#duckprompts

[peachhoneii]

95. “Its just a blind date! What’s the worst that could happen?” “I could literally die.” Dickie and Daisy and the date is with Donnie

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this,” Daisy complained into the receiver, aware of the stares her frustration attracted. “I could be working.

“It’s just a blind date.” A child’s scream in the backdrop told them someone’s night out was going to get cancelled, and it wasn’t Daisy’s. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Last time Daisy agreed to a blind date she was buried alive cradling a rock salt gunshot to her stomach. An honest account if brutal, Daisy didn’t think it pertinent to use her idiosyncratic past to answer her friend’s rhetorical question.

“I could literally die,” she deadpanned, dismissing the waiter with a wave. It was impolite to start dinner alone. “And what would you do then?”

“I’d say at least she went out swinging,” she teased, standing up from her chair to chase the source of the scream. “And that’s because it’s a dance club.”

“Dixie.”

“One date,” she sighed tiredly. “Just one. After this, you won’t have to see him again.”

“And you’ll buy me a triple chocolate milkshake?”

“Whatever you want,” Dixie promised, ending the call.

Daisy counted the minutes. At fifteen minutes and thirty five seconds she noticed a flurry of blue, beige and green careening at her. His blue blazer was armpit stained, and his green tie was tangled around his neck.

A chary smile grounded her disgust as she watched him collapse on the chair. His head hit the table with a hard thunk, and muscles twitched as his lungs regained their normal working rate. Daisy studied him, embarrassment mingling with horror.

“Donald?”

His name or her voice caught his attention. Daisy preferred not to know. He looked at her as if it were the first time, lurching forward as he realized it wasn’t.

“Donna? Is that you?” He swallowed, straightening his back into a sitting position. Fingers did their best to position messy feathers neatly on his scalp. 

“Della didn’t tell me.”

“Oh.”

After the waiter returned, they agreed to put their menus to good use. An awkward silence was warranted suited their situation, and they indulged in it, speculating the lengths of their friends and family’s knowledge.

Had Daisy unknowingly revealed something? She trembled at the thought. Every agent knew what happened when one lost sight of their duty, arrogance blinding them to the terror leering near.

Agent 22’s achievements were meaningless after the bodies were disposed of, and despite her favor, her mistakes weren’t dismissed. She was given certain liberties, but her errors were included in current certification exams. Incoming agents were ignorant of the person responsible for unintentionally initiating The Great Schism.

Daisy wasn’t.

Nonetheless, she chanced a cautious glance to the side. He’d done the same, and they returned to their menus, lumps expanding in their throats.

As lovely as dinner was, staying wasn’t an option. Ending this quickly was her only option.

“Getting shot with rock salt and buried alive is better than this.”

She would’ve snorted had she not been sincere.

[peachhoneii]

❛❛ We’re rivals. Not soulmates. We’re supposed to be at each other’s throats. ❜❜ + Scroldiee

A smart man would seek safety and let her drown. A wise man would shut up and drag her out, kicking and screaming. Scrooge liked to think he was smart and wise, and on every other occasion, he was. Goldie unraveled him with a power even she didn’t understand.

He didn’t know if it was her eyes or mouth or attitude. He didn’t know if it was her laughter or her insatiable hunger for gold. He knew it wasn’t one or the other. Maybe it was everything. He wished he knew.

Whatever it was, he knew this wasn’t the place or time to debate. The unsinkable ship was doing the one thing the world claimed it couldn’t do. Sink.

“Goldie, blast you,” he shouted, pushing one larger dog faced man to the side in an attempt to close their widening distance. “We need to get to the dinghies.”

She was fast and slimmer, maneuvering around rushing people in her attempt to find what she boarded for. Sweat threaded in her hair; accented under the moon’s observance. He ran between a man’s leg and watched her make a sharp left. His heart sank. She was going to drown.

“I saw them go this way,” she panted aloud, loud enough for him to hear. “There’s no way I’m leaving this ship without it, Scrooge.”

“At this rate, you won’t leave this ship at all.” He didn’t want to lose his temper in a place like this. Terror was deadlier than a coal mine. “Do you want to die here?”

They descended into the ship’s lower compartments where water was up to their thighs. Scrooge swallowed thickly and nodded, agreeing with his inner turmoil.

