bratscave

[bratscave]

　𓈒 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂅 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ birthday boy! bucky ( nsfw )

thinking about birthday boy! bucky barnes. like he even gives a fuck. thinking about how he doesn’t even fucking like celebrating it. the whole “another year, another number” bullshit. what’s there to be excited about? but you—oh, you—pretty little thing that you are, batting your lashes and telling him it’s a special day, his special day, and that you wanna make it good for him. real good. hell, you didn't consider that you'd be the one getting overstimulated, wasn't it supposed to be something sweet, slow — yearning?

“jesus—fuck,” he groans, his breath hot against your throat, his metal hand is splayed across your stomach, pressing down, feeling himself moving inside you. it’s not enough. never enough.

his brain is syrupy, thick with pleasure as thick as honey, substance like the cum that was spilling out of you, creating the sweetest little squeaks when he slammed back into you. he can feel it—hot and slick, pooling between your thighs, smearing over his skin as he fucks it right back into you, dragging it deep with every sloppy, desperate thrust.

he moans something about it being his birthday, something about him knowing you 'still have one in you', don't you? just as your legs tremble while he shifts his weight, pressing you further into the mattress, his metal fingers curling under your knee to spread you wider. he watches— fuck, he watches —his cock sliding in and out of you, watches the way your cunt sucks him back in, clenching so tight he swears he could lose his mind right then and there.

he grits out a string of curses, hips stuttering, pace growing frantic. “that’s it, baby," it's sounds so sugary spilling from his lips, like a sacred prayer of sorts, when the words are anything but such, dare to say sinful, "—c’mon, give me another one. one more. you can do that for me, yeah?”

he burries his neck into your shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses while there and you can firmly feel the little bits of sweat on his forehead. though he fucks you right through it, his flesh hand dig into your thigh, sticky with a mix of slick and sweat, holding you open while he leaves even more kisses, as if to calm you down. mumbles something against your skin, you can't quite hear or understand, sweet nothings.

his thrusts grow sloppier, lazier like his own body was giving him signs. he hiccups what a 'pretty girl' you are, pulling back just enough to see your face, your fucked-out expression making his stomach drop, heat sparking at the base of his spine.

and god his name, the little string of slurred barerly audible 'j's spilling from your tired lips, you can't quite say his name, but it's the effor that counts.

buckys grip on your thigh tightens as he slams in deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his whole body tensing before he slumps against you, breath hot and spent. his hips twitch, his cock still throbbing inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, and he can feel it—again—his own cum leaking out around him, making a mess.

then he shifts— pulls back, watches his cum drip from you, watches the way you twitch when he thumbs at your clit just to see what you’ll do.

"s' best birthday ever" he slurs, practically whines, his mind just as hazy as yours. he leans down to seal the deal with a soft kiss on the lips as your arms wrap around him, pulling him onto you.

ignore the way this is technically a day late, IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTSS 😵‍💫😵‍💫 also the post (and whole overstimulation premise) is inspired by the lovely @yemmuis (this post) please check her out (especially if you are into jjk (⸝⸝ ♡﹏♡⸝⸝) !

[bratscave]

　𓈒 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂅 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎therapy! ͟bucky who is a menace ...

⎯⎯⠀100% trys to sweet-talk his way into your bed instead of unpacking his trauma

⎯⎯⠀'bad habit of mine," he trails off, shaking his head, trapped in own self amusement, before the same piercing eyes meet yours once again, "going after things i shouldn't." like you. his therapist. his pretty, frustratingly off-limits therapist who won’t just let him have his way.

⎯⎯⠀ you tell him no, again. remind him of ethical codes, boundaries, the whole spiel. you literally being able to lose your license if you go out with him.

⎯⎯⠀ thinking about how it keeps happening. every week. persistent. unwavering. “c’mon, doll,” he muses, steel fingers flexing against the arm of the chair. “you like talkin’ to me, don’t you? wouldn’t mind doin’ it over dinner.”

⎯⎯⠀ motherfucker does not back off.

⎯⎯⠀ he hums low in his throat. “help me, then.�� lazy drawl. wrist propped against the chair, fingers idly tapping at the armrest. watching you. taking his sweet fucking time. “been havin’ some trouble sleepin’,” he muses. “think about you too much.”

