#*posts this and runs*

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… hi..

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A Good Landing, chapter thirteen

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ao3

The Drake of three years ago never could’ve imagined that he’d be someone’s husband one day. 

To be fair, a wedding would be tough to plan when one didn’t technically exist. He had Drake Mallard erased from record nearly a decade ago, reduced him to less than a ghost, less than a footnote. It wasn’t particularly difficult to do, with as little impact as Drake Mallard had made on the world. A rejected son, a failed actor, a selfish, bitter, friendless loser. 

He fell into SHUSH by chance, by sheer, brilliant happenstance. 

As a former stuntman, he knew how to throw a punch. And a lot more than that. He wasn’t proud of it, but after the 8th pointless audition for a toothpaste commercial with no callback, he took to slipping out of his crummy basement apartment in a ski mask and whaling on petty criminals in his neighborhood, St. Canard’s East End. He tried not to punch above his weight, going after would-be muggers or your typical creeps, and every dawn, as sickly, gray sunlight spilled out over the city, he would trudge back home with sore muscles and a gaping chasm in his chest that no amount of violent retribution would be enough to fill. 

But he was getting pretty good at beating up crooks, to the point where regular people took notice. He started showing up in the news as ‘the dark masked duck’ more than Drake Mallard ever did, and even as the emptiness yawned within him, he liked it. The attention, indirect as it was. And he wanted more. 

Beating drug dealers bloody didn’t pay the bills unless he wanted to turn into some sort of hitman, so he kept up his stunt work during the day. His after hours activities kept him sharp, and there was no end to the mindless action flicks in need of nameless stuntmen. 

There was one flick, some old school vampire thing, that had him flying around on wires for Vampire Thrall #1-4 and the Vampire King. The costume department put him in a cape, a long, flowing thing that flared with his movement, made him look bigger than he really was. He startled more than a few techs with a perfectly timed swing of his cape, the snap of fabric especially jarring when all else was silent. 

And just like that, Drake knew what he had to do. 

As a former student of a theater department with a dwindling, near-nonexistent budget, he’d performed in every role, from lead actor to stagehand. And borrowing one of the vampire capes from set to use as reference, he made Darkwing Duck’s first costume. 

The gas guns and the catchphrases developed over time, through trial and error. He flubbed his lines more than once and set off his apartment’s fire alarm an embarrassing number of times. Until one night, when Darkwing Duck became fully realized. 

He started noticing a pattern with a certain number of thieves, most of them teens or kids barely out of high school. He followed them for about a week, not interfering since they never actually hurt anyone, before they led him to the warehouse where they were dropping everything off. 

Drake burst in, expecting to beatdown a few scary gang types who thought it a swell idea to recruit kids to do their dirty work, only to stumble headfirst into a smuggling ring that (he’d later learn) spanned the entirety of Calisota. With his cover blown and the exit blocked, Drake did the only thing he was good at. He fought. 

As he launched one of their own tear gas canisters back at the last of the goons, SHUSH agents came storming in. Apparently he’d interrupted what had been a multi-part sting five months in the making, but in doing so caught the gang so off guard that nearly all of the bosses were there to meet his fists, and the rest were caught when their business partners squealed on them. 

“We’ve been watching you,” the lead agent said. He held his hand out to Drake. “How would you like to continue your work somewhere other than a basement?”

He accepted, barely waiting for the agent to even finish speaking, and Drake Mallard disappeared into Darkwing Duck’s shadow, gleefully casting aside everything that made for a normal life in favor of casefiles and chemistry sets. Who needed friends or neighbors when Quackerjack was robbing the federal gold depository? Or Megavolt was stealing the city’s power, or Bushroot was turning everyone into vampire potatoes (you get the idea)?

Darkwing Duck had the tech, and the secret base, and the costume, and the fear. By design, the average citizen was meant to consider him a myth; the criminal underworld, they knew who he was all too well. 

The years went by, years of living out his secret, selfish fantasies, and…he felt nothing. That hollow, carved out space inside him didn’t go away, or heal at all. If anything it became a constant companion, a pain that festered into numbness. 

After the adrenaline high burned itself out, he felt the ache of his bruised, bleeding body, drowned in the yawning emptiness of the Tower. There was so much crime in St. Canard, not just supervillains but cruel, petty evils that made it feel as though he were battling the tide with a bat and a cardboard shield. 

But he couldn’t go back now. Back to small, sniveling Drake Mallard who nobody gave a damn about. Who would have him? Who would want him?

And then. 

A Darkwing-shaped hole in the roof of a plane hangar. A jet, presented as a gift. Smiles over coffee and warm hands holding his aching body close. 

Launchpad, who had far more reason to turn jaded and cruel than Drake ever did, but stayed good despite the way the world chewed him up and spat him back out. Launchpad, who offered his bruised heart with trembling smiles, trusting Drake even as he risked further pain. 

Launchpad, who made Drake want to try. 

Try to be good, too. Try to be whole. A worthy partner. 

And then. 

An orphan with boundless spirit. Lullabies, hugs that left him breathless, a blazing red portal and a tiny, fragile hand clasped in his own, trusting him when everyone else had failed her. 

He never saw Gosalyn coming. How could he? Fatherhood was a foreign concept, a cruel joke, his frame of reference poisonous and pointless. But then Gosalyn fit into their life like a missing puzzle piece, as if he’d been waiting for her all along and he’d only just glanced down and taken notice. Her happiness began to matter more than any number of stakeouts or foiled plots. To keep her safe, he would kill and die for her. 

Before his eyes, the empty numbness inside him transformed into a well of rage, of love, so powerful it made him wonder if he’d ever truly been alive before now. 

For them, his heroes, he had to do more than just try.

Then of course Launchpad just had to show him up by proposing first, but that was just par for the course. And Drake could admit that a moonlit flight in the Thunderquack was probably more romantic than anything he could’ve come up with. 