“I saw them down here,” she whirled at him, eyes panicked. “A blonde and red-head. I think her name was Rose, but I know she was with Jack.”

“Jack? Who’s Jack?” What a terrible place for jealousy to prick him, but prick him it did. “Goldie, the ship is sinking.”

“Sinking?” Goldie threw her head back, laughing. “Scroogey, if I am going to die, it is not going to be like this, and if they’re going to die, well,” she paused thoughtfully, “I can see Jack dying here. But Rose? Please.” She snorted. “She’ll marry some other wealthy man, and they'll have ten children, four will probably live to adulthood. She'll grow old, surrounded by twenty grandchildren and forty grandchildren, and right before she dies, she'll toss the diamond into the ocean as some god damn poetic gesture. I can see her doing that. I warned him about girls like her.”

Scrooge had no idea what she was talking about, but he presumed she’d taken a fancy to the working and upper class guests. He didn’t care, not now. He gripped her waist. Without another word, he threw her over his shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She screeched, clawing like an angered polecat. “How dare you? Put me down this instant. They’re getting away with the Hope of the Ocean!”

“And you’ll live to steal it another day.”

“Oh, you’ll probably just buy it, and,” she blinked. An idea formed in her head, and she relaxed in his hold. “Okay, sure, let's find a lifeboat. We’ll be lucky if there’s any left.”

Scrooge rolled his eyes. “Ack, yes, the love o’ my life plans to rob me again. I hope the girl loses the blasted jewel, just so you can’t get it.”

Goldie gasped, smacking him on the back of his head. “We’re rivals,” she complained, punching him on the back. “Not soulmates. We’re supposed to be at each other’s throats.”

“Whatever you want,” he grunted, reaching the front deck at last. “As long as we’re alive to do it.”

“So what? You were going to drown with me?”

“If it came to be, yes, I would.”

Goldie went quiet, craning her neck to catch his expression. Aged lines creased his feathers, pronouncing his forty-five years, but the determination - the simplicity of said determination was present as it’d always been.

What a stupid thing to say, a stupid thing to shout at him. Goldie knew. She’d always known, so why would she try to bait him with that? He turned it on her effortlessly, leaving her dumb and shamed. She reckoned that was his intent, but Scrooge never thought far enough for things like that.

She looked out to the chaos, the men and women and children clamoring for safety. Soon, very soon indeed, the ship would enter its final encore, and there’d be no way out for those unable to secure a lifeboat. She swallowed the knot in her throat and felt the tangled ball explode in her chest.

“He’s seventeen,” Goldie whispered. “Just a boy…”

“Hm?” He set her down. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she crossed her arms, turning her back to them. She entered the lifeboat with another group, scooting over to the side as he took a seat beside her. “I’m going to get that necklace, you know.”

“I know,” he replied, taking her hand into his. “I know.”

She didn’t look as the lifeboat was lowered into the water. She didn’t hear the screams become distant cries in the night. She didn’t see the unsinkable ship descend as a blot, an empty blot under the sea with its captives held prisoner.

She refused to look back - never, ever would she look back - to see the bodies floating on still, quiet waters.

“Dear?”

“What, Scrooge?”

So soft, so frustratingly kind. “There was nothing you could do,” he tried to comfort her. His thumb ran circles over her knuckles. “He went back. He made his choice.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep, liberating breath. “I know,” she said, tightly. “I know.”

Of course, knowing didn’t mean she believed it. Believing was an entirely different matter neither were strong enough to discuss, so her thoughts strayed to the gorgeous diamond instead.

Maybe it was better for the ocean to claim it, Goldie mused. Its gleam was tainted, somehow.

[peachhoneii]

Hey I don’t know if you’re still taking fic requests, or if you’ve done this one already, but if you are and it hasn’t, 18. “You’re freezing!” with Scroldie?

(Refer to this prompt for context.)

Goldie and the captain went way back, earlier than the Klondike, and that was the reason they acquired the ship’s best room. Almost refusing the bearded man’s offer, Scrooge’s rejection died in his throat the moment her cold glare clawed at his tongue.