⎯⎯⠀ jesus christ.

⎯⎯⠀ and the worst thing of it all? he sees right through you. sees the way your breath hitches, can tell how your mind wanders to all the different possibilities, lips parting in shock maybe arousal shortly before closing again.

⎯⎯⠀ he will get that yes. eventually.

[bratscave]

bucky barnes will singe handly bring this blog back

[bratscave]

marvel master list .

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ james 'bucky' barnes 𐙚

tba..

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ logan howlett 𐙚

drbl ── my little princess

warnings/includes. dilf! logan x 23! shy? reader, very lightly implied daddy issues, nsfw content! (car pussy eating lol)

drbl ── this meal

warnings/includes. nsfw content, implied younger! reader x old man! logan

sr ── another life (pt.1) . (pt.2)

falling in love with an old! driver, who's name was james while you were still in college was one thing — but finding out that he was wolverine after his death and meeting another version of him, was another.

ask ── a lil help

warnings/includes. nsfw content, teacher! reader x teacher! dom! logam

ask ── pretty n pink

warnings/includes. nsfw content, hyper feminine! reader

drbl ── dilf! logan

𓍯 ... key ♡ . drbl ( drabble ) . sr ( series ) . ask ( ask by anon )

[bratscave]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 THIS MEAL !

warnings/includes. sort of nsfw content, implied younger! reader x old man! logan

you sat perched on the edge of his rickety kitchen table, legs crossed in a way that made your short pink skirt ride up just a little too high. Logan tried not to notice, but it was impossible not to. His eyes trailed up from the scuffed leather of your heels to the way the fabric clung to your thighs, before resting on the innocent look you gave him from under your lashes.

"you really don't cook much, do you, mr. Howlett?" you teased, twirling a lock of hair around your finger as you got up, eyeing the near-empty fridge, right behind him.

logan grunted in response, his attention more focused on the way your lips pouted slightly as you spoke. the years had made him rougher when fucking, he’d learned to channel it differently — steady hands, less rush.

but you.. well you, brought all the nasty ideas out that he thought he'd long have burried behind.

you weren't subtle, not even a little. every glance you threw his way was loaded, every touch lingered just a bit too long. he knew the type — hell, he’d had his fair share of girls like you in his youth, the 70s especially. but this time, the game felt different, heavier. maybe it was the way you looked at him, like you were waiting for him to make a move, or maybe it was just the reminder that he wasn't the man he used to be.

"i manage," he says gruffly, forcing himself to focus on the sparse contents of the fridge rather than the way your legs look in that damn skirt. he could practically hear your heartbeat, fast and eager, the scent of something sweet in the air.

"oh yeah?" your tongue trails over your lip as if you were thinking when he knew damn well whatever you were about to say was pre-planned, "what about we eat out then? something cute, nothing to fancy."

you did in fact not eat out.

it ended up with the both of you not even making it till the restaurant. his hands wander over you, not slow, yet also not to face. lifting up your skirt, inspecting, whispering filthy things into against your skin.

whispering as if there were people around, as if it was dangerous little secret to keep, you should be very careful about you being sort of a 'slut' (he said it so endearingly you almost couldn't believe your ears).

he's so talkative, talks about anything and everything in that deep, gravelly voice of his — comments on the material of your underwear, turns out he 'loves lace' and you 'should wear it more often'.

before you could process the fact that he just implied this wouldn't just be a one time thing, he was all over you again, mouth sucking, teeth bitting, the little stubble scratching your fragile skin but you didn't have time to really think of that.

and when you came, not once, not twice, thrice, in the back of his limo, made a mess of the plush leather seats, he mumbles what a good meal he just had; could taste you forever.

[bratscave]

nsfw bruce headcanons !

— with all of his past playboy tendencies, i'm like 99% sure he isn't as rough as tumblr dc smut community makes him out to be. bruce craves genuine love and slow, firmly yearning love making though he'd never openly admit that.

— actually a big yapper during sex? like always gruffing and complaining about something very mandain while like... pulling out your third orgasm?

— literally spends half the night murmuring about logistics or some board meeting as he’s tugging your knees up, pushing you down into the mattress, each word rumbling low and delicious, barely making sense because he's burried into your clit.