All that mattered was the end result was the same. A family, his family, unlike anything he would’ve been capable of imagining for himself. Just the thought of how he used to be shamed him, and on especially bad nights, he worried about regressing into that shell of a man, a cold, caustic version of himself and the bitter loneliness he enforced. 

But that fear seemed insignificant when they were flying to Des Moines for their wedding, and for Gosalyn to meet her new grandparents. When they went house hunting and found a two-story marvel with a lovely kitchen backsplash and a tree out front for Gosalyn to give him a heart attack by climbing. 

They still had their rough days, obviously. 

Something might remind Gosalyn of her grandpa, and the life that was stolen from her, and she would lash out over any little thing in dramatic teenager fashion. 

Launchpad’s nightmares about his old life could keep him from sleep for days at a time and in his exhaustion he would turn withdrawn in their own home, hesitating before every kiss, every hug or high five, staring at Drake and Gosalyn as if they might vanish if he were to dare reach out and touch them. 

Drake would get overwhelmed by the muchness of it all—fighting crime had nothing on back-to-school shopping, meal prepping, hockey meets, and the dreaded potlucks. PTA meetings made him want to give up on this whole ‘reenter society' schtick and lock himself back in the Tower for good. 

 The crime fighting part was no walk in the park either. For all that Gosalyn was growing into the role of Quiverwing, making it her own, with the help of the two best teachers she could’ve asked for, there was a lot she just still wasn’t ready to face. Things that Drake hadn’t been ready to face, and haunted him still. Demons, alternate dimensions, a monster carrying out evil while wearing his face, Bulba lumbering back from the dead, more machine than man.

Safe to say they saw their fair share of danger, and weirdness, in St. Canard. But sitting in the Thunderquack with Launchpad’s boss, his former SHUSH handler, and a fellow worried father was…something else. 

For almost two years, Launchpad’s job in Duckburg had been just that: a job. One that came at the request of SHUSH, and more specifically the buff Mary Puffins currently sitting in the copilot seat. The life of the richest duck in the world was apparently in danger, at risk by FOWL and their shadowy machinations, and everyone knew McDuck wasn’t the same man he was a decade ago.

Drake didn’t care about McDuck, much less whatever was going on in their perfect sister city of Duckburg. As great as a second income would be for Gos’ college fund, he wasn’t about to pressure Launchpad into accepting a SHUSH assignment now, after everything he’d told Drake, and all the worst bits that he’d probably left out. If Drake’s own SHUSH stipend as an independent contractor wasn’t enough to suit their needs, then Launchpad could open another garage in the city, or an online shop for his knitting, or even a damn lemonade stand. 

But no. As a favor to Beakley (who didn’t deserve Launchpad’s time of day, but that was just Drake’s opinion), he accepted the position as McDuck’s chauffeur. And it was…fine. 

Launchpad drove the old coot to and from his meetings, collected dry cleaning, the usual. He would pick up Gos from her hockey practice on the way home, nap with Drake for a while, and then they’d either suit up as a family or someone would stay behind to help Gos with her language arts homework. It was their routine, and amid various potentially life-altering catastrophes, it was nearly perfect. 

And then McDuck got it in his head to start adventuring again at the ripe old age of 800 years old, dragging an entire spontaneous gaggle of children and Launchpad along with him. Suddenly, Drake could go entire days without seeing his husband, or Gos her father, as he gallivanted off to parts unknown at the beck and call of an old man who’d never appreciated him in the first place. 

Now, Launchpad was the kindest soul Drake had ever met, open with his affection, and ready to make friends with everyone from derelict superheroes to business-minded witches. But Drake’s darling, beautiful husband was not the most forthright individual, and this was coming from the reigning champ of emotional stuntedness. 

Launchpad liked to feel useful. Scratch that. Launchpad needed to feel useful. It was a compulsion born from his years at SHUSH, where his skills were all that mattered to people. Even allies, friends (and some more-than-friends), would drop him as soon as the mission was complete, the day was saved. Launchpad would be left in the lurch, told to pack his things, move onto the next mission, and wonder why he hadn’t done enough for them to let him stay. 

So Drake, grudgingly, understood why Launchpad hadn’t just told McDuck to buzz off and find himself another pilot. He cared about the miserable old miser, and he cared about the kids, who sounded nearly as spirited as Gos from the way he described them. 

More than once, Launchpad actually floated the idea of holding some kind of get-together for all of them, but Drake had been…resistant. He didn’t like meeting new people at the best of times, and he was still so traumatized by the Muddlefoots that he would’ve forced them to move years ago if it wouldn’t mean earning ‘Worst Father of the Year Award’ for separating Gos from Honker. 

Of course, Launchpad’s disappearing act forced the dreaded introduction anyway, because Drake’s life was nothing if not a series of jokes played at his expense. At the very least, once he entered the coordinates into the Thunderquack’s navigation system and the cockpit sealed, none of the three other ducks on board had much interest in smalltalk. 

From the copilot’s seat, Beakley turned toward him sharply, expression tight and any indication of stress tucked away. Back to business then. 

“Who is this enemy of yours that you suspect to be responsible?” 

Beneath them, Duckburg blurred past in shades of ochre as the distant sun inched toward the bay. Drake stared straight ahead, gripping the yoke just to have something to do with his hands, as the autopilot took care of the actual flying. 

Technically he could only suspect who might be responsible. If based on a simple process of elimination it was almost a foregone conclusion, taking into account who wasn’t currently in jail but also had the cunning and/or intimidation factor to gain access to SHUSH systems. Not to mention a single-minded hatred of Drake that would motivate them to ignore every bit of actual highly sensitive and ultra-classified intelligence up for grabs.

For once, Drake desperately hoped he was wrong. He prayed they’d get to this SHUSH blacksite and find Lilliput lying in wait instead. But he could never be that lucky.

“Negaduck,” he muttered, the name escaping him on a breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw McDuck and Donald stiffen at his tone, more apprehensive that he would’ve liked. 

