dak writes

certifiable appalachian cryptid. sometimes writes original fiction. usually does not. icon cred to @artmiiraux on twitter

[thegaymertrainer]

If you come in you don’t have to come out

[pinene]

the way this is like baaaaarely parody

[diane-nguyen-watches-cartoons-d]

bringing in a second actor towards the end of the video to deliver a single devastating punchline is brilliant writing

[ifyouknowmeirlgoaway]

#perfect description of what grindr is like

[lockoutkey]

election so bad you made my chemical romance wake up

[animentality]

[rabiesofficial]

Based

[pangur-and-grim]

I accidentally fell asleep, and instead of going to lock the chickens up for the night irl, I started doing it in the dream. and my housemate was calling “there’s something in there with them”, which made me RUN down, until I saw it was a……lion? and I was like “oh for fuck’s sake, I fell asleep.” and there was also a dog, and then a bear, it felt like my brain was raining down predators to make me care, but I said “no enough of this nonsense, I’m asleep, this is fantasy shit”, and started yelling “WAKE UP, WAKE UP” so loudly in the dream that I jolted awake. 

and now it’s time to lock the chickens up for real!

[dakohtah]

i’d never hurt no one, and no one would ever hurt me

Oops! All Magnus fic, set post balance arc bc I felt like the boy was in need of some Hurtin. also available on my ao3

..

After the Day of Story and Song (TM TM TM), Magnus stayed pretty busy. He had to: even with the Hunger defeated, the devastation left in the wake of John’s appearance had left the entire planar system reeling with the weight of what it had nearly lost.

It wasn’t for his own sake, honestly. He was made to help. To protect. It’s what he’d wanted to do in Raven’s Roost. It’s what he’d apparently fought to do for—well. For a good while. So, when he started cleaning up the city of Neverwinter, it was just another facet of his duty. Real natural. A different way to save the world.

It was what he was supposed to do.

So, Magnus set out. 

His work in Neverwinter spread slowly, inexorably down into Rockport. He just figured folks could use a friendly face and a couple of helping hands as they got back on their feet, that’s all. These people—their weary faces lighting up in the face of a multi-universal semi-celebrity—they were almost always grateful, offering him a hot meal and a place to sleep as he passed through. Kids would beg him to stay a little longer, to play just one more game, or at least to show them his sword again before he moseyed onto the next town. Magnus had never pegged himself as the nomadic type—by choice, at any rate, but he wasn’t going to think about—well. So much to say, life on the road very nearly suited him. He really, really liked it.

The labor was nice, too. Folks always needed something done, big or small. He might find himself rebuilding houses. Spooking bandits away from some older pathways. Maybe helping to shape up old furniture. More and more, he found himself chopping firewood in preparation for the incoming Faerun winter. It all kept him just busy enough that he didn’t. Well. There wasn’t much time to overthink, was all.

He never admitted, out loud or in the privacy of his mind, that he wasn’t ready to unpack it all. Not the hundred years he wasn’t supposed to have or the way that he’d lost them—like they’d never happened to begin with.

And then, to have remembered it all anyway.

To have heard it, experienced it being broadcast across the planar system—left gasping at pieces of his own story that hadn’t quite settled in the amalgamated mess the voidfish (Fisher and Junior, their names are Fisher and—) had left of his mind. To have accomplished in one day what one hundred years of effort fell short of.  

And then what?

Was it time to celebrate? Or mourn? Magnus had lived nearly eighty percent of his life on borrowed time, and now the clock was ticking. He didn’t—?

It’s just. He couldn’t unpack it yet because he wasn’t sure what was supposed to come after. Somehow, he never in one hundred years thought there could be an after. Not for him.

Not after the Hunger and not after Julia.

So, Magnus set out and he fixed things because it was what he was supposed to do. He stayed on the move and helped where he could because he always had, and he was good at it. He almost always liked the people, and the work, and the children, and the way that almost no one ever asked him to talk about it more than once.

Sure, they’d always ask at least one time if he’d tell them about it. And he’d always answer, with an aborted little ‘eh’ hand gesture, “Maybe later?”

And then they’d let it go. And if they didn’t then he left as soon as the work ran dry. Maybe sooner, depending on their persistence. He’d heard that the city of Goldcliff was real warm, even in the winter. He let the thought settle in his mind. A little warmth felt like something he was well overdue.

