DWD Head Canon: Drake Mallard is an absolute SMUSH when it comes to his daughters baby pictures

humanityinahandbag:

humanityinahandbag:

quack-a-roonie:

humanityinahandbag:

@miilkydayz AS YOU KNOW I am convinced that Gosalyn is little more than a Huffy Puffy gosling with soft feet and downy fuzz. And I have to then assume that when she was a baby, she was fucking fluffy as all get out. Just a little, sickly, soft footed dust bunny. 

I understand that the grandfather died (or most likely died, but that’s another AU for another, sadder time) so that means that all the items that were left at his house that technically belong to Gosalyn have to be mailed somewhere. 

They’d be mailed to the Mallard home. 

She tries to stop him from opening it. She really does. But he has to. It’s addressed to him and the curiosity was too great and…

and….

and oh my god… 

Her baby pictures, still in their frames, and still dusty from their spaces on the walls. He’s holding her baby pictures. HE’S NEVER SEEN HER FUCKING BABY PICTURES. 

HIS LITTLE GIRL

RIGHT THERE

IN FRONT OF HIM

AS A BABY

AND SHE’S SO CUTE

But then… then, when he rummages towards the bottom, he finds even more and oh boy… oh fucking boy… his world changes. Forever. 

Keep reading

I LIVE FOR THIS THANKS

@quack-a-roonie

Okay so let’s just look at these fucking tags though

SO SHE TOTALLY WOULD

Gosalyn would look almost longingly at the stuffed monkey. It has a worn brown cotton body and button eyes that are more scratches than anything else and it’s so obvious it was well loved.

“Hey, you want me to wash her?”

There’s a moment of raw defense where Gosalyn looks almost offended and snaps out “HIS name is TUFFY” before realizing and quickly backpedaling. “But-but you know I’m to old and you can get rid of it, dad.”

“You sure?” He’d lift up the monkey by its arm before holding it aloft by its stuffed torso. “He looks like he just needs a bath!” His eyes went to Gosalyn and he squinted. “Actually, so do you.”

“Just get rid of him, dad,” she waved away his final comment, giving the stuffed animal one last mourning look. “it’s fine.”

She doesn’t ask how Tuffy ended up on her bed the next morning. Or why he smelled like fabric softener. But… there’s something better about it.

Maybe she didn’t want it because she was too old.

Or maybe she remembers clutching it tight while her parents had screamed.

But now he sort of smells like her dad’s (her new, real, here dad’s) sweaters. Like coffee and juniper laundry detergent and smoke bombs and she can hold him as tight as she wants in bed and not hear screaming.

He won’t mention it. Neither will she. But he peeks in sometimes and is never surprised to see the new addition to their family tucked under her chin.

GOD BUT MORE THAN THAT @quack-a-roonie and @mighty-ant !!!

She HATED Tuffy at first, while he was held up in front of her by a curious Darkwing Duck. She hates him. With every fiber and nerve in her body, she hates him.

Tuffy smells like her father’s cigarettes and beer cans and her mother’s awful petunia perfume and she had to turn her head away to push against the sound of their bellowing.

“Honey,” he asks, and she shakes her head and mumbles at him to get rid of it.

So her allowing herself to love this slim bit of childhood memorabilia is huge. Absolutely groundbreaking.

And it doesn’t take much.

Drake just washes him in the detergent he uses for his sweaters and replaces the orange and scratched button eyes with bright green ones from a basket above the dryer.

And because she hasn’t lost her downy feathers yet, he makes sure to pick at his cotton body enough to leave it a little frayed and puffy. Like her.

His Huffy Puffy.

So by the time he gets to Gosalyn he smells like her dad. Her real dad. Not like the cigarettes and the ash trays and the booze and the leather. And he looks a little unraveled, but in the best way.

He’ll make Tuffy a little cape later. A little purple cape. And a little purple mask. She doesn’t admit that she loves it. But…

You know.