He was too tired to resist or make some form of protest. He grumbled his gratitude, and they stepped quietly into the room, sullen. It was respectable if modest, far beneath Goldie’s preferred tastes, but it’d suffice for the hours remaining of their voyage.

“You’re freezing,” Scrooge gripped her shoulders and didn’t wince at the cold water prickling under his palms. “You need to get out of these clothes.”

“We’re in the arctic.” A unique lassitude weathered her expression, and she pulled away, crossing her arms as she strode across the room to the window. “I’m more likely to get pneumonia with my clothes off.”

An argument was a great source of heat and worked as a fine buffer. He welcomed the thought of their tempers warming their bodies and pushing away troubled thoughts, but the truth was neither could muster the energy to rage at the other. He didn’t. She certainly didn’t, though they knew she wanted to.

Scrooge sighed and glanced around the room. He found a pair of chairs in the corner near the door. He dragged them near the window, setting them at an angle where she was able to see through the window. He sat down. So did she.

She stared blankly out the window as if the unsinkable ship would reappear out of the sea and with it, every single person lost underneath the sea’s quiet surface. He wouldn’t call it hope. No. It was a delirious fantasy, a fantasy cursed to remain just that. Scrooge leaned forward with crossed fingers and carried his heavy gaze onto her.

“Who was he,” he asked softly.

Goldie frowned, brow needling tightly. “A boy,” she said softly. She lowered her head thoughtfully. “I met him seventeen years ago.”

He waited for her to make the next move, and she indulged him. Her hand wavered to her eyes, and she buried her face in it, shoulders heaving silently. Scrooge reached forward, grasping the one hand tightened around the armchair.

Choosing silence over comforting words, her tears fell thickly. Anything else sounded vulgar.

[peachhoneii]

49; Zanpad. You know you wanna.

Conveniently enough, Launchpad was an expert in such requests and wasn’t insulted or confused in the least when Zan approached him. He certainly didn’t mind having a shorter woman grabbed him by the collar, leading him to shadowy, discreet backdrop where none of his friends or family knew he was at.

Maybe alarm bells should’ve gone out, or possibly, resistance was an option. But this wasn’t Magica De Spell or Flinthart Glomgold, it was his partner Zan Owlson. He’d met the woman on occasion, and she didn’t appear like a maniacal villain. At least, she didn’t act like one from what he remembered.

To her credit, she refused to cross the invisible line in the sand. She scrutinized him as an internal debate endured inside her head, and she coughed in her head, at last making peace with her decision. Whatever she intended to say needed to be said carefully. Anyone could misinterpret her agenda, and the last person she needed to do that was an employee of Scrooge McDuck.

“So…”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if I can take you to Christmas dinner and tell my family we’re together. They always ask if I’m dating and I can’t have that conversation again.”

There wasn’t an ounce of shame in her tone, and for added dignity, she offered her hand.

Launchpad beheld the gesture in silence, and ever so slowly tilted his as he squinted skeptically.

“Will there be food?”

“Yes,” Zan inhaled. “There will be food, and it’ll be kosher. My cousin’s married to a -,”

“Will I need to wear an owl costume?”

“What?”

“I mean won’t your family find it weird you’re attending dinner with me, or would you prefer a seagull.”

If not for his earnest nature, she would’ve attempted to strangle him, but Zan clasped her hands together in a calming breath. This was manageable. Completely manageable.

“My family are mice,” she answered tightly. “My parents are mice. My sister is a mouse. Her wife is a mouse. Her children are mice. About 99% of my family are mice, and no, I am not adopted.”

“I see.”

“Are you in?”

“I do need to buy an updated version of the Darkwing Duck glass plate collectible set.”

“Going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she grumbled aside. “Yes? No? Paying the agency costs more than I am willing to pay, again.”

Launchpad accepted her proposal with a hearty handshake, and she marveled at his firm grip. She didn’t hold onto the feeling for long. Louie exited his board meeting carrying a scowl and plan to sail to the south coast of Africa for one reason or another.

“We’ll discuss this in December,” she stepped back, procuring her tablet off the desk. “Get the plane ready. It appears Mr. Duck has his sights set on some island Mr. McDuck invested financial protection in.”

As she started out of the bin, she looked around and shook her head. This was what her life amounted. All that hard work.

