Hey I saw you're still taking requests... what about a batman x reader where the justice league meets his wife (the reader) by accident? And maybe they're shocked because he's so secretive and she's really sweet and just the total opposite of him. Feel free to ignore if this doesn't sound interesting to you. I love your writing 💗
Hey! I love this prompt, thanks for sending it in :) I made the reader gender neutral, I hope that's okay!
Bruce Wayne x spouse!gn!reader. No warnings, just Bruce being a little shit (and a sweet hubby).
****
You press your palm to the reader at the entrance of the Cave and jog down the stairs, talking all the way.
"Honey, Alfred and I are going to..."
Six superhero faces stare back at you. Bruce is in the cowl, expression hard to parse. Your brows rise.
"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't know B had company. I'll leave you to it," you say, beginning to back up the stairs.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says Green Lantern. You can't tell through the mask lenses, but you think he might be zeroed in on the ring on your left hand. "Uh, Spooky? Something you wanna tell us?"
You freeze on the steps. Bruce looks at you, then crosses the Cave in a few long strides. He stops next to you.
Sorry, you mouth at him. He shakes his head and reaches out to squeeze your hand.
"Hold the fucking phone," Green Arrow begins. "You're his—"
"Partner," Wonder Woman says instantly. She sounds pensive. "I have never seen you look at anyone like that, Bruce."
Bruce doesn't say anything, not that you expect him to. You feel him tense.
He'd been content to keep his family as private as possible, and you hadn't minded being kept separate. You know it's out of extreme protectiveness and the fact that you're the only one of the Wayne family who doesn't put a suit on and fight crime.
There's a moment of silence as the League studies you, then Bruce. You smile slowly and wave.
"Hi, Justice League. Nice to meet you all."
"Hello," says the Martian Manhunter, who's probably known about you since you entered Wayne Manor.
"You got married without telling us?" Superman sounds hurt.
Bruce heaves a sigh.
"We got married during the League's infancy. Please spare me the theatrics. Of course I didn't tell you."
"We revealed our identities two years ago!" Superman argues. "You didn't want to mention you have a spouse?"
Superman nods at you then. "Uh, of course, it's still very nice to meet you."
You smile. "It's nice to meet you too, Superman."
"Clark," he corrects hastily. Then he turns to Bruce again, upset flaring. "Bruce—"
"You're upset over nothing," Bruce says. "We weren't close when I got married, and I never found it a pertinent detail."
You roll your eyes.
"B," you say, nudging his shoulder. "C'mon. Try to be a little gentler about this, hm?"
Bruce looks at you. You smile at him and squeeze his wrist encouragingly. He eventually turns back to the League.
"Very well, you're right. Clark, that was harsh of me. My apologies."
The League startles.
"Whoa. Rewind. Hold up. Did Spooky just apologize?" Green Lantern asks. "Did I just get zeta'd?"
Bruce sighs. You stifle a laugh and kiss his bicep. His hand slips to your back.
"Aw, you guys are cute," Flash says jovially. "Congrats, B! Even if it's been almost six years."
Bruce nods. "Thank you, Allen."
"It is incredible how the better half can transform the other," says Wonder Woman, and you preen a little at the compliment.
Clark looks flabbergasted. It takes him a second to speak again.
"Um. That's... okay, Bruce. I forgive you. I suppose you did it out of protection, right?"
"I'm just a boring ol' civilian," you say, nodding. "No powers or years of Krav Maga training here. B worries."
"You're not boring," Bruce says fiercely, quiet enough for only you to hear... and Clark, who has superhearing, and who softens at the statement.
"This is so weird," Green Lantern says, and Bruce glares at him.
"I mean, it's sweet!" he hastily adds. "Uh, you guys are very sweet together, like Bar said. I just feel like I've been mind controlled or something."
"If it was mind control, you wouldn't still be talking," Bruce says flatly.
"Okay, alright, point taken. Shutting up. It's very nice to meet you, though," Green Lantern says to you.
"You as well," you say warmly. "All of you. I want to thank you for looking out for him all these years and bringing him home safe."
Wonder Woman smiles at you. "It is a great honor to fight alongside him. And we are happy he has someone to come home to."
"Seconded," Clark says. "You deserve someone special, B. And I can tell they're just that."
Your face feels warm under all the praise. Bruce is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, there's a slight tremor in his voice.
"Thank you. I—they are the best thing to ever happen to me."
You have to kiss Bruce for that, cowl be damned. He meets you gently, and you keep it short but full of love. Flash aww's.
"Well," you say, laughing bashfully. "I suppose I'll let you all get back to work. Nice to meet you. Goodbye. Bruce, I'm going out with Alfred."
Bruce nods. "Call me when you get home."
"'Course, sweetheart. I always do."
You head up the stairs. Flash starts to speak.