— overstimulates you on 'accident', he's just firmly convinced he knows exactly what you're able to handle and to what extent as well. though he'll stop if you say ofc

— likes to loosen up on the dom part of it sometimes, especially when he comes home after a long patrol. in those nights, he’s all grit and quiet murmurs, his usual control slipping as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, half-rough and completely vulnerable, every lingering kiss a reminder of how deeply he needs this, needs you.

— really likes to takes his time, doesn't matter how many cases he has on his deck, when he's with you he's as patient as it possibly gets. it's just to silently show you how special and loved you are and because he simply enjoys it.

[bratscave]

So, I had this thought that Bruce gives the best oral when he's angry or frustrated about something.

He'd had his face buried into your pussy, like mashed right into it. Your legs thrown over his shoulders haphazardly.

He's slurping and sucking with anger, like he's gonna get vengeance by eating out your pussy. Idk if that makes sense but he'd be sucking on your clit with all that anger on how he couldn't stop the Riddler or how Joker got away again or how some stupid merc had nearly caught him off guard.

He'd just unleash every anger into sucking on your pussy, making you squeal and yelp. You'd maybe even beg him to ease up on the intensity but he's too far gone to even listen.

You're certainly not complaining about the amazing (yet somehow punishing) head but it was pretty annoying to have a sore clit for three days after the session.

AAHHHH??? anon i'm so sorry this has been in my inbox for long over a month bc i simply felt like i couldn't even add anything myself? you said it so well i'm tweaking 😭😭😭

[bratscave]

IN ANOTHER LIFE !

summary. falling in love with an old! driver, who's name was james while you were still in college was one thing — but finding out that he was wolverine after his death and meeting another version of him, was another.

includes/warnings. chapter two yay :), lots of flashbacks (omg they were so in love it hurts so bad), sex implied / lightly described once, she finds out about his death :/, laura!

Logan, as you knew him back then, liked to take walks with you. He just knocked on your door, hands stuffed into his jacket pocket, stayed silent and waited for you to gather your stuff to go outside. Didn't really talk much during it either, he'd rather listen to you, always.

And when you reached out for his hand, he didn't say anything, just let you. You'd sit down on bench and talk about the current drama going on with your friends and he'd smoke a cig and nod along. It wasn't much but it was comfortable.

You liked looking at sunsets, the pastels when it was late noon, various shades of yellow, orange and red. He wasn't the type of man who admired sunsets — at least, not before you.

You weren’t sure when it had happened, but at some point, Logan had started staying the night. It was never planned — he’d just show up after dark, looking more worn out than usual, and before you knew it, he was in your bed, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

One of those nights, you were lying in bed, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His hand was in your hair, his fingers lazily combing through the strands as you traced patterns on his skin with your fingertips.

“Tell me something,” you said softly, your voice barely breaking the quiet. “Something I don’t know about you.”

Logan was silent for a long moment, his hand stilling in your hair. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles tightened beneath your touch.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he muttered, his voice rough, like it hurt to say the words.

You lifted your head, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him. His face was in shadow, but you could still see the hard lines of his jaw, the weight he carried. “I know,” you whispered, your heart aching for him. “But I want to.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “You don’t wanna know,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”

You frowned, but you didn’t push. You never did.

Instead, you leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, your lips brushing against the scruff of his beard. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” you whispered, your breath warm against his skin.

And you stayed true to your words, you didn't go anywhere. You stayed waiting for him, waiting for him when you found a small sticky note saying 'I'll be gone for a little while. Don't worry bout me.' in his usual gruff writing. And you stayed waiting for him, a week and a half, ten days.

And you had hope, fucking hope that it was going to be James, or well as you later found out- logan, behind the door, when it rang at midnight.

Instead you were greeted by a girl, no older then thirteen.

Logan used to like kissing you good night, always came around if he drove by your apartment complax while on his shift because you 'needed to go to bed, well kissed'

Logan used to like having his hand on your thigh when he was driving, he'd rub small circles and patterns over the clothed skin. Sometimes, when you were rambling about something, he’d squeeze it gently, like it was his way of saying he was listening, even when he wasn’t saying a word.

