Logan absolutely melts when you're proud of him: he'll brush off compliments from teammates, coaches, and professors, but if you tell him you noticed how hard he's been working, he gets all quiet. His ears turn red and he suddenly becomes very interested in whatever is happening across the room.

He's big into praise when you both are having sex too, either it's receiving or giving: you'll never hear him degrade you, even if you beg for it. No, he wants to tell you how good you are being, how well you did.

Logan is surprisingly affectionate when he's tired. His usual confidence disappears completely and he'll drape himself over you, tuck his face into your neck, and grumble every time you try to get up. If you tell him you need to do something important, he'll mumble, "Five more minutes," like a giant overgrown puppy.

He gets ridiculously protective when you're sick. The second you mention feeling unwell, he's showing up with medicine, blankets, soup, and enough supplies to survive a natural disaster. He'll spend the entire day hovering around you asking if you need anything, even when the answer is always no.

He loves seeing you in his clothes; his hoodies, his shirts, even his pajamas pants either they fit you or not. He acts like it's a bother, like he wants to complaint about it, but it's all fake. He tells you that you can keep it and that he will buy more and he secretly hopes you will steal the new ones too.

Will definitely make love to you while you are wearing his hoodies; it's all soft, tender sex while whispering into your ears how pretty you are. You are his partner, he loves you so much, he wants to stay in your warmth forever. He can smell you everywhere and it drives him crazy in the softest way possible.

Logan likes listening to you talk, even about things he knows nothing about. You could spend twenty minutes explaining a hobby, a TV show, or college drama, and he'll pay attention the entire time. Not because he's interested in the topic itself, but because he loves the way your face lights up when you're excited.

He loves seeing you at his hockey matches; either you like it or not, he knows you will always be here to support him in his hobby. He's also glad that you get along with his friends, because to him, they are his second family after Jules and you are a part of it too.

a/n: welcome to the fourth part of my royal au! i will continue to post the characters of the coming days (so if you see any written that aren't posted yet... 😉😉) and the idea was if you all wanted to send me asks etc to know more about characters/relationships then i can make little moodboards and blurbs <3 (ps i made this before i started season two so if anyone has any ideas for the new characters let me know !!!!)

He would say thank you and tack on a pretty. Give you a kiss on the cheek and one on the lips, too, if you smiled soft and flowery and he couldn't resist wanting to keep it stuck there.

A very real knock on the half-open bathroom door brings him back, but you're there still. Standing beside the doorframe now and watching him a little mussed, having just woken from a nap on another knotted mattress. He wanted to lay beneath you. He's softer and warmer.

"Hi," you murmur. "You look different."

He holds up the razor in silent show and shrugs.

"You look out of it," he retorts, not unkindly. He sounds too gentle for his own ears. "Nap was good?"

"It was satisfactory," you say.

He smiles. Satisfactory. Flicks on the water and rinses the blade and feels lighter, better, less burdened now that you're here. He can look away without worrying that the image of you will fade. Can smell your subtle vanilla and rain.

"I was gonna head down to the diner in a few. Get a coke. Wanna come?" he asks.

You nod and shuffle closer, leaning against the counter. You're pretty even beneath garish, flickering light. Shirt slipping off a shoulder and beckoning him to kiss your exposed skin.

"Can we drive for a while after?"

Of course, absolutely, whatever you want, I'll run the gas out and push the car myself after, if you want to keep going.

"Yeah, sweetheart."

Deja vu, as you smile small and wipe a smear of shaving cream from above his lip. Your thumb is delicate. How could it send such a wave through him? It groans and crashes and laps at his ribs and heart and stomach.

He leans into touch that is here.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ ❤︎⁠ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

a/n: welcome to the third part of my royal au! i will continue to post the characters of the coming days (so if you see any written that aren't posted yet... 😉😉) and the idea was if you all wanted to send me asks etc to know more about characters/relationships then i can make little moodboards and blurbs <3 (ps i made this before i started season two so if anyone has any ideas for the new characters let me know !!!!)

IT’S TOO MUCH. it’s all too much. triple m’s pushing you to the brink and you don’t know whether to scream or crumble beneath the pressure of it all.

a week-long press junket, and multiple photoshoot sessions for this next campaign— shoes, fucking heels of all things— all while holding whatever shift was needed to get the job done. b-cups went to cs, or was it your hair reaching your waist and not your shoulders? you can’t remember. all you know is that with one camera flash you were standing, and in the next you were on the ground with a bloody nose and dizziness so bad you couldn’t even see.

with bloodied tissues piling up all around you, everything on the counter is fuzzy, blob-shaped and sanguine-colored… and your reflections’s not much better. you can’t remember what you’re supposed to look like. what you look like at all.

it’s all a blur. you feel your face shuffling around like someone piecing together magazine clippings for a collage; only, it’s your face and not some moodboard being put together on pinterest. it takes another round of deep breaths to get your brain to settle on features that look similar to yours. close enough.

a knock sounds at the door. you go stiff, your fingers digging into the bowl of the sink. “you good in there, hon?”

your manager’s fielding off the concerned photographer and crew while you hide in the bathroom, though you can barely hear her through the buzzing in your head.

“mhm… m’fine.” you’re not. “b-be out in a sec.”

taking another deep breath, you let your shoulders relax as you let go of the shift. the blouse you’re wearing sags around your chest as it shrinks back to its normal size, and you can feel the matching skirt tighten around your hips. a strangled breath leaves your lips, but it’s one of relief nonetheless. 

“amanda?” you stagger across the cold bathroom tile— you’d kicked the heels off ages ago— and press yourself against the wood with a heavy thud. “amanda… i need m-my phone.”

“hon—”

“please.” you don’t like begging, whether it’s for your damn phone or for anything, really. you’ve gotten this far without a handout or without relying on anyone else to help. “… i just need a few minutes.”

amanda sighs from the other end of the door, but you can hear her fishing around in your bag for the device. when she knocks, you crack the door just enough to take it before shutting it again.

your fingers tremble while you scroll through your  contacts, but it’s a quickly scroll to find your mother amongst the many names.

she answers on the first ring. she always does. “baby?”

“mom,” you whimper, shuddering as you squeeze your eyes shut, “… mama.” 

“what’s wrong?” the sink on the other end of the line shuts off. you’ve probably caught her in the middle of making dinner. there’s some more rustling in your ear, but soon enough your mother’s voice in your native tongue rumbles back in the receiver. “you’re scaring me.”

squeezing your eyes shut, you lean back against the bathroom counter as you swallow the anxiety— and bile— in your throat. “i don’t know i-if i can do this,” you admit, and it tastes sour on your tongue. “it’s too much, i don’t know what i got myself into.”

“can’t you just leave?” a pause. “your friend would understand, baby.”

no, you can’t, and no, he wouldn’t. lex luthor got you the gig this time, and you’re not willing to risk the fallout— socially, career-wise, etc.— because you habitually bite off more than you can chew. he promised you proper exposure, a proper modeling career, and you believed him. 

why did you? there were rumors, whispers of girls connected to the billionaire going missing with no explanation. some said they’d tried taking advantage of his influence. others said they’d been naive enough to think they were the apples of his eye. men like luthor didn’t promise the world without there being conditions; that’s what kept people in line.  

you should’ve known better. but at least you know now. “i don’t know if he… he would. this might be bigger than what i want, mama.”

the tension over the phone is palpable. you shift against the bathroom counter while thumbing the fabric of your ill-fitting blouse, waiting for some kind of sign that everything’s going to be okay. you can hear amanda and everyone else huddled around the bathroom door, but no one makes any moves to come in. “hon… we gotta continue the shoot,” she sighs, and you know she’s got that exasperated look on her face— the one that surfaces whenever she’s balancing three phone calls simultaneously or appeasing her other model clients. 

“… you can always take a break after this,” your mother says quickly, as if knowing your time is limited, “come home. your father and i, we miss you... i don’t like you being alone in metropolis. you don’t have support out there, baby.”

she’s right about that. lex may claim to care about your well-being… but for how much longer? and it’s not like you could call clark; the man already had enough to juggle with his own deadlines. you don’t know whether being “alone” in metropolis is worse than going back to looking over your shoulder in gotham… but you’re certain that neither option is sustainable long-term. 

“please, come home.”

inhaling shakily, you force yourself back into your shift from earlier and ignore how your vision goes spotty again. luckily, you don’t fall again. “i have to go.”

“okay.” the phone shuffles in your mother’s grip again. “but think about it, alright? you can always come home.”

home. you can always come home, but how you’ll get there is the real question. 

“i-i know.” you shudder again before holding yourself upright and rolling your shoulders. “i love you, mama.”

“i love you too.”

the line clicks once, twice as you pull it away from your ear, your hands shaking while you clutch the counter for support. the thought of camera flashing in your eyes for the next hour makes your stomach roll, but you have to get through this.

it’s just one more shoot, you keep telling yourself. one more shoot and things will ease up, your schedule will clear, and you can focus on being you instead of whatever the suits want.

but the suits are paying you to be a model right now— not yourself— so you stagger back into the fray and hope it all won’t come crumbling down right now. tonight when you’re alone in metropolis? fine.

but not now.

just some introspection/more info on my favourite daughter girl… still currently sans laptop so forgive me for any typos lol. still need to do fleshed-out pieces for bruce + lex with shapeshifter!reader but obviously i alluded to some of those dynamics in this. lex luthor is bad news/clark kent is good news/bruce wayne is a happy medium for her. also sorry if tags are weird i didn’t know how to tag appropriately bc it’s not really an x reader but yanno— i needed to do something creative i am going stir crazy!!!!!!

“yes, sir, please-”

“please what?” jack mocks, giving you another hard thrust of his hips. your palms smack against the desk he has you bent over, your pants “please flunk me? please fill me? please tamper with my GPA so i can get fucked by you, professor?”

you babble in response, drool collecting by the corner of your mouth, dripping down your chin to your sensitive nipples. the feeling of his hand between your shoulder blades whilst the other grabs your hips, rough, crescent moons from his nails leaving an indent on your flesh.

“can’t even speak, just all dumb on my cock, aren’t you?” he says, punctuating every word with a slam.

he removes the hand between your shoulder blades whilst not relenting on the pace to bring his hand down and smack your ass cheek, jack biting back a smile as he draws out a yelp from you.

“fuck me, sir!” you cry out, hands scrambling for purchase. papers topple on the floor with each sudden movement, joining the heap of clothes that were taken off in a rush, but the feeling of the tip of his cock hitting the spongy area is too good for you to even acknowledge the mess you're making in his office.

“see!” jack breathes out, chuckling underneath his breath. “knew you were good for something. it just happened to be jackie’s cock, didn’t it?”

you moan at his words, matching the thrusts of his cock with your hips. his forehead meets your damp hair as his movements begin to stutter.

“fuck, shit i’m going cum–”

“cum on my cock, baby,” jack rasps, cutting you off softly. his eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of your walls clenching around him, milking every last drop off him. the office fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, and jack continues to fuck you through your orgasm - your vision blinded by bright, white, hot flashes. you collapse against the desk, your sweaty forehead meeting the sudden cool of the wood beneath you.

he continues fucking you before his movements stall, cumming into you with an unrestrained moan.

the room is plunged into silence - the only thing that you can hear is the rhythmic whooshing of blood rushing in your ears and the heave of your lungs as you try to finally catch your breath.

a suddden smack of jack's palm on the desk breaks you out of your train of thought. he withdraws it, revealing a decent amount of cash.

"buy plan b," jack orders, not even sparing you a glance as he puts his trousers back on. your eyes dart from the wad of money just sitting there back to his face.

"or don't. you can drop out and be my kept little thing. your choice."

Tonight the rule could go fuck itself.

The bar had been one of those hole-in-the-wall joints near the old D.S.O. training grounds: dim lights, sticky tables, the kind of place where no one asked questions and everyone pretended they weren’t carrying ghosts in their jackets. Chris Redfield had bought the first round. Jill Valentine the second. Claire had matched them shot for shot until she started laughing too loud at things that weren’t funny. And Leon—Leon had kept pace because saying no felt like admitting something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Now the apartment was spinning in slow, nauseating circles.

He sat on the edge of their bed like a man waiting for execution, elbows on knees, head hanging. The room smelled faintly of you (something soft and floral that always made the back of his neck relax) and underneath it, the sharp stink of bourbon sweat clinging to his shirt. His tie was long gone. Somewhere between the third bar and the Uber ride home it had disappeared, probably sacrificed to Claire’s ongoing war against “government choke chains.”

You knelt in front of him, patient as ever.

You were still in the black jeans and fitted baby tee you’d worn to the bar. You looked like you belonged in a briefing room or a gun range. Not here, playing nursemaid to your idiot boyfriend who couldn’t handle his liquor anymore.

“Shoes first,” you murmured, fingers already working the laces of his combat boots.

Leon tried to help. His hands felt like they belonged to someone else—clumsy and pathetically slow. He fumbled once, twice, then gave up and let his palms rest on your shoulders instead. The warmth of your skin bled through the cotton. Grounded him. Made the room tilt less violently.

“You’re pathetic tonight, Kennedy,” you said, not unkindly. One boot came free with a dull thud against the hardwood. You tugged the second one off more gently, like you were afraid of jarring him.

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, love,” he slurred. His voice sounded wrecked and with something embarrassingly needy underneath it all.

You snorted softly. “You’re lucky I like pathetic man.”

Your fingers moved to his belt next. Metal clinked. Leather whispered through the loops. You didn’t rush, didn’t tease the way you sometimes did when you were both sober, horny and playing games. Tonight you were careful. Methodical. Like you were disarming a live explosive.

Which, in a way, you kind of were. The, Leon Kennedy, live explosive.

Leon’s breath hitched when your knuckles grazed the front of his jeans—purely accidental—and his cock gave an immediate, traitorous twitch. Heat crawled up his neck. He was half-hard in seconds, aching in a way that had nothing to do with dignity and everything to do with the fact that you were touching him. Taking care of him. Undressing him like he was something precious instead of the walking disaster he knew he was.

He should’ve been embarrassed. But unfortunately, he wasn't at all. He was fucking hard for it.

And had you noticed that, your eyes flicked up to his face, one brow arching in that way that always made his stomach flip. “Seriously? Right now?”

“Please, don't...” he muttered, closing his eyes, feeling the tips of his ears instantly getting a few degrees warmer. “... don’t fuckin’ say it, love.”

“Say what?” Your voice had gone lower, velvet-edged. Teasing him even now. “That you’re sitting here drunk off your ass with a boner because I’m taking your shoes off?”

“Christ, babe.... That sounds worse when said out loud." he murmurs, a somewhat pathetic smile trying to find its way across the corner of his mouth. Even he was finding it a little bit amusing now.

You laughed softly and tugged the belt free completely, dropping it onto the floor with the rest of his dignity. Then your hands were on his thighs, steadying yourself as you rose to your knees between his spread legs. He could smell the faint tequila on your breath.

“You’re such a slut when you’re wasted,” you whispered, almost fond. But he knew better.

Leon groaned and dropped his forehead against yours. “Yeah. I know. Heard that from you before.”

Your fingers slid up, slow, tracing the line of buttons on his shirt. One by one you worked them open, exposing skin still damp with sweat. When you reached the last one you didn’t pull the fabric apart right away. You just rested your palms flat against his chest, feeling the unsteady thud of his heart.

“You scared me for a second back there,” you admitted, softer now. Then you lets out a little amused laugh. “Thought you were gonna puke in the hallway.”

“Still might.”

“Don’t you dare, Leon Kennedy.” you exclaim, pinching his cheeks to emphasize the reprimand. (You've always had this "phobia" of people vomiting, and Leon knew it. You told him about it on your first real date; he initially found it a little funny but also... endearing? In a weird way. Nowadays you just joke around about it. It wasn't a big deal, for you, anyway.)

He huffed a laugh that turned into a wince when the room lurched again. “Sorry. ’M sorry, love.”

“Hey.” you cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble under his lip. “Stop apologizing. You’re allowed to get drunk once in a while. You’re allowed to be a mess. Humans do that."

“Not like this. 'M feel so dumb right now. Like a fucking drunken clown.”

"That's just bullshit, and you know, Kennedy."

Leon opened his eyes. Your face was inches from his—pupils blown wide. You looked at him the way you looked at targets through a scope: focused, unflinching, a little hungry but also with that tenderness that still got him, everytime.

He swallowed hard, adam's apple working overtime now that alcohol is in his system. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“For Christ sake! Stop whining, you bitch.” you kissed him before he could finish the sentence. Because that was the only truly effective move to silence a drunk Leon Kennedy.

It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and tongue and the faint burn of liquor still on both your mouths. Leon made a broken noise into it and his hands finally moved, clumsy fingers sinking into your hair. He kissed you like a drowning man, desperate and messy and so fucking grateful you were here.

When you pulled back you were both breathing hard.

“Bed,” you ordered, already getting up to push him onto the bed.

He looked at you, still a little confused from the kiss. Puppy dog eyes kicking in. “I can’t—”

You rolled your eyes. Zero patience. “You can and you will. Lie down on the damn bed, slut boy.”

You pushed him backward—gently, but firm enough that he didn’t fight it. He landed on his back among the pillows, shirt hanging open, jeans still on, cock straining painfully against denim. You climbed over him, straddling his hips without putting any real weight down. Just enough pressure to make him hiss through his teeth.

“Look at you,” you purred, running your hands down his bare chest, nails dragging lightly enough to leave faint red lines. And the smile on your face was pure mockery. Yes, you loved being on top. “All fucked up and needy. Such a pathetic boyfriend I have. Fortunately, all mine.”

“Fuck you,” he rasped, but there was no real heat in it. Only want. And a bit of embarrassment too, in the way he immediately looked away when you said that in that tone. Somewhere deep down in his mind, he was absolutely loving all this.

You grinned—like the wicked thing you can be when you want. “Another day, baby. When you can actually stand up without falling over.”

Leon laughed despite himself. It came out ragged and with a new wave of nausea as a bonus. “You're such a bully, love... You're lucky i love you too much."

You leaned down again, slower this time and kissed the corner of his mouth... then his jaw. The pulse hammering under his ear. Every place you touched felt like a live wire. When your lips brushed the hollow of his throat he arched hips jerking up instinctively. So eager.

You pressed a hand to his stomach, pinning him down. “Easy, tiger. You’re gonna come in your pants if you keep that up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he muttered, resting his hands around your waist, thumbs pressing against the flesh there.

You laughed against his skin. “Yeah, I know.”

That night in Madrid after the cathedral op—both of you covered in blood, adrenaline still screaming through your veins. You’d barely made it inside the safehouse before he’d had you against the wall, jeans shoved down just enough, your legs wrapped around his waist while he fucked into you like the world was ending. Again. It had become kind of a routine for you two, like taking medicine for a headache.

He’d come embarrassingly fast that time too. You never let him live it down.

Now your fingers dipped lower, palming him through the denim. Just enough friction to make his vision white out for a second and his fingers gripped the flesh of your hips, discounting in one place what ached in the other. “Motherfucker..."

“Shhh.” you kissed him quiet. “Let me take care of you. 'kay?”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell you he wasn’t some damsel, that he could handle himself, that you didn’t have to— But the words died when you popped the button of his jeans and dragged the zipper down. And what he was thinking again? Pff. He don't even remember anymore.

Cool air hit overheated skin. He groaned when you wrapped your hand around him. No teasing this time. Just firm, perfect pressure. Your thumb circled the head once, smearing precome, and Leon’s hips punched up again before he could stop them.

“Jesus fucking Christ, love,” he breathed, feeling the shiver run down his spine to the tip of his cock.

“Language, agent Kennedy,” you teased, stroking him slow, His eyes never left his face because that was the best part of provoking a drunk Leon Kennedy: seeing his expressions. When he was normal? He has little to no facial expressions during sex. But when he's drunk like this? Hmm, he makes these delicious little noises and expressions that are worth more than five orgasms to you. better than the actual sex.

“Fuck language. I can't think of manners when your hand is circling my cock like this, baby.”

You laughed again and sped up just enough to make his toes curl.

He was going to come embarrassingly fast again. He could feel it building already, that tight, electric coil low in his gut. Too much whiskey, too much want, too much of your looking at him like he was worth taking care of.

“Babe... I really think I'm gonna—”

“I know.” you kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his eye where dampness had gathered without him realizing. All this, as gently as possible. That was his weak point. “Let go. I’ve got you, pretty boy.”

He was already almost coming when you started your little show of sweet kisses... with your simple confirmation he was one foot to explode completely.

He broke on a choked sound; back arching, thighs trembling, spilling hot over your fingers and his own stomach. Wave after wave until he was shaking, oversensitive, gasping into your hair. Easy like that.

You didn’t stop right away. Kept stroking him through it until the last tremor left him boneless against the sheets. When he finally opened his eyes again you were watching him, expression soft in a way that made his chest ache worse than the hangover already brewing.

“You’re a goddamn menace,” he mumbled.

“Takes one to know one, apparently.” you wiped your hand on his ruined pants and leaned down to kiss him slow again. Lazy make out. A reward for your work here tonight. “Now, you'll go to sleep, Kennedy,” you whispered against his lips, firm but still gentle tone.

“Yes, ma'am. As my pretty girlfriend wishes.” He dragged, a silly little smile on his lips, voice already slowing to a sleep tone. He was already fading—whiskey and orgasm dragging him under. But before the world of dreams took him completely he managed one last slurred sentence. His hand lift from your waist to caress your cheek with such a sweet tenderness, normally uncommon for a man who endured so much hardship in life.

“Love you, gorgeous.”

Your fingers carded through his dirty blonde hair, and you leaned in again, this time to place a kiss on his forehead. Innocent, yet full of meaning. “Love you too, pretty boy. Have sweet dreams.”

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