"Y'know, I told you all when I got married," he says. "You guys were the first people I told! We didn't even know Clark's identity then. I think you could've loosened the reins, Bruce."
"Yeah, no. You telling a bunch of superhero co-workers is infinitely stranger than Bruce never telling us, Bar."
(hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws) (hits you with my paws)
I cannot emphasize enough how much you need to read thoroughly through the terms of any publication before you send your writing to them. It is mandatory that you know and understand what rights you’re giving away when you’re trying to get published.
Just the other day I was emailed by a relatively new indie journal looking for writers. They made it very clear that they did not pay writers for their work, so I figured I’d probably be passing, but I took a look at their Copyright policy out of curiosity and it was a nightmare. They wanted “non-exclusive, irrevocable, royalty-free, perpetual, worldwide license and right to use, display, reproduce, distribute, and publish the Work on the internet and on or in any medium” (that’s copy and pasted btw) and that was the first of 10 sections on their Copyright agreement page. Yikes. That’s exactly the type of publishing nightmare you don’t want to be trapped in.
Most journals will ask for “First North American Rights” or a variation on “First Rights” which operate under the assumption that all right revert back to you and they only have the right to be the first publishers of the work. That is what you need to be looking for because you do want to retain all the rights to your work.
You want all rights to revert back to you upon publication in case you, say, want to publish it again in the future or use it for a bookmark or post it on your blog, or anything else you might want to do with the writing you worked hard on. Any time a publisher wants more than that, be very suspicious. Anyone who wants to own your work forever and be able to do whatever they want with it without your permission is not to be trusted. Anyone who wants all that and wants you to sign away your right to ever be paid for your work is running a scam.
Protect your writing. It’s not just your intellectual property, it’s also your baby. You worked hard on it. You need to do the extra research to protect yourself so that a scammer (or even a well meaning start up) doesn’t steal you work right from under you nose and make money off of it.
Exclusive publishing rights have to have a set time frame! Do not agree to anything that doesn’t clearly state “up to five years from signature” or something like that.
What if the publisher goes defunct? What if they get bought by another publisher who doesn’t care to promote or publish your work? You still can’t to anything with it, you don’t own it anymore!
For a thorough overview of what you should be aware of regarding your intellectual property and publishing rights, please read through this collection of post [https://kriswrites.com/business-musings/contracts-and-dealbreakers/] by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.
Rating: E - 18+ NO MINORS! If you’re under 18 piss off and wait for your 18th birthday, thanks!
Warnings: Smut/sex, no minors thank you., technically public sex but like no one is around so it’s probably more outdoor sex, Peter is a soft dom, you have a thing for skaters, Peter has a thing for you, established relationship, this is post NWH Peter so we’re all in our 20s. Peter has a thing for your hips? Mentions the pill, but no use of a condom. You have a thing for Peter’s hand around your throat. Aftercare
Summary: Peter still skateboards, even though he’s in his 20s now, you’ve always wanted to learn but never tried. Peter decides to show you how it’s done. If it’s an excuse to touch you…well, that’s just a bonus.
or
Peter’s supposed to teach you how to skate, instead you end up fucking against a wall in a warehouse.
Notes: I’ve been very tempted today to buy a skateboard and learn how to skate…but I also not cool enough and clumsy sooo…this is me living out my dreams in fiction.
Also this started as fluff and…quickly changed to smut so…
As a former zookeeper we would hear this a lot. “If you don’t study hard you’ll end up cleaning poop for a living.” It’s the one time we’re allowed to go off on the visitors. I once heard my boss rant for five minutes at a lady, in front of her kids, about how he had a Master’s degree, how people literally worked there for free, and how dare she judge people without bothering to know anything about them. Later that day his boss came by and said, roughly, “She told us what happened. Thanks for not throwing anything this time.”
I can count on one hand the amount of times I have gone off on people, but employment snobbery gives me the rage. I was showing the new kid how to use the fry scoop at McDonald’s “.. like this, and then just sort of hold it perpendicular and give it one tap..”
And the new kid sniggered “isn’t perpendicular a bit of a big word for McDonald’s?”
Something in me was just so annoyed by this 16yr old who was learning to work right next to me and somehow felt above us? Fuck that shit. I pointed at the people just on the floor and went off, “she’s a 4th year law student, she’s the primary career for her terminally ill daughter, he raises 100,000 for charity every year, she manages 3 stores and more than £16mil in turnover a year. What the fuck do you do?”
He just sort of mumbled “I didn’t know”
“you shouldn’t have to know, you’re not better than us. So. You tap it once and then move it here to release…”
She turned around, grabbing a glass of water, as he had requested. His lips were always chapped now, and they had long since lost their color. The once bright red was now dull and lifeless, practically purple.
His aunt Marie had already been called. She knew exactly what he had, exactly where it was, and exactly where it was going.
