#prompt: came back wrong

[salparadiselost]

Prompt: Came back wrong

“What do you want, baby?” he purred, pursing his lips and leaning into the little guy. The john was younger than they usually were, but that wasn’t any of his concern.

Instead of getting interested, the boy just scowled. “You’re not supposed to say that,” he hissed and Bruce’s tone indicators told him that the boy was: Frustrated. Angry. Sad. Hurt. None of those were the emotions that Bruce usually got when he used that tone and he leaned back, trying to puzzle the boy out.

“Thank you for the feedback,” Bruce said, his voice losing the salacious drip and converting into the formal, factory settings. He gave the john a light smile that just seemed to make his frown deepen. “To better improve my service, please let me know how you would like to be approached in the future.”

“You’re not supposed to approach me,” he snapped, frustration/anger/sad/hurt growing in his tone. Bruce’s tone indicators told him that the john’s emotions were increasing and reaching their normal human threshold. He watched the boy wipe at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and it took Bruce’s indicators a second to realise that those were tears.

He had seen tears before, but not like this. Not in this context that wasn’t related to an overwhelming orgasm or memory of a partner that he had converted to look like.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Because you’re not Bruce,” he said simply, trying to wipe the tears away. His tone had changed. Defeated. “You don’t remember. You’re just back to being a regular Sexbot.”

Although Bruce knew that his make and model was for a W-Tech PleasureBot v8.a.i., being called a Sexbot so plainly, scratched at something in the back of his head. Like a little bug in the system of his programming that he didn’t know how to address.

That was a problem for a different time, though. He still had to figure out why his john was unhappy, so he could turn his state around. He stared at the boy, letting his sensors and indicators take in more of the boy’s facial cues. Finally, they landed on something Bruce was more familiar with: mourning.

“I see that you have lost someone very dear to you recently,” he said and the boy flinched, his eyes becoming wide and his heartrate picking up in his chest. It told Bruce that he was on the right track. “PleasureBots are excellent at recreating the likeness of lost loved ones and letting you have more time with them. If you provide me with a photo of your lost partner, I can change my likeness to match their’s so you’re allowed more time with them.”

The boy was frozen, his gaze locked on Bruce’s face. Then, slowly, he began to shake. Tears brimmed at his eyes. They rolled down his cheeks. His breath began to hitch in his chest.

That little bug in Bruce’s head scratched more furiously.

He was at a loss of what exactly he should be doing. Just like his last attempt, this was not gaining him the reaction he had assumed would come.

Hesitantly, he leaned closer to the boy, following some strange instinct inside him. For some reason, the boy responded, leaning himself into Bruce’s chest and grabbing at his shirt. He slotted his wet face into the crook of Bruce’s neck and he held onto Bruce like he was a lifeline. There was no sexual intent. No grabbing at Bruce’s hips or sneaking a hand under fabric. The boy was holding onto him, though Bruce didn’t know why.

“Would you like me to change?” he asked the boy quietly, unsure whether this was a yes to his offer on changing his likeness.

Instead of answering, the boy just held tighter.

[nessataleweaver]

FIC: By right of blood (Game of Thrones)

RATING: PG

FANDOM/PAIRING: Game of Thrones; Jon/Sansa (implied)

SUMMARY:  Robb Stark’s return to Winterfell has been a long time coming.  But to his dismay, his homecoming is not the welcome he expects.

NOTE: show!verse, but the Red Wedding went slightly differently. It also diverts Sansa’s canon storyline at the same point it’s still currently stuck at in the books, with her in the Vale posing as Alayne Stone. I actually expanded this from a WIP I never got around to finishing back in 2020, so the jonsa is only implied here; let me assure you it’s quite real though.

PROMPT: for jonsa-halloween for their 2024 event, using the October 29th prompt  ‘Came back wrong!’ In this story, that can be taken several ways...

This story can also be read on AO3

Robb Stark, King in the North, couldn’t hold back a sigh as the imposing view of Winterfell broke over the horizon.

He’d been away too long.

“Is that Winterfell?” Talisa asked quietly, from her seat in the carriage that rolled beside Robb’s horse.

