Archive Of Our Own - Blog Posts

Peter: participating in a DNA test hazing ritual for his new lab position at Wayne industries

Peter: finds out he's biologically related to Dick Grayson

Peter: fuck no *yeets test results in the garbage and tells his coworkers it came back negative*

__

fic: rot with all the burnouts in the cell by magnuschases

fic link

I never thought a time loop fanfic would make me love the unexpected trio of Daichi, Oikawa, and Tendou but here we are.

simply put *ahem ahem* Daichi: stuck in a time loop, Oikawa: the only one crazy enough to have a pre existing time loop password, and Tendou: more interested in having an exciting day than caring about the fact that Daichi sounds fucking insane

__

fic: Time Enough To Risk It All by KingsHighway

fic link

Tim drake immortality fics where he is just constantly having the worst time ever>>> (brb gonna go scour ao3 for more because I am quite literally frothing at the mouth)

fics:

Immortality in D Minor, Cantabile (Solo) by not_the_loch

Banshee In A Well by liverobinreaction (bugbee)

Peter: waking up in jail cell with Matt and Wade

Peter: *looks over at Wade eating a strawberry donut* did you seriously use our one phone call to order donuts to our jail cell?

Wade: ...yes

Peter: *slams head into wall repeatedly*

Peter & Wade: *pointedly ignoring the way Matt is groaning and flopping around on the floor like a fish*

__

fic: Jailbird Blues by aloneintherain

fic link

__

fic: Two Former Hellraisers by emmacortana

fic link

@emmacortana

Tim: realising he's been sent back in time *immediately goes to steal money from Lex Luthor*

__

fic: Take It Back Now Y'all by TimTheToaster (tabletoptime)

fic link

the urge when I come across an amazing fic that was abandoned to pick up a pen and write the rest myself despite not having written anything ever in my entire life (I would most definitely ruin it)

me when I see Dark Matter has updated:

Brett: gives Peter resin in exchange for case info

Peter: *currently in his "sharpening things" phase*

(there's a reason Rhodey and Tony refuse to give Peter resin)

Tony: ...Peter, what did you make

Peter: A KNIFE!

Tony: NO!

__

fic: in technicolor by deniigiq

fic link

Spiderman when Nightwing tells him to keep an eye out for his own civilian identity

__

fic: Dark Matter by mysterycyclone

fic link

Peter sensing that he's being followed by the bats

*immediately deciding to walk directly to where his spider sense is the loudest out of spite*

__

fic: time flies by (bye) by WHYISEVERYNAMETAKEN

fic link

Peter: *trying to act nice when Fury brings him onto an Avengers mission*

Also Peter: *immediately getting the ick and ditching as soon as they start arguing with each other like a bunch of school children*

__

fic: Death Before Inaction by hppjmxrgosg

fic link

Been hearing this is a problem again. Don't be a dick in bookmarks, folks. And yes while I made this image, I'm giving free reign. Take it. Spread it far and wide. Because I'm hearing that some readers don't know that their bookmarks are visible.

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

Other

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Character:

Mark Beaks

Additional Tags:

DepressionMark beaks DEFINITELY has depression

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-28Updated:2025-03-30Words:1,763Chapters:2/?Kudos:2Hits:14

Inner demon's

1anon1

Chapter Management

Edit Chapter

Chapter 2: A day at Waddle! (And also to see how much Marks inner demon's get the better of him ;P)

Summary:

Mark Beaks has everything—money, success, a company with his name on it—but none of it feels real anymore...none of it mattered, it never did.

——————————————————————

Chapter Text

The building’s doors slid open, revealing the sleek, high-tech office lobby that bore his name. But Mark felt like a stranger in it. ‘What are you doing? You’re just standing here like an idiot. Walk in already.’ He swallowed hard, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag before finally stepping inside.

As soon as he stepped in, he was met with the usual chorus of greetings-employees flashing polite smiles as they walked past. He then gave them his signature finger-guns. It was an effortless charm he could pull off but…it felt so robotic, and hollow.

His chest tightened as he moved through the space, it was filled with people who actually belonged here. With his heart pounding against his ribs it made it harder and harder to focus, but he managed to ignore it, forcing a smile to everyone he saw. After all, it looked like he had everything under control…no one knew how bad he was really falling apart.

Mark walked forward, but he wasn’t really there. His mind spiraled elsewhere, his thoughts turning sharper, harsher, as he made his way toward the elevator. ‘You don’t belong here. You’re just playing pretend. They’re all working, actually earning their place here—so beaks, what are you doing here?’