Logan used to wake up before you, his heavy, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your spine, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to wake you but couldn’t help himself from touching you. If you stirred, he’d mutter something gruff under his breath —“go back to sleep, kid”—but there was no missing the warmth in his voice, the tenderness in the way he pulled you closer.

Logan used to make love to you like it was a slow burn, always taking his time, even when he was in a hurry. He’d kiss you deeply, rough hands holding your hips in place as he moved, like he wanted to savor every second. Afterward, you’d lie tangled together in the sheets, your fingers tracing the lines of his body, and he’d grunt something sinful under his breath.

Logan used to bring you coffee on mornings when he had nowhere else to be. He didn’t say much, just handed you the cup with that same gruff expression, watching as you sipped it, his eyes softer than usual. When you’d smile and say thanks, he’d shrug it off like it was no big deal, but you knew better. It was his way of saying he cared.

Logan used to call you late at night, usually after a long shift. His voice would be rough, heavy with exhaustion, but he’d still ask about your day. “Tell me somethin’ good,” he’d mutter, like the sound of your voice was the only thing keeping him grounded. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep with the phone still in his hand, the steady sound of his breathing a quiet comfort on the other end of the line.

"Logan is dead."

The girl's voice got you out of your trance as you looked down to meet her eyes, she had very intense ones, what was such a young child doing out late at night? But you don't question just brush her remark of, "Sorry, I don't know a Logan."

"He said you might say that. I need to tell you something."

You spend the whole night on the coach, the same coach where you and.. logan, shared your first kiss and more. Is now the same coach you sit on and find out that he died. That he was some sort of hero, that he had tried changing his identity.

You cry, ugly ugly tears. A shit ton of them. You try your damn best not to, in front of the kid, laura as you now knew it, but you couldn't keep it in. Logan didn't like it when you cried, said it wouldn't get you nowhere, but rested his hand on your back, going up, down, up, down in the same pattern over n' over again to calm you down, in quiet support no matter what it was.

Now your back was cold.

Time moved like it always does — quickly, harshly, without much care for your grief. Before you knew it, months, years had passed. Laura didn’t leave, and you never asked her to. She stayed, silently adjusting to your small apartment and even smaller routines. You weren’t exactly maternal, but something about her—something in the way she’d sit quietly on the edge of the couch, watching those old cartoons Logan always scoffed at: made you feel less lonely.

She didn’t talk much at first. But you understood. Words weren’t always necessary, and you’d never been one to push someone to speak when they weren’t ready. You learned to share the silence, learned that she needed space just like you did.

Life was different now. You’d finished what you set out to do —graduated, finally became the professional you always wanted to be. Journalism, like you’d always dreamed of, except the joy wasn’t there, not the way it used to be. The thrill of chasing stories and deadlines had dulled, the passion that once fueled you replaced by a quiet, steady determination. You wrote because it was what you were good at. Because it paid the bills. Because it gave Laura stability.

And she needed that. More than anyone, she needed a steady life—a soft place to land, to heal, even if neither of you said it out loud.

Sometimes, when you caught a glimpse of her sitting at the table, head bent over some math homework, you’d see pieces of him in her. The same furrowed brows when she was deep in thought. The quiet way she watched the world, always alert but never speaking too much.

You missed him. It never got easier, not really. When it got really bad, you’d sit in the small kitchen, nursing a drink and staring out the window. You could almost imagine him coming through the door, smelling faintly of motor oil and cigarettes, grumbling about something while he kicked off his boots.

But he never did. And you told yourself you’d learn to live with that.

Well, apperantly life had other plans for you, besides drowning in misery.

It had been late — too late for visitors. The kind of hour where the streets outside your apartment were dark and empty, the faint hum of city life muted through the window. You were pouring yourself another cup of tea, trying to wind down from a long day at work. Laura was in her room, tucked away, buried under her blankets as usual.

A knock came at the door.

It startled you; mostly because no one ever came by this late. You set your mug down and padded across the floor, wondering if maybe Laura had ordered something again, some late-night doordash she hadn’t mentioned.

You opened the door. And froze.

The world felt like it tilted sideways for a moment, because there he was. Logan. He looked different, rougher in a way, a little younger than you’d ever seen him. But those eyes, those same dark, stormy eyes — they were unmistakable.

