#hes gonna like permanent chronically exhausted. sinking into memories. rn he's forgetting he's even alive :D fun stuff!

[the-stove-is-divorced]

i cried reading your fic where bruce died and then brought back to life by his kids.

being a parent is so fucking scary man what te hell 😭 i know bruce will endure and forgive and move on but thats just because his self worth is in the trenches and he thinks he deserves to be treated like shit but MAN if it was me?? if it was me???? i would kms again ON GAWDDD 😭😭😭

This comment made me howl, holy shit. ∑d(°∀°d)

No, it is terrifying, admittedly, that even your death isn't your own, which is even horrifying considering he died to protect another life. I feel like it's one of the things Bruce would have wanted, and yet, still gives up. BUT YEAH IF IT WERE ME? BRUH, I'D GO CRAZY. AIN'T NOBODY TALKING TO ME, I HATE Y'ALL. (￢_￢;) Retirement for the rest of my fucking life and if I die again I will make my corpse slap you before you pull that shit again. Send my body into the sun before you try dipping me in some goddamn ooze. Grieve like a normal person, damn.

The concept of like an unwanted resurrection is so interestingggg, hehe. Thank you sharing omg (//▽//) 'cause you're so real for this, honestly.

I've been, like, sitting on the next chapter because writing group dynamics + batfam is fucking huge, ughhhh, so here's a snippet I like for you! Currently too obsessed with Invincible to continue rn, but if you want more snippets just shoot for my inbox lol.

Was his heart still rotting? Or, did it lay there, beating? 

A thinly hand brushed through his hair, softly. Another settled upon his wrist, where his pulse lay, a quiet thump, thump, thump. Bruce imagined it slowing down, drifting away, grinding to a halt. He imagined the interlinking veins underneath his curdling like fruit skins left in the sun, blood turned flaky, brown, dry. Still, his heart pounded. Still, he breathed. Nothing lost to rot. 

He truly was alive. He was alive, wasn’t he? 

(Why—)

His eyebrows furrowed, a neuron fired off and dying just as quickly, lost.

You are alive. 

“My boy,” Alfred whispered, voice cracked, dragging Bruce’s dazed eyes back to his own. “Oh, my darling boy. I was going to bury you. Bury you.”

“M’sorry.” 

A thumb traced his eyebrows, down from his hair, as the other hand gripped his own, tightly. 

“Don’t you apologize. Don’t. I do not—I need not to hear such things from you. You have—you have done so much for this world”, then a bit quieter, voice shaky, “Too much, one might say,” and laughed, an awful wet thing. “Far too much.” 

He held Bruce’s hands, firmly now, both hands. In the dim light, Bruce could see him slightly rocking, eyes wet, a bitter smile upon his face. 

“…You ought to rest now, properly, love. You’ve—I,”, and he made a strangled noise, like a cleared throat. “I’ve gotten the chance to see you again. That’s far more than I could ever ask for. A blessing. Oh, what a blessing. But if you could pardon this selfish man, love, I just beg of you to rest. I will be here. Always, always, always.” 

He uttered it feverishly, like a mantra with a spell behind it, some ghastly forces moved by his very lips, a passionate vigor. Squeezing Bruce’s hand once more.

“I—I will not fail you, love.” And there was a gentle kiss planted upon his forehead. “I do not—I struggle to—there are challenges in affectionate expressions between us. And never have I regretted what I robbed of you than when you were lost to me. You are precious, love, you must know this. Cherished. Treasured. A son of mine, truly, one I am proud to raise and behold. A father of many, and oh, I do not know how you do it, they are—they are a bunch of fools at times, but I cannot, oh Bruce, I cannot blame them for bringing you back to me. I wish I could.” 

And there was a gentle kiss planted upon his forehead, a careful, hesitant thing. “Rest, love, please. I will be there when you rise, and every morning after.”

He felt—Bruce felt suddenly far too young, a memory slamming into his brain, his mother’s cloying perfume sunken into his very nostrils, a necklace, cool and icy, tapping his nose as she bent over and kissed him right on the forehead. He felt his eyes burn, a motion stirred forth before he could process it, really, with a body not yet rotting, and a mind nearly too sluggish to think. His father’s cologne, the stench of whisky, an itchy bit of scattered beard against his cheek. The smell of a hospital, pristine, clean, the galas, smoke and alcohol and perfumes and Alfred, like fresh bread and teas, garlic and oils and soups. There was something terrible chopped in his throat, not decayed, foul, and festering, but horrible all the same, an agony made familiar. 

“M’sorry,” Bruce pushed with heavy teeth, a weighted mouth, nerves sparking, searing in pulses, with every moment. His eyes burn. They blur. A tear slides down his cheek. 

Nothing else could crawl out of his mouth. He wadded through the slog of existence, thick and sluggish, trying to peel back his brain and offer something to explain, to feel reality firmly in his grasp, to grab hold of what to do, what to be, but it was useless. He felt stubbornly shoving a circle into a square hole, childish, ill fitting, with nothing else to try for. He barely felt alive. Everything ached, sporadic nerves firing back to life, clearing pathways once bound to rot.

He grabbed Alfred’s hand back and squeezed. 

Alfred breathed in, a shaky, long thing, and held onto Bruce’s hands as if they could turn to ash, blown by the wind, at any moment, squeezing back.

“I—I’m sorry,” Bruce spoke again. 

“Of course you are,” Alfred murmured, low, and smiled something sharper, tinged with something Bruce couldn’t process.