“He’s me,” Drake explained haltingly. “Sort of. At least, he’s a version of me from an alternate dimension.”

Behind him, Donald dropped his head into one hand. “Of course he is…” he despaired quietly. “Cuz being from this dimension would be too simple.”

“McDuck.” Drake turned his head slightly without facing the quadrillionaire directly. “Do you remember a scientist who worked for you three years ago? Thadeus Waddlemeyer. He was trying to create a machine to access other dimensions.” 

“A-aye,” McDuck said slowly. “But he…passed, and his device was deemed too unstable after it was stolen and nearly destroyed St. Canard.”

Drake scowled at the windshield. ‘Passed’ was a kinder way of saying murdered, and as much as the reminder burned him, he distantly appreciated McDuck’s tact if nothing else. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Our dimension’s Waddlemeyer wasn’t able to crack the code, but the Waddlemeyer of the Negaverse did.” 

“Negaverse?” Donald repeated. 

Drake thought for a moment of how Bellum and his kid had first explained it to him, reeling after his first and last disastrous visit. 

“Think of it like a mirror of our dimension, but the funhouse kind. Almost everyone, everything, is twisted so that they’re the opposite of who we are here, now. There, Waddlemeyer was a mad scientist, willing to sell the Ramrod to the highest bidder. There, SHUSH is trying to take over the world, while FOWL is a peacekeeping organization working to stop them, yadda yadda, you get the picture. 

“There, the Negaverse version of me terrorized St. Canard. He stole the Ramrod, plus Waddlemeyer’s granddaughter, and used it to cross over into our dimension to try and take over here too. I found where he was hiding his Ramrod about six months ago, and destroyed it, trapping him here. Which he, uh…extra hates me for.”

“What can we expect from him?” Beakley demanded. Drake had noticed her expectant silence up until now, and his aggravation had been building steadily For all that she was ‘retired’ from SHUSH, clearly she still had access to mission briefings—his and Launchpad’s in particular, seeing how she just couldn’t leave his husband alone. She could probably guess Negaduck’s MO, if she didn’t already have his full psych profile memorized. 

“Well he’s insane, for starters,” Drake said for the benefit of the ducks in the rear of the plane. “But don’t underestimate him—he’s dangerously smart, too, and just plain dangerous. He hides all kinds of weapons on his person: knives, guns, chainsaws, whatever you can think of that causes maximum pain.”

Donald’s breath wheezed out of him, and that got Drake to finally turn around. The duck was clutching a hand to his chest, looking ashen beneath his feathers. McDuck was reaching out to him but hesitantly, his hands hovering over his nephew’s shoulders without touching. 

“What about the kids?” Donald asked shakily, and Drake accepted a rare pang of guilt. 

He didn’t know Donald, had never cared to know him, but Launchpad always sang his praises as a father. How despite whatever nonsense McDuck dragged them into, Donald’s first priority was always his kids, whether that meant driving to every Junior Woodchuck troop meeting or fighting actual Greek gods to keep them safe. And now two of those kids were gone. Taken, purely through bad luck and worse timing. 

Drake didn’t know how Donald could possibly be holding himself together as well as he was. Knowing Launchpad’s life was at stake because of him had Drake’s leaden stomach turning on itself, his hands trembling around the yoke and terror swimming poisonously through his veins. He could see Launchpad’s bedhead and sleepy smile in his mind’s eye and wanted to scream. Knowing Gos was safe in that damn mansion was the only thing keeping him sane. He couldn’t well imagine how he’d feel if she’d been taken too. Just the thought was enough to pour red-hot rage into his bones, enough for him to tap into the darkness that Negaduck wholly embodied and rip and claw and tear until he got her back.

But here, now, at least he had an idea of what to expect. Donald was going in blind, and the uncertainty must’ve been eating him alive. 

“He won’t do anything to them, or to Launchpad, until we get there,” Drake tried to reassure, not sure if he was all that successful. This was usually more Launchpad’s wheelhouse. “Fortunately, he’s your typical megalomaniacal supervillain in at least one way: he likes an audience.” 

He didn’t mention that Negaduck’s hatred of him was borderline obsessive. Creating this whole convoluted scheme just to lure him out by way of kidnapping Launchpad probably spoke for itself. But Negaduck had gone after Gos before with bombs and a shark on her first night out as Quiverwing, and that was before he learned she was part of his team. And now after that hack, he had to know who she really was. 

Drake’s only guarantee was that Negaduck wouldn’t kill Launchpad or the two missing children (Dewey and Webby, he reminded himself), but he had no idea what state they would be in when he found them. At best, he hadn’t laid a finger on them, but Drake knew Launchpad, knew that beneath the surface of the gentle giant was Double-O-Duck, the spy, the bruiser, with all of his focus and skill. He wouldn’t have taken the kids’ capture lying down, so if anyone was already injured and especially at Negaduck’s mercy, it would have to be Drake’s husband.

Negaduck had no more love for Launchpad than he did for Drake, but this time he hoped to use it to his advantage. Once he knew Darkwing was in the building, he wouldn’t care about anyone else, beelining for his dimensional counterpart with fire and brimstone in his eyes and a chainsaw aimed for Drake’s neck. A brawl would be the perfect distraction while Beakley and the others searched for their kidnapees. 

Then, once Launchpad was safe in his arms, he would be taking a leave of absence from the McDuck family, effective immediately. Drake was taking him and Gos to their cabin out by Launchpad’s parents’ house and barring the door, because Drake had been missing his husband and Gos needed her Papá. For too long, he’d been letting Launchpad burn the candle at both ends, journeying back and forth between home and Duckburg, jungle adventures and night patrol, because he knew how much Launchpad loved both of his families. But Launchpad always had more love to give than there were hours in the day (or night), and Drake had to put his foot down before Launchpad gave all of himself away. 

And not to be petty, but Drake and Gos had first dibs.  