“Having a cute boy for Christmas dinner is a small compensation, but it’s a start,” she remarked.

[peachhoneii]

67. “Seven years old is practically an adult.” Scroldie and Dickie

“You took a seven year old to the Himalyans?”

Goldie spared a sleepy glance at the sour man standing above her - arms crossed and disappointment palpable. With a sleepy yawn, she resumed her position on Scrooge’s chest, curling his feathers around her finger. “We actually visited Mount Olympus,” she corrected.

“Great, you brought a seven year to Mount Olympus,” he moaned, glare deepening. “And where is Dixie? Shouldn’t she be here?”

Scrooge snored softly underneath her, and Goldie was more than happy to bask in the sight. But his hollow glare invaded her nerves.

“Look, seven years old is practically an adult,” she drawled tiredly, finally pushing the thin comforter off their half-clothed bodies. “She’s in her bed.”

“Before you came down to screw around?”

Goldie snorted softly, shaking her head. “Well, we screwed a bit on our way back,” she cocked a lopsided grin. “She was fast asleep by then.”

With colored cheeks, he slapped his forehead. “Babysitting isn’t a difficult task, right? Dr. Waddlemeyer and I -,”

“Jasper, hush,” Goldie pressed a finger to her beak, motioning to the door. “See, she’s sound asleep, like I told you.”

He scowled, sighing as he stared through the crack in the door. “She seems all together, I think,” he said aloud, relieved.

“See? Expert Gigi-ing.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he moved to walk away, then paused, glare tightening. “Wait, is that a bowie knife?”

“Right,” Goldie deadpanned. “We faced the Minotaur, and things got a little off track.” She pushed him right back where he started, “Don’t worry, it’s sheathed.”

“Is that dry blood on its sheath?”

“How else was she gonna save us? It was the Minotaur.”

[peachhoneii]

(I feel so greedy) 59, DK and Della

(Do not feel greedy.)

He was the terror of the skies and loved all songs. He knew no limitation or restraint. However, steering his airship to its next destination, he discovered an unprecedented hindrance.

Her voice was powerful and soothing, like honey dripped right off the comb. He could fall asleep listening to her voice, but he was flying, so that wasn’t an option. His heart dance at the sound of her chords, and yet...yet...damn it...the lyrics.

“Moonlight,” Della sang, eyes closed as she reclined in the copilot seat. “Turn your face to the moonlight. Let your memory leads you…”

For every second he didn’t cringe in disgust, Don Karnage recoiled in fury. He could never forget that damn cat’s face - her smug, defiant, and triumphant arrogance as she sang to the crowd’s delight in the heart of the stage.

No matter that it should’ve been him on that stage.

“Love of my life,” he said tightly. Each and every ivory tooth glinted in the sunlight. “My treasured moon,” he continued tighter. “Can we please turn this song off?”

“But it’s a masterpiece,” she guffawed, almost in disbelief. “You love this kind of stuff.”

“I adore this stuff,” he replied. “But this stuff is a blasphemy of theatre! Of musicals!”

Della stopped singing and studied him. “Is this about Grizabella?”

His bone curled hotly around the yoke. “It is not about She Who Must Not Be Named,” he pouted, glare darkening. “She knew what she did.”

“Honey,” Della reached over and clasped his knee. “You deserved that role. You would’ve made a wonderful Grizabella.”

“And just because I wasn’t the right species or gender or had the right name,” he pouted. “I was amazing.”

“Course you were, and they could’ve used CGI,” she added comfortingly, “Dewey’s told me all about it.”

He gazed at her with admiration and appreciation. “Oh no, CGI cats would look absolutely horrendous,” he laughed. “2D animation is the best way to portray these enigmatic creatures and their obtuse existence.”

“So, do you want me to keep singing?”

He pouted for a moment, deliberating, then sighed. “Yes, please,” he nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

Della smiled sweetly, returning to her seat, and she resumed her position, hands folded behind her head.

“Open up, enter in, if you find the meaning of what happiness is, then a new life will begin.”

[peachhoneii]

webby and dew ford 124: “ Take that back! ”

Wanted to do an introspection on Webby a little? Also a small hint on something I plan to write in the near future. Thanks for the prompt!

