Siruisly Tired Mistborn

hey guys so i’ve been in a wiggy place lately, which means my brain is doing some wiggy things and i keep starting fics and not finishing cuz i guess i’m just waiting for something that clicks, ya know? 

anyway bear with me, here’s something else! but it feels like it’s clicking more than other things recently so we’ll see lolololol

(plus its a really fun concept)

relationship: sprace

warnings: mentions of death, but no one, like, is dead…

editing: no

word count: 2853

Chap 1

Spot awoke with an overcompensating gasp, eyes flying open as the world came crashing back.  He remained still, slowly taking note of his current condition.  His right cheek was pressed to the ground, the musty smell of the wet, grimy dirt suffocating him.  His head hurt dully, but not nearly enough to concern him to any alarming extent.  Just a simple, tension headache- probably from staying face down for so long.

He was shivering, belatedly realizing how stiff his limbs were.  They were splayed at awkward angles, twisting in ways that couldn’t be healthy.  He could hear the sound of rushing water, creating a cacophony of white noise around him.  He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his vision.  Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing when his joint cracked painfully.  He rolled his neck a few times, groaning as his body gradually loosened.

Stretching his arms above him, he looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings.  He was in what appeared to be a park.  Stretches of trimmed green grass surrounded him, encompassed only by small clusters of hedges and mini trees.  To his left, a wide river flowed magnificently.  Manhattan stood proudly on the other side of the river and Spot started, turning around hastily to see the Brooklyn Bridge standing hauntingly behind him.

When the hell did he get to Brooklyn?  Where the hell was he?  What happened?

He wracked his memory, trying to recall any details that would clue him in to his current situation, but nothing jumped out.  All he could remember was excruciating pain giving way to loud voices, insufferable heat, numbing cold, then silence.  And darkness.  So much darkness.

He shuddered, unsure of what exactly had put him off.  Though given the little he could remember, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

He looked down at himself, frowning at his outfit.  He was wearing a pair of simple, straight legged, grey sweatpants and no shoes.  A loose fitting black shirt hung limply on his frame.  Suddenly, fleeting images of something white hot being pressed to his chest flew through his mind and he gasped, lifting his shirt hastily.  He wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking for- a scar perhaps- but his torso was completely unscathed.  In fact, as he assessed himself mentally, nothing seemed out of the ordinary externally.

He pat his pockets, looking for a phone, maybe.  Anything really that could assist him in gathering his bearings.  But all he found was a coin.  He squinted at it, running his fingers over the cool copper.  It didn’t look like currency.  Rather, it looked like an emblem of some sort.  There was a slew of indiscernible etchings on either side and as he turned it over in his hands, he noticed that it was significantly thicker than any coin he’d ever seen before.  It was more of a medallion than anything.

He took a breath, steeling himself as he stood up.  His legs shook violently and he pitched to the side, stumbling for a moment before finding his footing.  He walked on wobbly legs towards the street, wondering distantly what time it was.  The sun was fairly high in the sky, casting a warm glow throughout Brooklyn.  Not many people were at the park, but as he neared the main road, he could make out voices chattering mildly to one another.  The air was cool, but fair, raising another question about what time of year it was.  Spring?  Early Summer?  Somewhere around there.  

He paused, swallowing around a dry throat as he stepped onto the sidewalk, looking out towards the shops that lined the street across from him.  People crowded outside coffee shops, dining pleasantly in the outdoor seating.  

Must be breakfast time, Spot thought to himself, biting his lip as hunger rumbled through his stomach.  If only he had some actual money.

“Are you alright, sir?”

Spot startled, breathing in sharply as he looked to the side.  A short, young woman stood beside him, gentle concern written on her face.  She had a kind demeanor radiating off of her, putting Spot at ease.  

“You don’t look so good,” She said delicately, “Is there anyone I can call for you?  A cab?”

Spot blinked, shifting his jaw as he tried to decide where to go from the confusing shitshow he was already in.  He wanted to go…home.  Wherever that meant.  He had an address in mind, but he wasn’t entirely sure where it lead to.  It just felt right.

“Uh,” his voice was hoarse, cracking from lack of use.  He cleared his throat, intending to ask for directions, but instead blurting, “What’s the date?”

