The New Hire - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 1)
Summary: While working on a new strain of Las Plagas, Luis encounters the Los Illuminados' newest hire.
Masterlist
If it wasn’t for the white lab coat adorning his body, Luis would be freezing his ass off right about now.
Of course, rationally, he knows that the cold temperatures of the lab were for the parasite’s own good. Even a few degrees too warm, and it would interfere with their growth, and, his overall research. But even then, he can’t help but feel a slight shiver course down his spine as the chill nips at the skin of his face.
The cold, sterile air seems to cling to him like a second skin no matter what he does. No matter how much time he spends outside the lab, rejoicing in the warm, humid air of Spain, his bones still retain the chill like the laboratory is where they belong.
In his hands, the metal tools glint up at him, gleaming in the fluorescent light. Behind him are refrigeration units, humming softly. Somewhere in the facility, there’s the rattling of machinery.
Luis barely notices any of it anymore.
Currently, he’s leaning over an examination table, gloved hands steady as he adjusts his microscope lens another fraction downwards. This particular parasite that he’s currently working on is adjusting very well to the prior experiments. It’s gotten stronger, and when he peers at it through the microscope, he can see that it’s wet, tiny limbs are twitching.
It’s not a random twitch. No, this movement is controlled. The appendages move in his direction, like it’s trying to get closer.
Fascinating.
“Still ugly.” He mutters to himself absentmindedly.
Another twitch from the parasite, body reacting to the sound of his voice.
According to the higher ups, this progress is encouraging. Promising, even. A sign that all of Luis’ hard work and their money is worth it. Exciting results.
Concerning results, according to the part of Luis’s conscience he’d gotten very good at ignoring.
His hand goes down to the notepad next to his lab equipment, scribbling down notes and chemical formulas. Things he’s going to have to try. Ideas that he’s going to need to rule out. Either way, this is a breakthrough. Or, in his mind, a potential catastrophe. The parasite is reacting to the presence of organic material. It’s fascinating in the worst of ways.
Behind him, the laboratory door buzzes open with a slight hiss.
He doesn’t bother looking up, eyes still squinting to look through the microscope.
“Unless someone is actively dying,” he said, adjusting a dial lazily, “I’m very busy over here.”
A dry voice answers instead. “New recruit.”
Ah. That gets his attention.
He finally glances up from the microscope, eyes flicking towards the door. At the door is his boss. A rough looking man, with tanned skin and sandy colored hair. He’s used to seeing him. The man breathes down his neck constantly, after all. But what intrigues Luis is the woman next to him.
She’s standing slightly behind the man, eyes scanning the room curiously. A beige colored message bag is slung across her body, her hands carrying a bundle of papers. When she meets his eyes, her mouth tilts up into a smile.
His boss keeps speaking, “Mr. Serra. This is your new researcher, Ms. Y/N L/N. She has a background in parasitology and toxicology. I imagine that she will be of great help to our cause.”
Our cause. The phrase still makes his skin crawl after all these years. As if Luis is part of those crazy cultists.
He leans back slightly, resting his weight against the table as he studies you. You’re around his age if he had to guess, with intelligent eyes and a guarded but friendly face. Your posture is alert but still casual. That rules out a military background, at least.
His boss turns and leaves, leaving the two of you alone.
“And here I thought they were finally promoting me to sainthood.” He offers a small smile. “Luis Serra Navarro. Welcome to our humble little basement of horrors.”
When he extends his hand, you seem cautious to take it, your body hesitating before your palm meets his.
“... That’s not exactly reassuring. Is it always this cold in here?”
He shrugs, turning back to the microscope with practiced ease. “You’ll get used to it. Hell isn’t always hot, Corazón.”
He can hear you step a little further into the lab, your shoes tapping on the tile floor. When he glances back at you, your attention has already drifted across the laboratory, curiosity tinting your eyes.
Like a scientist. Or an optimist.
Both are equally dangerous things to be here.
You speak again, eyes rolling as you set your messenger bag onto one of the spare chairs, “Well, aren’t you a charmer, Mr. Serra.”
He chuckles, finally facing back to you again and stripping off his disposable gloves, “Ah, too formal. Call me Luis, please. ‘Mr. Serra’ sounds like someone with better life choices.”
Your head tilts when you see the microscope, a brow raising. “I take it that you’re looking at…?”
“The newest strain of the plaga.” He watches as you step forward, body already leaning down to look into the lens, “I assume you’ve been given a rundown on what we’re researching?”
You nod, though don’t bother looking back at him. You’re too busy looking down at the parasite.
“This is…”
He expects the next words you say to be many things. Disgusting. Horrific. An affront to god. But instead, when you speak again, your tone is light. “Fascinating.”
He chuckles, “Really, now? I’m used to hearing repulsivo.”
Even as you shrug, your eyes don’t stray away from the specimen. “My line of work isn’t pleasant. I’m used to that. It takes a lot to scare me away now, Luis.”
You seem to be testing the name on your tongue. For some reason, the way you say it makes something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. Your voice is intelligent but warm, lips turning upwards into a smile even as your hand adjusts the microscope slides.
You mutter something to yourself before asking, “Tell me, what stimulation have you given it to respond like this?”
He chuckles, head shaking a little, “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, genia. I have not poked or prodded it at all. Its movements have been programmed into it by hereditary traits only.”
At his words, your head finally turns, eyes squinting as they meet his. “Hereditary?” you repeat. “So the behavior is being passed between generations?”
Luis grins a little at the immediate understanding in your expression.
“Exactly.” He steps closer to the microscope again, resting one hand against the edge of the examination table. “The original specimen reacted aggressively to direct stimulus only. Pain, sound, movement. Predictable things.” He gestures vaguely toward the writhing parasite beneath the lens. “But this one…”
Your gaze drifts back toward the microscope. “It’s anticipating.”
The answer leaves your mouth so quickly it almost catches him off guard. Not many people keep up with him this easily. His grin widens despite himself.
“See?” he says lightly. “Now you’re making me look good.”
You snort softly under your breath before straightening, arms folding loosely across your chest as you study the parasite. You’re sure in your movements. No signs of fear. No flinching.
Most newcomers either stared too long or looked away too quickly.
You’re not doing either.
Interesting.
“What’s the long-term goal?” you ask after a moment. “Adaptability?”
There’s no judgment in the question. Only curiosity. It should make answering easier. Instead, Luis finds himself hesitating. Because the official answer and the truthful one were two very different things. He reaches for the notepad beside him, mostly to avoid your eyes.
“The cult wants fewer weaknesses,” he says finally. “Greater control. Faster synchronization between host and parasite. Less resistance during implantation.”
Something flickers across your face as he speaks. Not something disturbed, necessarily. But you go quiet, gaze moving between him and the microscope.
“And what do you want?”
Oh.
Luis glances toward you again. Most researchers here never asked questions like that anymore. They cared about results. Funding. Approval from men upstairs pretending to be prophets.
But you?
You sound like you actually expect him to have an answer.
For a moment, only the low hum of refrigeration units fills the silence between you. Then he laughs softly through his nose, though the sound lacks its usual ease. “That,” he murmurs, “is a dangerous question for your first day.”
A faint smile tugs at your mouth. “Should I save it for the second?”
Something unexpectedly warm flickers low in his chest. God help him.
Luis shakes his head, looking back down toward the parasite before answering.
“When I first came here,” he says slowly, “I thought we were standing at the edge of something revolutionary.” His fingers tap once against the metal table. “A parasite capable of rewriting the relationship between the body and disease? Controlling infection itself? You can imagine the possibilities. We could learn so much with these things.”
Your expression softens slightly. “That sounds almost hopeful.”
Almost. The word hangs there between you. Luis stares at the twitching specimen beneath the microscope.
“It did,” he says. Past tense.
“And now?”
Another chuckle. It’s hollow and fake, scratching against his throat like sandpaper. “Careful, now. I’m not looking to scare you away from your job just yet.”
Again, your face betrays some kind of emotion. One that he can’t place, but he would say almost looks sad. Remorseful, even. Before he can question it, you’re talking again.
“Trust me, Luis. I’m not one to run. Besides,” You smile at him, “I’m here for more reasons than just science.”
“Oh, really, now? Like what?”
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. For a second, you don’t answer immediately. Instead, your attention drifts past him, toward the thick observation windows lining the far wall of the laboratory. Beyond the glass, shadowed hallways stretch deeper underground, disappearing into dim red emergency lighting.
The deeper parts of the facility.
Luis watches the subtle shift in your expression. It’s not fear. It’s something quieter than that.
“Let’s just say that I got tired of hearing the word ‘impossible’.”
The way you say it almost sounds like you have hope.
Hope. Not the blind, stupid kind the cult liked to preach upstairs. Not salvation or divinity or any of Saddler’s bullshit. Just human hope. Messy. Desperate. Real. The kind that he didn’t have anymore, and hadn’t had for quite some time.
“They told you this research could change everything,” he says quietly.
Your eyes meet his again. “They told me it could help people.”
The sincerity in your voice hits harder than he expects. For a moment, he almost envies you. Not because you still believe in the work. But because you still believe in people. Luis looks away first.
His gaze settles on the parasite writhing beneath the microscope lens, tiny appendages flexing against the glass like searching fingers.
“You should be careful with that kind of optimism down here, corazón,” he murmurs.
A faint crease appears between your brows. “That obvious?”
“To someone like me?” He gives a soft snort. “Painfully.”
That finally earns a real laugh from you. It’s soft and unrestrained, tickling his ears and petting his hair. The sound echoes strangely against the cold metal walls of the laboratory.
Very suddenly, he’s aware of how long it’s been since he’s heard laughter down here that didn’t sound cruel. Something about that realization unsettles him more than the parasite ever could.
He clears his throat lightly, stepping away from the examination table. “Well,” he says, reclaiming some of his usual charm, “before this place corrupts you entirely, I should probably show you where they keep the coffee.”
Tragic Tendencies - Luis Serra x Reader (Beneath the Rot Part 2)
Summary: You start to settle in to your new job. Luis soon learns that you have a tendency to ask too many questions.
Masterlist
The next few days settle into something dangerously close to routine.
Luis should probably know better than to find comfort in routine by now. Nothing good has ever come from him getting attached to places. Or people, for that matter.
Still, by the end of the week, he catches himself listening for your footsteps in the laboratory corridors.
The facility is never truly quiet. Machinery hums constantly behind the walls, refrigeration units rattling softly beneath fluorescent lights that buzz faintly overhead. Researchers move in and out at all hours. Cultists drift through the underground halls in dark robes like wandering ghosts. And somehow, despite all of that, he learns the sound of you anyway. Your measured footsteps tapping against the floor. Your messenger bag brushing against your hip, metal keychains jingling. The quiet exhale you always let out before entering the freezing lab.
By the fifth morning, he doesn’t have to even look up when you enter the lab. He knows it’s you already. The realization makes him look up from his current research, giving you an easy smile.
“Hola, Hermosa.” He glances up at the clock for a moment, “You’re late.”
In response, you give an exasperated sigh. It draws his attention from the clock to your face. Your hair is not done in its usual style. Instead, it’s a little messy, drawn up into a haphazard claw clip. Your makeup is simple, barely a touch of mascara or lip gloss rather than your everyday look. Your expression is one of annoyance.
He smiles, “Why the long face?”
You look about to punch him. “I hate you,” you mutter flatly, dropping your messenger bag onto the nearest chair.
Luis gasps softly, one hand pressing dramatically against his chest. “Mi vida, you’re so cruel this early in the morning!”
“It’s six-thirty.”
“Exactly. Tragic.”
You rub at your eyes with the heel of your palm before shooting him a glare. “The electricity in my room went out halfway through getting ready.”
“Ah,” Luis says solemnly. “A catastrophe. A normal one, unfortunately.”
“You joke, but I almost burned myself trying to use a candle for light.” You gesture to your face, “And now I look like I got hit by a hurricane.”
“The hurricane has fantastic taste, then.”
Your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Was that flirting or pity?”
Luis places a hand over his heart again. “Madre de Dios! Do you wound every man trying to compliment you, or am I special?”
“You’re annoying enough to qualify as special, yes.”
He laughs softly at that, turning back toward the examination table before you can see how genuine the sound is. You’ve only been here a week and already the laboratory feels less unbearable when you’re in it.
Luis decides firmly that this is a problem he intends to ignore.
Behind him, he hears papers rustling as you begin unpacking your things onto the neighboring workstation.
“You started without me?” you ask after a moment, eyes catching on the microscope already positioned over the specimen tray.
“You were late.”
“By six minutes.”
He clicks his tongue. “A devastating delay in the world of science.”