The funeral was already planned- it had been for months. He was to be buried in red, for he hated how somber most funerals were. It was less a funeral and more a party— the thought of people grieving for him made him sick.
His family had visited. He hated it when they visited. It made him think that every time that he saw them would be the last and he knew it very well could be. He couldn’t even kiss them. Though it wasn’t contagious, it felt as if it would spread through the merest affection. Even if it couldn’t spread, it would make leaving them that much harder.
It hurt them all to see him like this. His hair had long since left his body and the chemo had made him soggy, as he’d say, but she knew that he was simply counting down the days he had left.
But, through everything he’s been through, he still says that the hardest part will be leaving her and she thought the same. They’d known they’d never marry, never get to grow old together, yet the thought of it still killed them. He didn’t ask much of her, for after he died. All he asked was that she would remember him, that she’d stay true. Because, after all, hardest part of this was leaving her.
A simple box that held the letters to her heart. Letters from her love that made her fall.
Oh, how she remembered the night he asked to send those. A night that he asked for her name, and her heart. A night she swore to remember.
A night she now wants to forget.
News travels fast in New York.
Fast enough for her to hear within hours of her husband cheating on her and telling the whole world in a pamphlet. A pamphlet that broke her.
Her sister had said to be careful when he sent that first letter. She wished she had heeded that warning.
Her husband had broke her heart. She needed to be strong, she absolutely had to be. She had her status to think about, her children to think about.
How does one stay strong when they are completely broken?
She remembers feeling as if the words said in those letters had built her palaces, built her cathedrals.
Little did she know that those cathedrals were made of glass, glass that was ready to shatter with the slightest hit. The glass shattered along with her heart.
The entire time she was in that relationship, the world seemed to burn. She had known naught that the burning flames would leave ash and smoke, that would kill her in the most painful way.
She searched every line, from the first letter to the last, for a sign of what had happened. For a sign that should have told her that he would betray her trust, betray her heart.
He had published the letters that the woman he cheated on her with had wrote him. He published the letters that said that he brought a girl into their shared bed, while she was on a vacation she begged him to come with her on, hundreds of times.
He was not guilty of embezzlement, as many thought. He had cleared his name of that. He had also ruined their lives in the process.
He had torn down everything he had hoped to build, he had fought to build.
He torn down the walls of the palace he had built her.
He is an Icarus, flying towards the sun. That is what her sister had said, the moment she was back from London.
It seemed he was obsessed with his legacy, for he seemed to love it more than he loved his family.
His words that were once poetry to woo her heart became senseless rambles, paranoid in how the world would see him.
Him.
That’s when she knew what to do.
She would take away the only thing that could redeem him. She would erase both the letters and herself from the story of his life.
Those who would look back on his legacy to see what had happened would find no trace of her reaction. They could search all they would want to. She would leave them to wonder how she reacted when he broke her heart.
He tore her heart apart.
And she would watch it burn.
She burned the letters. The letters that were once keys to her heart would be the ashes of the burning world.
If she was going to burn in the flames, so would he.
The world doesn’t deserve to know her heart, her story, her soul. The world doesn’t deserve to know what happened in their bed. The world definitely wouldn’t get to know what she said.
She burned each memory, and with it she burnt his redemption.
He disgraced the rights she had given him to her heart, to her bed. He forfeited them when he published the letters.
She couldn’t leave. It would destroy their lives further. But she would do what she could.
He would sleep in his office, not their bed. He wouldn’t be allowed to sleep near them. He wouldn’t be allowed to eat near them. He wouldn’t be allowed to hurt them even more. He would only be allowed the memories of when he was her’s.
There definitely should have been blood pouring from her chest, considering she was stabbed at least 10 times, quite possibly more.
But, no, nothing in her life could be normal, could it? She couldn’t even have a normal death.
There wasn’t blood.
There was, however, something else sprouting from each of her wounds.
A liquid, far too thick to be blood, was coming out of her chest. And with the liquid, came plants. A plant sprouted from each spot she was stabbed, growing far quicker than any plant should be able to. They grew and grew and grew, the roots encasing her in a coffin, shutting out the last flecks of sunlight.
The beginnings of the plant left her chest. She hesitated to move, fearing what she might discover if she did.
Just as she started to get up, the plants encasing her started shaking, causing her to still once more. As soon as she stilled, the plants did too, prompting her to move again. As she moved, the plants did, too, once more. The pattern continued, until the laid on the ground, crossed her arms and stilled.
She finally accepted that after centuries of trying, this would be her death. The ending of a life that had lasted far too long, for such a small girl.
As she stilled for the final time, the plants curled closer around her. She whispered goodbye and hoped for the best.
I’m starting a writing blog to help improve myself as a writer. Please feel free to give feedback on anything I post. I’ll mostly only be updating this as I have time to write, so please be patient.