He watched the gray arches of the Audubon Bay Bridge rise into view through the windshield, painted in shades of gold that only deepened the shadows cast by the towers. Relief flooded Drake at the familiar sight. 

“Almost there,” he muttered aloud. The Thunderquack banked to the left, in the direction of the harbor. Launchpad’s last coordinates was leading them toward the spookier part of the docks that tended to have ‘MURDER’ written all over them, where the warehouses were crumbling and seemingly long-abandoned, but nearly all served as a front for some kind of smuggling ring or demon-worshiping cult or devout Quackerware salesmen. Just the place SHUSH would think to settle down in, for reputation’s sake if nothing else. But in the process of building their prison, they would’ve cleared out the surrounding riffraff too. Instead, neither had happened. 

Drake glanced at Beakley. “Do you know anything about why this place was shut down?”

“I believe it was something to do with the foundations of the pre-existing structure,” she explained unhappily. “The prison was decommissioned and left unfinished as further construction put the entire building at risk of collapse.” 

Drake grimaced. “Perfect. I think I’m gonna park on the warehouse next door.”

Just hold on, Launchpad. We’re coming. 

-

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

A voice that sounded like it belonged to someone who gargled razor blades dragged Launchpad back to aching consciousness. Even before he opened his eyes, he was struck by the overwhelming pressure in his head, as if someone had put his temples in a vice. His chest felt tight, like his lungs didn’t have room to expand, and his breaths were short and labored. 

When he managed to crack his eyes open, he found himself looking out into darkness. He thought he could see shapes moving amidst the black, formless and indistinct. But a spotlight switched on directly above him with a heavy clang, temporarily blinding him. He winced, jerking his hands up to shield his face, but all he managed was to make his body sway in place. Thick rope bound him from his arms up to his ankles and a latch of some sort on his back held him suspended several feet off the ground, upside down, like a worm on a hook. 

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Negaduck crooned, his voice preceding him into the circle of light spilling out on the ground around Launchpad’s head. The shadows clung to Negaduck like oil, reluctant to leave his already dingy feathers and unpleasant smile. 

Launchpad glared at him. At this height, they were nearly eye to eye. “Where are the kids?”

This dark reflection of his husband tsked, shaking his head. “Straight to business with you hero types, ain’t it?” 

Negaduck didn’t stop moving, instead pacing around him, slow and quiet, just on the edge of the circle of light. Launchpad tried to hide how he tensed when Negaduck stepped behind him, out of his peripheral vision. It gave Negaduck the perfect opportunity to attack him any way he wanted: a knife to the ribs, a blow to the head, take your pick. Launchpad was bound like a mummy, unable to defend himself unless Negaduck got close enough for a headbutt. 

But Negaduck leaned back into his line of sight without laying a finger on him, his smirk a mean, methodical thing. He knew exactly how rattled Launchpad had been. It was the intent. “No time to sit back and enjoy the moment?” he crooned. 

“I’m not playing, Negaduck,” Launchpad bit out, struggling to keep his cool. “I’m gonna ask one more time. Where. Are. The kids?”

Negaduck snorted, less than intimidated. “Eugh, touchy, touchy,” he said mockingly, and gave Launchpad a hard shove that sent him careening back on the rope he was hanging from. Fortunately, he’d been bound in the center of the room, and didn’t smack his head on any of the walls. This time. 

Launchpad swung forward with just as much momentum, and Negaduck smoothly stepped out of the way. “Fine then, if you’re gonna keep being a killjoy! The brats are fine. Still sittin’ pretty in their comfy cell waiting for rescue from old man McMoneybags.”

So Negaduck wasn’t so far gone as to hurt a member of the McDuck family. The relief that settled over him was short lived, but better than nothing. 

The last thing he remembered was checking Dewey for a concussion, and then nothing. Negaduck must’ve come back for him at some point during that missing time; maybe Launchpad should be tested for a concussion. All the crashing he did had given him a strong stomach and a skull like concrete, but with the blood rushing to his head and pounding behind his eyes, all this spinning wasn’t doing him any favors. 

He closed his eyes as his swaying slowed to a less extreme speed, trying to focus his scattered thoughts. Webby and Dewey were counting on him. They didn’t understand what was happening, what they were up against, because Launchpad never told them who he was, never warned them about the monsters that might follow him. Dewey didn’t even trust him anymore, and Webby couldn’t be far behind…

“What do you want?” Launchpad muttered, opening his eyes in a squint. 

Just in time too, as any trace of levity vanished from Negaduck’s weathered face. He lunged forward with a snarl, grabbing a handful of the ropes binding Launchpad and dragging him close, until Negaduck’s bloodshot eyes bored into his own from inches away.

“What do I want? What do I want? What I’ve always wanted since I set foot in this craphole,” he hissed, razor teeth flashing yellow in the harsh light of the spotlight above them. “I want to see your world burn. Consider it payback for locking me outta mine.”

Time worked funny sometimes when you crossed dimensions. A few hours in their reality amounted to a week in the Negaverse, but it might as well have been a year for all that he and Drake saw, what they were forced to do. Enemies wearing the faces of friends, a desolate world overcome by evil and defended by a dwindling few. The brilliant little light they had no choice but to leave behind. 

Launchpad sneered right back, thrashing uselessly against his restraints. “‘Your world’ is better off without you! Gosalyn is better off without—”

The glint of light reflecting off metal, and Launchpad became aware of the cut on his cheek at the same time he recognized Negaduck’s machete pressed against the tip of his beak. He had to admit, Negaduck had been quick about it. Launchpad hadn’t even seen him draw the blade. 

“Keep her name outta your mouth unless you wanna lose your tongue!” he growled, expression gone cold and still with rage except for his eyes, which contorted and flickered. His own madness, made worse by the dimensional shift? They still weren’t sure. “She’s my daughter. Mine.”