“Yes,” Robb nodded happily.  “I have to warn you, I don’t know what shape it’ll be in.  I haven’t been back since before the Ironborn attacked.  Roose Bolton recommended his bastard as castellan, but given that we now know he was behind what happened at Uncle Edmure’s wedding...”

Robb bit his lip to hold back un-Kingly tears.  The only reason Robb, Talisa, and the child that swelled her belly like a full moon were alive was because of his mother’s suspicions - and her sacrifice.  Along with many of Robb’s bannermen, she’d died during what was already being called ‘the Red Wedding’.  Robb had managed to bring home most of the bannermen’s bodies, but he’d left his mother’s remains in a burning boat in the Trident, like her Tully ancestors before her.  Robb and Talisa had already agreed that their first daughter would be named in tribute.

Robb’s first hint that perhaps he wasn’t as well-informed on the state of affairs as he should have been came when he saw Winterfell up close. 

It was... perfect.  There was no sign that the seat of the Starks had ever been attacked, except for a few fading scorch marks here and there on the walls.  It was better than perfect – the Broken Tower had even been repaired.

The second hint was when Beth Cassel came to meet him, wearing a Yi Ti-styled tabard bearing the Stark crest. She swept a graceful, exquisitely correct curtsey.

“As the steward of Winterfell, I greet you, King in the North.” With a respectful nod to Talisa, she added, “and his Queen Consort.”

His third hint came when she offered them bread and salt.

* - * - * - *

Robb was furious, and only barely hiding it.  This was only tempered by an ever-increasing sadness, accompanied by an also-ever-increasing feeling of trepidation.

Talisa had been ensconced in a set of beautifully furnished rooms that Beth had told them had been designated for them whenever they cared to visit, and would be called the Royal Suite in their honour.

It was in the guest quarters.  Not the family wing. Alongside those offered to the few bannermen who’d accompanied him to Winterfell, the rest who’d survived the war peeling off from his entourage to return to their own homes, eager to put matters into place for the approaching of winter.

Robb didn’t recognise a single person in the halls besides Beth.  Every enquiry he made about a member of staff he remembered from before he left received one of two responses:

“He/she died fighting the Iron-Born.”

Or the even more popular “He/she was killed by the Bolton bastard.”

The only exception was Mikken; when Robb had glimpsed a tall, strong youth who oddly reminded him of Robert Baratheon in the smithy, Beth had remarked to Robb’s joy that Gendry had made his way to Winterfell on Arya’s recommendation.

“We don’t know where she is currently, but we’re sure she’s alive.”

This had been followed by a dismal variation on a depressingly familiar refrain.

“Mikken was crippled by the Bolton bastard, so he’s instructing Gendry further while he supervises the smithy, now that the rebuilding is done.  We still have a lot of preparation to do for winter, including expanding the glass houses both here and at Weeping Water castle.”

“Wait - Weeping Water Castle?” Robb knew the Weeping Water river, of course, but wasn’t that right next to-

“The former Dreadfort, your grace.  With Roose dead at your hand for his betrayal, and his Frey wife and last remaining legitimate child slaughtered by his bastard, everyone thought that it was only fitting that the bastard’s wife be awarded the Bolton holdings as recompense for her suffering, and to keep anyone who might have supported the Bolton’s out of the seat.  Even Lady Dustin agreed.” 

“But who is she?”

“The former Jeyne Poole.  The Bolton bastard married her, claiming she was Lady Arya, in order to strengthen his claim on Winterfell.  We’ll need you to confirm her in the position before you leave, as well as confirm that she can hold it under her maiden name.  Given that she’s highly likely to die childless, Lady Jeyne will probably ask you to designate one of your children as the heir.”

With that surprising comment, Beth opened the side door to the Great Hall.  “Please excuse me not announcing you with due heraldry, your grace, but Lady Sansa is in the middle of the Day of Judgment and Appeals.  We prefer not to interrupt the hearings.  I’ll announce you as soon as the current hearing is done.”