His chest tightened again, his pulse hammering in his ears. The world around him felt distant—blurry faces, muted voices, the artificial brightness of the office space that suddenly felt too sterile, too wrong. He barely noticed the people passing him, barely registered the weight of his own footsteps. He was sinking, drowning under the crushing weight of failure, failure, failure—

A light tap on his shoulder snapped him back. He blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that he had stopped in the middle of the floor. Miss Taffy stood beside him, tablet in hand, one perfectly arched brow raised.

“I was going over your schedule,” she said, her tone careful. “Are you listening?”

Mark forced a grin, shifting his duffel bag like that would somehow make him look more composed. “Yeah, yeah, totally. Hit me with it.”

She held his gaze for a second longer before continuing.

“Okay, well, after this, you’ve got the…”

She rattled off meetings, calls, and appointments, but the words blurred together, slipping through his mind like static. He nodded along absently, pretending. Just like always.

°°°

He was now in his office, he felt so tired.

Mark sat at his desk, staring at the untouched food beside him. A perfectly plated meal—probably expensive, probably something he once would’ve snapped a picture of just to flex online. But now, it just sat there, untouched, because the thought of eating made his stomach twist. He hadn't eaten in a while, why couldn't he just eat? ‘You don't deserve it, that's why’

He leaned back in his chair, letting his head tip against the headrest, eyes drifting to the ceiling. His office was pristine, sleek, designed to impress—but to him, it just felt cold. Lifeless. It was supposed to be a reflection of his success, of the empire he built, but right now, it felt more like a cage. A glass box where everyone could see him but no one really could.

The office buzzed faintly outside his door—muffled conversations, ringing phones, the steady hum of productivity. People working. People actually doing something. Meanwhile, he was slumped in his chair, hands limp in his lap, the glow of his computer screen casting sharp shadows on his face. His inbox was flooded with emails—some urgent, some not—but all of them felt equally impossible.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand down his face.

“Get it together Marcus.” He mumbled.

‘Just answer one. Just one.’

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his mind felt blank. No words came. ‘...your pathetic’ The pressure in his chest returned, squeezing tighter, heavier.

A notification popped up—a meeting in ten minutes. He was supposed to pitch something. Something new. Something exciting.

Mark swallowed hard, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “What the hell am I even doing anymore?”

°°°

The office was nearly empty by the time Mark finally left his desk. The once-busy space had died down, the usual chatter replaced by the quiet hum of the cleaning crew working in the background. The city outside his window still glowed, alive with people who had places to be, things to do. But up here, in his high-rise office, it was just him.

He made his way to the elevator, each step feeling heavier than the last. His duffel bag dragged at his shoulder, and his body ached—not from work, not from anything physical, but from the sheer weight of existing. He should be relieved that the day was over, but there was no comfort in that. Just the knowledge that he’d have to do it all again tomorrow.

The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing him in cold, artificial lighting. He let out a breath, pressing his forehead against the mirrored wall. His reflection stared back, exhausted eyes dull and unfocused. ‘This is you. This is what you’ve become.’

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. The silence pressed in. He was going home to an empty penthouse, to another night of nothing, to a bed that felt too big and a life that felt too small.

The doors chimed open to the parking garage. He didn’t move right away, just stood there, staring out at the empty lot. The thought of driving home, of going through the motions yet again, made his stomach sink.

For just a second, he considered turning around. Maybe going somewhere—anywhere—just to feel something. But the thought passed just as quickly as it came. He stepped forward, letting the doors slide shut behind him.

Mark’s footsteps echoed through the parking garage, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls in an eerie, hollow rhythm. His car sat in its designated spot, sleek and expensive, yet it felt like just another meaningless possession. He unlocked it with a lazy press of a button, the headlights flashing briefly before settling back into stillness. He hesitated before getting in, gripping the door handle, staring at his own reflection in the tinted window. The version of himself staring back looked drained, like a ghost of someone who once had energy, drive—purpose.

He finally slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather cool against his back. The moment he shut the door, the world outside faded into muffled silence, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His fingers hovered over the ignition button, but he didn’t press it. Instead, letting a tired groan, exhaling a slow, shaky breath and resting his head on the steering wheel. ‘What are you even doing at this point?’ The thought looped endlessly in his mind, gnawing at him. He had everything—money, fame, success—yet he had nothing that actually mattered. And that realization felt heavier than anything else.