You roll your eyes before stepping beside him, leaning slightly toward the microscope. The faint scent of your perfume drifts briefly through the cold laboratory air before vanishing again beneath antiseptic and steel.
It distracts him far more than it should.
“What are we looking at today?” you murmur.
Luis forces his attention back toward the tray.
“Subject twenty-seven’s parasite sample.” He gestures toward the writhing organism beneath the glass slide. “Adrenal responsiveness has increased approximately twelve percent since yesterday.”
Your brows knit slightly as you adjust the lens. “That’s… fast.”
Your expression slowly loses some of its earlier exhaustion as focus settles over your features instead. Luis has started noticing that about you too. Science wakes you up faster than coffee ever could.
“And.. the host deterioration?” you ask quietly.
There it is again. You always ask about the people first. How this affects the person who houses the parasite.
He doesn’t know what those damned cultists upstairs told you, and he isn’t quite sure he can break the news to you either. Had they bothered telling you that the hosts weren’t entirely willing? That it killed them at least fifty percent of the time, their bodies writhing violently before falling still in a puddle of blood and pus? He doubts that they did. They had lied to him too at first, until the truth became too obvious to ignore.
Luis leans against the counter beside you, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Still progressing,” he admits. “Nervous system damage appears unavoidable past a certain synchronization threshold.”
You go quiet at that. He watches your expression carefully.
You’re not frightened, no. You’re thinking. You’re very pretty when you’re thinking, he notes.
Your fingers tap lightly once against the microscope adjustment dial. “What if the threshold itself is the problem?” you ask slowly. “Everyone upstairs keeps trying to force immediate compatibility. But parasites adapt naturally over time, don’t they?”
Luis blinks once. Then again. “…Continue.”
Your attention remains fixed on the specimen as you speak. “If synchronization was gradual instead of aggressive, the body might stop identifying the parasite as a hostile invader.” Your brow furrows slightly. “Slower implantation. Lower rejection rates. Less neurological trauma.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the low mechanical hum of refrigeration units. Then, he laughs softly under his breath, shoulders shaking ever so slightly.
“Well,” he murmurs, “now I understand why they hired you.”
Finally, you glance toward him again. “And?”
His grin widens slightly. “You are either very intelligent,” he says, “or very dangerous.”
A pause. Then your lips curve faintly upward. “Isn’t it better for the host to survive the implantation without harm? Everyone upstairs is so worried about getting results faster. They don’t seem smart enough to think that maybe they’re going about it all wrong.”
Luis studies you carefully for a moment. There’s no cruelty in your expression. No hunger for power. No fascination with control the way the cult leaders upstairs carried it in their eyes like disease.
You sound genuinely frustrated by the unnecessary suffering. Like the hosts matter.
“You are assuming they care about minimizing harm,” he says finally.
Your brow furrows.
“They should.”
A soft laugh escapes him before he can stop it. “Ah, corazón,” he murmurs, pushing himself away from the counter, “you are still thinking like a scientist.”
“And they aren’t?”
“No.” Luis reaches for a nearby clipboard, flipping absentmindedly through pages of observation notes. “They are thinking like fanatics pretending to understand science.”
The words leave his mouth casually. Too casually. The moment the sentence settles into the room, silence follows it. Luis feels your eyes on him immediately.
He pretends not to notice.
“That sounds dangerously close to criticism,” you say after a moment.
“Does it?” he asks lightly.
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He scribbles another note onto the clipboard. “Perhaps you should keep that observation to yourself, then.”
You go quiet again. He can tell that you’re thinking. You’re always thinking. He likes that about you. You’re not like those cultists outside. The ones obsessed with finding their gods. No, you’re observational. You choose rational thought instead of the cultist’s blind faith.
The refrigeration units hum softly around you while the parasite beneath the microscope continues twitching against the glass slide in sharp, unnatural little movements.
Finally, you ask quietly, “Why stay here if you hate it so much?”
Ah. There it is. He figured you’d ask that at some point.
Luis stills slightly. The truth is complicated. Leaving is complicated. Because guilt has a way of chaining itself to your ankles until eventually you stop trying to walk away.
Instead of answering, he glances toward you with another crooked grin. “Careful again,” he says. “At this rate, you’ll know all my tragic backstory by next Tuesday.”
You smirk, “Ah, pity. I was hoping it would be next Wednesday, actually.”
Luis lets out another soft laugh, shaking his head as he returns his attention to the clipboard in his hands. “Cruel woman,” he mutters.
“You started it.”
“True.” He taps the pen absently against the paper. “But in my defense, I am very charming.”
“Debatable.”
“Ouch.” His hand goes to his head in mock pain.
The corner of your mouth twitches upward again before your attention drifts back toward the microscope. Luis watches you adjust the lens carefully, your earlier exhaustion now almost entirely replaced by focus.
You really do disappear into your work. It’s oddly mesmerizing. Most people downstairs treated research like an obligation. A means to power, recognition, and some hellish form of divine favor.
You treat it like discovery. Like something worth respecting. It’s a dangerous mentality in a place like this. He silently hopes that your mentality never changes, no matter how hard those damned cultists may try.
“You know,” you murmur after a moment, “if the nervous system damage is tied to rapid synchronization, we may be approaching this from the wrong angle entirely.”
Luis leans one hip against the counter beside you. “Go on, genia.”
You gesture absently toward the specimen dish. “The parasite is behaving less like an infection and more like an invasive symbiotic organism.” Your brow furrows slightly as thoughts visibly piece themselves together behind your eyes. “If that’s true, forcing immediate dominance would trigger the body into constant physiological resistance.”
“Which accelerates deterioration,” Luis finishes quietly.
Your gaze flicks toward him briefly. “Yes.”
For the first time in months, maybe longer, Luis feels something dangerously close to intellectual excitement spark beneath his ribs. It’s not because of the parasite. It’s because of you. It’s because someone is finally speaking to him like an equal again.
“You realize,” he says slowly, “if you are correct, then half the procedures upstairs are effectively sabotaging long-term compatibility.”
A dry laugh escapes you. “That would explain the horrifying survival rates.”
There’s genuine frustration in your voice again. It’s as if the horrors of what little you’ve seen so far are already weighing on you. If he still had the energy, he’d feel pity. But he unfortunately doesn’t have the energy to spare on pity anymore.
Instead, his head tilts, observing the way your lips thin in frustration.
“Why do you care so much, princesa?”
The smile you give him is somber, eyes torn between looking over at him or keeping yourself busy with the specimen.
“What can I say?” you murmur lightly. “I have a tragic tendency to prefer my test subjects alive.”
You've never been a fan of celebrating your birthday. It's always been a day in which you feel like something bad is just waiting to happen. After the night Luis discovered your PCOS, and you both admitted your feelings to one another, things start to look up, and a small piece of you begins hoping that this birthday will be better than the last. At least, you thought it would be.
This is a companion sequel to Cramped Together.
CW: 5k words, Modern Alternate Universe, Luis works at a hospital during his third year of residency, No Umbrella, No Las Plagas, Roommate! Luis, Roommate! Reader, Descriptions of difficulty with penetrative sex, use of a vibrator on a female, Protected Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Luis being so attentive during sex, Graphic descriptions of light pain during penetrative sex because of PCOS, Reader has PCOS, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Petnames GALOR (It's Luis, you guys know the drill), Graphic descriptions of self-deprecating thoughts, Luis not taking care of himself physically or mentally because residency is running him dry, written with a Plus-sized! reader in mind
The lab coat is wrinkled at the elbows again. Luis notices this as he scrubs his hands raw under the hospital’s antiseptic glow, the scent of iodine clinging to his skin like a second layer. Third-year residency does that, turns you into a creature of habit, of small, fraying details no one else sees. The coat’s cuffs are stained with coffee rings from yesterday’s 3 AM crash-cart scramble. He should’ve thrown it in the wash.
Across the hall, Dr. Chen rattles off stats for a new admission, stroke, mid-fifties, no prior history, and Luis’s fingers twitch, already itching for a pen to jot it down. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Again. The third time in twenty minutes. He knows who it is without looking.
Luis shakes his head, drying his hands on a paper towel. “Later, yeah.”
But later is a slippery thing in neurology. Later means after the lumbar puncture, after the family consultation, after the resident who was supposed to take over at seven calls in sick. Later stretches into never, and he knows, he knows, what today is.
The call room smells like stale instant noodles and regret. Luis collapses onto the cot, phone finally in hand. Four missed calls. A single text: You forgot, didn’t you?
He didn’t. He couldn’t. But the clock reads 9:47 PM, and the cake is still sitting in the breakroom fridge, the candles unlit, the vibrator tucked discreetly in his locker where no one will ask questions. His thumb hovers over the reply button. What does he even say?
Down the hall, a code blue blares to life. Luis closes his eyes, just for a second to collect his will to live. Then he’s up, lab coat flapping behind him, already running.
—
The apartment is dark when you finally unlock the door, no surprise there. You drop your keys into the ceramic bowl Luis bought you last Christmas (it’s shaped like a frog, its goofy smile chipped from that one time he knocked it over while drunkenly trying to kiss you). The silence presses in, thick and familiar. You flick on the kitchen light, wincing at the sudden glare. Takeout containers from last night still clutter the counter. You should’ve known.
Birthdays have always been like this for you, a slow crawl toward disappointment, the weight of expectation curling like a fist in your chest. PCOS made puberty a minefield, and adulthood isn’t much better. You’d told Luis that, once, in the hazy 2 AM honesty of your shared bed. “I hate my birthday. It’s just a reminder that my body spent another year not working right.” He’d kissed your shoulder and said nothing, which was better than the hollow platitudes everyone else offered. But now, the quiet feels like a silent confirmation that maybe he agrees.
You shrug off your jacket, the fabric catching on the damp skin of your arms. June heat is relentless, even at night. The shower beckons, but the thought of standing under the water alone makes your throat tighten. Instead, you grab a half-finished bottle of peach iced tea from the fridge and slump onto the couch. Your phone sits heavy in your pocket. You don’t check it.
The shower runs upstairs, your neighbor, Mrs. Kowalski’s nightly ritual. The pipes groan. You press your cold glass to your forehead and close your eyes. Maybe Luis will text. Maybe he won’t. Either way, you’re too tired to care. You tell yourself you're too tired to care.
Then, the jangle of keys in the lock. Your breath catches. The door swings open, and there he is: Luis, hair mussed from where he’s clearly ripped off his surgical cap, lab coat streaked with something suspiciously yellow. He’s holding a lopsided cake, its frosting smudged from where it’s slid against the box. The candles are already lit, tiny flames trembling in the draft from the hallway.
“I didn’t forget,” he blurts. His cheeks are flushed, his breath coming fast like he ran up the stairs. “I swear to god, I didn’t. There was a- a subdural hematoma, and then the fucking attending made us-“
You’re crying. You don’t mean to, but your face crumples, hot tears spilling over before you can stop them. He didn't forget. He didn't forget like everyone else did. Luis makes a wounded noise and kicks the door shut behind him, nearly tripping over his own shoes as he rushes to you. The cake wobbles dangerously.
“Hey, no no no, cariño, don’t cry, please.” He sets the cake on the coffee table, frosting smooshing against the cardboard, and gathers you into his arms. His scrubs smell like hospital antiseptic and sweat, but underneath it, there’s the faintest hint of his cologne, something citrusy and cheap that you’ve come to adore. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You bury your face in his chest. His heartbeat thuds against your cheek, frantic and alive. “You didn’t text me or call.” you mutter, voice thick.
Luis groans, tilting your chin up so he can press a kiss to your forehead. “I know. I’m an idiot. I was overwhelmed with work.” His thumb swipes at your tears. “But I got you cake. And-“ He digs in his pocket, producing a small, discreet box. “This.”
You blink at it. “Is that a-?”
“Yeah.” His grin is sheepish. “The fancy one you eyed in the mall. The, uh-“ He wiggles his fingers vaguely. “Clit stimulator with the warming function.”
“I know penetration has been hurting and I thought maybe you'd enjoy trying it out.” Luis admits, almost nervous.
A laugh hiccups out of you, wet and surprised. He paid attention to every detail. Luis beams, like he’s won something.
“Cake first,” he decides, scooping up the ruined dessert. “Then I’m putting that thing to work.” His nose scrunches. “After a shower. I smell like a cadaver.”
You swat at him, but you’re grinning now, the fist in your chest slowly uncurling. Luis grabs a fork from the kitchen and feeds you a bite of cake right there on the couch, his free hand stroking your curls. The frosting is too sweet, the sponge slightly dry. It’s perfect. He's perfect.