Strict coordination threaded th detail consisting of Webby’s existence.. Living under her grandmother’s observant thumb for so many years left her nearly numb to what life could be like. Although she dreamt of grand adventures, entirely separate from their annual vacations on an uncharted island.

Surrounded by similar aged peers who were also taught the ways of the blade along with additional deadly arts did not make for stimulating conversation. While those recesses were thoroughly enjoyed in a nerve numbing way, none of the other children she had met she considered friends.

On the island the peculiar instances of various warfare shared between each competitor came at a cost. Her troop were multi-talented and potential masters in their field. She admired Gosalyn’s tenacity, Bette’s ingenuity, and Doofus was always there when they needed him to be. But their cooperation came at heavy costs. Gosalyn knocked her over the cliff. Bette crippled her ankle after Webbigail had broken her arm. And Doofus lasted long enough before she escaped the other team’s bombs.

Webby hadn’t blamed any of them, although Doofus occasionally annoyed her. They were raised to be cleverer than clever, deadlier than deadly, and most importantly, pragmatic in the face of danger. Their companionship was a farce, something to be used for personal gain – to succeed further in the game, and while their false companionship was comfortable, almost real in the sense as they huddled close to the fire during the spent night, the deadline hung precariously over them over them.

Her life’s peculiarities were meaningless to her, mundane in many ways, and so, when she met the triplets and received their acceptance without cost, without anything at all. Webby chewed her hair in joy. A new experience unlike she had ever experienced until then; she was careful, overly cautious in her interactions. Often, she’d forget that they weren’t like her; they hadn’t been trained under Beakley’s thumb. They were children simplistically, still complex, but without the complex web of potentially fatal skills she had strived to possess.

She was not completely surprised that Dewey entered her room without her expressed approval. In the passing months he’d subconciously acquired some of her stealth either through adventures or from careful observation. Webby was inclined to believe the former. Closing the door, she saw he held the pink doll that had been nailed to the wall. He held the doll innocuously, pinching the frayed sides and her ruined pink doll.

Watching him there, Webby frowned. She never minded his entering before knocking policy, but seeing him holding the doll made something stir uncomfortably in her stomach. Her sneer was imprinted in her memory, a cruel, slithering mockery, another reminder as to what companionship potentially cost.

“It’s cute,” he said.

“What?”

“Your doll.” He repeated painly, “It’s got this vintage, homemade look to it.”

“Take that back!”

“What?”

She snatched the doll out of his hands, “You don’t mean that…I mean…,” her feathers were close to a faint dahlia, “my doll is cute, but it isn’t something I would boast about.”

“What?” Absolutely perplexed, he waved her off, “I still have Mr. Fonzworth.”

“Fonzworth?”

“An old, stuff bear Uncle Donald got me for my third birthday!” Suddenly, he lowered his voice, “Huey and Louie know I still sleep with it, but they’re nice enough not to say anything.”

His penetrating gaze attempted to read her. His age prevented him from peeling away the thin cover she tried to conceal herself with, “Webby, there’s nothing wrong with a doll. We’re kids!”

“You can tell Bette that,” she grumbled, taking a seat on her bed. Falling on her back, she stared at the painted stars glittering her ceiling, “you can tell all of them that.”

“I don’t need to tell them anything.” Dewey climbed on the bed, “There’s nothing wrong with liking your doll. Is that why you pinned her to the wall?”

Grabbing a pillow, she buried her face in it, “We were training on the isl - homeschool competition,” she corrected hastily, “and she made fun of it, said it was a sign of vulnerability. We can’t afford to display any weaknesses.”

“You do know we’re like 12, right?”

“I know.” She chanced a peak at Dewey, “But it’s really important all of us — homeschoolers, know what we can and cannot do. It’s simply not pragmatic to bring your doll to a dangerous mis – homeschooling competition,” she awkwardly coughed, “those things are different.”

“Sure, but it’s like totally cool for you to have a doll.” He didn’t miss a beat, “And you can tell them anything and they won’t go blab off about it.”

“Like what we’re doing right now?”

“Yep!”

The emotional sensation bubbling in the middle of her intestines made her want to throw up, but she pulled the pillow off her face and giggled instead.