He sat there for a while longer before finally started the car, the engine purring to life, but he didn’t move. The GPS screen glowed, waiting for a destination, but he had nowhere to go. His penthouse wasn’t a home—it was just another empty space, another reminder of how hollow everything had become. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, his breath unsteady. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind—what if I just kept driving? No destination, no plan, just…away? But he knew better. No matter how far he went, the weight in his chest would follow. With a tired sigh, he put the car in drive and pulled out of the garage, disappearing into the city lights like just another passing shadow.

‘YOU are the reason your like this’

——————————————————————

Notes:

Follow me on Ao3 if you like this stuff or is a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Character:

Mark Beaks

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-15Words:1,149Chapters:1/1Hits:0

Distant Memory's

1anon1

Summary:

Why was he so...pathetic?

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Mark sat at his desk, idly scrolling through his waddle-gram feed. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the edge of his desk, his eyes darting between the screen and the piles of unfinished paperwork. He glanced out the window, the dimly lit city lights glowing. After a bit he put his phone down, getting up and crossing his arms, looking out the window.

He sighed, drawing a hand across his face. He checked his watch, 10:48pm. ‘Had I really been here for that long?’ he thought. Well, to be fair it was only him and his assistant still in the building, all the other employees' shifts ended. Even though technically there were physically two people left in the Waddle building, mentally…he felt alone.

Mark let out another long sigh, glancing at the empty office around him. The quiet hum of the building felt almost eerie at this hour. He turned back to the piles of paperwork, his thoughts drifting…turning darker…

He snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a knock on the office door. “Come in, Melanie” he said before quickly rubbing his eyes. His assistant walked in, a duffle bag across her arm “Mr Beaks? Do you want me to close up or should I stay a little longer to help?...” Melanie asked, peeking her head in with a concerned expression. Mark hesitated for a moment before answering, running a hand through his hair. "Huh? Oh—nah, you go ahead. I got it.” he said, though even he wasn’t sure he believed it. He forced her a reassuring smile.

She nodded, closing the door behind her, leaving Mark by himself in the room again. His smile faltered, as he heard her footsteps walking into the elevator.

Mark let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his beak before slumping back in his seat. He reached out his hand, his fingers hovering over his phone. But instead of scrolling again, he just sat there, staring at the dark phone screen, his own tired reflection looking back at him.

The reflection seemed to flicker to a younger boy that looked like him but his eyes had been blacked out, he knew exactly who it was. Mark let out a slow breath. His mind drifted—further and further, until he wasn’t in his office anymore.

The sound of arguing filled the house, sharp voices cutting through the air like a blade. Mark, no older than eight, sat curled up on the floor of his room, his oversized headphones clamped tightly over his ears. It didn’t block out everything.

“…lazy, good-for-nothing—!”

“You think I wanted this?!”

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his tail tightly in his hands—his mismatched tail feathers, the ones that made the other kids stare, laugh, and tug at him on the playground. His mom hated them. She always said they made him look ridiculous, like a walking joke.

“Marcus!”

His body tensed. He barely had time to take the headphones off before the door swung open. His mother stood there, her face twisted in frustration. “Why is your room such a mess? And take your hands off that tail—you look pathetic.”

Mark quickly let go, his feathers trembling as he muttered, “Sorry, Mother…”

She was about to answer, to gaslight him, to make him hurt. But his father called out to her again, his voice cutting through the house with a shake

She scoffed, rolling her eyes before slamming the door shut again, the force rattling his shelves. Her voice descended as she moved further away from his door. He swallowed hard, pulling his knees to his chest. He wanted to disappear.

Mark blinked, the memory fading, but the weight in his chest remained. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as if that could wipe away the past. His fingers hovered over his phone again, but now, the idea of scrolling through meaningless posts, desperate attempts at validation, felt exhausting. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

No matter how many years had passed, no matter how many followers he had, no matter how much wealth he flaunted—he still felt like that kid in his room, gripping his tail, hoping to be invisible. Only now, there was no tail to hold onto. Just an empty office, an unfinished workload, and the cold hum of silence pressing in on him.

He exhaled sharply, pushing the unfinished paperwork into a desk drawer. “Fuck it, I'll finish it tomorrow” he mumbled

Mark let out a sharp breath and shook his head, as if trying to physically shake off the weight pressing on his chest. He turned his chair, facing away from the city lights outside his window.

No. He wasn’t doing this tonight.