His voice was rougher, too, when he spoke, like it had been scraped against gravel.

“Wade told me I could find you here.”

[bratscave]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 IN ANOTHER LIFE !

summary. falling in love with a old! driver, who's name was james while you were still in college was one thing — but finding out that he was wolverine after his death and meeting another version of him, was another.

includes/warnings. lots of flashbacks (sex heavely implied!!), let's just pretend he was an uber driver or smth cause miss college princess had no money for a limousine for sure :/, there will be chpt 2 dw!!

You remembered that first time like it was yesterday. It had been raining, one of those cold, relentless downpours that drenched you the moment you stepped outside. It had been your first day back at physical collage after all the online classes, all nervous, fumbling with your phone as you waited for the car to pull up.

He was intimidating, didn't utter a single thing, you quickly learned he wasn't a big fan of small talk. You had tried to make conversation, anything to fill the suffocating silence. You’d rambled on about the rain, about how much you hated storms, but Logan had only grunted in response, his gaze fixed firmly on the road. You’d thought that was his way of telling you to shut up, and for a while, you had.

But silence had always been uncomfortable to you, so you continued talking, about school, your shitty new teachers, your weekend plans. Anything that crossed your mind, really.

He had pretty hands, veiny n' all. That's what you thought when you first saw them, inappropriate thoughts to have about a man who was so much older then you. But back then, you weren't actually planning on doing anything about that small attraction.

It had been a particularly bad day — the kind where nothing seemed to go right, where you felt like the universe itself had a problem with you specifically and decided to make your life hell. You had barely held it together as you climbed into Logan’s car, your hands shaking as you fumbled with the door.

And for the first time in months, the car was quiet.

But you remembered the way he drove slower than usual, the way his eyes had softened every time they flicked to the rearview mirror. When he pulled up in front of your apartment, he had turned to face you for the first time, his voice low and gravelly: “It’s just a test, bub. You’ll be alright.”

You had always asked yourself weather he listened to your ramblings or not, the fact that he remembered that you had an exam that day, clearly proved one of your points.

It was such a simple thing to say. And if any other person would've said it, you would've given them attitude because nothing had been going alright that day and you were sure you had failed the damn thing.

But when he said it, you believed him.

“When does your shift end?”

Logan didn’t respond at first, his brow furrowing as he kept his eyes on the road. For a moment, you thought he hadn’t heard you, or maybe he was just ignoring you like he usually did when he didn’t want to answer a question.

But then, he glanced at you again, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Why?”

Your breath caught in your throat, but you pushed through, your voice softer this time. “I know a place. Quiet. You might actually like it."

For a second, you thought he was going to say no — that he was going to shut this down before it even started.

But then, he muttered a rough, “Sure,” and the air in the car shifted.

The tiny ramen shop was a street down your apartment complex, the prices were afforadable, for your college-spent wallet to afford, at least.

The familiar bell over the door chimed, and the owner — a small, elderly woman. She had made a lighthearted comment about 'you finally getting a man' and you were sure you had seen logan fight a grin.

You glanced at Logan as he sat across from you, his gaze sweeping over the modest interior. His lips quirked, just a little, at the sight of the place, like he found it amusing in a way you couldn’t quite place. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a second, you forgot what you were going to say.

But you'd quickly gather yourself, a chuckle escaping you at his antics, "Don't give me that look. You'll like it."

You didn't talk a lot, for the first time around him, you didn't feel the need to.

When the bill came, you reached for it, but Logan’s hand shot out, his fingers brushing against yours. The brief contact sent a jolt through you, your breath catching as you looked up at him.

“I’m paying,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl.

You shook your head, determined. “No. I invited you. I’m paying.”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, you thought he was going to argue. But instead, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, giving you a look that screamed ‘you’re being ridiculous.’

“I’m not letting you pay.”

“Well, tough shit. I’m paying,” you shot back, pulling the bill toward you and slapping your card down on the table before he could react.

Logan let out a deep, frustrated sigh, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just for a second. “Stubborn as hell,” he muttered, shaking his head.

When you finally stepped outside, the cold air hit you harder this time, cutting through the warmth of the ramen still lingering in your stomach. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering slightly as you started walking back toward your apartment.