Robb stood and watched as Sansa, in an elaborately carved rosewood chair placed on the bare dais where the family tables sat during feasts, presided over the people of Winterfell as if she were a queen. A very good one.  Beth had cleverly avoided answering any questions about what Sansa was doing in Winterfell instead of King’s Landing, and Robb found his curiosity burning almost as hotly as his anger.

Less than ten minutes later, Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and King in the North found himself standing before his younger sister feeling like a supplicant, trying not to puke at the detailed list of what Roose Bolton’s bastard had done to his people.  Trying to digest the news that his silly little sister, who spoke of nothing but songs, sewing, and suitors, had stolen his rightful place from under him while he’d been avenging their father’s murder.

"I am Lord of Winterfell, and King in the North!" Robb thundered, his voice echoing off the stone walls of their ancestors.

"Yes, you are King in the North, by right of acclamation," Sansa agreed.  "You were chosen as such by your bannermen." Then her expression turned to mirror-blank ice, and her voice became harsh as the depths of winter.  "But you are no longer Lord of Winterfell.  You lost Winterfell to the Ironborn.  You lost it because you trusted Theon, and he betrayed us all. He murdered our brothers, leaving me as the rightful heir.  Then you gave permission for the Boltons to take it.  You approved of that monster coming to Winterfell. You allowed that monster to torture and slaughter it's people.

"So I did what you were too busy elsewhere to do.  I took back our home.  I made an alliance with our cousin Robin Arryn; I brought warriors from the Vale and I freed the people here from death and terror.  Winterfell is mine, by right of conquest.  It's people support my right of blood.  I am the Stark in Winterfell now, and so I shall remain.  After all, I'm the only other candidate. And I have the support of our only remaining family."

Robb looked at her incredulously.  "Wait - Jon?  You went to the Night's Watch?"

A shadow moved from behind Sansa's chair, and Robb nearly jumped out of his skin.  It took several heartbeats for him to recognise the black curls and pallid face.

"Jon? What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the Wall?"

Jon reached for the neck of his black leather jerkin, and slowly unfastened it.  He wore no shirt underneath, and Robb stared in utter shock - not at his scandalously bare chest, but the several livid, still blood-red scars.

How could any man have taken a blade to the heart and live?

"My Watch has ended," Jon told him solemnly, as he re-fastened his clothing.  "I serve the Lady of Winterfell, now."

He laid his hand on Sansa’s shoulder... and something dark in the back of Robb’s mind recognised it as a touch of possession rather than simple support. The Sansa that Robb knew would have shrugged off any physical contact from Jon with a scandalised look.  This Sansa leaned into it.  Jon had always been pale, but now the skin of his hand looked downright ghostly in contrast to the deep blue of Sansa’s gown, the sparkling wolf emblazoned across her chest seemed to dance as she reached up to place her hand on top of his.

"Unfortunately, Winterfell is still being repaired from being sacked twice in as many years, so the King in the North will have to make his royal seat elsewhere, I'm afraid.  Might I suggest Moat Cailin?  It's location is highly strategic, and it's one of the few holdfasts where you won't have to rob a noble family of their home in order to take it for yourself.”

Robb looked around the assorted people in the Great Hall, and realised that he was surrounded not simply by Winterfell’s people, but Sansa’s congregation.  Judging by some of the glares, if he raised a single word of objection or insult to Sansa, he might not make it back to the Royal suite alive.

He would be able to do nothing to regain Winterfell until he left it.

Sansa continued, her voice cool and soft as snow, “I negotiated with the Iron Bank for the funds to rebuild and make the needed improvements, but if you wish to do the same, you’ll have to send your own representative.  I’m happy to provide a letter of introduction to ease their way.  I’m sure you can ask our Tully relatives to help, or leverage your wife’s dowry as security.  After all, you had all the same teachings about marrying to the benefit of House Stark that I did; I’m sure you knew better than to spend one of your most important political assets on a bride who could bring nothing of benefit to our House.”

“And what of your own husband?” Robb snarled.  “I hardly think the sons and daughters of the North will enjoy being ruled by the Lannister Dwarf.”