The cake is gone, reduced to smears of frosting on the cardboard and a few crumbs Luis brushes off your thighs with exaggerated care. His fingers linger, tracing the soft stretch marks along your inner thighs, something he does absentmindedly now, like he's memorizing the topography of you. When you first admitted your feelings, you hated it. It made you feel like he was just fetishizing a part of you that you hated. Now? You understand that he really just adores your body. All the curves, hip dips, acne scars, everything. He adores everything.
—
The shower runs in the background, steam curling under the bathroom door. He'd stripped off his scrubs in the hallway, leaving them in a heap by the door like a discarded second skin. You'd laughed when he'd done it, and he'd grinned, wild and unrepentant, before disappearing into the bathroom with a promise to "scrub the hospital stink off."
Now, you sit cross-legged on the bed in just his old medical school t-shirt, the fabric stretched thin over your hips. The vibrator box sits between you, still unopened. You trace the edges with one finger, pulse jumping when the shower cuts off abruptly. Luis emerges moments later, hair dripping, towel slung low on his hips. Water slides down the ladder of his ribs, and you watch, mouth suddenly dry.
"Enjoying the view, princessa?" he teases, shaking his hair like a dog. Droplets hit your legs, cool against your flushed skin.
You huff, tossing a pillow at him. It misses spectacularly, and he laughs, crouching to retrieve it before crawling onto the bed with exaggerated slowness. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles behind you, his chest warm against your back. His breath ghosts over your shoulder when he reaches around you to pick up the box.
"Okay," he murmurs, nuzzling the damp curve of your neck. "Let's see what we're working with, this thing better be worth its damn price."
The packaging tears easily under his fingers. Inside, nestled in sleek black foam, is the vibrator. It's sleek, rose-gold, and intimidatingly elegant. Luis whistles lowly, turning it over in his hands. "Fancy," he says, pressing a button on the base. It whirs to life, a quiet, insistent buzz that makes your thighs press together instinctively.
Luis notices, of course. He always does. His free hand splays over your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles just above the hem of your shirt. "Nervous, baby?"
You swallow. "A little."
He hums, kissing the knob of your spine. "Tell me how you want it."
It’s the same question he asks every time, giving you space to set the pace. You twist in his arms to face him, heart hammering when his gaze drops to your mouth. "Go slow?" you whisper.
Luis’s smile is tender, his fingers already reaching for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. "Whatever you want, mi vida."
His fingers are warm when they slide under your shirt, calloused thumbs skimming the dip of your waist. The lube clicks open eliciting a sound you’ve come to associate with the slow, syrupy build of anticipation and Luis coats two fingers with deliberate care. You shiver when he presses the first, slick touch to your inner thigh, his other hand coaxing your legs apart. “Okay, still?” he murmurs, watching your face.
You nod, biting your lip when his fingers trace higher, avoiding where you want him most. He chuckles, low and knowing, and you swat at his shoulder. “Tease.”
“Yeah, I am.” he chuckles, but then his mouth is on your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear while his fingers finally, finally brush over your swelling clit. The vibrator hums somewhere near your hip, forgotten for now. Luis knows you, knows you need the slow ache of his fingers first, the way they curl inside you with practiced precision, stretching you gently until your back arches off the mattress.
“There's that spot,” he breathes against your jaw when you gasp. His free hand gathers your curls, holding them back from your face as he watches you fall apart under his touch. “Fuck, you’re beautiful all needy like this, honey.”
The vibrator’s buzz startles you when he lifts it, the rose-gold tip glistening with lube. Luis pauses, hovering it just above where his fingers are buried inside you. “Ready?”
You nod again, words failing when he presses the cool metal against your clit. The sensation is electric, sharp and immediate, and you jolt, gripping his wrist. Luis stills instantly. “Too much?”
“N-no,” you stammer, thighs trembling. “Just… new and a lot.”
He smiles, adjusting the angle so the vibrations ripple through you instead of piercing. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Your voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s… so good.”
Luis kisses you then, swallowing your moan as he works the vibrator in slow, torturous circles. His fingers crook inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl, and suddenly you’re clutching the sheets, hurtling toward the edge with embarrassing speed. Luis groans into your mouth when you clench around his fingers. “That’s it, cariño,” he coos. “Cum, I know you can.”
The climax crashes over you like a wave, stealing your breath. Luis guides you through it, his touch gentling as you shudder, the vibrator’s buzz dialed down to a purr. When you finally slump back against the pillows, boneless and spent, he’s grinning like he’s won the lottery, the bastard.
“Happy birthday, baby” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
You laugh, breathless, swatting at him half-heartedly. “Asshole.”
Luis just beams, setting the vibrator aside before tugging you against his chest. His heartbeat thrums under your ear, steady and sure. The afterglow settles over you both, heavy and sweet.
After a few minutes, he reaches for your banged up water bottle on the nightstand, nudging it into your hands. “Drink,” he orders, softer now. “You used up a lot of energy, don't want you dehydrated.”
You roll your eyes but obey, the water cool down your throat. Luis watches you, his fingers idly tracing the stretch marks on your hips. When you’re done drinking what he deems enough water, he takes the bottle and sets it aside, then reaches for the hair tie on your shared side table.
“Turn around,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion and affection.
You do, letting him gather your curls into a loose bun. His fingers are clumsy, he’s never quite mastered hairstyling, but the care he takes, the way he fusses until every strand is tucked away, makes your chest ache.
“There,” he murmurs, kissing the nape of your neck. “Now you won't get tangles all night.”
The AC kicks on with a rattling sigh, sending a gust of cold air across the bed. You shiver, pressing closer to Luis’s warmth. He huffs a laugh, tugging the comforter up over both of you with one hand while the other stays anchored on your hip. "Forgot how cheap this damn apartment is," he mutters, nose buried in your hair. His breath evens out almost immediately, the exhaustion of his shift finally catching up to him.
You should sleep too. But your brain won’t quiet, buzzing with the leftover adrenaline of the evening. The vibrator sits innocently on the nightstand, its rose-gold surface catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside. You reach for it, turning it over in your hands. The weight is surprising, solid, and expensive. Not something Luis could’ve afforded easily on a resident’s salary.
"Mmm- You’re thinking too much." Luis’s voice is thick with sleep, but his fingers tighten on your hip. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," you lie, setting the vibrator back down. "Just… you didn’t have to get this. It’s-"
"Your birthday." He cracks one eye open, grinning when you frown at him. "And don’t give me that ‘it’s too much’ bullshit. I’ve seen you eye-fuck that thing for months."
You groan, shoving at his chest. "I did not!"
"Uh-huh, you eye-fucked it as much as you did me before we finally got together." He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before tucking your hand against his sternum. "Besides," he adds, quieter now, "I like seeing you feel good. Even if it’s not with me."
The admission hangs between you, soft and vulnerable. You swallow, suddenly aware of the way his heartbeat jumps under your fingertips. Luis, your confident, ridiculous Luis, is nervous. Nervous that you didn't like your gift.
"You idiot," you whisper, curling into him. "It’s always with you. I only want this with you."
He makes a wounded noise and drags you closer, his arms banding around your waist. "Good," he mumbles into your hair. "Because I don't plan on sharing."
Sleep comes easier after that, wrapped in his warmth and the scent of his cheap shampoo. You drift off to the sound of his breathing, the occasional creak of the apartment settling around you.
—
You wake to sunlight slicing through the blinds and an empty bed. The sheets beside you are rumpled but cool, Luis’s absence immediate. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, and spot the note taped to the vibrator box:
Grocery run. Don’t start the fun without me. -L
You snort, tossing the note aside. The clock reads 9:23 AM, later than you usually sleep, but Luis must’ve let you rest. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge. You stretch, wincing at the pleasant ache between your thighs, and pad to the kitchen.
The cake box is still on the coffee table, a single fork sticking out of the remains. Next to it, Luis has left a glass of water and two ibuprofen. A habit from the mornings after your PCOS cramps keep you up. Though, you're pleased with the soreness left over this morning rather than pissed at your body. You take them gratefully, the cool water soothing your dry throat.
Your phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Luis lights up the screen: Forgot the fucking eggs. Be back in 20, sorry, Princess.
You smile, thumbing out a reply: You’re a disaster.
His response comes instantly. It's a selfie of him in the grocery store's fluorescent glare, hair sticking up in all directions, holding a carton of eggs with exaggerated pride.
You laugh, shake your head, and set the phone down just as it buzzes again. Another photo: Luis squinting at a shelf of pancake mix, his nose wrinkled in confusion. Which one’s the gluten-free kind you like again?
Your fingers hover over the screen, typing and deleting three different responses before settling on: The blue box, babe.
You add a heart emoji, something you’d never do in front of him without earning a theatrical gasp, and press send. The phone buzzes again almost immediately. This time, it’s not a photo but a voice message. You tap it, and Luis’s voice fills the kitchen, tinny through the speakers but warm with laughter: “Okay, but hear me out—what if I got both mixes and we played pancake roulette- fuck, hold on-” The recording cuts off with a muffled curse and the sound of something clattering to the floor. You press a hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking.
The apartment door swings open twenty minutes later, Luis stumbling in with two grocery bags hooked over his wrists and a third clutched precariously under his arm. “I got distracted by the muffin aisle,” he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. A bag of flour peeks out from the top of one bag, dusting the front of his shirt white. You raise an eyebrow. “What?” he says, defensive. “You like muffins, too”
You take the bags from him, peering inside. Beyond the promised pancake mix, there’s a jumble of ingredients that make no sense together- a single lemon, a tub of frosting, a bag of frozen spinach. “What exactly were you planning to make?”
Luis rubs the back of his neck, leaving a streak of flour. “Breakfast,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Or- fuck, I don’t know. I saw the spinach and remembered you said something about the iron being good for you since you're deficient last week.”
You kiss him. It’s impulsive, your hands still full of grocery bags, but his lips part instantly under yours, warm and familiar. He makes a muffled noise of surprise before kissing you back, his flour-dusted fingers cradling your jaw. When you pull away, his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks pink. “What was that for?” he asks, breathless.
“I love you.” you say simply, and his grin is worth every forgotten birthday you’ve ever had.
The pancakes are, predictably, a disaster. Luis burns the first batch, curses over the second, and nearly flips the third onto the floor. You rescue them at the last second, sliding the spatula under his wrist with practiced ease. “My medical genius,” you tease, nudging him aside to take over. “Can’t even flip a pancake.”
Luis leans against the counter, watching you with unabashed affection. “You know my talents are better used elsewhere,” he teases seductively, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind your ear.
You swat his hand away, but you’re smiling. The pancakes come out golden-brown, stacked high on a plate between you. Luis drowns his in syrup; you prefer yours with butter and a sprinkle of sugar. He steals a bite off your plate when he thinks you’re not looking, and you retaliate by stealing his fork. The morning stretches lazy and bright, the kitchen filled with the sound of his laughter and the occasional clatter of dishes.
Later, when the dishes are piled in the sink and Luis is elbow-deep in soap suds, you press against his back, looping your arms around his waist. He smells like syrup and cheap laundry detergent, his shoulders warm under your chin. “Hey,” you murmur.
Luis turns his head, pressing a soapy kiss to your temple. “Hey sweetheart.”
The moment you look away briefly, he flicks water at you and the sweet moment is broken by his chaotic nature. You shriek. The moment shatters into laughter, and Luis grins, wild and unrepentant, already reaching for the towel. “So,” he says, drying his hands with exaggerated slowness. “Round 2? There's other settings on that vibrator for sure, princess.” Luis teases, waggling his eyebrows aggressively.
You throw a dishrag at his face. He catches it, grinning wider.
The dishrag hits Luis square in the face, but he doesn’t even flinch, he just peels it off with a slow, deliberate smirk that makes your stomach flip. “Oi, cariño,” he drawls, tossing the rag over his shoulder. It lands in the sink with a wet plop. “You’re gonna regret that.”
You back up instinctively, but the kitchen is small, and Luis is faster. He corners you against the fridge, his hands braced on either side of your head, his hips caging you in. The smirk hasn’t left his face. “You were saying something about the vibrator?” he coos, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your lips.
You giggle. “Nope. I didn't say a word.”
Luis hums, pretending to consider this. His knee nudges between yours, and you bite your lip when he presses closer. “Liar,” he laughs softly, but then his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, and you forget how to breathe. The fridge door digs into your back, cold through the thin fabric of your shirt, but Luis is everywhere, his hands sliding under your thighs to hoist you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He groans when you rock against him, the friction delicious even through layers of fabric.
“Bedroom,” you gasp between kisses, tugging at his hair.