The woman’s eyes flicked imperceptibly and she cocked her head, “It’s June 4.”

Spot nodded slowly, “And the year?”

The woman pursed her lips, “2019,” she said skeptically.

Spot felt the air leave his lungs.  2019!?  The last New Years he remembered celebrating was 2015.  What the fuck was going on?

He quickly masked his internal dilemma, opting instead to finally figure out where the hell he was going and how the hell he was going to get there.

He flicked a finger under his nose, clearing his throat again, “Yeah, uh, where is…uh….1365 Saint Nicholas Avenue?”

The woman hummed, pulling out her phone hastily and putting the address into Google Maps, “Uh, looks like that’s over in Washington Heights.  Bit of a ways, do you want me to get you that cab?”

“Yeah, please,” Spot said distractedly, much too preoccupied with whatever could be waiting for him in Washington Heights to show the gratitude he felt.  Why would he feel inclined to go there?  His home was in Brooklyn, wasn’t it?  

“Alright, gimme a sec,” The woman paced away from Spot a few steps, waiting at the edge of the sidewalk for a few minutes before flagging down a taxi.  She leaned through the window, conversing with the taxi driver for a few minutes before pulling a credit card from her purse and swiftly swiping it across the E-payer.

“Alright,” She said, waving Spot over, “He knows where you’re headed and you’re all paid for.”

“Whoa, you didn’t have to pay-”

“It’s fine, honestly,” The woman assured him, “You looked like you could use a little more than just a helping hand.”

“Thank you so much,” Spot said, still feeling dazed and confused.

The woman gave him a reassuring smile, waving lightly as Spot climbed into the cab.  He waved back, barely remembering to buckle himself as they sped away from the curb.  Spot sat back in his seat leaning his head against the cool glass of the window as they traveled through the city.  The sun seemed to rise higher as they went, warming the inside of the car to a comfortable temperature.  Spot felt his eyes drooping closed and he allowed himself to slip into a uneasy doze.

“We’re here,” The cab driver grunted some time later, pulling Spot from his sleep.  

Spot opened his eyes reluctantly, scrubbing a hand down his face and grimacing when it came away dirty.  Apparently he was still grungy from whatever stint he’d had near the East River.

“Uh, thanks,” Spot grumbled, climbing unceremoniously from the car and peering up at the apartment complex in front of him.  

A strange sense of familiarity washed over him and he felt an inadvertent lump rise in his throat.  He hadn’t felt safety like this in ages.  Pure will drove his legs to take him inside and he only just remembered to ask what floor the address what on.

A short elevator ride later, he was walking on shaky legs down a narrow hallway on the fourth floor, his heart in his throat.  He arrived at the apartment, nostalgia gripping him like a vice as he stared at the heavy, wooden door.  The door wasn’t at all different from the other doors in the hall, but something about it seemed routine- as if he’d knocked on this door thousands of times before.  Perhaps once, he owned a key to this door.  Walked over its threshold day after greeting…greeting someone.  Someone was waiting for him on the other side of that door.  Someone had been waiting for him on the other side of that door.

He lifted his fist and rapped his knuckles against the dark wood, waiting with baited breath as a voice sounded from the other side.

“Just a sec!”  

Spot gasped, heart clenching.  He’d heard that voice before.  It was part of him.  That voice had bombarded his life, its jarring loudness charming him in a way he couldn’t explain.  He’d missed that voice.

Less than a minute later, the door opened and on the other side stood a man.  He was taller than Spot by a good amount, with a mop of blonde curly hair mussed carelessly on his head.  His bright blue eyes were accentuated by dark circles and he was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a ratty sweatshirt.  He looked unkempt, but it was evident that he’d seen worse times.  The longer Spot stared at him, not wavering under the awed stare that watched him back, the more he longed to reach out and touch him.  God had he missed that face.

The guy let out a shaky breath, mouth hanging slightly agape as he looked Spot up and down.  His eyes were shadowed by something, shock outweighing any other emotion.

Something seemed to build in the guy and he let out a little whimper, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt- something Spot knew he did when he was overwhelmed or anxious.

“Sean,” He breathed, utter disbelief dripping in his words.

Spot smiled a little, overwhelmed energy building in him as well, “Hi, Racer.”