“It sounds like you’re doing good work, Magnus,” and if Lucretia’s voice was halting as it traveled through the Stone of Farspeech, Magnus would chalk it up to a faulty fantasy connection. He didn’t look into it. If he thought too hard, he’d find himself buried in particulars that had been tucked away with Junior for nearly a decade. (Lucretia sounds like this at the beginning of every new year—this is the sound of her processing regrets. Don’t ask her if she thinks we could have saved them, she does. She’ll tell you how and you don’t want to hear it and she doesn’t want to say it. Remind her to eat. Remind her to sleep. Remind her you love her. Remind h—) “I. Well, I’ve told you about the work we’ve been doing at the Bureau of Benevolence. It’s—a start. If you ever decide that. Um. Well, you’d be welcome, of course, if you ever wanted to come and—well, if you’d like to—”

Stay. She wanted him to come and to stay and Magnus wanted—something. Not that. Not yet. Maybe never? Magnus wanted, but what?

“Thanks, Luce,” and maybe Magnus’ voice was a little soft. Faulty fantasy connection. Hard to tell. “Might take you up on that here soon,” but not yet. “Glad to hear things are still coming along with the rebrand. I gotta hit the hay, but I’ll catch up with you later, okay? Send my love to Carrie and Killian and Avi and Fish—uh, y’know. Everybody.”

Lucretia gave a halfhearted chuckle, “I will, Magnus.” The pause was as long as it was palpable, steaming in the chill of the air alongside Magnus’ puffs of breath, “I love you, you know.”

“I—” and it wasn’t easy to find words, but he managed eventually, “I, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I love you, too, Lucy. G’night.”

“Goodnight.”

The barn—too small for livestock, but just large enough to shelter a little feed, a load of firewood, and one Magnus Burnsides—seemed to hold an echo as the line cut out. It hadn’t felt too quiet when he’d settled in for the evening, but Magnus found himself wanting—something, anything. Early on in his pilgrimage, there had been crickets. Summer cicadas. The rustle of nocturnal animals who hadn’t yet tucked themselves away for the season. The sound of children laughing, sneaking out for moonlit mischief.

Magnus couldn’t quite pinpoint when his evenings had become silent.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when the stillness had begun to bother him.

Not to say he was bothered. He wasn’t. He traveled alone for years, long before he’d even seen Craig’s List or heard any names even vaguely resembling Merle or Taak—oh, and there he went. Thinking about it.

Magnus took a moment to count the pieces of wood stacked in the corner. Seventy-eight. He would chop a little more before he left in the morning. It was shaping up to be a bitter season.

He just. Well.

He could stand to invest in a fantasy noisemaker, that’s all. For the first time, Magnus found himself wishing that Fantasy Costco hadn’t fucked clean off his plane of existence. Garfield may have been unsettling in a way that scraped at his bones, but he had a great selection.

Magnus took one deep breath, and then another. Tried not to remember the way Merle’s snoring would echo in tight quarters, tried not to remember the way that it was a menace this year but a comfort for about eighty before.

Seventy-eight pieces of wood in the corner. The dual sounds of pens on papers, now visceral in their absence, and Magnus would chop more before he left in the morning.

The lack of gentle footsteps pacing at one, two, three in the morning, and the lack of a rustle at four when Davenport would crawl back into his bunk. It was shaping up to be a bitter season, and Magnus could almost hear Barry and Lup whispering in the early morning. Heart-wrenching and gentle. In the silence of the Starblaster, Magnus would sometimes catch the tail-end of an “I love you,” and he took one deep breath. And then another.

Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, seventy-eight pieces of wood, and Taako leaning down over the top bunk at the Bureau of Balance. “Couldn’t sleep either, big fella?” The joke was stupid, elves never fucking sleep, but somehow, he always, always knew when Magnus was lying awake. Merle would say something about old habits, and fuck. Fuck chopping wood in the morning.

So, Magnus set out, just as the sun was teasing a light blush along the horizon. His feet crunched merrily as they hit the frosted ground. A bird chirped once, and then again.

It was shaping up to be a bitter season.

[dakohtah]

my god, haven’t we grown up a little?

ducknerva? minewton? whatever u call it, have some hot, fresh Big Wife, Little Husband TAZ: Amnesty fiction, also available on my ao3

..

It wasn’t that Duck was emotionally constipated or, like, real invested in the concept of his own masculinity. He was just a dude. Maybe a dude who, say, didn’t really do ‘opening up’ super well.

No, like, for real.