Luis nips at your jaw. “Demanding.” But he’s already moving, carrying you down the hallway with embarrassing ease. He kicks the bedroom door shut behind you both, and then you’re tumbling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
The vibrator is still on the nightstand next to your candle warming lamp, gleaming innocently in the lamp light. Luis reaches for it without breaking eye contact, his fingers brushing the buttons.
His mouth follows the path of his hands, lips grazing your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach. By the time he reaches your thighs, you’re squirming, fingers twisted in the sheets. Luis chuckles, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Patience.”
The vibrator whirs to life, a low, insistent buzz that makes your hips jerk. Luis watches you, dark-eyed and intent, as he drags the tip up your inner thigh. “Tell me what you'd like,” he prompts, voice rough.
“Luis, you already know what I like,” you whine.
“Tell me anyway,” Luis repeats, softer now, his thumb stroking the crease of your thigh. The vibrator hovers just above where you want it most, its warmth radiating against your skin. You whimper, arching off the mattress, but he holds you down with one firm hand on your hip. “Use your words like we practiced,” Luis reminds, teasingly.
“Please,” you choke out, fingers scrambling for purchase in the sheets. “Please, baby, need it.”
The begging does the trick. For now.
The first touch is electric and slow, deliberate circles that have your back bowing off the bed. Luis exhales sharply, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he watches you unravel. “Dios mio,” he mutters, adjusting the angle just so, and suddenly the pleasure crests sharp and bright, stealing your breath. You clutch at his wrist, gasping his name, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, even as your thighs clamp around his hand.
He knows what you need, God, he loves you.
When you finally feel the need to cum, it crashes over you and it’s with a sob. Luis is there, gathering you against his chest as you tremble with aftershocks. He murmurs sweet nonsense into your hair, his own breathing ragged, the vibrator discarded somewhere in the tangle of sheets. “Not hurting?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
You shake your head no weakly, your limbs still twitching with aftershocks. Luis smiles, brushing a curl off your forehead before reaching for the lube again. “Good, that's good,” he murmurs, slicking his fingers with deliberate care. “Because I’m not done with you yet, if that's okay?”
You nod yes rapidly and it makes him laugh at your excitement.
His fingers are gentle when they press inside you, working in slow, patient thrusts until your hips hitch instinctively. The stretch burns, it always does, damn your body, just enough to make your breath catch, but Luis reads your body like a map, his touch easing the ache slowly with every pass of his fingers stretching you. “Breathe through it, honey,” he reminds you, his thumb circling your clit in time with his fingers. You suck a deep breath in. “Just like that.”
You try to obey, try to continue the deep breaths, but then Luis is sinking into the rhythm, the pleasure building again in slow, molten waves. Luis watches you with dark, hungry eyes, his free hand skimming up your ribs to thumb at your nipple. The dual sensation makes you cry out, your back arching off the mattress. “Luis, oh my god-”
“Not god, just me, Princessa” he laughs, crooking his fingers just so against your upper walls. “I know, baby. S’ gotta feel amazing, doesn't it? You've been pent up all day, huh?”
The second orgasm hits harder with you gushing slick around his fingers, his dirty coos soothing something deep within you. Luis groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you clench around his fingers causing louder squelches to fill the silence of the bedroom. “Fuck,” he rasps out, his hips stuttering against the mattress despite his pants still on. “You’re so adorable like this.”
You reach for him blindly when you realize how patient he's been, your fingers finding the waistband of his boxers. Luis hisses when you palm him through the fabric, his cock hot and heavy in your hand. “Off,” you demand, tugging weakly.
He laughs, breathless, but obliges, shucking his boxers with clumsy urgency. The sight of him, flushed and leaking, his abs flexing as he strokes himself, makes your mouth water. Luis notices, his smirk returning. “Eager, huh?”
You pinch his arm, but he just grins, crawling over you to kiss the gesture away. His cock brushes your thigh, leaving a sticky streak, and you shiver at the contact. “Condom?” you murmur against his lips.
Luis groans against your mouth, one hand already fumbling for the nightstand drawer. "Christ, almost forgot," he mutters, fingers scrabbling past half-empty lube bottles and a tangled phone charger.
The foil packet crinkles when he finally retrieves it, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as he tears it open with shaky hands. You watch the tendons in his throat jump when he rolls the condom on, his breathing already ragged. The latex clings to him and your stomach swoops when he presses against your entrance, his fingers digging into your hips.
"Still okay, no pain?" he murmurs, pausing even as his body trembles with restraint. His forehead glistens with sweat, a drop sliding down the bridge of his nose. You nod, arching up to meet him, but Luis doesn't move, just holds himself there, letting you feel the stretch without yielding. "Good, si?”
"Yes," you gasp, nails scraping down his tan back.
He sinks into you with a punched-out groan, his hips flush against yours in one slow, shuddering push. The fullness steals your breath and Luis stills, his entire body taut as a bowstring. "Fuck," he grits out, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel- God- so good, mi vida."
You clench around him experimentally testing if you feel any pain, and Luis curses, his hips jerking instinctively. The movement drags a broken noise from both of you, and suddenly his restraint snaps. He pulls out almost completely before driving back in, his rhythm rough but controlled, each thrust precise enough to make your vision blur. The headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, creaking tempo, but neither of you care. Not when Luis is mouthing at your neck, his teeth catching on your pulse point, his hands everywhere at once.
One palm skims up your ribs to cradle your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation coils tight in your belly, heat pooling low and urgent. Luis notices, he always fucking notices, and he grins against your skin, adjusting his angle just so. "Close?" he rasps, his voice wrecked.
You nod frantically, your thighs clamping around his hips. Luis hums, pleased, and reaches between you, his fingers finding your puffy clit with unerring accuracy. The added pressure tips you over the edge, your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, wrenched from your throat in a soundless cry. Luis groans, his rhythm stuttering as you clamp around him, his forehead pressed tight to yours. "That's it, Dios, Fuck-" he pants, his hips snapping erratically, clearly close too.
He comes with a sharp gasp, his body locking up as he spills into the condom. You cling to him as he shudders through it, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside. Then Luis collapses onto you, his weight a comforting press, his lips brushing your collarbone. "Christ," he laughs, voice muffled against your skin, "You sucked the soul out of my dick, babe.”
You laugh weakly, carding your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. Luis nuzzles into the touch, his eyelids fluttering shut. The condom is a distant discomfort, he'll deal with it in a minute, you know, but for now, he's content to stay buried inside you, his body heavy and warm. The afterglow settles over you both like a blanket, thick and syrupy.
Eventually, Luis stirs, pressing a kiss to your sternum before rolling off to dispose of the condom. He returns with a damp washcloth, gently cleaning you up before tossing it toward the hamper. It misses, landing on the floor with a wet slap, but neither of you care. Luis flops back onto the bed, dragging you against his chest with a satisfied sigh. His heartbeat thrums under your cheek, steady and strong.
"Happy birthday, my precious girl," he coos again, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
You hum your thanks, too boneless to form words. Luis chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before reaching for the blanket tangled at the foot of the bed. He drags it up over both of you, tucking you in with exaggerated care. The AC kicks on again, sending a chill across your sweat-damp skin, but Luis is warm and you burrow closer with a contented sigh.
Outside, the city carries on, horns blaring, sirens wailing, life rushing forward at breakneck speed. But here, in this bed, with Luis's arms around you and his heartbeat under your ear, time slows to a crawl and you realize maybe, just maybe, this birthday wasn't as bad as the others.
Its so hard to find Luis Serra fics and I read yours multiple times.
I was wondering if i could request a resident evil where Luis is alive and in the future helping Leon out in RE 9 but he gets distracted by his wife wearing his lab coat. Thanks
Thinking about Luis helping Leon find a cure for the T-Virus in RE9...
A/N: Hello, love! Thank you so, so much for requesting Luis. I love him so much, but no one ever seems to like him as much as Carlos or Leon. I actually have another two fics lined up for him. I've been dabbling in working on, hoping someone would show interest in content for him. If you have more requests for Luis, please send them in when requests reopen!
CW: 2k words, Established relationship between the reader and Luis (married), AU in which Luis survives RE4 and Leon get's him a job at the DSO, Luis is helping Leon find a cure for T-Virus, Takes place right before RE9 would take place, Spanish petnames galor (I'm not gonna list them all out we all know Luis goes crazy with that shit and I will always write him like that), Domestic fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF.
"Mi amor, you’re still awake?" Luis’s voice carries from the doorway, half-amused, half-concerned, as he toes off his shoes with a tired sigh. The lab coat draped over the couch arm catches his eye first, his spare one, the one he keeps by the door at home for emergencies, before he spots you, curled under it like a makeshift blanket, glasses askew on your nose, hair spilling over the cushions.
The apartment smells like overcooked pasta and faint citrus from the half-finished mojito abandoned on the coffee table. You’d promised yourself you’d stay up until he got home, but the clock on the wall reads 2:17 AM, and the documentary you’d put on for background noise had long since given way to static. Luis crosses the room in three strides, kneels beside the couch, and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone. "Dios, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day," he coos fondly, but there’s no real scolding in it, just warmth.
You blink awake, disoriented, then light up like a firework the second your brain registers him. "Luis!" The name bursts out of you, giddy, as you fling your arms around his neck. He laughs, catching you, his stubble scratching your temple as he presses a kiss there, then another to the bridge of your nose, then your forehead, relentless. "You’re home, you’re home- how’s Leon? Did you- ?"
"Shh, shh," he soothes, but he’s grinning, cupping your face in his hands like you’re something precious. "Leon’s holding on. Stubborn bastard." His thumbs swipe under your glasses, wiping away sleep crust, and you wrinkle your nose at him. "But you- mi vida, mi estrella- you should’ve gone to bed."
My life, my light.
You don’t answer, too busy mapping the exhaustion on his face, the dark crescents under his eyes, the way his shoulders slump forward like gravity’s doubled. The lab coat slips off your shoulders as you sit up, and Luis’s gaze drops to it, then back to you, his smirk lazy but bright. "Stealing my clothes now, cariño? Should I be flattered or concerned?"
Sweetheart.
"Both," you mumble, fingers already plucking at the wrinkled fabric of his dress shirt. "You smell like antiseptic and coffee." His laugh is a rough, tired thing, but he leans into your touch when you push his hair back from his forehead. "When was the last time you ate? Actually ate, not just- " you gesture vaguely at the empty energy drink cans littering his lab reports on the kitchen counter "Energy drinks and ashy protein bars."
Luis opens his mouth, then closes it when you narrow your eyes. "...Lunch?" he tries, and you groan, shoving at his chest. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your palm. "Ay, don’t look at me like that. You know how it gets when we’re close to a breakthrough."
"You’re worse than Leon," you grumble, but you’re already swinging your legs off the couch, tugging him toward the kitchen. He follows, compliant, his fingers laced with yours. The fridge light paints his face in stark relief as you rummage for the Tupperware you’d packed hours ago, arroz con pollo, his favorite, now cold but still edible. Luis makes a noise behind you, something soft and wounded.
You’d wanted to surprise him.
"You made this?" Luis's voice cracks as he watches you pop the Tupperware into the microwave, his fingers tightening around yours. The hum of the appliance fills the silence between you, the faint scent of garlic and saffron beginning to seep into the air. His thumb traces circles over your knuckles, a silent thank you, a silent “I’m here” even if his body is still halfway to the lab in his head.
You don’t answer, just press a Gatorade into his other hand, the one not currently clinging to you, as if you might vanish. "Drink. Now, babe," you order, nudging the bottle toward his lips until he obeys, the corners of his mouth quirking up around the rim. The microwave beeps, and you turn to grab the food, but Luis catches your waist and spins you back toward him. His nose brushes yours, his breath warm and sweet from the drink. "Te quiero," he coos, the words soft against your lips before he kisses you properly, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again despite years of marriage.
I love you.
The first bite of food is a revelation. Luis moans, shameless, his eyes fluttering shut as he chews. "Dios, I forgot what real food tastes like," he mumbles around the fork, already reaching for another bite. You snort, stealing a piece of chicken from his container just to watch him pout. "You’re lucky I love you," you grumble, but there’s no heat in it, just the same fond exasperation that’s been there since the first time you dragged him out of his lab to eat proper food.
The kitchen is too small for two people, really, but neither of you moves. Luis eats like a man starved, and you lean against the counter beside him, your hip brushing his, your fingers carding through his thick, wavy hair just to feel him sigh into the touch. His free hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing absent circles through the fabric of his stolen lab coat. "You’re gonna crash soon," you murmur when his eyelids start to droop, his head lolling toward your shoulder. "Bed?”