“You better take that back, Dewey.”

“Nope, ain’t like I’m gonna tell anybody. You’re my mystery buddy, right?”

“Right.”

This secret between them cost her exactly $0.00.

[peachhoneii]

Can you do #41 with Donald & Daisy please?

Petty is as petty does, and nobody knows petty like Daisy and Donna Duck. I’m tagging @donaldtheduckdad for reasons. Italicize means they’re speaking in Spanish

I know it may not be what you were looking for. In my defense, those are fighting words.

Donald knows what to search for. He sees the gentle curve of her right eyebrow. He flinches at the tap-tap-tappity-tap drum of her fingers on the picnic table. Her perfume smells of orange lilies and cherry blossoms. He knows what to wait for. He knows what to search for. He anticipates one of the three. It isn’t easy to anticipate.

What he doesn’t anticipate is the three combining in discordant harmony.

He sits beside Daisy and breathes.

He sits beside Donna and breathes.

He sits in the middle of Daisy and Donna and feels his breathing grow shallow.

“How are you doing, Donald?” She spoons potato salad on his plate. She’s the sticky syrupy kind that’s too sweet to be genuine, and her thick eyelashes, which as far as he knows are real, flutter innocently at him, “Oh come on, it’s my specialty. Daisy can tell you.”

Daisy stirs her pozole, eyeballing the contents, and hearing her name, raises her head to stare back at them.

“Donald, your potato salad is going to get cold.” Her bright smile doesn’t strain at the corners, “And save enough for everyone else.”

Donna blinks at the dismissive tone in Daisy’s voice, “Oh yes, yes, Abner, would you like some potato salad?”“

Donald chews, staring at the dead look in his cousin’s eyes. He also pretends to not see the way Donna leans over with bowl and spoon in hand, her bosom at approximate level to Abner’s eyes. He takes care to look in the opposite direction as her tail feathers swish excitedly. Her rump protrudes at the precise angle where it’s simply a result of her position.

“Now, now, remember your manners, Donna,” Daisy chides, “Opal’s sitting right there and doesn’t want to see your tits hanging low.”

Donald chokes. Abner grabs a napkin to keep the tea from spilling on his shirt.

The potato salad bowl trembles in her grip. Caught between them, Donald knows his cousin is so very relieved to be sitting where he is.

Opal, to her credit, appears mostly unperturbed, “I would like some fried chicken. Potato salad is too soggy for me.”

Abner turns his head slowly to look at Opal, and Daisy chuckles as she swallows another spoonful.

“How about a thigh, I’m sure Abner would like some?”

“No, Abner seems to be more of a breast man these days.”

Donna blinks and returns to her seat. Her stare is stiff, cheeks red, and she offers to Donald, “From what I remember you seemed to prefer the breast.”

“No, no, I’m sure he’s more of an ass man now.”

“Daisy!” Their mama scolds, “And you too, Donna, enough of this. You’re lucky the children aren’t here.”

But neither appear abashed, sending the other icy glares.

Donald waits for the inevitable. Mama keeps them in check. She keeps them in a straight line that threatens to snap in two every ten seconds. They smile, joke, and cover their growing ire and jealousy until it breaks. Donald tries to code Abner. He tries to code Opal.

The line snaps over chilaquiles.

“I said I was sorry,” Donna screams.

“Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!” Donald floats when he’s pushed to the side.

Daisy goes for her throat.

Donna curls a fist to the stomach.

“Girls!”

They’re rolling on the ground, throwing hard punches and swift kicks, and the rest of them stare on in stunned shock that quickly dissipates when Daisy gets the upper hand. She wraps her arms around her sister’s torso and lifts her, and suddenly, Donald and Abner are running to them to stop the ground hard slam.

“You were always jealous of me!” Donna screeches as her father shoves her through the back door.

“Not so jealous with this hair I’m holding,” Daisy screeches back as Donald and Abner drag her to the car, in her clutched fists are several strands of brown hair, “what ya’ gonna brush now, Donna, what are you going to brush now?”

Opal stands next to their mama and watches in satisfied silence while holding tupperware boxes filled with friend chicken, chilaquiles, and potato salad.

“Excuse me ma'am?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Thank you for the leftovers.”