He pulled his laptop toward him and opened it with a click. The screen’s glow illuminated his tired face as he skimmed through the latest analytics for Waddle. Engagement numbers, trending topics, sponsorship deals—it was all there. A constant, never-ending stream of numbers and validation.

This was what he was good at, right? Staying relevant. Keeping the world’s eyes on him. Making sure people never forgot the name Mark Beaks.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he pulled up a blank post. Maybe a new Waddle-Gram update? A late-night thought? Something cool and mysterious to keep his followers intrigued.

Grinding past midnight. #CEOlife

…No, that was stupid. Too generic. He deleted it.

Instead, he drummed his fingers against the desk, thinking. His mind wandered back to the memory from earlier. That stupid room. That stupid tail. The way his mother had sneered at him like he was nothing.

A bitter chuckle left his beak. “Bet you’d love to see me now huh, mother?” he muttered under his breath, the last word filled with disdain.

Without thinking, he started typing again.

"Ever wonder if success actually fixes anything? Or does it just make the silence louder? Asking for a friend."

He stared at the words, re-reading them over and over. His thumb hovered over the ‘Post’ button.

Would his followers even get it? Would they think it was just another ironic joke? Maybe they'd hype him up, tell him he was killing it, that he was the coolest, the richest, the smartest.

But none of that changed the fact that right now, in this cold, empty office, it felt like none of it mattered.

Mark swallowed hard and—

Backspaced the entire post.

No one needed to see that.

Instead, he shut his laptop with a little more force than necessary and leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. Maybe he should just go home. Get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow, everything would feel a little less…loud.

But deep down, he already knew—

Tomorrow, the silence would still be there. Why was he so pathetic?

Notes:

Follow me on ao3 if you enjoy this stuff or is a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of ViolenceNo Archive Warnings Apply

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Characters:

Mark BeaksEmma Glamour (Disney)

Additional Tags:

Verbal AbuseSuicidal ThoughtsSuicidal Thoughts Mentioned

Language: English Stats:Published:2025-03-11Words:644Chapters:1/1Hits:0

“Are you finally proud of me, mom?…”

1anon1

Summary:

Parents are meant to be caring and protective, shaping children into loving individuals who seek to help others. However, children who grow up without this nurturing guidance, but others who don’t grow up with these parents, develop a sense of mistrust and emotional detachment. Lacking love and support, they build walls around themselves, using power and ambition to protect their vulnerable, hollow inner self, focused more on surviving than on caring for others.

Notes:

⚠️Suicidal thoughts Warning⚠️ Why do all of the best ideas come to me at 3am tf😭

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Parents are…well supposed to be caring and kind. Protecting their children in every aspect and possible way. Kids who have or had parents like this grow up to be loving and knowing and they often become heroes, looking to help and care for everyone and everything.

But when other children grow up without that nurturing guidance, they don’t develop the same sense of trust or safety. Instead, carrying the weight of unspoken pain, learning early that the world can be a place of cruelty. Mark beaks learned that lesson at a young age—his parents, distant and harsh, never taught him how to love others or how to expect love in return. He built walls, grew cold, and used his ambition and power as a shield, hoping no one would ever see how hollow he truly felt inside. It wasn’t about caring for others—it was about surviving, about protecting himself from the brokenness that threatened to consume him every time he let his guard down.

Marcus sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, his small hands gripping the edge of the blanket tightly. The house was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that pressed on his chest and made it harder to breathe. He had just overheard his parents’ shouting match from the hallway—his father’s voice low but full of venom, his mother’s shrill and desperate, cutting through the thick walls of the house. He didn’t understand most of what was said, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need to. He knew what it meant.

He wasn’t enough.

His father had said it before, but hearing it again made his heart ache with a pain he couldn’t name. "You're not the son I wanted," his voice echoed in Marcus’s head. Marcus clenched his fists, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threatened to spill. His throat tightened, and he tried to swallow the lump that had formed, but it wouldn’t go away. He didn’t want to cry—he wasn’t allowed to cry. That’s what his father would say. His mother would just roll her eyes. No one cared. No one ever cared.

The floor creaked under the weight of footsteps approaching his door. Marcus quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and turned toward the sound. His mother appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable but cold, like she was already distancing herself from the boy sitting on the bed.