“I’ll walk you,” Logan said, his voice gruff as he fell into step beside you.

You shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “It’s literally down the street. I think I’ll survive.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just started walking down the street into the direction of the complex, his larger frame casting a long shadow over the pavement. You smiled though he didn't see it, in your humble opinion he was the stubborn one.

It took you all your courage to press out a, "Wanna come in?" after he walked you all they way to your door.

You had silently cursed yourself for not tidying up the space before wards, everything was just such a mess.

Shelves stacked with vinyl records lined one wall, your favorite albums mixed in with a few old books and random knick-knacks. Posters hung slightly crooked, tacked up without much care for symmetry, while polaroid pictures were scattered across the walls.

And then there were the plushies—so many plushies—bright pops of Sanrio characters peeking out from the corners of the couch, the bookshelves, even the bedroom beyond, where they seemed to be taking over your bed. A pink Cinnamoroll pillow lay tossed on the couch, its floppy ears slumping over the armrest like it was too tired to stay upright.

Logan’s eyes swept over everything, taking it in with a slow, deliberate gaze. You could see the corner of his mouth twitch again, that same almost-smile from the ramen shop, but this time it didn’t go away as quickly.

“You’ve got… a lot going on here,” he muttered, nodding toward the Sanrio plushies with a low grunt, but there was no judgment in his voice. Just something… curious.

You rolled your eyes, kicking your shoes off by the door. “I like cute stuff. Sue me.”

“Cute stuff,” he repeated, letting out a low, amused sound, but his eyes stayed on you, lingering just a little too long as you made your way to the couch.

He picked up one of the countless vinyls, carefully sorted next to a shelf, running his rough fingers over it. Something older from the 70s.

The next time you play that record, you'll think about how he kissed you on your coach a few minutes later. started of slow and tender, went all sloppy.

Maybe you’ll think about how he whispered your name, low and gravelly, like it was the only thing grounding him. Or the way his lips found your shoulder, kissing a line down your collarbone as he leaned you back against the cushions, his body hovering over yours, every inch of him pressing into you until you could barely think straight.

You’ll remember how his weight felt on top of you — solid, real.

“Christ,” he’d muttered against your throat, his breath hot, rough as he began moving. You highly doubted he believed in christianity or any religion at that, but the way he treated your body; felt like he was starting to believe in a new one, worshipping and all.

You had talked a lot that night, a few more hours, before you both fell asleep on same coach. It was the first time you heard multiple sentences beside just grunts and nods, from him.

If you only knew just how fast he'd leave you.

[bratscave]

This thought is about Batman specifically. It might a bit out of character?

(tw: dubcon)

So, there's this civilian, always hitting on him, teasing him, just getting herself into trouble to see him. It's a game for her.

Now, Batman or Bruce, he's pent up. He has a gaggle of kids and Gotham to look after. He doesn't get time to fuck or jerk off. So this is just getting on his nerves, even though he's known to have immense patience.

One day he snaps, he just hauls that civilian up into a dark alley. One that he knows is secluded. He ends up eating the civilian out until she's seeing stars and then promptly using her like a fleshlight while rubbing her clit almost raw.

At the end, he dresses her back up, drops her off at her apartment complex with a plan B pill and is back on patrol, feeling much, much better.

Also, I really love your work!