Luis shakes his head stubbornly, even as his body betrays him, his shoulders sagging forward, the fork wobbling slightly in his grip. "Can't," he mumbles around another mouthful of arroz con pollo. "Need to review the latest viral sequences before- " A yawn cracks his jaw mid-sentence, and you press your lips together to keep from giggling.
"Before you faceplant into your microscope?" you finish for him, plucking the fork from his slack fingers. He blinks at you, slow and owlish behind his smudged glasses. "Luis. You've been awake for thirty-six hours. That’s a new record, honey."
"Thirty-eight," he corrects automatically, then winces when you pinch his side. "Ay, okay, okay, yeah, bedtime." He lets you tug him upright, his arms looping around your waist as he stumbles into you. His nose bumps against your temple, his breath warm and uneven against your curls. "But you're coming with me," he murmurs, half-plea, half-command.
You don't argue. The bedroom is dark, the sheets cool when you tumble into them, and Luis collapses beside you with a groan. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow, his arm slung heavily across your stomach, his face smushed into the crook of your neck. You card your fingers through his hair, still slightly stiff with curl gel, and listen to his breathing even out.
The quiet settles over you both like a second blanket, broken only by Luis’s slow, even breaths against your collarbone. His fingers twitch against your hip, some residual instinct from surviving Spain, before stilling again. You press a kiss to the top of his head, his hair smelling faintly of disinfectant and his own stupidly expensive cologne. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:02 AM, but you’re wide awake now, your brain buzzing with the leftover energy of seeing him home safe.
____
Morning comes too soon. The sunlight filters through the curtains, painting stripes across Luis’s back as he stirs with a groan. He blinks up at you, bleary-eyed and disoriented, before his face crumples into something unbearably soft. “You stayed,” he rasps, his voice rough with sleep. His thumb brushes your cheek, like he’s checking you’re real. “Thought I dreamed you.”
You huff a laugh against his palm, your fingers curling around his wrist to keep him there. "Where else would I go, idiot? I’m your wife." The morning light catches the gold in his eyes, the exhaustion still lingering but softened by sleep. His stubble scratches your fingertips as you trace the line of his jaw, memorizing the way his breath hitches when your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.
Luis exhales through his nose, a half-laugh, half-sigh that ruffles your bangs. His fingers trail down your arm, pausing to fiddle with the cuff of his stolen lab coat still draped over your shoulders. "You look ridiculous in this," he murmurs, but his voice is thick with something that makes your ribs ache. He tugs at the collar, pulling you closer until your foreheads bump. "Like some mad scientist's beautiful assistant."
"You are a mad scientist," you remind him, but he's already rolling you onto your back, his weight a comfortable anchor as he noses along your jaw. His stubble rasps against your skin, his breath hot where it ghosts over your pulse. "Luis- "
"Fuck the lab today," he growls against your throat, and the vehemence in his voice surprises you both. He freezes, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own wide and startled behind his crooked glasses. "I mean- not fuck it, obviously, but- " He huffs, frustrated, and collapses onto his elbows beside you, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. "Dios, I can't even insult my own workplace properly anymore."
You bite your lip to keep from laughing, but your shoulders shake anyway. Luis lifts his head just to glare at you, but there's no heat in it, just exhaustion and fondness and the lingering panic of a man who'd almost lost too much already. His fingers find yours on the mattress, threading together tightly. "I need this to work," he says quietly, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your palm. "For Leon. For everyone."
The admission hangs between you, raw and unguarded, the first time he’s said it out loud since Leon collapsed at the DSO three days ago. Luis’s fingers tremble against yours, and you squeeze back, hard enough to ground him. “I know,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his knuckles. The taste of antiseptic lingers on his skin. “But you can’t save him if you’re dead on your feet.”
Luis makes a noise low in his throat, half-protest, half-surrender, before rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. The morning light catches the silver streaking his temples, the lines around his eyes deeper than they were a month ago. “I had the sequence right there, y’know?” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “But the viral load in his bloodstream, it’s adapting faster than we can…”
“Hey.” You straddle his hips, your knees bracketing his waist, and press your palms to his cheeks until he meets your gaze. His stubble rasps against your skin. “You’re the smartest person I know. If anyone can outthink this thing, it’s you.” His breath hitches when you lean down, your curls curtaining his face, and brush your nose against his. “But even geniuses need showers. And coffee. And maybe a break from smelling like a Petri dish.”
He huffs a laugh, his hands settling on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles through the fabric of his stolen lab coat. “You’re a menace, honey,” he murmurs, but he’s already tilting his chin up to catch your lips in a lazy kiss. His mouth is warm, still sleep-soft, and you can taste the lingering salt of last night’s arroz con pollo. God, you missed him.
Summary: You're both in Spain for the events of RE4. What happens when Luis flirts with you in front of Leon?
Small Warning: Luis gets a little crude, OG RE4-esque, even.
To be completely honest, Luis should've expected this to happen. This is really just a consequence of his own actions.
It had started innocently enough. He had been casually flirting with Leon's mission partner, Y/N, coyly sharing winks and jokes. He supposes that, in hindsight, he might've taken it a bit too far.
It was when the four of you rushed into a safe house in the middle of nowhere. Leon had one hand around your wrist, the other around Ashley's, making sure you both made it there safe. Even though you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, Leon watched over you like a lover would. Luis, seeing the protective glare in his eyes, decided to test him.
"Ah! I see the lost princesa has been rescued by a beautiful, feminine knight~" His hand landed in yours, uncaring of the dirt and grime beneath your nails. A kiss was placed on your knuckles, a wink gracing his features for a moment.
Leon grumbled, "This is not the time. Is this location safe?"
Ashley was behind him, nodding in agreement. Was it safe? Would they be okay to wait out the storm?
Luis's eyes didn't dare stray from your face, "Of course, mi amor. I would never put such beautiful features in harms way."
You rolled your eyes, trying to pull your hand away. Leon got there first.
Luis was up against the wall before he knew it. Strong fists were in his shirt, lifting him up against the splintering wood at his back. "She's not interested, pal. Now answer the question to my face."
Perhaps rather dumbly, Luis simply looked past him, gaze still trained on you.
"I would answer you, Prince Charming, but I'm too focused on your shield maiden. I knew you two had fire power, but I'm shocked that she's equipped with bazookas."
He winked again, watching as your hand went to cover your clothed chest. He barely got to see your shocked expression before a fist landed in his face.
Yeah, this was his own fault.
His face bloomed with bruises immediately, red flushing his right cheekbone in particular.
Ashley was speaking now, sighing in annoyance, "How rude."
You nodded. Rude, indeed.
Leon looked back at you softly, like he was silently trying to apologize for what had just been said to you. But you couldn't help but notice that his gaze lingered on the swell of your breasts just a touch longer than necessary.
Luis chuckled through the pain. He had achieved his goal after all.
I got the itch and started replaying the RE4 Remake after finishing Requiem, and I have to say, as someone who doesn't get too involved in shipping stuff, I really enjoy the idea of Leon and Ashley ending up together before RE9.
To me, they have the best chemistry and bond in the series, and it's made playing the game again really enjoyable. Lots of little moments of them building trust and fun back-and-forth comments, a few instances of flirting from both sides. Capcom obviously restrained from overtly leaning into it, but I think there is a very deliberate romantic undertone to how RE4 portrays their relationship. It's all over the game.
Unlike what seems to be the consensus, I don't interpret the ending as Leon turning Ashley down romantically out of disinterest - he keeps things professional with her, yes, and given the circumstances of his life at the time it's not something he would/could actively go for, but there are moments where there is that chemistry and attraction from him.
Instead, I feel like it's more of a bittersweet inevitability that their little adventure(nightmare) has come to an end, and they'll have to part ways. Towards the end, Ashley asks for reassurance from Leon that they're a team, and shows her eagerness in maybe following his line of work. But in that last scene you can tell Ashley is a bit somber and she asks if he wants to be on her detail somewhat rhetorically, already knowing the answer.
Ashley is the President's daughter, and Leon is a clandestine agent who is effectively forced to work for the government and do whatever they want. There is no future for any sort of friendship or relationship immediately after RE4, and they both know it. But it's not something set in stone.
I feel like, despite the obvious horror/trauma of the situation, they both would have a sense of "what-if" and look back with a bit of wistful fondness at their time together, sometimes wondering what the other is up to. It's very narratively satisfying to think of them reconnecting like 15-20 years after Spain when they would be more free to pursue something.
You've never been a fan of celebrating your birthday. It's always been a day in which you feel like something bad is just waiting to happen. After the night Luis discovered your PCOS, and you both admitted your feelings to one another, things start to look up, and a small piece of you begins hoping that this birthday will be better than the last. At least, you thought it would be.
This is a companion sequel to Cramped Together.
CW: 5k words, Modern Alternate Universe, Luis works at a hospital during his third year of residency, No Umbrella, No Las Plagas, Roommate! Luis, Roommate! Reader, Descriptions of difficulty with penetrative sex, use of a vibrator on a female, Protected Vaginal Sex, Fingering, Luis being so attentive during sex, Graphic descriptions of light pain during penetrative sex because of PCOS, Reader has PCOS, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Petnames GALOR (It's Luis, you guys know the drill), Graphic descriptions of self-deprecating thoughts, Luis not taking care of himself physically or mentally because residency is running him dry, written with a Plus-sized! reader in mind
The lab coat is wrinkled at the elbows again. Luis notices this as he scrubs his hands raw under the hospital’s antiseptic glow, the scent of iodine clinging to his skin like a second layer. Third-year residency does that, turns you into a creature of habit, of small, fraying details no one else sees. The coat’s cuffs are stained with coffee rings from yesterday’s 3 AM crash-cart scramble. He should’ve thrown it in the wash.
Across the hall, Dr. Chen rattles off stats for a new admission, stroke, mid-fifties, no prior history, and Luis’s fingers twitch, already itching for a pen to jot it down. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Again. The third time in twenty minutes. He knows who it is without looking.
Luis shakes his head, drying his hands on a paper towel. “Later, yeah.”
But later is a slippery thing in neurology. Later means after the lumbar puncture, after the family consultation, after the resident who was supposed to take over at seven calls in sick. Later stretches into never, and he knows, he knows, what today is.
The call room smells like stale instant noodles and regret. Luis collapses onto the cot, phone finally in hand. Four missed calls. A single text: You forgot, didn’t you?
He didn’t. He couldn’t. But the clock reads 9:47 PM, and the cake is still sitting in the breakroom fridge, the candles unlit, the vibrator tucked discreetly in his locker where no one will ask questions. His thumb hovers over the reply button. What does he even say?
Down the hall, a code blue blares to life. Luis closes his eyes, just for a second to collect his will to live. Then he’s up, lab coat flapping behind him, already running.
—
The apartment is dark when you finally unlock the door, no surprise there. You drop your keys into the ceramic bowl Luis bought you last Christmas (it’s shaped like a frog, its goofy smile chipped from that one time he knocked it over while drunkenly trying to kiss you). The silence presses in, thick and familiar. You flick on the kitchen light, wincing at the sudden glare. Takeout containers from last night still clutter the counter. You should’ve known.
Birthdays have always been like this for you, a slow crawl toward disappointment, the weight of expectation curling like a fist in your chest. PCOS made puberty a minefield, and adulthood isn’t much better. You’d told Luis that, once, in the hazy 2 AM honesty of your shared bed. “I hate my birthday. It’s just a reminder that my body spent another year not working right.” He’d kissed your shoulder and said nothing, which was better than the hollow platitudes everyone else offered. But now, the quiet feels like a silent confirmation that maybe he agrees.
You shrug off your jacket, the fabric catching on the damp skin of your arms. June heat is relentless, even at night. The shower beckons, but the thought of standing under the water alone makes your throat tighten. Instead, you grab a half-finished bottle of peach iced tea from the fridge and slump onto the couch. Your phone sits heavy in your pocket. You don’t check it.
The shower runs upstairs, your neighbor, Mrs. Kowalski’s nightly ritual. The pipes groan. You press your cold glass to your forehead and close your eyes. Maybe Luis will text. Maybe he won’t. Either way, you’re too tired to care. You tell yourself you're too tired to care.
Then, the jangle of keys in the lock. Your breath catches. The door swings open, and there he is: Luis, hair mussed from where he’s clearly ripped off his surgical cap, lab coat streaked with something suspiciously yellow. He’s holding a lopsided cake, its frosting smudged from where it’s slid against the box. The candles are already lit, tiny flames trembling in the draft from the hallway.