"Stop acting like a baby," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "We don’t have time for your whining." Her voice was cold and harsh “We don’t need you here, it’s better if you kill yourself…no one would care”

Marcus froze in place upon hearing his mothers words cut through the air. He didn’t reply. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t allowed to speak when they were angry…or any time for that matter, he didn’t dare too. So he sat there in silence, his small body trembling as he tried to hold himself together. He wanted so badly to shout, to ask why they didn’t love him the way he saw other parents love their kids. But he knew better than to ask. His voice wasn’t wanted here.

His mother’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before she sighed and turned away, leaving him alone again, trapped in the quiet, with the unspoken weight of being unwanted pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. ‘No one…’ the words replaying in his head, he was shaking.

He made a promise to himself that night. He was going to prove them all wrong, everyone who had ever hurt him. Because he was Mark beaks, and no one could stop him. Look out world, I’ll show you all. I’ll be someone you can’t ignore.

“Are you finally proud of me, mom?…”

Notes:

Thanks for reading chat, if you guys have ideas or want any free writing commissions feel free to ask me in the comments!

(I don’t own Mark beaks, but boy do I like giving him trauma😼the bitch needs therapy😭🙏)

Follow me on ao3 if you enjoy this stuff or a Mark beaks fan!

1anon1

You can read on AO3, or here gang idc

---

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Fandom:

DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)

Relationship:

None

Characters:

Mark Beaks, Coach Beaks

Additional Tags:

Blood and Injury, Blood, Blood and Gore

Language:

English

Stats:

Published:2025-03-09Words:1,020Chapters:1/1Comments:1Kudos:2Hits:6

Can't think of a title holy shit

1anon1

Summary:

...

Notes:

⚠️ BLOOD WARNING ⚠️ So this ain't canon like at all. I wrote this at 3am don't judge.

Work Text:

“I kept telling you to hit the ball—to hit the ball!” Coach Beaks' voice thundered through the empty locker room as he yanked Marcus’s arm. “But every time you try, you miss!”

Marcus struggled against his grip, but it was no use. His father’s fingers dug into his sleeve, his frustration boiling over. With a sharp shove, he pushed Marcus against the cold concrete wall.

“I thought I told you to actually participate in the game!”

Marcus winced, the sting of his father’s words cutting deeper than the rough impact against his back. He lowered his gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry, Father…” he murmured. But the apology hadn't even left his lips before his father’s voice crashed over him again. “‘Sorry’ isn’t gonna cut it, young man!” He pinched the bridge of his beak. “God, you're such a disappointment.”

…

There was a brief pause. Mark covered his head with his hands, his chest tight as tears threatened to spill, but he blinked them back fiercely. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold it together. Coach put a hand on his chin thoughtfully. “You know,” he mumbled, “we’ve used the bat for practice and in games… Wait here, Marcus.”

Marcus didn’t move an inch. He kept his head down, his breath shaky as his father’s footsteps echoed across the tile floor. His chest felt tight, his stomach twisted in knots. Wait here. The words hung in the air, heavy with something unspoken. Then came the sound—metal scraping against metal. A locker opening. A pause. The unmistakable clink of a wooden bat being lifted.

Marcus swallowed hard. His pulse quickened.

Mark looked up when he didn’t hear his dad's footsteps anymore.

Without hesitation, he swung.

The bat struck Marcus hard across the ribs. A sickening thud echoed through the locker room. Marcus gasped as white-hot pain exploded through his side. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his ribs, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

“You wanna cry now?” his father sneered, looming over him. He tapped the bat against the floor, impatient. “Get up.”

Marcus tried. His arms shook as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, but his body screamed in protest. His ribs ached with every shallow breath.

“I said get up.”

Another strike. This time across his shoulder. Marcus collapsed again with a sharp cry, his vision blurring as pain overtook him.

“Pathetic,” Coach Beaks muttered. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his beak in frustration. He turned and tossed the bat back into the open locker with a loud clang.

“Clean yourself up before you go home,” he said coldly. “And don’t let your mother find out about this… This won’t be the last time, either.” He rolled his eyes.

With that, he walked out, leaving Marcus curled up on the locker room floor, his body shaking, his breath uneven, and his father’s words burning deeper than the bruises forming beneath his feathers. He was left there, crying and alone.

After a while, he finally managed to sit up. He leaned against the wall, his breath shallow, and coughed weakly.

Marcus sat there, his back pressed against the cold concrete wall, gasping for air. A sharp cough wracked his body. He raised a hand to his mouth, feeling something warm on his tongue. When he pulled his hand away, dark red stained his feathers.

Blood.