— i can totally imagine this omg

It started out as a joke. Your life was boring, you were mostly buried in your journalist work. Until Bruce Wayne started making headlines, and your company wanted as many articles on him as soon as possible. It became your job — obsession even, to keep up with Gotham’s most elusive billionaire. You, and your annoying snarky comments on his nepotism and his suits, his womanizer activities. Your writing style was something the average reader of Gotham couldn't look away from, not even bruce himself. He'd never admit that he actually reads your 'shit'. You were so incredibly infuriating yet he couldn't stop thinking about you. When he has his little one night stands after the galas you show up to, he thinks of you. pounds harder into said-woman at the thought of you under him. And when he sees you smoke on the large balcony, he thinks about how it would feel like to see those plump lips of yours, wrapped around his dick. He'd never admit that though. You had mumbled another jab at him the second you noticed his lingering gaze, which led to him dragging you across the main hall to the luxurious restrooms. It recks of those typical rich men cologne's, not the ones that bruce wears —not that you knew exactly what dior perfume, he was wearing. The exact one that you now scent while he's kissing down your neck, it's quick, it's rough. rough enough to surerly leave evident marks, in a matter that he knows everybody will see once you walk out. You'll become exactly something that you critize him for being. He slips your dress of, so fast like he has no damn time. Even though he doesn't event want to get back to the gala, he just wants to make you feel how you make him feel. annoyed and well- very horny. He lifted you up onto the marble counter like you weighted fucking nothing, his hands gripping your hips with bruising strength. Slipping your panties off, his fingers cold against your wetness. His mouth followed, finding your core with a primal hunger all while his groans vibrated against you. And how he loves the sound of nothing besides whimpers and whines coming from your direction, they are sweet noises, noises he'd love to hear more of. When he finally slides inside you, it’s with a harsh thrust that makes you cry out. His movements are powerful, driven by a raw need that leaves no room for gentleness. He’s using you, each thrust a release of the pent-up frustration he’s felt from your taunts and the constant grind of his dual life. His fingers continue to work at your clit, rubbing it almost mercilessly. And he's an asshole about it, taunts about how 'loud you are', muses about the fact that all your damn morals went out the window the second you saw some good dick. When he finally finishes, it’s with a low growl of satisfaction, his grip on you loosening just enough to let you catch your breath. He dresses you with a rough efficiency, handing you the Plan B pill with an almost clinical detachment. The look he gives you is cold, but there’s a flicker of something darker behind his eyes. Something that suggests that this will definetly not be the last time. Oh, and he loves that little complete dumbfounded expression of yours. He'd pay millions to see that rare one again.

[bratscave]

Deadpool & Wolverine made me obsessed with Logan Howlett🤭 (again🤫)

[bratscave]

HI I LOVE BRUCE and i see no asks so ill do my labor and ask for some titty sucking w him, i just know he'd use them as stressballs no matter the size

— the way i was waiting for this omg

i can just imagine bruce coming home from 'work' better said patrol, maybe he had a meeting earlier during the day and that poor man is horribly tired. His hands are steady, there's no tension in the way his hands move along your skin. He’s not asking for anything; he’s just taking. He may not be abel to control gotham all the time but your tits prove he can focus on two things at once. also I feel like sometimes he just sleeps on your chest. it had been an accident a few years back, you had sex and he had been way to tired to reposition so he ultimately fell asleep on you. now adays he quite frequently rests his head in between your tits, bruce likes to listen to your heartbeat. here and there you wake up to find him, softly licking along the skin. he probably grumbles about you wiggling and moving to much yet won't make any attempt at moving himself.

man i love seeking for comfort! touch starved! lowkey clingy! bruce

[bratscave]

this blog got me feeling some typa way babesssss

dreaming about a young professor reader who thinks logan is constantly condescending to her when he asks about her lesson plans or curriculum… but he just doesn’t know how to start a conversation with her.

so when she has a bad day and snaps at him about his constant ‘patronizing’ he’s obviously very amused. because he’s honestly been looking for an excuse to chat with the hot, way too young for him piece of ass in a pencil skirt.

bonus points if he bends her over her desk and fucks her like a whore on it. and bonus bonus points if she thinks about it when she comes to her classroom the next day for class to find him leaning on it.

gotta feed the monsters in us i guess

ugh i need to write some logan smut to post already

I LOVE YOUR BLOG ITS SO- *animal noises*

- visionsofcarnality 🤭🫶

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ — a lil' help !