“She was terrified of you,” Launchpad snapped, never one to back down even while staring death in the face. Not when it came to Gosalyn. Any Gosalyn. “And with good reason! You killed Bulba right in front of her—”

“That pathetic, wannabe hero was trying to take her from me!” Negaduck threw his hands in the air, machete and all, thankfully without slicing Launchpad up further. The cut on his cheek had started to weep, a trail of blood moving worryingly close to his eye. “He got what was coming to him,” Negaduck grumbled as he turned around, storming into the darkness that continued to loom around the narrow triangle of light surrounding Launchpad. He lingered there, all but consumed in the shadows, the lurid yellow of his suit a scant outline and only his machete occasionally catching the light. 

Negaduck kept muttering to himself, but in the dark, Launchpad couldn’t be sure where he was, or what he was saying. Only that Negaduck was moving, circling Launchpad again, but more focused on talking to himself than actually intimidating him. 

“All those heroes…ruining my city…”

And for a brief, tiny, inconsequential half-second, Launchpad almost pitied him. 

He blamed the blood rushing to his head. 

This poor facsimile of his husband, a black hole masquerading as a person, who only knew how to take: money, lives, peace. A monster who hurt others for his own pleasure because violence was all he knew. It was as terrifying to experience as it was exhausting. 

Launchpad glared at a random spot in the dark, his head pounding and chest growing tight. If he stayed up here much longer, he was going to pass out. It was only a matter of when.

“What are you expecting to get out of this?” he asked plainly. “You know I can’t just give you the Solego Circuit, right?”

Negaduck came back to himself with a scoff, reentering the circle of light. He’d hidden the machete again at some point. 

“Piece of junk wouldn’t even do me any good. SHUSH and FOWL are sayin’ the same thing—can’t use the damn portal without destroying this trash heap and my world in the process,” he declared, waving his hands theatrically. “So, until I can find a scientist willing to put their back into it, I’m still stuck here. Watching you and that cheap copy play house.”

Launchpad glare met Negaduck’s baleful glower unflinchingly, but internally, a rush of guilt left him breathless as a knee to the gut. He knew he shouldn’t have followed that distress signal. But what else could he have done? Communications were down, and Launchpad had begged Drake time and time again to just call him when he needed him, Darkwing didn’t have to be alone anymore. And Launchpad, terrified of being abandoned again, just couldn’t risk it. 

He just wished that he hadn’t dragged Webby and Dewey into danger too. 

“You made a mistake taking the kids,” Launchpad said, fighting against a wave of dizziness. He tried to keep his tone steady, like Double-O-Duck used to, his gaze piercing and locked on the wet shine of Negaduck’s eyes, cast in the shadow of his hat brim. “Instead of just Darkwing coming after you, you’re getting Scrooge McDuck. This is a guy who fights gods on a regular basis. How do you think you’ll do against someone like that?”

And Negaduck…laughed. 

And not one of his long, rambling cackles that he followed up his evil monologues with. Negaduck snorted with laughter, expression one of mild amusement rather than incandescent rage or insult. 

“Ah, doesn’t really matter,” Negaduck breathed, a chuckle still trailing on his words. He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “This was all more of an experiment.” He stepped forward, until they were eye to eye, and grabbed a handful of the ropes over Launchpad’s heart. He was too dazed to even try headbutting him now, and by the razor smirk that split his beak, Negaduck must’ve known it too. 

“The big, bad Double-O, scourge of SHUSH, turned into a pitiful little sidekick, and now completely at my mercy,” Negaduck murmured, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I could kill you so easily right now. But where’s the fun in that? It’s one and done, until I can jump into a dimension where I haven’t killed you yet and do it all over again. There’s slow and painful, quick but bloody…we could do a round where I only use my knives, the really little ones. You ever heard of death by a thousand cuts? Cuz we can make that happen!”

Launchpad’s skull pounded like a second heartbeat had taken residence in his brain, and the bright bulb above him scattered fractured stars across his vision, bright to the point of pain. Overwhelmed and dazed, he sputtered, “So what was the point of all this? Hacking SHUSH, kidnapping us—”

Negaduck pushed Launchpad, with just the one hand on his chest, walking forward at the same time. They moved out of the circle of light and into the surrounding darkness, Launchpad’s stomach lurched as Negaduck kept moving, until his back nearly touched the far off wall. Negaduck only stopped when the rope keeping Launchpad suspended pulled infinitesimally taut. 

He tilted his head to look at Launchpad then from under the brim of his hat, backlit by the lone, scorching lightbulb behind him. Negaduck didn’t smile as he spoke, all his twisted enthusiasm from earlier snuffed out between one blink and the next. His growl was quiet, a seething hatred beneath every word. 

“I might not kill you right now, but make no mistake, I will kill you. And until that glorious day, I want you to go about every day of your insipid little lives knowing that you’ll never be safe from me.”

Launchpad clung to consciousness with a racing heart and a flagging will, his horror tempered by delirium. 

“You’re insane,” he gasped. 

Negaduck shrugged. “We’ve all got our part to play in this crazy game called life.”

Launchpad’s vision was beginning to tunnel when the deafening blare of alarms startled him back to partial awareness. Outside the door to his cell, the hallway was ablaze with strobing crimson lights. The distant pounding of running feet heralded the organized departure of the Eggheads, converging on the threat. 

“There’s our hero,” Negaduck crowed. “Fashionably late, as usual.”

Before Launchpad could properly brace himself, Negaduck let go of him. Without the support pinning him against the wall, he swung forward in a graceless rush, letting out a yelp as bright spots burst across his sight. 

Even in the midst of his disorientation, Launchpad caught a different flash of light, reflecting off the silver edge of a serrated dagger in Negaduck’s grip.

With a flick, he threw it upwards at the apex of Launchpad’s swing, severing the rope holding him suspended from the ceiling. He had the barest second to brace himself, tuck his head and curve his back so he landed on his shoulders instead of his head. 

It still sent a painful jolt through Launchpad’s body, jarring every bruise and sprain at once, and the immediate drop of pressure on his skull left him lightheaded and woozy as his body set him to rights. 

He rolled onto his side with a groan, forcing his eyes open in a narrow squint, looking up at Negaduck from upside down. 

Making a show of straightening his suit, Negaduck reached inside and pulled out a shotgun. He grinned down at Launchpad with a mouthful of sharpened teeth as he loaded a round. 

“Make yourself comfortable now, sidekick. I’ve gotta go and welcome my new guests.” 

[slurpeesoverromance]

Good lord

[queenofthedork]

Home is where your teeth sink, love🥀

[skullsemi]

I really like their dynamic

[jerrsterrr]

bonk!!

thinks about them,,

comic under cut

full:

[prettyflyshyguy]

What are you gonna do, monster boy?

Amazing what I can achieve when I put a song on repeat. Smashed this one out as something fun, refreshing and stress free. Still working on the big final chapter of the C Virus AU, but I'm recovering my confidence as a writer by letting myself work on some sillier things. Good practice too.

This is a mini story based on this phenomenal post and an overly complicated idea I had from it.

Enjoy the garbage here, or on AO3.

“You look nice.” Leon smiled wryly.

Chris rolled his eyes as he pushed the elevator doors back for Leon, who was wasting all the time in the world as he made his way down the corridor. The sharp cut business attire didn’t suit him as much as it barely fit him. A necessary evil, Leon had assured him. It’ll go down better.

To aid in Rebecca’s continued research, and for ease of access to monitoring the effects of the trial viral inhibitors she’d prescribed him, Leon was temporarily assigned to assisting in BSAA operations. The guise was of course that his knowledge post-Lanshiang was critical in containing and mitigating the impact of smaller scale and localised outbreaks of the C-Virus. A half truth, no one seemed to question it so far and a number of months had already passed. The global crisis raged on, the work never ended, his temporary partnership was easily justified to nosy journalists and more discerning governmental bodies.

Chris perpetually winged to him the whole elevator ride about how much he found the bureaucratic nature of these meetings tiresome. Paper pushers, out-of-touch management. Stakeholders who never set foot on ground zero yet felt qualified to call the shots. 

“If it weren't for people like that, we wouldn't be here.” Leon retorted, “You saying you’d want to be out of a job?”

He smiled as he watched Chris fiddle for the umpteenth time with his collar and tie.

“If people like that weren't around, there’d be no BOW based warfare. I’ll be glad the day I’m made redundant.” Chris huffed as he loosened his tie slightly.

Leon conceded that the man had a point.

The meeting was routine. The BSAA was called in to clean up a minor incident, it was successful, and so various representatives and stakeholders for the client would be meeting with the BSAA to discuss the outcome and debrief. Chris had insisted on arriving early, saying that this meeting was critical given the circumstance of the client, and it needed to go smoothly. 

Although it wasn’t mentioned, Leon could tell he appreciated the emotional support.

-

Chris was, for all intents and purposes, an exemplary operator within the BSAA. Most notable about him was his considerable empathy, fierce determination to do what's right, and how much he believed they had the power to change the world for the better. Quality traits, Leon respected him highly for them all, however, the latter might be considered a tad naive. Chris was an exemplary operator, trapped in a room, surrounded by stakeholders and board members. Politicians, in the figurative sense, and arguably the worst kind. Leon’s eyes darted around the seated figures, noting the sheen of luxurious silk clothes, tailored suits and wrist watches that were never used for any practical purpose. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. 

There were a handful of friendlies on the south end of the oval table where Leon and Chris sat opposite. Leon knew them all as subordinates within the teams Chris oversaw, all good men and women, people you could trust. They had kindness in their eyes despite the worn and torn faces they wore, they shared the optimism of their Captain. They existed in stark contrast to the other two thirds of the table where the client cartel sat in horseshoe formation, their backs positioned to the entrance to the room, psychologically forming a barrier between the BSAA staff and the exit. 

“-pride ourselves in swiftly responding to an incident, and I am very pleased with the outcome and the performance of my team.”

Leon watched Chris fidget slightly in his seat as he spoke. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he was handling it well. Still, Chris was out of his depth. 

Politicians were hard enough to hold a work related conversation with. They were always playing games. A simple discussion became a contract with fine print, never in your favor or your benefit. More was always demanded of you, because good was never good enough for them. He wondered who had more power anyway, in these strange times. Was it the politicians he was used to handling, or the people sitting a few meters away from him. 

“-the use of B.O.W units by the BSAA?”

Leon’s attention violently snapped back to the woman seated at the head of the table. She shuffled through a document folder, licking a finger to flick through the pages effortlessly. Peering down through a set of reading glasses with a fine gold chain draped around her neck, a frown crinkled the skin on her forehead. She looked to be at least fifty years of age, with the telltale signs that she’d had work done to maintain a youthful presentation. Despite mankind mastering the molding of biology, they were still unable to tame the passage of time. The cracks in her mask formed when she frowned, and her voice gave away her years. Her dark eyes shifted upwards, piercing out from behind a sunken brow.

“I-Wh-Excuse me?” Chris stammered, shocked at whatever she had just implied.

Leon looked around the room hoping to find some context. The BSAA members appeared just as confused and shocked as he was. 

“Mr. Redfield, as the lead operator of this…” the woman paused, a chill beginning to settle on the room, “... Successful operation…”

Chris stiffened in his chair. Leon squinted from across the table and could barely make out the tiny printed details on her visitors identification badge.

Ms. Harker, CTO, Valhanian Pharmaceuticals. 

This is bad, he thought.

“... Do you condone the use of Bio-Organic-Weapons by the BSAA?” 

Harker’s speech had a sharp whistle to it that pierced the air of the room and the stunned silence of the attendees. This was a regular Tuesday lunch for Leon, for Chris this may as well be judgment day at the pearly gates. 

Don’t.

As if willing it so hard might psychically influence Chris into responding the right way.

Chris, don’t.

“What the hell are you trying to say?”

Fuck.

He couldn’t fault Chris for being defensive, but god, if there ever was a worse time for it.