“I didn’t forget,” he blurts. His cheeks are flushed, his breath coming fast like he ran up the stairs. “I swear to god, I didn’t. There was a- a subdural hematoma, and then the fucking attending made us-“
You’re crying. You don’t mean to, but your face crumples, hot tears spilling over before you can stop them. He didn't forget. He didn't forget like everyone else did. Luis makes a wounded noise and kicks the door shut behind him, nearly tripping over his own shoes as he rushes to you. The cake wobbles dangerously.
“Hey, no no no, cariño, don’t cry, please.” He sets the cake on the coffee table, frosting smooshing against the cardboard, and gathers you into his arms. His scrubs smell like hospital antiseptic and sweat, but underneath it, there’s the faintest hint of his cologne, something citrusy and cheap that you’ve come to adore. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You bury your face in his chest. His heartbeat thuds against your cheek, frantic and alive. “You didn’t text me or call.” you mutter, voice thick.
Luis groans, tilting your chin up so he can press a kiss to your forehead. “I know. I’m an idiot. I was overwhelmed with work.” His thumb swipes at your tears. “But I got you cake. And-“ He digs in his pocket, producing a small, discreet box. “This.”
You blink at it. “Is that a-?”
“Yeah.” His grin is sheepish. “The fancy one you eyed in the mall. The, uh-“ He wiggles his fingers vaguely. “Clit stimulator with the warming function.”
“I know penetration has been hurting and I thought maybe you'd enjoy trying it out.” Luis admits, almost nervous.
A laugh hiccups out of you, wet and surprised. He paid attention to every detail. Luis beams, like he’s won something.
“Cake first,” he decides, scooping up the ruined dessert. “Then I’m putting that thing to work.” His nose scrunches. “After a shower. I smell like a cadaver.”
You swat at him, but you’re grinning now, the fist in your chest slowly uncurling. Luis grabs a fork from the kitchen and feeds you a bite of cake right there on the couch, his free hand stroking your curls. The frosting is too sweet, the sponge slightly dry. It’s perfect. He's perfect.
The cake is gone, reduced to smears of frosting on the cardboard and a few crumbs Luis brushes off your thighs with exaggerated care. His fingers linger, tracing the soft stretch marks along your inner thighs, something he does absentmindedly now, like he's memorizing the topography of you. When you first admitted your feelings, you hated it. It made you feel like he was just fetishizing a part of you that you hated. Now? You understand that he really just adores your body. All the curves, hip dips, acne scars, everything. He adores everything.
—
The shower runs in the background, steam curling under the bathroom door. He'd stripped off his scrubs in the hallway, leaving them in a heap by the door like a discarded second skin. You'd laughed when he'd done it, and he'd grinned, wild and unrepentant, before disappearing into the bathroom with a promise to "scrub the hospital stink off."
Now, you sit cross-legged on the bed in just his old medical school t-shirt, the fabric stretched thin over your hips. The vibrator box sits between you, still unopened. You trace the edges with one finger, pulse jumping when the shower cuts off abruptly. Luis emerges moments later, hair dripping, towel slung low on his hips. Water slides down the ladder of his ribs, and you watch, mouth suddenly dry.
"Enjoying the view, princessa?" he teases, shaking his hair like a dog. Droplets hit your legs, cool against your flushed skin.
You huff, tossing a pillow at him. It misses spectacularly, and he laughs, crouching to retrieve it before crawling onto the bed with exaggerated slowness. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles behind you, his chest warm against your back. His breath ghosts over your shoulder when he reaches around you to pick up the box.
"Okay," he murmurs, nuzzling the damp curve of your neck. "Let's see what we're working with, this thing better be worth its damn price."
The packaging tears easily under his fingers. Inside, nestled in sleek black foam, is the vibrator. It's sleek, rose-gold, and intimidatingly elegant. Luis whistles lowly, turning it over in his hands. "Fancy," he says, pressing a button on the base. It whirs to life, a quiet, insistent buzz that makes your thighs press together instinctively.
Luis notices, of course. He always does. His free hand splays over your stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles just above the hem of your shirt. "Nervous, baby?"
You swallow. "A little."
He hums, kissing the knob of your spine. "Tell me how you want it."
It’s the same question he asks every time, giving you space to set the pace. You twist in his arms to face him, heart hammering when his gaze drops to your mouth. "Go slow?" you whisper.
Luis’s smile is tender, his fingers already reaching for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. "Whatever you want, mi vida."
His fingers are warm when they slide under your shirt, calloused thumbs skimming the dip of your waist. The lube clicks open eliciting a sound you’ve come to associate with the slow, syrupy build of anticipation and Luis coats two fingers with deliberate care. You shiver when he presses the first, slick touch to your inner thigh, his other hand coaxing your legs apart. “Okay, still?” he murmurs, watching your face.
You nod, biting your lip when his fingers trace higher, avoiding where you want him most. He chuckles, low and knowing, and you swat at his shoulder. “Tease.”
“Yeah, I am.” he chuckles, but then his mouth is on your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear while his fingers finally, finally brush over your swelling clit. The vibrator hums somewhere near your hip, forgotten for now. Luis knows you, knows you need the slow ache of his fingers first, the way they curl inside you with practiced precision, stretching you gently until your back arches off the mattress.
“There's that spot,” he breathes against your jaw when you gasp. His free hand gathers your curls, holding them back from your face as he watches you fall apart under his touch. “Fuck, you’re beautiful all needy like this, honey.”
The vibrator’s buzz startles you when he lifts it, the rose-gold tip glistening with lube. Luis pauses, hovering it just above where his fingers are buried inside you. “Ready?”
You nod again, words failing when he presses the cool metal against your clit. The sensation is electric, sharp and immediate, and you jolt, gripping his wrist. Luis stills instantly. “Too much?”
“N-no,” you stammer, thighs trembling. “Just… new and a lot.”
He smiles, adjusting the angle so the vibrations ripple through you instead of piercing. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Your voice cracks. “Yeah, that’s… so good.”
Luis kisses you then, swallowing your moan as he works the vibrator in slow, torturous circles. His fingers crook inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl, and suddenly you’re clutching the sheets, hurtling toward the edge with embarrassing speed. Luis groans into your mouth when you clench around his fingers. “That’s it, cariño,” he coos. “Cum, I know you can.”
The climax crashes over you like a wave, stealing your breath. Luis guides you through it, his touch gentling as you shudder, the vibrator’s buzz dialed down to a purr. When you finally slump back against the pillows, boneless and spent, he’s grinning like he’s won the lottery, the bastard.
“Happy birthday, baby” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
You laugh, breathless, swatting at him half-heartedly. “Asshole.”
Luis just beams, setting the vibrator aside before tugging you against his chest. His heartbeat thrums under your ear, steady and sure. The afterglow settles over you both, heavy and sweet.
After a few minutes, he reaches for your banged up water bottle on the nightstand, nudging it into your hands. “Drink,” he orders, softer now. “You used up a lot of energy, don't want you dehydrated.”
You roll your eyes but obey, the water cool down your throat. Luis watches you, his fingers idly tracing the stretch marks on your hips. When you’re done drinking what he deems enough water, he takes the bottle and sets it aside, then reaches for the hair tie on your shared side table.
“Turn around,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion and affection.
You do, letting him gather your curls into a loose bun. His fingers are clumsy, he’s never quite mastered hairstyling, but the care he takes, the way he fusses until every strand is tucked away, makes your chest ache.
“There,” he murmurs, kissing the nape of your neck. “Now you won't get tangles all night.”
The AC kicks on with a rattling sigh, sending a gust of cold air across the bed. You shiver, pressing closer to Luis’s warmth. He huffs a laugh, tugging the comforter up over both of you with one hand while the other stays anchored on your hip. "Forgot how cheap this damn apartment is," he mutters, nose buried in your hair. His breath evens out almost immediately, the exhaustion of his shift finally catching up to him.
You should sleep too. But your brain won’t quiet, buzzing with the leftover adrenaline of the evening. The vibrator sits innocently on the nightstand, its rose-gold surface catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside. You reach for it, turning it over in your hands. The weight is surprising, solid, and expensive. Not something Luis could’ve afforded easily on a resident’s salary.
"Mmm- You’re thinking too much." Luis’s voice is thick with sleep, but his fingers tighten on your hip. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," you lie, setting the vibrator back down. "Just… you didn’t have to get this. It’s-"
"Your birthday." He cracks one eye open, grinning when you frown at him. "And don’t give me that ‘it’s too much’ bullshit. I’ve seen you eye-fuck that thing for months."
You groan, shoving at his chest. "I did not!"
"Uh-huh, you eye-fucked it as much as you did me before we finally got together." He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm before tucking your hand against his sternum. "Besides," he adds, quieter now, "I like seeing you feel good. Even if it’s not with me."
The admission hangs between you, soft and vulnerable. You swallow, suddenly aware of the way his heartbeat jumps under your fingertips. Luis, your confident, ridiculous Luis, is nervous. Nervous that you didn't like your gift.
"You idiot," you whisper, curling into him. "It’s always with you. I only want this with you."
He makes a wounded noise and drags you closer, his arms banding around your waist. "Good," he mumbles into your hair. "Because I don't plan on sharing."
Sleep comes easier after that, wrapped in his warmth and the scent of his cheap shampoo. You drift off to the sound of his breathing, the occasional creak of the apartment settling around you.
—
You wake to sunlight slicing through the blinds and an empty bed. The sheets beside you are rumpled but cool, Luis’s absence immediate. You sit up, rubbing your eyes, and spot the note taped to the vibrator box:
Grocery run. Don’t start the fun without me. -L
You snort, tossing the note aside. The clock reads 9:23 AM, later than you usually sleep, but Luis must’ve let you rest. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of the fridge. You stretch, wincing at the pleasant ache between your thighs, and pad to the kitchen.
The cake box is still on the coffee table, a single fork sticking out of the remains. Next to it, Luis has left a glass of water and two ibuprofen. A habit from the mornings after your PCOS cramps keep you up. Though, you're pleased with the soreness left over this morning rather than pissed at your body. You take them gratefully, the cool water soothing your dry throat.
Your phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Luis lights up the screen: Forgot the fucking eggs. Be back in 20, sorry, Princess.
You smile, thumbing out a reply: You’re a disaster.
His response comes instantly. It's a selfie of him in the grocery store's fluorescent glare, hair sticking up in all directions, holding a carton of eggs with exaggerated pride.
You laugh, shake your head, and set the phone down just as it buzzes again. Another photo: Luis squinting at a shelf of pancake mix, his nose wrinkled in confusion. Which one’s the gluten-free kind you like again?
Your fingers hover over the screen, typing and deleting three different responses before settling on: The blue box, babe.
You add a heart emoji, something you’d never do in front of him without earning a theatrical gasp, and press send. The phone buzzes again almost immediately. This time, it’s not a photo but a voice message. You tap it, and Luis’s voice fills the kitchen, tinny through the speakers but warm with laughter: “Okay, but hear me out—what if I got both mixes and we played pancake roulette- fuck, hold on-” The recording cuts off with a muffled curse and the sound of something clattering to the floor. You press a hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking.
The apartment door swings open twenty minutes later, Luis stumbling in with two grocery bags hooked over his wrists and a third clutched precariously under his arm. “I got distracted by the muffin aisle,” he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. A bag of flour peeks out from the top of one bag, dusting the front of his shirt white. You raise an eyebrow. “What?” he says, defensive. “You like muffins, too”
You take the bags from him, peering inside. Beyond the promised pancake mix, there’s a jumble of ingredients that make no sense together- a single lemon, a tub of frosting, a bag of frozen spinach. “What exactly were you planning to make?”
Luis rubs the back of his neck, leaving a streak of flour. “Breakfast,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Or- fuck, I don’t know. I saw the spinach and remembered you said something about the iron being good for you since you're deficient last week.”
You kiss him. It’s impulsive, your hands still full of grocery bags, but his lips part instantly under yours, warm and familiar. He makes a muffled noise of surprise before kissing you back, his flour-dusted fingers cradling your jaw. When you pull away, his pupils are blown wide, his cheeks pink. “What was that for?” he asks, breathless.
“I love you.” you say simply, and his grin is worth every forgotten birthday you’ve ever had.
The pancakes are, predictably, a disaster. Luis burns the first batch, curses over the second, and nearly flips the third onto the floor. You rescue them at the last second, sliding the spatula under his wrist with practiced ease. “My medical genius,” you tease, nudging him aside to take over. “Can’t even flip a pancake.”
Luis leans against the counter, watching you with unabashed affection. “You know my talents are better used elsewhere,” he teases seductively, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind your ear.