The past few days have been hell, actual fucking hell. You had never imagined that the kids would be so... unnerving. It turned out that they cared a lot less about genetic mutation biology then you would've thought. All you needed was a cigarette and a calm, quiet office for god's sake — no interruptions, especially not logan. “Got your curriculum figured out for next week?” his voice, low and rough, cut through the silence as he leaned against your doorway. You stiffened, feeling that familiar sting of irritation. It was the fifth time this month he’d asked you something like that, and every time, it grated on your nerves. You knew you were younger than most of the faculty, barely in your mid-twenties, but did he have to rub it in with his constant questioning? As if you didn’t know what you were doing. “Yes, Logan,” you replied, barely masking the edge in your voice. “I have it under control.” You didn't like how your words had absolutly no affect on him, he didn't move, didn't budge, didn't back down. It was like he was waiting or searching for something, “You sure about that? You look like you could use some help.” “I don’t need your help, Logan. I don’t need you constantly questioning me about my lesson plans, my missions or my fucking curriculum. I’ve been doing this for years, and I don’t need some — some condescending jackass acting like I’m not capable.” His mouth parted in surprise yet his lips twitched in amusement, "Really? Is that what you think I’ve been doin’? Condescending to you?” You shake your head, looking through the papers for tommorow, you couldn't deal with this today, "Yes, that's what I think." Logan pushed himself of the door frame, his fingers instantly moving to your shoulders like he was trying to reassure you, "You're young. You're new and you're trying your best, but you're feeling a bit...overwhelmed." You took another puff, finally looking up to his face. "I appreciate," the tone you use sounds almost sarcastic, "your concern but I'm getting by just fine." Yet you feel his finger absentmindedly trace over the skin of your neck as you lean back ever so slightly, almost on auto pilot. “Logan,” you said, trying to inject some authority into your voice whilst putting out the cig in a close ash tray but it came out breathier than you intended- His proximity was doing things to you, things you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone act on. But Logan, perceptive as always, didn’t miss a beat. He didn't decide to comment on the little faltter in your voice, just brushes one of your hair strands behind your ear, the action feels intimate, a bit to much so. His hands work on gently pushing you down onto the desk, your face pressed against the cold surface, his rough fingers work on riding up your skirt. If you're not mistaken you can hear the fabric of your panties ripping as you scoff, "Y'know you could've just taken them off." It sounds more like a statement then a question, not that you'd really be intrested in one when all you could think bout was his dick. "That's no fun," you could faintly make out, the dull sound of his belt hitting the floor also, "You don't even understand how much i've been imagining you, like this — you, and your damn skirts." Your hands clench into fists on the desk, your knuckles turning white as you try to keep some semblance of control as he thrusts into you. He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back as he pounds into you, his breath hot against your ear. “This what you needed, darlin’?” he growls, his voice rough and strained with his own pleasure. “Needed someone to fuck that stress right outta you?” He’s fucking you like an animal, hard and fast, and it’s exactly what you needed. The desk creaks beneath the force of his thrusts, with this pace you could perfectly forget about all those kids that make you lose more and more brain on the daily. That's exactly what you think about when you see logan leaning against your desk the next day, all innoccently yet gazing u you like he was about to eat you alive, in front of countless of children.

You could certaintly use his help every now and then — not on the curriculum of course.

[bratscave]

the like a prayer scene had no reason making me emotional 😭😭

[bratscave]

Happy birthday <333

aw thank you 🫶🏼🫶🏼 i had a lovely time

[bratscave]

in my active era 🎉🎉

[bratscave]

Hi i love your work, I was wondering if you could write a fic about Logan with a hyper feminine reader

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ — pretty n' pink !

You are everything pink, everything sweet — an average's man's worst fucking nightmare. logan on the other hand, isn't exactly proud of his fascination with you. you and your short little pink skirts that barerly cover your ass, your floral perfumes that you seem to have thousands of. He isn't proud that he sometimes comes around, to sit around in your room, sure - you gave him the key but still, he feels a bit bad looking through your drawers for no other reason than general intrest. Panties edged with tiny bows, bras that are more decorative than practical, all so perfectly you. Sometimes he sneaks one pair with him, you never really get to know. A collection of silk ribbons in various shades of blush and cream are neatly coiled in another drawer, their smooth textures a contrast to the rough callouses on his hands. You had gifted him one once, petal pink, managed to convince him to wear it around his arm and when scott made some snarky comment about it, you were sure logan was pretty damn close to plotting murder in his mind. He looked through your closet as well, running his hands over the impossibly short dresses. Logan had to admit, he looked at you more then once when you bent over in those damned skimpy things.. Your bed was full with sanrio plushies, when he cuddled with you and you both were practically burried in the pile, he always grumbled something under his breath — yet never made an attempt at removing them.