“It’s a simple question, Mr Redfield.”

Chris rolled back his shoulders and leaned into his chair, hands clasped tightly on the tabletop, trying to calm himself as he regulated the tone of his response.  

“Of course we don’t condone the use of B.O.W’s, the BSAA was formed specifically to combat their use and propagation.” he responded calmly and confidently. 

“Thank you Mr Redfield, you’ve alleviated my concerns regarding your intelligence.”

Leon flinched at the insult. Glancing at Chris, he could see his friend's quick fuse burning at an alarming rate. 

“However your conviction is something I fear I must question.” 

Chris swallowed. The colour had drained ever so slightly from his face.

“I only think it’s right that the BSAA is transparent with regards to how it operates. We came to you on the good faith you would have the professionalism to help us clean up a horrific accident…” she gently placed the manilla folder back on the desk in front of her, and started to lay out items from inside it in an organised fashion.

“... and what are we without safety protocols and rigidity? Our products keep people alive and healthy all over the world, as I’m sure you’re all well aware.”

The venom in her tone caused a shiver to roll across Leon’s skin. 

“So to sit here in front of myself and my associates, and represent the BSAA, I find this conviction quite concerning with regards to what I’m going to show you.”

With a twist of her wrist she selected and slid a photograph down the length of the table, as if to twist the knife deeper.

“Care to explain this to me, Mr Redfield?”

Chris gently reached for the photograph, his hand trembled ever so slightly. The sight of Chris of all people, this nervous unsettled Leon like nothing else, despite everything he’d been through and seen before. Somehow a room full of big-pharma sharks was scarier than a giant monster covered in teeth and claws. He felt his heart beat a little faster as Chris eyed the photograph.

“I’m sorry, what exactly am I looking at?”

Good, good. Leon thought. Don’t give it to them easy. 

“What you are looking at, Mr Redfield, is an image pulled from our security system. It’s the clearest shot our team recovered, as either the camera’s were tampered with, or their blind spots were carefully utilised by this….” she paused, tapping the table with an acrylic nail as she pondered what word would be most appropriate.

“... individual.”

She paused to let the phrase sink in before continuing.

“It failed to hide entirely from us however, and in that image you can clearly see it is wearing a uniform that matches those of your team, yet it is not a human.”

Fuck. He’d been so careful, so cautious.

Something had felt off about the job from the minute Leon set boots on the ground outside the factory. Chris had assured him that it’d be smooth, he’d done it a hundred times before, there shouldn’t be any issues. It was a C-Virus outbreak for sure, but not the normal kind. Valhanian was working on vaccines and preventative medication, blockers for the immune system that could quickly and effectively obliterate the virus or prevent it from even gaining a hold on the system. The most common form was the standard strains that had a very similar effect on humans as the T-Virus did, which they were led to believe was the main focus of the factory - manufacturing and R&D for the ‘zombie’ strains. 

What they found waiting for them was most certainly not the standard C-Virus infected humans. 

Chris had brushed it off at the time, claiming that with how volatile the virus was, he wasn’t surprised that something had gone wrong and there were chrysalid variants in the facility.

Nothing’s without risk, something must have gone wrong, it’s not like we haven’t handled this sort of thing before.

Leon knew that there was no way in hell that a company with that much money in the game of vaccines would fuck around and find out - risking everything in the process. But it wasn’t worth arguing with Chris, he insisted that it wasn’t his job to worry about the science team’s side of things and that ‘Rebecca will figure it out.’ 

Chris was ever the optimist on his good days. Leon had seen too much to trust any corporation that invested in the field of medicine. You don’t get fission without fusion, and anyone who claimed that advancements in bio-organic warfare had no links to advancements in medicine, was a fool or a liar. Most likely both. 

Naturally, something went wrong on the job, sure he’d had a little ‘mutation’ incident, but Rebecca’s drugs worked a treat, they just took a while to fully kick in. 

.

“I don’t know what this is or what you’re trying to do, we don’t employ B.O.W’s as part of our operations, whatever you’re trying to claim with this is unfounded.” Chris responded in anger.

No no no you dumbass, don’t give it to them Chris!

“Mr. Redfield, I'm just being thorough.” Harker’s voice took the tone of a teacher reprimanding a student, “You’re no stranger to the industry, and I’m sure you understand we are very conscious and concerned about protecting our business. Incidents like this are of a high concern to us as the entire reason we brought the BSAA in to assist us was to stop a B.O.W incident.”

Chris glanced briefly at the BSAA staff seated around him, and Leon. Fear and panic reflected in his eyes, a silent cry for help. Leon could tell that Chris knew who was in the photograph and could only lie about it for so long before the game was given away.

Leon cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the sharks.

“Ms Harker I can assure you that Chris is just as shocked as you are, and that the BSAA operates at the highest level of-”

“Thank you for your assurance, Mr Kennedy,” Harker interrupted, her full attention snapping to Leon “but I believe you are not a member of the BSAA is that correct?”

There was a predatory look to her gaze. Leon’s heart skipped a beat.

“Yes, I’m temporarily assigned to assist them in operations regarding the C-Virus as I have first hand experience with it that has proven invaluable in us combatting further outbreaks.”

“I don’t doubt that Mr. Kennedy. I’m aware of your reputation and high standing. Our country has a lot to thank you for.” 

He shivered again. There was no genuinity to her tone.

“I just wish to express my concerns, as I feel we deserve an explanation to the security footage.”

Leon dug his fingers into his thigh, scrunching the fabric of his chinos, hands hidden under the table. Showing any public sign of fear or nerves would be his downfall.

“Trust is critical to any operation, but you all know this of course. How can we trust the BSAA after seeing this? How can you even trust yourselves?” 

Seeing a hint of a smile form at the edges of her mouth, Leon’s temper began to rise.

Chris began to speak, only to be cut off by Harker’s shrill tone.