Sansa’s eyes glittered like icicles.  “You refer to the marriage made under the Seven in a Sept, not by a weirwood by blessing of the Old Gods?  A marriage I was forced into by threat of a sword through the back, before my courses were regular enough for me to be deemed fertile?  That marriage was without my permission, or the permission of my parents or guardian, and unconsummated.  I have already applied for it to be set aside by the Church of the Seven.  Given that my husband is currently under sentence of death for kin-slaying and regicide, I don't think there will be much objection, even if I do not become a virgin widow by the time my application is judged.  Though since half the northern nobility have died in a war you lost by not keeping your breeches fastened, the available candidates for my husband are limited.”

Sansa gave a long look at Jon, standing devotedly by her side.  “Who knows?  The Lady of House Mormont states all her daughters were fathered by a bear, and they are acknowledged by all as her heirs.  Perhaps mine will be fathered by a wolf?

“I suggest you act quickly, my King.  Winter is coming... and very soon.”

AFTERWORD: Robb quickly realised that most of his own support literally died off in the War of the Five Kings.  He never got around to doing anything about Moat Cailin; Robb lost heart after Talisa died in the aftermath of childbirth, followed very swiftly by needing to present a united front for Daenerys Targaryen, deciding that the War for Dawn was more important. He did at least manage joyful reunions with Arya, Bran and Rickon. While Jon got to kill the Night King (otherwise what was that stupid prophecy even for?) Robb still managed to die as a legendary hero, becoming the only Stark to die by dragonfire after shoving a sword through Daenerys to save Jon from kin-slaying. There was just enough left to bury in the crypts at Winterfell, complete with crown. 

Sansa was formally crowned as his successor, the first Queen in the North, with the support of all her siblings. She orchestrated a new golden age for the Kingdom of the North, becoming known as ‘Sansa the Glorious’. Jon finally gained the Stark name as her Prince Consort, choosing to forego the title ‘King’ so no one would get any ideas about Sansa not being the one in charge.

Robb’s daughter Catelyn grew up in Winterfell surrounded by loving family, including lots of cousins always ready to fight anyone who insulted her foreign heritage. As a young teen, Catelyn volunteered to give up any right to the throne in what she saw as atonement for Robb’s mistakes that gave the Boltons the opportunity to cause so much harm. Jeyne Poole instantly demanded to adopt Catelyn as her heiress.  Catelyn became so highly regarded in the North that she ended up holding a tournament to decide her husband out of a dozen worthy suitors from the North, the Vale, the Riverlands and even one of the Tarly’s, becoming ruling matriarch of the Starks of Weeping Water. She later started what was to become the first school in the North devoted solely to the healing arts, open to anyone regardless of birth or gender.  Now called The Talisa Stark School of Medicine, it still operates today.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

A new calamity has arisen from Mount Tonglu a few centuries after Xie Lian’s third ascension and begins to wreak havoc across the coastline. Legends say he lives in the darkest abyss of the ocean, Deep Abyss Crashing Waves has caused tsunamis along any land that touches his borders and drowns anything unfortunate enough to cross into his domain. Eerily similar to another calamity in different waters.

Shi Qingxuan, still in the mortal realm after cultivating for centuries, hears rumors of this calamity and grows concerned for his estranged friend He Xuan. What if the new calamity challenges Black Water for dominance over the waters?? What if He Xuan is in danger?? Shi Qingxuan sets out to check on his once friend, once something more? He knows heaven will surely send someone to get the ghost under control or disperse it. Xie Lian at the very least won’t ignore it, and his husband will go with him. So someone will take care of it, surely.

…but it couldn’t hurt to check? Right??

The closer he gets though, the more… unsettled he is. Something is off. Something… feels wrong. But he is going near a new volatile calamities territory, so that’s fine.

It’s completely fine. Nothing odd here.

He continues on hoping he’ll eventually run into a familiar face though, hoping at some point he’ll recognize a heavenly official descended to answer prayers. It really does feel wrong after all. Surely someone is coming.