Not in the “aw, shucks, no one taught me basic emotional competency” way, but more in the “God cursed me with a very particular voice and face that makes emotional intimacy difficult at best” way.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know how it looked. It was a bad look. He knew that. But, listen, okay?

It was the oldest story in the book: there are two folks, right? One has a big destiny, and the other is some kinda alien sword mentor, or something. There’s a big talking sword, that’s a whole thing. And then, uh. Well, like, twenty years pass. That’s nothing, though, they don’t talk or anything. But eventually they live together? Like, later. Way later. Only Aubrey is there, too, so it isn’t, uh. Well, you know how Aubrey is. Anyhow, Leo’s next door, too, so—it’s not—it, uh—yeah.

Yada yada, they fight some aliens, like, real good, and then—boom! You know. Some of their closest friends are in an alien dimension, maybe forever, and it’s time to figure out what comes next.

Well, it turned out Brazil was next. That part was kinda easy, actually.

Planting trees. Doing good. The whole, uh, thing. And Duck usually felt okay about that—real okay. Maybe better than he ever had, actually.

It was good work to be doing. And it felt good.

And, well, maybe—you know. It’s back to the story, right? Maybe one of the two—the big destiny one? You remember. Maybe he, somewhere along the way, kind of, uh—you know? Right? You gotta know. It’s kinda really obvious, and he’s kinda been really counting on that because—uh.

Aw, Christ. He really just thought that she’d, like, know. You know?

Seemed like everyone else did, anyhow.

“Y’gotta say something, Duck. I don’t—God damn it, you’re so stupid. How’d you survive a whole apocalypse with such a bad case of stupid, huh?”

Duck didn’t know, so he said, “I don’t know, Juno! Listen, if I knew how to—if I could just, like—say it?” He heard more than felt his head connect with the wall behind him but couldn’t bring himself to lift it from the couch, “Listen, I’m not doin’ this on purpose. Does this look fun for me? Huh?”

Juno shrugged. Duck didn’t see it, but he could feel it in the air. It was less than sympathetic, and Duck regretted inviting her into his apartment.

“She’s not a fuckin’—okay, well, she is an alien, but c’mon, bud. Just, I dunno? Sit her down. Look her in the eye. And just—” and she said this bit in a real low—and real hateful, honestly—impersonation of Duck, “Now, listen, Minnie—”

“Hey, don’t fuckin’ call her that, she said she doesn’t like it and—”

She waved him away, tucking her feet up in under her, “Aw, fuck clean off, Duck, she lets you call her Minnie all day long. And, obviously, I’m bein’ you. Now, hush.” Juno’s voice was deep in a mean approximation when she spoke again, “Listen, Minnie, I’ve been a’thinkin’ ‘bout you. Thinkin’ ‘bout the way your big, strong arms could just—”

“Hey, now—”

“—just pick me up, real gentle-like, and whisk me away—”

“Juno, I fuckin’ swear you better quit it or else I’ll—” Duck stood up, real ready-like, felt abruptly like a real dipshit, and sat back down. Squinching his eyes shut, he pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten, “Now dang it, Juno, you know it ain’t as easy as all that.”

His apartment was quiet for a beat, and then another.

The lumpy, cushioned arm of Duck’s chair dipped, and he felt a familiar form lean against his hunched shoulders. Duck released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when Juno said, “M’sorry about pickin’ on you, bud.” A beat, again, “I think it’s sweet, that’s all. Minerva will think so, too.”

Duck leaned in, trying desperately to convince himself that these were real, tangible concerns and not the premise of a high school romcom, “You think so? Like, for real?”

“For real,” Juno confirmed solemnly. Duck took a chance, glancing up at her as she continued, “She probably even—you know, likes you back. Like, like-likes you back,” her eyebrows waggled, and it was hateful as hell.

Duck groaned and his temple pulsed with a dull ache. Christ, he felt old, so he said, “Jesus Christ, Juno, I’m forty-three.”

“Ee-yup,” Juno affirmed with a slap on his shoulder.

“This is fuckin’ stupid.”

“Yessir.”

“I’m just gonna say it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like—tomorrow.”

“That so?”

Duck sat up, his fists clenched, “No, you’re right—tonight. I’ll fuckin, uh—I’m gonna do it tonight.”

Juno clapped him hard on the back this time, “Hey, that’s the spirit, buddy!” She glanced up at the wall clock and cursed, “Shit, s’already six? I ought’a head on back to mine and get cookin’.” She stood fluidly, grabbing her keys off of the coffee table before heading toward the door.

Duck stood quickly enough to give himself a head rush, “Juno, hold up a sec, I—uh.” He met her by the door and spoke fast, trying hard not to stumble over the words, “Please, please, tell me I can stay with you for a few if it goes real bad.”

Juno snorted, “Yeah, whatever. Do I look like a fuckin’ Motel 6? I’ll leave a light on for you.”

“Thanks, Junebug.”

“Good luck, Don Juan.”

----

By the time Duck heard the key turning in the lock at 6:45 on the dot—as usual, Minnie always ended up staying over a little late on her Saturday shifts—he’d been left alone long enough to feel as though he was setting himself up to be nominated Dipshit of the Century.

Too late for regrets, he figured, because the door was creaking open and the sight of her was damn near enough to get him all winded.

“I am home, Wayne Newton!” Minerva declared, waving her ranger cap at him with a beaming grin before turning to hang it on the coat rack by the door. “Today I saw three very large ducks, and they—" she stopped short as she got a better look at him, hands falling slack by her sides.

In retrospect, Duck figured it might’ve looked like a little much. Or maybe it just looked bad. Both, maybe? He glanced anxiously down at the table he was seated at, taking in the center candle, uncorked bottle of wine, and admittedly shoddy alfredo he’d managed to throw together since Juno’d left.

But he’d had some time to practice, so Duck said real cool-like, “I, uh—hello, Minerva.” He pointed a shaking hand at the chair, placed across from his at the table, “Won’t you—uh, have a seat.” Except that he forgot to make the last bit sound like a question, so he added, “Um, please?”

Minerva looked decidedly anxious, which Duck didn’t like one fuckin’ bit, as she shrugged out of her coat and toward the chair. She hesitated, a calloused hand brushing the table delicately, “Is everything alright, Wayne Newton?”

“No—fuck! I mean, uh, yes?” Duck realized too late that he’d never stopped pointing at the fucking chair and snatched his hand back. “Uh, everything is absolutely alright, just peachy.”

Minerva nodded once and sat. She was looking a little over his right shoulder. Duck followed her gaze to a fuck-off big river rock she’d given to him the month before and, bizarrely, felt comforted enough to carry on.

“So,” He began, but it didn’t go anywhere. Duck glanced back at the rock and tried again, “Okay, Minerva, we’ve got to talk.”

She nodded solemnly, “Alright.”

Duck, stupidly, nodded back before taking a deep breath, “Okay, I, uh—aw, fuck! I just—Minnie, I’m sorry, I meant to do this after dinner and I just. Fuckin’ forgot, I guess? Shit. You can—”

“No, thank you, Wayne Newton. This meal looks skillfully prepared, but I would like for you to speak first.”

“You sure?” Minerva nodded, so Duck said it quick like ripping off a band-aid, “Alright, Minerva, I lo—uh, like you. I like you.” He swallowed hard against the confusion that colored her broad features, “Like, uh. Romantically, Minnie. I would like to, um, take you out sometime.”

Minerva’s mouth dropped into a perfect little ‘o’. To Duck’s mounting horror, she dropped her head into her palms.

It was quiet for a long moment, during which Duck was pretty sure his soul left his physical body. Fuck, he had to fix this, he—

“Wayne Newton, how long have you harbored romantic feelings toward me?” She spoke real slow, and it was a solid minute before she lifted her head.

Duck was at least relieved that she didn’t look mad, just—embarrassed? He was already speaking before her eyes met his, “Shit, Minnie, I’m so sorry, it doesn’t have to—”

She held up an open palm to stop him and seemed to collect herself. “No, please do not apologize. I, ah—I believe there has been a very large misunderstanding. Did you—feel this way before we traveled to Brazil?” Duck was quiet for a minute, and she said, “Please be honest, Wayne Newton.”

Duck figured he must’ve looked like a fish, the way his mouth was opening and closing. He didn’t know what she was getting at, and still had half a mind to head to Juno’s for the night, but all he said was, “Um, I—yeah.”

Minerva visibly let out a breath, but put her head into her palms again, “That—Thank you, Wayne Newton. That is a relief to hear.”

Duck felt a truly unhealthy amount of blood rush to his cheeks and up his ears, “Minnie, d’ya mind if I—uh, ask why?”

She let out a noise Duck might’ve expected to hear from a squeaky wheel before stammering, “Wayne Newton, I am now very embarrassed. I do not want to tell you why.”

Gingerly, Duck managed out of his chair and around the table. Real slow, he put a hand on her shoulder and found himself unspeakably relieved when a hand came to tentatively cover his. He cleared his throat, “Hey, now, it’s—it’s alright. You don’t have nothin’ to be embarrassed of. Will you tell me what the, uh, misunderstanding is all about?”

Minerva mumbled into the palm her face rested in.

“Can you please say it one more time?”

She finally met Duck’s gaze with a deep frown, turning slightly in her seat. “I was—Wayne, I had believed that we were already romantically involved,” she admitted miserably.

Duck opened and closed his mouth a couple times before words came out, “You what?”

Minerva shook her head as if shaking off a bad dream. “Wayne Newton, I had asked you if I could accompany you to Brazil. Do you remember this? I had told you that I would follow you anywhere if you would allow it. I assumed that you understood that I—that it was a confession, if you will. You said—and I quote, Wayne Newton— ‘same here, bud’. I had assumed…” she let the sentence hang, eyes trained on the table.

Duck felt as though he might be having a stroke, “It was a what?”

“And you are so—so hesitant sometimes, Wayne Newton! I had believed—well, perhaps you were not interested in intimacies such as the holding of hands! And—you invited me to share our home here! Your planet is just so different at times, I just—oh, Christ.” There was a thump, and Minerva’s clean-shaven head connected with the table, “Wayne Newton, there is worse shame yet.”

Aw, jeez, she was getting worked up. Duck’s brain felt like it had been replaced with mashed potatoes. It was okay, it would be alright—he could fix this, so he opened his mouth and said, “I—what?” His hand felt too hot under hers. He was gonna pass out.

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, which he figured was fair, “I gave you the large rock.”

Duck nodded dumbly although she wasn’t looking at him. He could see the rock, sitting proudly by their bookshelf, “Uh, I—yeah. Yeah, you gave me a great rock, Min.”

“You see, I was under the impression that large rocks were symbolic of a lifetime commitment on this planet?” Minerva said it like a question and fuck, Duck was gonna pass out. “We have been—well. It has been one year since we moved, and I—” she groaned, “Wayne Newton, this is the nightmare scenario.”

And it really wasn’t funny, except that it kinda was, so Duck gave a weak laugh and his vision got a little splotchy and—

And then Duck was looking up at Minerva and boy, Jesus, did his back hurt.

“Wayne Newton, it seems that you have fainted,” Minnie’s voice was earnest as she crouched next to him on the floor of their kitchen. “Perhaps you should eat some food?”

With an embarrassing amount of effort, and the assistance of Minerva’s outstretched hand, Duck managed to sit upright, “Now, hold on just a second, Minnie. You—I mean, we…are we like, together? I mean, romantically?”

Minerva looked at the ceiling—maybe bargaining with God. He sure wouldn’t blame her if she were. “Yes, that was the impression I was under.”

He swallowed audibly, “And you’re like—cool? With that?”

“I—yes.”

Duck started to feel faint again when he said, “Minnie, are we engaged?”

Minerva relaxed out of her crouch and sat heavily beside him, shooting a venomous look at the living room. She was looking at Duck’s engagement ring, he noted feebly. “Wayne Newton, this is humiliating.”

“I mean—I meant, like. Is that…is that what you want?”

Slowly, Minerva’s warm hand found its way to cover his. Real gentle-like. Duck could feel thick callouses and the outline of a long scar stretching across her palm, and he was helpless to do anything but spread out his fingers and catch hers in between them. It was quiet for a long moment before Minerva spoke.

“Wayne Newton, I meant it quite literally when I said I would follow you anywhere, for as long as you would allow me to. I do not—it doesn’t have to be now, or ever. I am not sure what the ritual on this planet entails, to be entirely honest, and I do not know if it is something you want at all. It is clear that there are some things I do not yet understand. Regardless, this is—I would like this. For as long as you will allow me to.”

“Fuck it,” Duck said a little too quickly, so he scrambled to add, “I mean, yeah. Like, me too, I—yes.”

“So, you—do you like the handholding, Wayne Newton? Can we do that?”

Duck squeezed their interlocked fingers, “Yeah, for sure.”

Minerva nodded sharply, “Wonderful. We shall hold hands for just a moment more, and then we will eat our cold dinner.”

And, honestly? Duck wasn’t like, super sure if he was engaged or what, exactly. But Duck knew that whatever it was, he was super into it, so he said, “I’m super into that, hell yes.