His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to stay calm. He pulled his knees up to his chest and cried silently, his face pressed into his arms. His tears, once on the verge of spilling, now flowed freely as his body trembled. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to subside, but it lingered—throbbing deep in his ribs and shoulder.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

He slowly brought his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears.

Finally, Marcus swallowed hard and forced himself to move. His limbs protested, his ribs screaming with every shift, but he grit his teeth and pushed forward. He needed to get up. He couldn’t stay here. If anyone saw him like this—if his mother found out

Marcus shook his head. No. He had to pull himself together.

With trembling hands, he reached for the nearby bench, using it for support as he dragged himself to his feet. His vision swam, his legs threatening to give out beneath him, but he steadied himself. One breath at a time. One step at a time.

He wiped his mouth, trying to ignore the taste of iron that lingered in his throat.

FLASH.

"Focus, Beaks," he muttered to himself under his breath.

He slowly raised his head from his arms. Was he…

He looked around—his office. His desk. His computer, flashing with the latest figures.

It was all right there. The world he’d built. The world he owned.

The office door opened as a duck with her hair in a messy bun, wearing a black skirt suit and heels, knocked on the door. “Mr. Beaks? The board is ready to see… you…” she paused when she saw his state. “Mr. Beaks? Are you alright?”

Mark rubbed his face, brushing away the lingering fog of the dark memory. "Y-Yeah. I'm okay," he murmured, blinking again. "Just a little trip down memory lane. Nothing to worry about. I'll be there in a second, Melanie." He forced a quick, reassuring smile.

She hesitated, her eyes lingering on him, but she nodded. “Right. Ready when you are.”

Without another word, she shut the door behind her, her footsteps descending until the sound of them faded, leaving Marcus alone in his office once again. The only noise now was the faint hum of traffic outside.

He sat in his chair for a moment, staring down at his hands. The urge to cry bubbled up again, but he pushed it away with a heavy sigh. He stood and headed for the door, the sound of his talons clicking against the tile floor echoing in the silence.

He was Mark Beaks. And nothing was going to bring him down. Not anymore… Right?

Ok serious post. How do I outwit the AO3 curse? Because my desire to write is being suppressed by my inability to handle another fucking curve ball from life and I’m too scared to even look at my fix without fearing yet another disaster. Genuinely how do you write without being shot 57 times? Like do I have to make a sacrifice? Is there a special prayer? I’ll do anything at this point.

Yes see totally agree but how do I convince my coworkers to let me count fanfics for our book bingo competition in the office?

fanfic writers are so fucking awesome man. they write novel length fics that are sometimes even better than some published bestselling books written by professional writers. like fanfic writers are professional writers to me and they gift us their masterpieces for free. they give us something we can look forward to after a long day. something from which we can seek comfort when life is hard. something that can be our own little getaway. in a world of capitalism, despite everything, they give us all of these for free. like holy fuck. shout out to every fanfic writer. I wish all fanfic writers a very ‘I love you with all my heart and soul. I thank you from the bottom of my heart’

I respond as much as I can (terribly, I believe)

reblog if you’re a writer who’s very terrible at responding to comments from your readers, but has read them all and loves and appreciates each and every single one of them very dearly

Am i the only one who hates reader inserts? Like I read this cause I wanna escape the problems in my life, not have to envision myself having a spectacular variety of other fucked up problems!

oh they grow up so fast :(

ao3 turns 15 today

reblog if youre older than ao3

(there's a lot of people asking about this, but the legal age to use social media is 13, except in few countries. so yes, there are people here under 15)

Just a little idea for before Sasuke left the village… pls pls pls someone who can write this turn it into a fic

Hinata and Sasuke at the same time under their breath: he’s so hot…

awkward pause as they look at one another

Sasuke blushing: tell no one

Hinata freaking out blushing: as long as you promise!

Sasuke: …wanna hang out this Friday

Hinata: …tell people it’s book club

Sasuke: deal

silly little story that was in my drafts that I just posted un edited and with Midoriya’s name spelt like midoryia for most of it

Fanfiction.net watching me use it for longer than I have in multiple years because AO3 is down

new playlist!!

finally (FINALLY!!) got caught up with @morningstarwrites of saints and sinners last night and so now I can say I'm fully educated hehe

(STAR YOUR LAST CHAPTER HAD ME SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP I PHYSICALLY CANNOT HANDLE THIS MUCH CUTENESS)

reblog if you believe fanfics are as valid as books that were published and sold by authors who write as their main careers. I'm trying to prove a point

good….let the spite flow through you….write the new chapter just to take a stand….