But the further he goes, the closer he gets to the shoreline, the more unsettled he feels. There’s something in the air, a connection perhaps, that lingers in the salt brushing against his skin with soft caresses.

Something familiar. Something alien. Something that’s somehow both. Something wrong.

Shi Qingxuan stops at the beach just between the border of Black Water and Deep Abyss and stares out across the rippling surface. The two oceans seemed at war with each other even here, at the place where two waters meet. Shi Qingxuan had been heading for He Xuan, for his friend, but something seems to have drawn him here to a crossroad instead. Shi Qingxuan’s eyes linger on the turbulent murky blue waters of Deep Abyss’s domain.

Something is calling him. Something… familiar.

Shi Qingxuan furrows his brow and stares at the choppy waves lapping at his feet. But wait… when did he get close enough for it to touch him? He doesn’t know. That should be concerning probably, but a foggy sense of detachment has settled over him and he can’t bring himself to care.

He bends down and dips a hand into the divide of waters and watches mesmerized as the water ripples around the intrusion and pools into his palm, glittering as it does like shards of moonlight caught in his caress.

“Qingxuan.” A crooning whisper brushes against Shi Qingxuan’s ear, freezing Shi Qingxuan where he’s knelt. His breath catches. The water trickles out of his hand as tremors pass through him.

That voice. He knows that voice. It can’t be. It can’t— it

“—Ge?” Shi Qingxuan breathes, a choked sound escaping from his lips. He jerks back, stumbling from the waters edge and whirls around. But… nothing. There’s nothing. It’s just an eerily silent beach.

Shi Qingxuan rubs at his chest, heart pounding. There’s nothing. He’s not here. Shi Wudu isn’t here. Shi Wudu died hundreds of years ago.

Shi Qingxuan buries his face in his hands and takes a deep, shaky breath. It’s just the new calamity, the new Ghost King, getting to him. Deep Abyss is just playing with his head.

A hand slides slowly along Shi Qingxuan’s shoulder blades, freezing him in place once more, and wraps around his chest possessivly, hugging him close. “Qingxuan,” the voice murmurs in a lilting tone. “You came. Good,” it says, “I can save you now.”

A chill rolls down Shi Qingxuan’s spine. The voice is wrong. “…Ge?” he whispers with a tremor.

A ghostly pale hand reaches up and caresses his cheek. “Qingxuan can be saved now. He can come home. He can be safe. You’ll come home, won’t you Qingxuan?”

Shi Qingxuan shudders. “Da-ge?” he chokes out. “Da-ge, what?”

“You’ll come home with gege, won’t you Qingxuan??” his brothers voice whispers. “I can keep you safe there.” The ghost king tugs Shi Qingxuan backwards towards the water. “You’ll come home with gege? Won’t you?” It doesn’t sound like a question.

It sounds wrong. He sounds wrong. Shi Wudu sounds wrong. Shi Qingxuan struggles against the hold the calamity has on him, but that only makes Deep Abyss tighten his grip. The ghost sounds like his brother, but it doesn’t. His brother doesn’t sound like that. He doesn’t sound wrong. Something is wrong.

“Da-ge let me go,” Shi Qingxuan demands a shaky, distressed laugh spilling from him as he pulls against his brother’s iron grip. “Da-ge,” he gasp as pain pricks his side. Shi Qingxuan shudders as a clawed hand digs into his skin, gouging the flesh in its hold. “Da-ge please,” he begs, between quick, shuttered breaths, “You’re hurting me.”

“Be good Qingxuan,” the calamity rasps against his cheek, “We’re going home now.”

Cold water splashes against Shi Qingxuan legs as he’s dragged into the ocean. He struggles, fingers trembling as he tries to tear his brother’s fingers from his flesh. “Da-ge, da-ge.” He yanks at the bloodied claws and kicks back against what he thinks is his brother’s shin. “That’s not home. It’s not home.”

The arms encasing him tighten like a manacle to a prison wall, crushing him against his brother’s chest. “Da-ge, let me go,” he pleads.

“No.”

