's the end of the world if people find out you interacted with JayDick content then save yourself #the trouble and don't reblog #snippets

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