“Have you considered that there may be individuals lying dormantly infected, unbeknownst to the world, the BSAA, even themselves?

Leon bit down on his tongue. 

“Perhaps there’s an infected individual sitting in this room with us right now.”

Chris went white and gripped the photograph tighter, holding himself back from instinctively looking away from Harker, he could see the bait now but it was too late.

“Perhaps it's someone not within the BSAA.” she trailed off softly as she shifted her sights from Chris to Leon. 

He felt the eyes of every member of the meeting shift to look at him in horror. 

[taleswritten]

Smut starter call that I meant to post yesterday. Specify muse/pairing and please be aware that I will not top your muse in any way. I'm very kink friendly so if there's any kinks you want to include, lmk, chances are i'm down.

[luckyrabbit1927]

IT'S FINALLY UP!

[mangosmoothiepussyv3]

-looks around suspiciously-

tw is horny

"What's wrong?"

She sits up, biting her lip. "It's just...should we be doing this? I mean. We're _enemies_ after all." She subtly covers herself with her arms.

"I think we passed the point of being 'just enemies' whenever you helped me out with the dare." He snorts. She glared at him, but said nothing. He was right of course.

As soon as she agreed to do that for him, their relationship was changed irreversibly.

"So what are we then? Enemies with benefits?" She asks, giggling quietly at the term. Mephisto laughs with her.

"Well, you're trying to save the world, and I'm trying to end it. I'd say we're both pretty stressed, yeah?" He helps her lay back down, trailing kisses down her neck. "So let's just say that this arrangement is for some much needed...stress relief." He slowly guides her back into laying down.

He scrapes his fangs lightly against her skin. "What the other's don't know won't hurt them, right?" He purrs.

She gulps, trying to lubricate her dry throat with little success. What the other's don't know won't hurt them. He was right, once again.

"Nobody needs to know." She finally agrees quietly. He growls in approval, nipping harder at her skin.

"Good girl."

[nightstag]

prompt: eden + cute :3

cute... (my fav word)

don't see cute being a word eden would ever directly use or state (thinking however, is a completely different ballpark) but they feel like they'd say something more like adorable.

i think they also wouldn't inherently look at things at a default and be like that's cute. i think it's more dependent on actions or scenarios rather than akin to how most people would use the words in regards to objects, people. i think eden also has a certain threshold where "cute" becomes annoying really quick (ex. if you're trying really hard to be cute or come off cutesy i think eden would find it more annoying and unappealing than anything else in my own opinion)- the only exception is if you're trying fish for their attention but even then there's a limit to that and i think there's way more other effective means to grab their attention.

clinginess is cute until they don't want it anymore. pc is cute when they're intimate, when they chat about things and eden might be able to see glimpses of things they beam at, when they dance and pc is getting into it. their smile, etc. dogs are cute, specifically pups.

[faffreux]

cough cough HEY

[0dotexe]

Of course, I love the computer.

It saved my life as a newborn. It gave me company in a neglectful environment on and offline. It gave me friends from distant places some of which have lasted over a decade at this point.

It cooks my food, it lights my home, it makes and plays the music that helps me fall asleep. It reminds me to take my medicine on time, it reads me things when I am too tired to do so, and if nothing else, it helps me create my art.

It is allowed to make mistakes, but it never does on purpose.

Of course, I love the computer. And the computer loves me back.

[laslow]

15. A heartbreaking memory

Deep down, he'd known the end was near. It started with little things--kissing a cheek instead of lips, claims of meetings running late into the night, clipped tones and annoyed remarks.

The wall he'd so carefully torn down was being rebuilt before his eyes and this time, there'd be no slipping his way through the cracks.

"Lucina, please," Inigo pleads. Hand reach for her, seeking reassurance, not realizing he's now lost that right. She crosses her arms and it's then he hears the death knell. Fingers curl back into his palms, like petals who lost their sunlight.

"Inigo, I am sorry." She shifts on her feet, not quite meeting his teary eyes. She's fine with confrontation until it's with her own feelings; Inigo thinks he'd rather face her anger than her stunted form of pity.

A tear slips down his cheek. "Did...did I do something wrong?" Anxiety claws up his throat, a thousand memories of their days together flashing through his mind in an instant. Gifting her flowers just to see her smile, the blush on her cheeks every time he kissed her goodnight, afternoons spent simply existing in one another's company. Had he pushed her too hard? He tried to understand and respect her boundaries, especially when she yelled at him about it.

She shakes her head, heterochromatic gaze finally meeting his. "No, you didn't." Shoulders heave with a sigh like she's still bearing the weight of the world. It isn't fair, he thinks, how she pushes away everyone's love. He'd fought for it tooth and nail, woken up every single day and freely offered his own in the hopes she'd realize it's not a burden to love someone.

He swipes at his face with the back a hand, sniffling as more tears fall. Stares at her for a heartbeat while he gathers his fractured thoughts. Memorizes her face one last time.

Notes that it's guilt in her eyes, not remorse.

"Goodnight, Inigo," Lucina says, resolute with her choice. Boots echo on the stones below as she walks past him. He doesn't register her abrupt departure at first, still staring at the space she'd previously occupied while she stalks further away.

"Wait, Luci!" He calls uselessly, whirling around too late. "I'm sorry," comes his broken whisper.

-------

Come morning, the others don't ask if he's seen Lucina. He chalks it up to his puffy, bloodshot eyes and the fact they all probably knew she'd end things before he did. Neither do they pester him for his lack of a smile; this is one situation he can't push through with a mask of sunshine and rainbows.

The entire day passes in a hazy blur before the truth sinks in: she'd left them all without a word.

[convictionblades]

Genshin has many many faults but they’ve got Trails beat by the fact they’re actually fucking normal about siblings who aren’t related by blood 🤷‍♀️

[hoofpeet]

14 year old artists listen to me right now (gripping you by the shoulders) STOP caring about your "internet presence" right naow. Draw slower and stop trying to boil your art down to an acceptable marketable brand