The water’s deeper now, coming to his waist, angrily dragging icy daggers into his sides, tugging at his robes, yanking him further and further into its depths. Shi Qingxuan jerks in his brother’s hold, stumbling backwards, and shoves his elbow back into the ghosts stomach channeling as much qi as he can muster. “No, no, no,” he shudders out a panicked cry, thrashing in his chains. Water cuts into his chest and clawing higher and higher towards his neck. “Let me go,” he begs, eyes wild as he fights against his brother’s fists, reaching towards the shoreline. “Da-ge.”

The ghost king growls and tightens his grip. “We’re going home,” he snarls, “Where you’ll be safe.”

Water tears at Shi Qingxuan’s throat, ripping at his cheeks, kissing at his trembling lips. A mouthful of salt water is inhaled on his next breath and Shi Qingxuan chokes as he spits it out, hacking and spluttering.

“HE-XIONG,” he shrieks coughing and writhing against his prison as the inky water envelops him completely, locking him in its merciless grave.

Part 2, pending

[letters-unsending]

56 - After the resurrection, Superhero didn't come back right. Only Sidekick notices. He goes to Supervillain for help.

////

"Look, there's something wrong. He's wrong. He doesn't take his coffee with sugar anymore. He doesn’t talk the way he used to. He doesn’t even walk right.” Sidekick paced around Supervillain's receiving area, half driven by nervous energy, half driven by fear of dangerous contraptions hidden within Supervillain's leather couches.

"After a traumatic event, I'd imagine any man would change to some degree." Supervillain waved a hand, but Sidekick could barely read the gesture because Supervillian had settled in the shadiest corner of the too-dark room. "Nothing you’ve told me so far has convinced me of anything, [Sidekick].”

"Look, I’m not asking you to come out of retirement or anything. I'm just asking you to keep an eye on the situation." Sidekick paused, squeezing the bridge of his nose to ward off his building headache. "You're the only one who can stop him if things go wrong. Which they will, by the way."

"You need to relax," Supervillain sunk further into his chair, swirling a straw through his drink, "you only think something's wrong because you're looking for it."

"I feel it though. It's hard to explain, I know, and I probably sound half out of my mind. But I've always known when things were off." Sidekick stared down at the carpet's twisting pattern. "He used to be safe. And now I can't even stand be around him. Something about him makes me want to run.”

"What do you feel around me?" Supervillain leaned forward—the first sign he'd been interested in Sidekick all night. Sidekick was pretty sure Supervillain only let him in because he wanted some entertainment.

"You kind of make me nauseous." Sidekick winced after he spoke. "I mean, I just feel a sort of dread. I’m not safe here, I know that, but I hardly think you’d care to bother with someone like me.”

"I do care about people like you." Supervillain took a sip of his drink. "Where you lack power, your creativity thrives. You always do the most unexpected things."

Sidekick pivoted from his pacing and walked into the dark, nearing Supervillain. No warning trickled down his spine. "How unexpected do I have to be for you to take me seriously?"

Supervillain raised one brow and smiled against the rim of his glass. "Oh, keep being entertaining as you are now and I might consider looking into it."

"I don't understand why you're not interested. You could take Superhero down for good." Sidekick wandered closer because he could, because he needed to see each microscopic shift of Supervillain's face if he wanted to come out of this unscathed. "He's fresh out of the grave. He's weak. There's probably some mental fog going on. It's the perfect chance to strike."

"But what if you're wrong," Supervillain countered, "what if, upon your request, I attack an innocent man? And even if he is wrong, as you've put it, do you hold no reservations? I'm sure you're fond of him after all these years."

"I want him to be okay, more than anything," Sidekick confessed, "and I feel sick accusing him like this. I was so happy that he was back, that he was alive."

Sidekick considered slumping to the ground, suddenly bereft of the terrible energy that had wound him into a frenzy and through his enemy's front door.

"I’m nothing without him, you know. All I’ve ever done is help him. His dream and goals have always been mine too, but I can’t let some monster, some imitation of him take everything I’ve—we’ve worked for." At some point, Supervillain had set down his drink, and he leaned over the arm of the chaise, into Sidekick's space. "And he’s dangerous. You know that more than I do."

