Atlas

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

[missloohoo]

lets do this.. ˖᯽ ݁˖

About me!

Im Atlas! I mainly write for DC and a few other fandoms. Im quite new to Tumblr so I'm looking for new friends or Moots are some people call them (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

Reqs: open ofcc

What I write

smut

fluff

kinks

stepcest/ pseudo incest

some dark themes

a bit of light yandere

dub/ con

What I wont write

incest

watersports/ scat

con/con or rape

pedophilia (big age gaps not included)

All characters are 18! or over.

Thats all pooks!

[is9vhl]

silly designs of my silly boys

[corxoran]

Weewee

[missloohoo]

After the night (blurb)

Bruce Wayne x wife!reader

Pure fluff

The manor was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred.

Far beyond its tall, stone walls, Gotham still pulsed with restless life: the low hum of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the faint electric crackle of a city that never really slept. But here, in the heart of Wayne Manor, the air was still and heavy with the lingering scent of rain on the gardens outside. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked with slow, measured patience, the sound echoing through rooms so vast they seemed to swallow it whole.

It was well past three in the morning.

And still, you waited.

The fire in the sitting room had burned low, the logs collapsing into glowing embers that cast trembling ribbons of orange across the polished floorboards. You sat curled on the end of the long couch, a soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders, your legs tucked beneath you. The mug of cocoa in your hands had long gone tepid, but you held it anyway — for warmth, for comfort, for something to do with your hands while you listened to the house breathe.

There was something strange about waiting for him — something simultaneously unbearable and grounding. You hated the empty hours between midnight and dawn, when every creak of the old mansion could be a footstep or an echo, when you caught yourself straining to hear the sound of the Batmobile’s distant growl. But you also knew this was what you were made for — the stillness after his chaos, the calm he came home to.

When the hidden door behind the grandfather clock finally slid open, you didn’t jump. The faint whirr of the mechanism, the soft hiss of the stone giving way to shadow — you knew those sounds like your own heartbeat.

You didn’t look up right away. You simply smiled faintly into the flicker of the fire.

“Rough night?”

There was a beat of silence — one of those pauses he always took, as if calculating how much truth you could handle tonight. Then came the familiar sound of boots against wood, deliberate and heavy, followed by the low scrape of armor plates brushing together as he moved.

“Define rough,” Bruce’s voice said finally, low and dry, the hint of amusement tugging at the corners of words weighed down by exhaustion.

You turned then, and there he was — half shadow, half man. The cowl was gone, tucked loosely under one arm, and his hair was a dark, damp mess, the curls flattened by sweat and rain. His jaw was rough with stubble, and the faintest streak of blood cut across his cheekbone — already drying, nothing serious, but it made your chest tighten anyway. The cape dragged slightly along the floor behind him, heavy with the damp of the night.

You let your gaze linger on him for a moment — the tired slope of his shoulders, the quiet in his eyes — and then you sighed softly. “You look like someone picked a fight with a wall.”

His lips twitched. “The wall won.”

You patted the space beside you on the couch. “Come here before you fall asleep standing up.”

For a moment, he hesitated — a lifetime of discipline, of walls built against everything soft, making even a simple act like sitting down beside you feel like surrender. But then he exhaled, and the faintest smile ghosted across his face before he crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate, silent despite his size. The armor creaked faintly as he lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the weight of him shifting the cushions so that you automatically tilted toward his warmth.

You set your mug aside and turned toward him, tucking one leg beneath yourself. “Did Alfred patch you up?”

“He tried,” Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. “I told him to get some rest.”

You arched a brow. “And you’re avoiding medical care again because…?”

“Because I’ve had worse.”

“Of course you have.” You gave him a small, indulgent smile. “You’ve probably said that after every bone you’ve ever broken.”

Bruce’s lips quirked again, just faintly. “You’re getting sarcastic.”

“You bring it out in me.” You leaned closer, voice softening. “Hold still, would you?”

He blinked, confused for a moment, until you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheek, wiping away a faint smear of dried blood. His breath caught, just barely, at the touch — and something in his shoulders seemed to unravel. You took that as permission and began to work at the clasps of his armor, one by one.

The clicks echoed softly through the room, a slow rhythm, almost tender. You’d done this a hundred times before — helping him peel away the persona, layer by layer, until only the man remained beneath it all. When the final piece fell away, you set it gently aside and let your fingertips rest against the now-exposed fabric of his undersuit, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“There,” you murmured. “Better.”

Bruce’s voice was quieter now. “Do I look less terrifying?”

“You look like my husband again,” you said, smiling softly. “Though I can’t say the whole brooding thing doesn’t work for you.”

He chuckled lowly — that deep, rare sound that felt like the reward for every hour you’d ever waited up for him — and leaned back into the couch. “You have terrible taste.”

“Maybe.” You tucked yourself against his side, pulling the blanket around you both. “But I think it’s working out for me.”

For a long while, you just sat there, pressed against him. The fire popped quietly, and the glow danced across his face, softening the sharpness that Gotham demanded of him. You could feel the faint tremor in his muscles beneath your hand — not weakness, but the aftershock of adrenaline leaving his system. His arm came up around you, slow, hesitant at first, and then firm, his hand resting at your waist like an anchor.

“Do you ever wish you could stop?” you asked eventually, your voice so quiet it almost vanished into the hum of the fire. “Just… one night where Gotham doesn’t need you?”

He didn’t answer right away. He rarely did. You could almost hear the thoughts shifting behind his eyes — that constant calculation, that unyielding instinct to protect, to fix, to fight.

Finally, he spoke. “Sometimes. But then I remember what happens when I do.”

You frowned slightly. “Bruce—”

He turned his head, just enough that his breath brushed against your hair. “I stop,” he said quietly. “When I come home to you.”

The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. You felt your throat tighten, the edges of your heart melting just a little under the weight of them.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t just say something like that at three in the morning when I’m half asleep.”

He smiled, just enough that you felt it against your temple. “You asked.”

You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, curling closer to him. “You win.”

“I usually do.”

“Don’t push it, Batman.”

His laugh — quiet, real, and warm — rumbled through his chest. The sound made something deep inside you unclench. You rested your head against him, your body sinking into his warmth as if it was the only safe place left in the world.

Outside, rain began to fall again, soft and steady against the windows. The sound of it was hypnotic — the perfect lullaby for a night like this. Bruce’s hand moved idly against your back, drawing slow, lazy circles, the roughness of his fingers gentle in a way that never failed to undo you.

“You should sleep,” he murmured after a long while.

“So should you.”

“I will,” he said. “Right here.”

And for once, you believed him.

Because Gotham could wait — for a few hours, for one night, for however long it took for Bruce Wayne to simply exist without the mask, without the weight, without the noise.

In the end, you both drifted off like that — the fire low, the rain whispering against the glass, and the first faint hint of dawn beginning to touch the sky. And though the world outside would wake soon, heavy with its usual chaos, inside Wayne Manor, there was only peace — the kind that could only be found in the spaces between battles, in the quiet heartbeats shared after the night had finally ended.

And in that fragile, perfect stillness, Bruce Wayne slept — not as Gotham’s vigilante, but as a man who, for a little while, was home.

Likes and Reblog's are appreciated!