#dhmis fic

[emilightniing]

oh hey i wrote another quick dhmis thing :]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[sunny-ousama]

So I found a DHMIS fic right and

THIS IS ALL IT SAYS, JUST "WHAT ABOUT MY SHREDDER" REPEATED MORE THAN 21 THOUSAND TIMES

Yup that's it, this is the Magnum opus of every Duck Guy fic there ever was and will be.

As it says on the tin, brilliant work AO3 user Falling_Ra1n.

[angelxd-3303]

Happy June 19th

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[meerlichtz]

Drowning Lessons

Chapter one

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary:

Duck watches Red clean the dishes and his heart clenches.

He’s filled the sink up to the brim. Absentmindedly, he grabs another plate, pushes it down and gets to scrubbing. Water spills over. Red pretends not notice, or perhaps he really doesn’t.

Duck is afraid that this is exactly what love is going to do to him.

Or: Duck, Red guy and Yellow guy escape the loop. This makes nothing easier.

[b0vidine]

Some sketched inspired by the fic “The Journey Always Ends Up Back At Home (Until It Doesn’t)” I loved the idea of the two versions of the characters living together so much it took over my brain lol. 

Individual drawings below! 

[lluvguts]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

another fic another fic another fic

[myshredda]

I am getting older but I am not growing up - Chapter 3

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

“Happy birthdaaaaaaaaay tooooo yoooooooooooooou,” Red croons, wincing as Duck hits notes higher than he thought possible. “Make a wish, kid.”

“Yes and do start to blow out your candles!” Duck cackles. “We shan’t be helping, so you better get to work!”

Yellow sat, still and steady, eyes locked on the dancing light of countless candles. Soft planes of his face covered in a dusting of shadows and the gentle, rhythmic glow of fire buffeted in the breeze. The flickering flames casting his features in a constant, radiant movement. Slowly, he looks up, liquid dark eyes brimmed with confusion, bottom lip beginning to quiver.

“For- for me?” His voice wavers, as if unable to comprehend this small a kindness could be extended to him.

[puppety-pupils-and-pedagogues]

Spoiler warning for the tv series.

TW: aftermath of violence.

May be seen happening after this fic.

Another day, another fight, another mess for Tony to help clean up.

~ ~ ~

"So you've won this time, have you?"

The mop-thing turns his head to him. Red's snarling at him, probably, or grimacing. Tony can't be sure- blood's stained his gums and pearly whites so thoroughly that one can't quite tell where his skin ends and the mouth begins. He moves towards the time teacher, uncaring of how he crushes the dead worm underfoot.

(How atrociously low the standards for his fellow instructors have become. )

The mop's dead eyes stare at him, then slowly glance at his fellows on the ground, then look back at him. Tony thinks he sees a glimmer of clarity in the creature's gaze, something of recollection and frustration and so many other senseless things and it lunges at him-

Tony hums a tune, the sort you could skip to, and time skips with his spinning hands. From an hour ahead to the day before, to tea time next Tuesday and yester-year then hopping back to the here and now. The red one's always been made of stronger stuff, but even his constitution falters at this sort of play.

The mop collapses to the floor in a heap of dust and denim. Tony hums something softer as things stitch themselves back together. Spares are good to have, but there's no harm in mending what can be saved for a few more acts. So he thinks, anyway. Or so she says. It's all the same really, here.

How funny though, the way things have become. The red one wasn't so bold, before. Or violent. None of them were. They were too terrified then, when this was all strange and new. It's still strange, still new, but there's only so much strangeness and newness one can take before even that becomes old news.

They're just tired now, Tony thinks. Sick of the days and sick of each other, but still too scared to let that familiarity go.

He renders the room spick and span and the three in a livable state. They're gone before he knows it, plucked away to be set in another part of the house.

Tony stays in his place upon the wall, ticking, ticking, and he wonders how long this set will last.