"Of course I do." Supervillain reached out and curled his hand around Sidekick's wrist.

Sidekick fought his responding flinch, stilling his breath and swallowing down the wave of nausea that climbed up his throat. As if comforting him, Supervillain circled his thumb over Sidekick's wrist. Sidekick was sure it wasn't comfort. Supervillain wanted to hear his breath skip, to know his pulse, to intimately acquaint himself with the fear he caused.

"I know what Superhero would've wanted. He would've acted in the best interest of the people. That's what I'm doing," he claimed, meeting Supervillain's eyes because he knew that's what he wanted, human connection at its rawest and most scathing, "but I can’t do anything without you. What can I do for you. What do you want from this?"

"If Supervillain turns, I will help you," Supervillain's grip tightened, "but if I do, the blood will be on your hands. Not mine.”

[al7xus]

came back wrong trope with the character watching as their family tries to reconcile who they were with what they are now and failing. their loved ones unable to accept that they are different now, that the person they once were is dead. the character never being able to mend bridges with their family because they want who they were back, not them.

[siegrrun]

You came back wrong but you came back. In every lifetime, in every time, in every place, no matter how misshapen or damaged or scarred or different, my soul will recognise yours and my heart will love yours. You may be changed and broken and wrong but you're here, your breath warm against my cheek, your heartbeat thrumming under my fingertips and I'll never ask for more

[existencebringsonlypain]

you came back wrong but you're happier like this. the things that made you odd and different and dysfunctional are what I loved you for, and now you're normal. you're not depressed and you're living your life and you're happy, but you're not the person I knew. you're tamer, less enthusiastic about your interests, you're placated easily. but you're happy. and who am I to take that away?

[acer-whumpstuff]

When a whumpee who’s usually always laughing and joking can’t laugh or joke at THIS.

Everyone thinks whumpee can handle any pain because they always laugh or joke through it, looking on the bright side, keeping everyone else in good moods.

Whumpee who finally experiences the horrors and can’t laugh at it. Or a team who experiences a huge loss and turns to Whumpee to make them feel better and they just have… nothing. No jokes, no hope.

Hard to tell who’s more freaked out in that moment, Whumpee, or Whumpee’s friends

[wonderful-prompts]

Prompt #1272

"Quit it!" she shouted, chest heaving. "The nightmare is over! We don't have to live like that anymore."

"No." Her sister was quiet but her thin voice was firm. "No, it fucking isn't."

[kybercrystals94]

Stay

Read here on Ao3!

Febuwhump 2024 | Day 16 | Prompt 16: Came Back Wrong

Rated: G | Words: 741 | Summary: Crosshair struggles after their rescue. [Character Focus: Crosshair, Hunter]

Crosshair watches from his perch on a wall as the sun sinks into the sea, dissolving into swatches of reds, yellows, and oranges. Discolored by twilight, sky bleeds through with deep blues and purples. It is beautiful here. Peaceful. Quiet. Safe.

He does not belong here.

Omega gave him a tiny box of toothpicks when they first arrived on Pabu. He holds the gift tightly in his hand, corners biting into the calloused skin of his palm. Still unopened.

He does not deserve this gift. This comfort. This small joy from a life murdered by the Empire.

But he holds it and silently cries.

“So this is where you’ve been sneaking off to.”

Crosshair doesn’t turn to face Hunter, mopping at his wet face with his sleeve. A rough, natural material. Wool?

“You tracked me,” he says, hard tone hiding shaking breath.

Hunter chuckles, sitting down beside him. “Old habit.”

Crosshair smirks.

Hunter doesn’t look at him, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on watching the sunset colors being absorbed by dusk. Crosshair watches too, but his focus is on the proximity of his brother’s shoulder to his. Nearly brushing. Familial.

He leans away. Subtly, he thinks, but a slight twitch of Hunter’s jaw suggests he failed.

“We missed you, Cross. We’re happy you’re back.”

Crosshair swallows. “I shouldn’t be back.”

Hunter doesn’t react to that. Not bodily at least. He remains motionless, dark eyes roving the horizon. He says, “Because you shouldn’t have been gone in the first place.”