Race huffed out what could have been a laugh, though his face remained stunned, “You- I- how?”

Spot shook his head, running a hand through his dirty hair, “I don’t know.”

“No, like…I- you,” Race sucked in a breath, glimmering eyes searching Spot.  He hadn’t moved from his place in the doorway, stance pensive- as if he were afraid that he was being tricked, “you’re dead, Spot.  You died three years ago, I saw-”  He cut himself off, choking a little as he lifted a trembling hand to his mouth, trying in vain, not to breakdown, “How?”  He repeated.

Spot took a small step back, wavering a little where he stood as Race’s words sunk in, “What?”

Race cocked his head, “What’s what?”

“I…I what?”

“You…died,” Race said again, softening slightly, “Do you not remember?”

The world seemed to rush away from Spot and suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he could hold himself up.

“No,” He said, his own words sounding miles away, “I don’t remember…anything really.”

“Jesus,” Race sighed, finally removing his hand from the doorknob and reaching out towards Spot.  

Spot closed his eyes as Race’s palm found his cheek, relishing in the feeling of human contact.  Kind human contact.  He reached up his own hand, placing it over Race’s and squeezing it.  He felt his own tears well up in his eyes and he moved Race’s knuckles to his lips, kissing them fiercely.  Then, he was being pulled into a hug.  Warmth and intimacy enveloped him as he melted into the embrace, taking hold of the back of Race’s shirt in tight fists.

“I thought,” Race forced through clenched teeth, “I thought I was never gonna see you again.”

Spot burrowed his nose in the crook of Race’s neck, drinking in his presence, “I’m so lost, Race,”  He admitted, pulling back, “I have no idea what’s going on and I don’t know why I can remember you and where you fucking live, but not what the hell happened to me and-” he dropped his head against Race’s chest, “I’m fucking scared.”

Race gently coaxed his head up.  They studied each other for a moment, both at a loss of what to say.  How do you handle seeing your lover after fuck knows how long?  Especially when you apparently died.

Race opened and closed his mouth a few times, then he reached down and carefully took both of Spot’s hands, “Let’s go inside.”

“Yeah,” Spot agreed, relieved that they weren’t attempting to piece through the daunting puzzle right away.

Race took a measured breath, keeping one of his hands intertwined with Spot’s as he lead him into the apartment.  Spot couldn’t remember much of what it looked like last time he was there, but it seemed to be dimmer now- more sullen.  The living room was strewn with various sheets of paper.  Some were crumpled, some were in perfect shape, but none of them looked organize.  Spot could see Race’s messy scrawl on each sheet, noting how the font on some of them looked larger and angrier than others.  The carpet beneath them had a few questionable looking stains on them, the scariest being the small, rust red one near the couch.  The others simply looked like old beer stains, which wasn’t much more comforting.

From what Spot could see, the rest of the apartment didn’t look much happier.  All of it seemed dim.  Places where Spot was sure pictures had once been mounted were bare, showcasing instead the dilapidated wallpaper and rotting wood.  It didn’t seem to be a pleasant environment to live in.

“Oof, sorry ‘bout all this,” Race said, hurriedly picking up an armful of paper from the couch and dropping it bluntly on the floor.

Spot carefully avoided stepping on any of the papers as he made his way to the couch, sinking into the cushions, “What is all this anyway?” He asked, gesturing to the mess that surrounded them.

Race flushed, eyes casting downwards as he sat next to Spot, “Oh, uh, after you, like, died…I kinda didn’t handle things too well,” Spot’s brain immediately flashed to the alcohol stains that painted the carpet, “so after a few months of…that, Jack forced me to wade through my shit a different way.  So, I, uh, I started writing.” He finished sheepishly, still avoiding Spot’s gaze.

Spot looked down at the mound of papers next to him, curiosity driving him to reach out towards one.

“No!” Race’s voice froze Spot in his actions, “Uh, I kinda don’t let anyone read them.  They’re kinda…well, I just don’t like people reading them.”

Spot nodded slowly, receiving the signal to change the subject, “Jack, huh?  How is he?  How is everyone?  Just how much did I fucking miss?”