You swat his hand away, but you’re smiling. The pancakes come out golden-brown, stacked high on a plate between you. Luis drowns his in syrup; you prefer yours with butter and a sprinkle of sugar. He steals a bite off your plate when he thinks you’re not looking, and you retaliate by stealing his fork. The morning stretches lazy and bright, the kitchen filled with the sound of his laughter and the occasional clatter of dishes.
Later, when the dishes are piled in the sink and Luis is elbow-deep in soap suds, you press against his back, looping your arms around his waist. He smells like syrup and cheap laundry detergent, his shoulders warm under your chin. “Hey,” you murmur.
Luis turns his head, pressing a soapy kiss to your temple. “Hey sweetheart.”
The moment you look away briefly, he flicks water at you and the sweet moment is broken by his chaotic nature. You shriek. The moment shatters into laughter, and Luis grins, wild and unrepentant, already reaching for the towel. “So,” he says, drying his hands with exaggerated slowness. “Round 2? There's other settings on that vibrator for sure, princess.” Luis teases, waggling his eyebrows aggressively.
You throw a dishrag at his face. He catches it, grinning wider.
The dishrag hits Luis square in the face, but he doesn’t even flinch, he just peels it off with a slow, deliberate smirk that makes your stomach flip. “Oi, cariño,” he drawls, tossing the rag over his shoulder. It lands in the sink with a wet plop. “You’re gonna regret that.”
You back up instinctively, but the kitchen is small, and Luis is faster. He corners you against the fridge, his hands braced on either side of your head, his hips caging you in. The smirk hasn’t left his face. “You were saying something about the vibrator?” he coos, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your lips.
You giggle. “Nope. I didn't say a word.”
Luis hums, pretending to consider this. His knee nudges between yours, and you bite your lip when he presses closer. “Liar,” he laughs softly, but then his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, and you forget how to breathe. The fridge door digs into your back, cold through the thin fabric of your shirt, but Luis is everywhere, his hands sliding under your thighs to hoist you up, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He groans when you rock against him, the friction delicious even through layers of fabric.
“Bedroom,” you gasp between kisses, tugging at his hair.
Luis nips at your jaw. “Demanding.” But he’s already moving, carrying you down the hallway with embarrassing ease. He kicks the bedroom door shut behind you both, and then you’re tumbling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
The vibrator is still on the nightstand next to your candle warming lamp, gleaming innocently in the lamp light. Luis reaches for it without breaking eye contact, his fingers brushing the buttons.
His mouth follows the path of his hands, lips grazing your collarbone, your ribs, the soft curve of your stomach. By the time he reaches your thighs, you’re squirming, fingers twisted in the sheets. Luis chuckles, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Patience.”
The vibrator whirs to life, a low, insistent buzz that makes your hips jerk. Luis watches you, dark-eyed and intent, as he drags the tip up your inner thigh. “Tell me what you'd like,” he prompts, voice rough.
“Luis, you already know what I like,” you whine.
“Tell me anyway,” Luis repeats, softer now, his thumb stroking the crease of your thigh. The vibrator hovers just above where you want it most, its warmth radiating against your skin. You whimper, arching off the mattress, but he holds you down with one firm hand on your hip. “Use your words like we practiced,” Luis reminds, teasingly.
“Please,” you choke out, fingers scrambling for purchase in the sheets. “Please, baby, need it.”
The begging does the trick. For now.
The first touch is electric and slow, deliberate circles that have your back bowing off the bed. Luis exhales sharply, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise as he watches you unravel. “Dios mio,” he mutters, adjusting the angle just so, and suddenly the pleasure crests sharp and bright, stealing your breath. You clutch at his wrist, gasping his name, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, even as your thighs clamp around his hand.
He knows what you need, God, he loves you.
When you finally feel the need to cum, it crashes over you and it’s with a sob. Luis is there, gathering you against his chest as you tremble with aftershocks. He murmurs sweet nonsense into your hair, his own breathing ragged, the vibrator discarded somewhere in the tangle of sheets. “Not hurting?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
You shake your head no weakly, your limbs still twitching with aftershocks. Luis smiles, brushing a curl off your forehead before reaching for the lube again. “Good, that's good,” he murmurs, slicking his fingers with deliberate care. “Because I’m not done with you yet, if that's okay?”
You nod yes rapidly and it makes him laugh at your excitement.
His fingers are gentle when they press inside you, working in slow, patient thrusts until your hips hitch instinctively. The stretch burns, it always does, damn your body, just enough to make your breath catch, but Luis reads your body like a map, his touch easing the ache slowly with every pass of his fingers stretching you. “Breathe through it, honey,” he reminds you, his thumb circling your clit in time with his fingers. You suck a deep breath in. “Just like that.”
You try to obey, try to continue the deep breaths, but then Luis is sinking into the rhythm, the pleasure building again in slow, molten waves. Luis watches you with dark, hungry eyes, his free hand skimming up your ribs to thumb at your nipple. The dual sensation makes you cry out, your back arching off the mattress. “Luis, oh my god-”
“Not god, just me, Princessa” he laughs, crooking his fingers just so against your upper walls. “I know, baby. S’ gotta feel amazing, doesn't it? You've been pent up all day, huh?”
The second orgasm hits harder with you gushing slick around his fingers, his dirty coos soothing something deep within you. Luis groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you clench around his fingers causing louder squelches to fill the silence of the bedroom. “Fuck,” he rasps out, his hips stuttering against the mattress despite his pants still on. “You’re so adorable like this.”
You reach for him blindly when you realize how patient he's been, your fingers finding the waistband of his boxers. Luis hisses when you palm him through the fabric, his cock hot and heavy in your hand. “Off,” you demand, tugging weakly.
He laughs, breathless, but obliges, shucking his boxers with clumsy urgency. The sight of him, flushed and leaking, his abs flexing as he strokes himself, makes your mouth water. Luis notices, his smirk returning. “Eager, huh?”
You pinch his arm, but he just grins, crawling over you to kiss the gesture away. His cock brushes your thigh, leaving a sticky streak, and you shiver at the contact. “Condom?” you murmur against his lips.
Luis groans against your mouth, one hand already fumbling for the nightstand drawer. "Christ, almost forgot," he mutters, fingers scrabbling past half-empty lube bottles and a tangled phone charger.
The foil packet crinkles when he finally retrieves it, his thumb brushing over your lower lip as he tears it open with shaky hands. You watch the tendons in his throat jump when he rolls the condom on, his breathing already ragged. The latex clings to him and your stomach swoops when he presses against your entrance, his fingers digging into your hips.
"Still okay, no pain?" he murmurs, pausing even as his body trembles with restraint. His forehead glistens with sweat, a drop sliding down the bridge of his nose. You nod, arching up to meet him, but Luis doesn't move, just holds himself there, letting you feel the stretch without yielding. "Good, si?”
"Yes," you gasp, nails scraping down his tan back.
He sinks into you with a punched-out groan, his hips flush against yours in one slow, shuddering push. The fullness steals your breath and Luis stills, his entire body taut as a bowstring. "Fuck," he grits out, forehead dropping to yours. "You feel- God- so good, mi vida."
You clench around him experimentally testing if you feel any pain, and Luis curses, his hips jerking instinctively. The movement drags a broken noise from both of you, and suddenly his restraint snaps. He pulls out almost completely before driving back in, his rhythm rough but controlled, each thrust precise enough to make your vision blur. The headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, creaking tempo, but neither of you care. Not when Luis is mouthing at your neck, his teeth catching on your pulse point, his hands everywhere at once.
One palm skims up your ribs to cradle your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation coils tight in your belly, heat pooling low and urgent. Luis notices, he always fucking notices, and he grins against your skin, adjusting his angle just so. "Close?" he rasps, his voice wrecked.
You nod frantically, your thighs clamping around his hips. Luis hums, pleased, and reaches between you, his fingers finding your puffy clit with unerring accuracy. The added pressure tips you over the edge, your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, wrenched from your throat in a soundless cry. Luis groans, his rhythm stuttering as you clamp around him, his forehead pressed tight to yours. "That's it, Dios, Fuck-" he pants, his hips snapping erratically, clearly close too.
He comes with a sharp gasp, his body locking up as he spills into the condom. You cling to him as he shudders through it, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. For a long moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic outside. Then Luis collapses onto you, his weight a comforting press, his lips brushing your collarbone. "Christ," he laughs, voice muffled against your skin, "You sucked the soul out of my dick, babe.”
You laugh weakly, carding your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. Luis nuzzles into the touch, his eyelids fluttering shut. The condom is a distant discomfort, he'll deal with it in a minute, you know, but for now, he's content to stay buried inside you, his body heavy and warm. The afterglow settles over you both like a blanket, thick and syrupy.
Eventually, Luis stirs, pressing a kiss to your sternum before rolling off to dispose of the condom. He returns with a damp washcloth, gently cleaning you up before tossing it toward the hamper. It misses, landing on the floor with a wet slap, but neither of you care. Luis flops back onto the bed, dragging you against his chest with a satisfied sigh. His heartbeat thrums under your cheek, steady and strong.
"Happy birthday, my precious girl," he coos again, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
You hum your thanks, too boneless to form words. Luis chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before reaching for the blanket tangled at the foot of the bed. He drags it up over both of you, tucking you in with exaggerated care. The AC kicks on again, sending a chill across your sweat-damp skin, but Luis is warm and you burrow closer with a contented sigh.
Outside, the city carries on, horns blaring, sirens wailing, life rushing forward at breakneck speed. But here, in this bed, with Luis's arms around you and his heartbeat under your ear, time slows to a crawl and you realize maybe, just maybe, this birthday wasn't as bad as the others.
okay so idk why so many people are struggling with the villains' plot in RE9, but here it is:
Chloe was part of Spencer's memory transfer experiments in the orphanage in the 80s and 90s
Grace was just some random baby that Spencer took in, likely chosen BECAUSE he knew that she'd grow up to look similar to the other girls
Spencer deliberately fudged his notes about Grace to make it seem like she was special when she wasn't
(He also probably injected her with Elpis as a baby, which is why she doesn't turn after she's bitten -- though that's unconfirmed)
Spencer then agreed to an interview with Alyssa, knowing that Alyssa already had a history of surviving/outlasting/outsmarting Umbrella's bullshit
Spencer gave Grace to Alyssa so that Alyssa could hide her from Spencer's enemies, who would all try to kill each other in an attempt to get at Grace (because Alyssa would do a good job of hiding)
Victor and Zeno attempted to recreate Grace from Spencer's bullshit notes, but all of the girls ended up just becoming mutated failures
Two of the girls that Victor created (funded by Zeno/The Connections) were Emily and Marie
Victor and Zeno decide to just kidnap Grace and use her blood directly, since they can't recreate her
Grace escapes her imprisonment and destroys the vial of blood they tried to take from her
Leon shows up and fucks everything up
Draining Grace of her blood is no longer a viable option
Zeno convinces Victor that they don't need Grace's blood anyway, they just need her to unlock the vials of Elpis that already exist
Zeno believes she knows the password because he believes that she's a successful memory transfer experiment and that Spencer literally implanted the password in her memory
Victor, already suspicious that Elpis might not be what Zeno thinks it is after observing Grace, shoves a Nemesis parasite up his own ass
Grace releases Elpis
Zeno injects himself and gets fucking killed like a punk
Spencer's ghost laughs hysterically in hell as the entire world order is about to become undone, as almost all of the military might of the major world powers rely on virus technology, which Elpis now just fucking deletes
You've been overworking yourself again, trying to make rent on time, taking extra shifts left and right. Your roommate, Luis, has been working himself to death trying to get through his hospital residency. You've both always been a little too close, but one night, he finds you holding on by a thread in your shared bathroom, trying to get ready for your next shift. You never told him about your PCOS, but now seems as good a time as any.
CW: 2K, Modern Alternate Universe, Luis works at a hospital during his third year of residency, No Umbrella, No Las Plagas, Roommate! Luis, Roommate! Reader, Roommates/Best Friends to Lovers, Domestic Fluff, Frequent mentions of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, Brief mention of cancer, Non-sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Nudity, This is comfort for all the people who suffer with PCOS (like me), Butchering of the Spanish Language (I'm so sorry), Mentions of painkillers and prescription medication, Brief mentions of vomiting, Pet names GALOR (it's Luis, come on), Mentions of self-deprecating thoughts
The overhead light flickers as Luis digs through the fridge at 3 AM, the hum of the appliance louder than usual in the quiet apartment. His dark circles are a permanent feature these days; third-year residency doesn’t care about sleep schedules. A half-empty carton of orange juice catches his eye, but before he can grab it, a muffled thud comes from down the hall. Luis drops the juice carton back onto the shelf quickly, the plastic crinkling too loud in the stillness. Another thud hits his ears, this time followed by a sharp gasp, sending him moving before he can think, his bare feet slapping against the linoleum as he rounds the corner toward the bathroom. The door's ajar, yellow light spilling out in a distorted rectangle across the shitty hallway carpet.