“Yes,” Crosshair says, softly, like the click of a gun’s hammer drawn back. Loaded.

Hunter hums. “You’re right.”

Crosshair scowls, resisting the burning sensation behind his eyes. It hurts that Hunter so easily agrees, even if it is true. A blade twisting in an invisible, weeping wound.

“We should never have left you,” Hunter continues. “You should never have had to come back. We should never have had to get you back. And I’m so sorry that’s how it happened.”

Crosshair blinks, surprised, a tear escaping unbidden. He turns to face Hunter. “What?”

“We don’t leave our own behind,” Hunter says, “but we did. We left you. Over and over again.”

Hunter won’t look at him, not even a glance.

“I made my choice,” Crosshair argues weakly, voice tripping over the emotion building in his throat.

Hunter shakes his head, a harsh, singular movement. “No. It was the chip.”

“At first, but–”

“No!” Hunter nearly shouts, an explosive noise shattering the quiet. “We left you! We left you, Cross, when it wasn’t your choice.”

Cross. He missed that name with an ache.

“You did,” Crosshair says, “You left me. But I wasn’t in my right mind. You had to protect the squad.”

“We could’ve…”

“Maybe,” Crosshair interrupts, “but maybe I would have killed one of you. All of you. I don’t know, you don’t know. What I do know is that I would never–” Crosshair’s voice cracks, breaks. An inhale, and he composes himself. “I would never have forgiven myself, Hunter. Never.”

Hunter has finally turned to face him, dark eyes wet.

Crosshair looks past him, over his shoulder into the darkness that has blanketed the island. “I don’t blame you for leaving. I did, at first. I was angry. But…I would have done the same.”

“We could have–”

“Stop it!” Crosshair snaps. “We can’t change what we could have or should have done, can we? Everything happened, didn’t it? It happened, and we can’t change it. Tech almost died. Omega was captured. I was…”

Tortured. Abandoned. Lost.

He finishes, voice hollow, “I may have come back wrong, but I came back. We came back.”

Crosshair, Omega, Tech. They came back.

With a nod of finality, Crosshair begins to turn away, but a gasp of air is knocked from his lungs when Hunter barrels into him. Crosshair can’t remember the last time his brothers embraced him, arms locked around him, unyielding.

Before the Empire. Before the chip.

Before.

Not even Wrecker has given him more than one arm draped tentatively over his shoulders since the rescue. Crosshair hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t deserve that. Had shrugged out of the light hold with a snarl.

But, Maker, did he miss it.

Slowly, Crosshair lifts his arms to wrap them around Hunter, returning the gesture. His grip tightens, fingers curling into the soft fabric of Hunter’s scarf. Hiding his face against his brother’s shoulder.

He might not belong here.

But he will stay.

END

*****Note: this story takes place before my story Scars & Toothpicks from Whumptober 2023!*****

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[anxious-impala]

what if “came back wrong” but it’s from a manipulators viewpoint who realises they can’t keep them under thumb anymore…

[gaylittlequotes]

"I came back wrong and now I’m a monster" no you suffered the traumatic fate of dying and being ripped from the grave, you need therapy

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

Pulling out the classic "His fingers are too long" body horror trick for this prompt

[reblogged-writing-stuff]

"You can't dance with someone that doesn't exist"

That's not true.

I'm dancing with you right now, ain't I? And the "you" that exists in my reality would never do that. The "you" from my world would never hold my hand so gently, that "you" would never look at me so tenderly and that "you" would never smile at me so lovingly. The "you" that loves me back doesn't exist, never will.

Real "you" steps back, glances at me coldly and indifferently and leaves me standing on the dance floor completely alone. This ephemeral phantom of your affection fades away from this world leaving me just a memory to dream about.

The "you" that loves me does not exist.

And after all, you can't dance with someone that doesn't exist.

[abocode]

They came back wrong

But you can’t change the past and it’s time to move on

[crocutafang]

Died and came back wrong but it's on purpose, you were broken before i fixed you, you should be happy and thanking me.