Race chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “So much, but uh, everyone’s…fine.  No one’s great per say.  Haven’t really been since…yeah, but we’ve all managed.  Some better than others…”

They were quiet for a moment, both lost in separate memories.  Spot couldn’t recall much of his friends, but it was all slowly ebbing its way back into his mind.  It was as if Race’s apartment were a catalyst to all the experiences he’d lost when he’d allegedly passed away.

“So…” Spot started weakly, fearing what his question might bring, but the thirst for any kind of answers outweighed his uncertainty, “I died?”

Race nodded solemnly and Spot plowed on, “How?”

Race squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead, “Fifteen gunshots to the chest.  Right through your heart.  That’s what the autopsy determined anyway.”

“I was…shot?  Multiple times?” Spot asked, dumbfounded, “Are you sure?”

“I mean, no,” Race said, leaning back against the arm of the couch, “It’s not like I saw it happen, but I did see your body at the morgue and there was a gaping fucking hole in your chest, so…” he trailed off for a moment, frustrated energy emanating off of him, “I don’t fucking get it!” He burst out suddenly, “You were dead! I watched them bury you!”

Spot stared dazedly at his hands, “I don’t get it either, because,” he worried his lip between his teeth, lifting his shirt to reveal his chest, “There’s no gunshot wound, not even any evidence that there ever was one.”

Race’s eyes widened and leaned forwards, ghosting his fingers over Spot’s left pec, right above his heart.

“That’s impossible,” Race murmured, “You were shot clean through.”

Spot hunched away from him, allowing his shirt to drop back down, “Yeah, well, apparently I wasn’t.”

Race dropped his head into his hands, “None of this makes sense.”

Spot idly picked at the dried dirt on his cheek, at a loss for words, “No, it doesn’t,” He said after a pregnant pause.

Race looked at him again, the previous grievance giving way to adoration, “It’s really fucking good to have you back,” he shifted so that he was leaning into Spot’s side.

Spot ran a hand through Race’s curls, working his fingers through the tangles and knots.  How hard had Race taken his death?  If this was still him after three years, how bad had he been in the beginning?

Spot dropped a kiss onto the top of his head, “It’s really fucking good to be back.”

-

hi yah so i popped this on ao3 the other night so chap 2 is almost done but yah dont yell at me 

also fun fact remember the scary teaser i posted earlier? thats from chap 2 so yeehaw brothers

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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Picani: Oh? It could be because somebody was thinking about you!

Deceit: Who the hell was thinking about me at 3 am??

But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.”

Hogwarts Houses for Gay Rights

Pride Month - June 2017

8yo: “Will you trade me for my Pussyduck?”

6yo: “No thank you, I’ve already got a Pussyduck.”

Me: “Guys? Um. Somebody want to spell that one out for me?”

8yo: “P-S-Y-D-U-C-K. Pussyduck.”

A Sanders Sides Fanfiction

Warnings: mention of homophobic/transphobic parents, mention of abusive parents, anxious thoughts, cursing *If I need to add anything, please let me know*

Pairings: Analogical, background Royality

Description: Virgil’s had enough. He’s ready to leave his old life behind, but can he leave Logan behind too?

Word Count: 1,362

“You can’t be serious,” Logan asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow at his best friend. He hoped for Virgil to smirk, to see a sparkle in his eyes and say ‘Nah, I’m just fucking with you.’ But to Logan’s dismay, Virgil nodded vigorously as he played with the rose quartz necklace he always wore.

“Yeah, I’m serious. I’m 18, done with school, and I just can’t stay here anymore. I feel like I’m suffocating. I know there’s more out there for me. Besides, my parents kicked out my brother for being trans; what do you think they’re going to do when they find out I’m gay and a witch?” Virgil looked up at Logan expectantly, as if waiting for him to agree.

“I… I see where you’re coming from, V. But where… where will you go?” Logan tried to keep the sadness and panic out of his voice. He wanted Virgil to be safe and happy, of course; if anyone deserved a good life it was his best friend. Yet despite that knowledge, he couldn’t help the selfish thoughts that popped up in his head: what about him? And… what about them? Not that there ever was a 'them’. At least not in the way Logan wanted. His hands began to tremble and he shoved them into his pockets to hide it.

KFC advertising executives: