#also on a03 but since tumblr is a butt about links here's an unlined fic

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Only Lovers

Leon and Ada, from the Resident Evil series, sometime in the future. This is explicit and NSFW. Smut ahead Also on A03

She wakes before him. Despite their deeds last night, it seems too intimate to chance a peek at his sleeping form. She’s always taken chances. Why should this one be different? So she takes the chance.

When she gazes at him, she’s both astonished and left breathless. He’s a different person asleep. Younger looking. She’s more nervous looking at him sleeping than she is standing in front of him naked. He’s stunning. If he weren’t working the government, he’d be living in the Renaissance as an artist’s model. He’d be Michelangelo’s choice for David.

She’s made it this far, so she decides that a delicate finger to trace his cheek won’t do any harm. He doesn’t stir. She grows bolder, traces his lips. Last night, they were reverent against her fevered body, even as she was the one that directed their furtive scene. Her personal style is to be in control, and in his mad desire to please, in his mad want of her, he didn’t try to push her down on the bed when her thighs were on both sides of him and take control, like perhaps another man would. Instead he succumbed to her, and watched with reverence as she moved above. When he did rise, it was only to wrap his arms around her and hold her. Then began the rain of kisses, everywhere he could touch. She even let him kiss the corner of her mouth, as if they were lovers forever and not at this one moment, not enemies on opposite sides who had burned for each other for years and were just now letting themselves blow off some steam. Fucking was so much like fighting. There was sweat, passion, no sense of beginning or end. Just the now. She revealed in the urgent now last night.

Then he kissed her on the mouth, and she could have cried. For a few moments, when his lips grazed her cupid’s bow and tongue gently sought entrance inside, there was no question they were making love, and not extending their outside-of-the-bedroom and outside-the-moment line between antagonism and allies. For those moments there was no more blurred lines. They were only lovers.

As he  sleeps, she allows herself to indulge in that tenderness that was only brief during their night together. She reminds herself she intended to leave before he wakes, but she’s caught between sensibilities and wanting to partake in her personal version of the female gaze. It reminds her when they first met, and he took that bullet for her after only knowing her for a few hours. After patching him up, she wasted precious moments looking at him. Even then she knew him to be about a couple of years younger than she was, and so much more idealistic. Even that’s not changed now, even after everything, even after all he’s seen. She doesn’t know if she should pity him or wish she could take some of that idealism for herself. She only knows she’s always been compelled to draw out the moment, where he’s asleep and she’s awake, and he’s her own Adonis.

When Adonis stirs, she draws her hand away. He stretches and she prepares herself for the inevitable: I should go, this should never have happened in the first place. Yet when she closes her eyes, as if that’ll prepare her for the hurt that she shouldn’t be bothered by anyway, she feels only the warmth of his hand, cupping her cheek.

 “I know you’re awake,” he mutters.

She opens her eyes, stirring with want. Naked underneath the bed sheets, the slight sun that pours through the small crack between the curtains outlines his form, the strength of his arms and broad shoulders, and brings out the golden tinges in his hair that rests somewhere between brown and blonde. She chuckles to herself, ruffling the already mussed hair. She’s never met a man so attached to one haircut.

He asks how long she’s been awake and she answers truthfully: about ten minutes.

 “You didn’t leave.”

 “I thought about it,” she admits

 “What made you stay?”

She grips the hand that still cups her cheek. Her answer is true, the truest thing she’s ever said.

“You.”

She doesn’t protest when he breaks the distance between them. He’s needy in his kisses and she hungrily gives back, chastising herself for thinking that the brief kisses she allowed last night were enough. They didn’t even kiss before they tore their clothes off each other. It was all business, all until they were on top of each other on the mattress, their neutral ground, and bare for the first time in all senses of the word. It was madness, it was bliss to make their own rules. It became instinct to accept his kiss when his arms wrapped around her, instinct to kiss him when his fingers against her clit brought her over the edge. The third was also instinct. It was after he came, spilling on his taut stomach. She couldn’t deny him a kiss then, not when he muttered I love you.

It was just instinct, she told herself. They were making love, it was natural to say. So she kissed him back, neither a denial or I love you too, but an affirmative of some sorts that she’s still not sure was a good idea. Though, the whole thing wasn’t a good idea. They ran anyway, straight to their hotel room, straight to their bad idea. It was the best bad idea she ever had, only beat by her second, to stay with him the morning.

In the morning light, she kisses him back and lets him blanket his body over hers. It’s foreign for her to have the strength of a man against her body, but it’s only a small surprise it’s Leon. From the moment they met, and her thoughts turned salacious, he struck her as a man who’d let himself surrender. She knew the type: someone always in control, someone who cherished the few moments of surrender where he could just be wanted and needed. Last night, he gladly followed her lead and her wants.

Yet more surprising than his taking initiative now is her own surrender. She not only lets him sink and meld onto her body, but she encourages—with one hand gripping his back, and he other fisting into his hair. She moans when his arousal brushes against her thighs.

“Come on,” she goads as he gently kisses both her shoulders and collar, and the space between her breasts.  “Leon…”

His head dips down low, sinks between her thighs. It astounds her that he can push aside his own want to do this—something she’s never asked for or thought about really—but she’s quick to silence herself when his lips brush against her inner thighs. Don’t tease, she wants to order, just touch me, taste me, but she steals a glance. His blue eyes peek at her, and words aren’t needed any longer. Just him, and whatever he wants to do, whatever he wants.

He wants to make her feel good. A gentle finger circles around her clit and she throws her head against the pillow. Thighs twist around him, as if to lock him there, fingers knot the bed sheets and knot his tangled hair as his tongue laps around her clit. She needs more pressure, more of him, and he answers that silent plea. He slides a finger in, out, in, out, almost as good as cock. Her orgasm is sudden and all-consuming, and as he sighs against her skin, she thinks as though his name escaping from her lips is all he needs to sustain himself. A pilgrim for so long, he finally found his place of worship.

Her arms beckon him. They kiss wildly, madly, deeply. They entangle limbs, exchange sighs, share the same strangled breath as he slides inside her. It’s not just the feel of him that wraps her in ecstasy, but the warmth of him everywhere, and each new kiss that makes up for the too few last night. This is how it’s supposed to be, the two of them, bereft of the confines of their duties…Leon and Ada, and the two of them, finding a moment of still in the madness, to look into each other’s eyes, her hands cupping his stubbled cheeks, thumbs tracing the prominent cheekbones.

He says it again, I love you. She can’t deny now it wasn’t instinct, driven by the nature of their act. It was his instinct to declare what had become intrinsic to his being. Unintentionally when they first met, she caught him, and she hadn’t let go. He’s loyal to her, and she had been quietly loyal to him. Waiting for a moment like last night.

She really is so cruel.

Last night she had been possessed. They had been possessed. It explained his I love you and her kiss after. This though, this I love you is no phantom declaration in the night. It’s realer in the morning. Nights are for secrets. Morning is where they must come to face what they’ve done. This has been their morning, not running and hiding, but falling into each other’s arms as Ada and Leon. They are what they are in the dim light that spills from the curtains, and they make their own calls and a new set of rules that are neither secretive nor hidden.

He just wants her to say it back. I love you.

Her response isn’t the words, but a kiss she hopes conveys not I love you too, but how much of a figurehead he’s been in her life, how much she’s truly thought about him over the years. He shudders. He’s close. She keeps him against her body, digs her nails into his back before he can pull away, mumbles against fevered kisses she wants all of him, everything he has.  

He gives. She shudders as he comes, and instead of being wracked with guilt or shame, she implores her body to sink into his, implores the world to blur until only their room—their bed, until they’re only lovers. He can’t hear her thoughts—she’s about to tell him to stay as he is, but he rises, sits at the edge of the bed, his back toward her. She still sees stars and yet he’s not there with her. She’s left behind.

She turns toward him. Her nails left small red marks on his skin. She rises, kisses where she pressed too hard.

His sudden indifference takes her aback. It stings. It’s her own act she’s done many a time, she shouldn’t feel as she does when he takes part in her game, but he acts as though they only fucked and not made love.

“I should go,” he mutters, piercing the arrow deeper. It’s infuriating.

He stands, and it strikes her to say that he has no problem offering a show as he looks for his clothes. Naked, the sunlight contouring the defined strength of his arms, he has a certain sense of ease that he wouldn’t have had things went as they agreed, and they were just a side distraction, a rendezvous meant to blow off whatever it was that they had been carrying for years. He would have been nervous, quick. He’s anything but.

She rids herself of the sheets to rise. She grabs his hand before he can pick up his discarded shirt. “Don’t leave like this,” she orders.

He rises to his full height. “I didn’t expect…I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

But he doesn’t look into her eyes. She suspects he’s not entirely sorry.

She challenges. Her hand slides against his abdomen, his slim hip, pressing their bodies closer. “Why?” she asks. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Are her words the spell that possesses him again? Or is it her? It doesn’t matter. Once again, they’re kissing like made, grasping flesh, falling onto the bed. If it’s a spell she’s enchanted herself as well as he. Naked, sprawled against the sheets, in love with his want for her, she’s aware that when the trance breaks, she’s going to have to tell him it’s not Ada he loves, but this version of Ada that’s been living in a famine without him, pining for him, needing him, that she does untoward things like stay when she should have left. All for his arms, for his kiss. For her arms to hold him. She makes the rules, that they’re only lovers. They act like lovers do.

An eternity and a moment later, he lays with his head on her lap, her fingers idly twisting the ringlets. He says something about a shower, and she thinks when he finally does rise, she’ll join him—scrub his back for him and have the favor returned. And then, after…

They’ll find each other again. They always do. They’ll be enemies, surely, but not when they take their quarrels back to the bedroom. Then, like now, they’ll find that gap of time to be only lovers.

She laughs to herself. One moment, they told each other last night. And this is it. They were fools. They’re still fools. Happy, sated, blissful fools. And lovers.

And yet, it’d be cruel not to tell him, to let him live in an illusion.

“You don’t love me,” she whispers. “you love the me you think about when you’re lonely.”

“Not lonely now.”

He glances at her with a mischievous, knowing look. “Neither am I,” she tells him, and she even plays the part, tells him she loves him too. They’re only lovers now, after all.

“You didn’t have to say that,” he says. “I know what’s true.”

“Then what’s true?”

He rises, faces her. He cups her cheek, caresses her face. He follows with a gentle kiss.  

“Now,” he whispers. “Us.”

Backstory: I played RE4 years ago when I was super young, and Leon and Ada were one of my first ships. playing Re2 Remake recently reignited the old feels so I wanted to write something. Thanks for reading!