His breath catches when he pushes the door open wider and takes in the sight in front of him: you're slumped against the bathtub's edge, one hand gripping your stomach while the other trembles against the bathroom tiles for balance. The porcelain's cold against your bare legs, pajama shorts rucked up from how you'd curled in on yourself. There's sweat beading at your temples despite the chill in the air, and Luis doesn't miss the way your teeth dig into your lower lip like you're trying to swallow another wave of pain.
"¡Mierda!" Luis is kneeling beside you in an instant, fingers pressing gently against your clammy forehead. The bathroom smells faintly of vomit and mint toothpaste, the sharpness of both making your stomach twist again. His thumb brushes your cheekbone—too warm, always too warm lately—and his voice drops into that soft, steady tone he uses with scared patients. "Hey, hey, look at me. Breathe, cariño. Get a breath in."
His hands slide down to your shoulders, grounding you as another cramp rips through your abdomen. You whimper, fingers scrabbling at his t-shirt sleeve, and Luis doesn't hesitate; he pulls you against his chest, your back to his front, one palm splayed across your stomach where the pain burns hottest. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he murmurs sweet comforts in Spanish, words you don't understand but that make your ribs unclench a bit anyway. The other hand reaches blindly for the sink faucet, running cold water over a washcloth until it drips just slightly.
"Tell me what you need," he says, pressing the chilled fabric to your neck. His voice is frayed at the edges- not from exhaustion, but the way it cracks when he sees your knees shaking against the tub. You try to speak, but another spasm steals your breath; Luis swears again, this time under his breath, and shifts to cradle your jaw. "No, no, don't talk. Just nod, is it the same pain as last month?"
Your nod is barely perceptible, forehead dropping against his tan collarbone. His heartbeat thrums erratically under your temple, betraying his calm exterior. He knows he needs to be calm for you; someone needs to be. The medicine cabinet door squeaks when he yanks it open, rummaging past bottles until his fingers close around the prescription ibuprofen you'd hidden behind his razor. "Dios mío, you've been taking these like candy," he mutters, shaking two pills into his palm before noticing your white-knuckled grip on the tub ledge. His expression darkens. "How long have you been sitting here alone?"
You don't answer. Luis exhales through his nose, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his, really meet his eyes, for the first time tonight. The anger in his gaze isn't for you; it's the same fury that tightens his grip when interns dismiss patients in pain. But when he speaks again, his voice is feather-soft, thumb tracing the dark circles under your eyes. "You're shaking, mi vida. Please, let me help you. Let me into your secret little world".
Before you can protest, his arms slide under your knees and back, lifting you from the tile with unsettling ease. The sudden movement makes your vision blur with dizziness, but his chest is solid against your cheek, smelling faintly of hospital antiseptic and the cheap coffee he drinks like an addict to stay awake. He carries you like you weigh nothing, like you're something precious, kicking the shower curtain out of the way with his foot. "Bed or bath?" he coos, lips brushing your hairline when you whimper again. "A bath will help ease the cramps, perhaps?”
The bathtub faucet squeaks when he turns it on one-handed, testing the water temperature with his wrist while still cradling you against him. Steam rises in lazy curls, fogging the mirror above the sink as he adjusts the flow so it’s not too hot. His sleep t-shirt dampens where your sweat soaks through the fabric, but he doesn't seem to notice, too busy nudging your medicine toward your lips with his free hand. "Swallow," he orders gently, palm cupping your jaw to tip your head back. "Then we’ll talk."
And oh, you know that tone, it’s the same one he uses right before demanding why you’re self-deprecating. His fingers linger at your pulse point, counting beats too fast for comfort, and when he speaks again, his breath hitches in a way that has nothing to do with your weight in his arms. "You think I haven't noticed?" His voice cracks on the last syllable, rough with something that makes your stomach flip. "The missed meals? The hiding? The—" He cuts himself off, pressing his forehead to yours so suddenly you feel his lashes brush your skin. "Dios, just tell me it's not cancer."
The confession punches the air from your lungs. His arms tighten instinctively when you flinch, water sloshing over the tub's edge as he kneels to lower you into the steam. His hands don't leave your waist even as the warmth seeps into your aching muscles, fingers tracing the old stretch marks along your hips, the ones you've blamed on stupid fucking weight fluctuations for years. "PCOS," you whisper, and his thumb stills. The word hangs between you, ugly and clinical, but Luis exhales like it's a prayer answered. His palm splays flat over your lower abdomen, warm through the water, and for the first time tonight, his touch isn't clinical. It's reverent.
"I suspected," he murmurs, and the admission shocks you still. His lips quirk at your widened eyes, thumb swiping away a droplet from your collarbone. "I’m in my third-year residency rotation, baby, I've seen patients with symptoms like yours." The water ripples as he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours again. "But you," His voice drops, trembling in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. "You’re not just some patient."
His fingers find yours underwater, tangling tight enough to ache. The confession comes on an exhale, barely louder than the dripping faucet: "Te amo." It's not smooth. It's raw, syllables fractured like he's been holding them in for years. "Even when you lie. Even like this." His free hand brushes your damp hair back, lingering at your cheek. "You’re my girl- my precious, strong princess."
And God, is his confession ripping your heart out.
You swallow hard, watching water sluice off his forearm where it braces against the tub's edge. The admission sticks in your throat, that you'd memorized his schedule just to shower when he wouldn't hear you crying, that you'd buried pill bottles under his razor because what if he thought you were too broken? His thumb traces the inside of your wrist where veins show through too clearly lately, and the words spill out: "I didn't think you'd want..."
For fucks sake, you’re roommates. You’re best friends. Right?
Luis makes a wounded noise, cutting off your thoughts by pressing his lips to your pulse point. When he pulls back, his eyes are too bright. "Idiota," he coos, but it's soaked in something tender. His palm slides up your sternum, resting over your heart where there’s proof you're still kicking it, proof he's here. The water's begun going cold a little when he finally speaks again, voice rough. "You think I don't know what love looks like?"
Steam ghosts between you as he leans in, forehead resting against yours. His next words vibrate through your whole being: "I see it every time you leave my coffee too sweet. When you steal my hoodies and pretend you're cold." His laugh is wet, thumb swiping at your cheek where you hadn't realized you were crying. "Dios, even your fucking spam mail is addressed to Mrs. Luis Serra." The nickname you'd scribbled as a joke months ago on a return envelope, back when pretending you were more than overly friendly roommates, when it felt safer than hoping.
His fingers tighten around yours underwater, pressing your joined hands against the worst of the cramps still twisting your gut. "Four years," he murmurs, and you feel his pulse jump where his wrist brushes your thigh. "You really thought I wouldn't notice the best thing in my life? You knew me before my residency, before it all, baby." The faucet drips between sentences like a metronome counting the seconds until you finally look up- really look at the way his lashes stick together, at the red rimming his usually mischievous eyes.
You open your mouth, but he presses two fingers to your lips that are still trembling from pain or maybe the confession; you can't tell. "Ah-ah, no more hiding." His smile doesn't reach his eyes when he reaches for the shampoo bottle, squeezing strawberry-scented foam into his palm. "Let me?" The question is softer than the hands already carding through your hair, fingertips massaging your scalp where tension has settled for months. When you nod, he exhales like he's been holding his breath since that first midnight gas station run you two had for munchies.
How long ago that was now.
Water sloshes as he shifts, joining you in the bath, finally, chest to your back, knees bracketing your hips. His lips find the length of your hoop earrings between soapy strokes. "Roommates don't do this," he murmurs, teeth grazing the tendon behind your ear. His arms band around your waist, not necessarily restraining you, just there to remind you he’s here, as the bathwater ripples with your shaky inhale. "But lovers? They do this, they grow, they learn. Together, yeah, cariño?" The last word cracks in his throat as his grip tightens, like he's afraid you'll dissolve between his fingers.
Lovers. God, yes.
His soap-slick hands skate lower, tracing the old acne scars along your shoulders that you normally hide under soft cardigans. The pads of his fingers pause at each raised mark as if memorizing a map of your quiet suffering. Steam curls off the water when he suddenly ducks his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the worst one- a crescent moon of puckered tissue near your scapula. "Next time," he whispers against your wet skin, breath hitching, "wake me up when it hurts."
You tilt back into him without thinking, temple meeting his clavicle as his hands slide up to cradle your ribs, too prominent lately. His thumbs brush the underside of your breasts accidentally-on-purpose, the touch searing through the warm water. Neither of you mentions how his pinky lingers on the surgery scar near your hip, the one from the cyst removal you'd lied about, laughing it off as "just a laparoscopy! Let it go, Luis, I’m fine."
The drain gurgles when he reaches past you to pull the plug, but he doesn't let go, forehead pressed to your damp hair as the water level sinks. His watch beeps, 5 AM, time for his shift, but his arms stay locked around you even as the last of the warmth drains away. "Te elijo," he murmurs into your crown, accent thick with sleep deprivation and something dangerously close to devotion. "Every time."
You swallow against the lump in your throat when his fingers find your phone on the sink, tapping away at the screen. Then, he sets it back down in finality. “I called you out of work, you’re not going anywhere but to bed.” The screen glows on the rim of the bathtub, illuminating the purpling bruise on his wrist from yesterday's hospital mishap. "Luis, the rent-" you start, but his thumb presses into the dip of your palm, effectively silencing you.
"Coño, listen," he says sternly, but it's undercut by the way his other hand rubs circles over your cramping abdomen. "You think I picked up extra ER shifts for fun last week?" His laugh is sharp, gesturing to the peeling paint above the shower, the landlord's been "fixing it" since February. Fucking landlord special. "That money's been piling up in savings. For our place. For us, for emergencies like this."
Your heart flutters thinking of the fact that you live in a world where Luis calls your shared apartment, “our place”.
Steam still clings to the mirror when he lifts you out, toweling you off with movements so clinical they'd be laughable if his hands weren't shaking. God, he’s actually worrying about you. The cotton towel catches on your hipbone, too sharp for Luis’s liking, and he makes a pained noise before bundling you into his stolen hospital hoodie, though it’s currently missing its ID badge. " To bed, princessa!" he chuckles, holding his arms out gallantly, but you catch his wrist when he moves toward your bedroom down the hall from the bathroom. His pulse jumps under your fingertips, rapid-fire like a code blue alarm. "Will you stay? In my bed- I mean- uh, Oh God, with me,” you choke out shyly, stumbling over your words. You both hit the mattress before you can even get your sentence straight. The fast, smooth, motherfucking ladies' man he can be sometimes.
He arranges you against his chest like you're breakable, careful of the swollen pain still radiating from your abdomen. The silence stretches until his fingers find your hair again, combing through damp strands with a focus he usually reserves for sutures. "You kept stealing my sweatpants," he says suddenly, voice muffled against your crown. "The gray ones. I bought six identical pairs after the third time you 'lost' them in your laundry." His laugh vibrates through you, warm and teasing. "Thought you just liked my ass. Guess you like all of me, huh?” You feel your ears turning warm at his call-out. “I like you, too,” you whisper as hints of embarrassment crawl up your neck.
As you both cuddle, morning light creeps under the blinds, and his palm spreads over your lower stomach, his thumb rubs slow circles where the pain hums dully. "Next shift’s Thursday," he murmurs, lips moving against your temple. "I swapped shifts." Like it's nothing, like he didn't trade a weekend for your comfort, like residents ever get weekends. The digital clock on the dresser flashes 5:47 AM when he finally stills, fingers lacing through yours over your navel. The pain eases a little.
His phone buzzes on the floor, the sound harsh in the quiet. You flinch and go to move out of Luis’s embrace, but he just tightens his hold tenderly. “Stay put, get some rest, yeah? M’ too tired to get up and deal with it anyway, already called out, sounds like a ishYOU not an ishME for them,” he groans out, clearly half-asleep already. As you chuckle at his joke, you find your body relaxing back into his embrace, and Luis’s breath evens out against your neck. Outside, the city wakes up as you both finally find some rest and relief. Inside, you feel Luis’s heartbeat thudding steadily under your palm, tempting you into the throes of sleep.
I love how Resident Evil men have like one dumb catch phrase after another while the Resident Evil women are like FOR FUCKS SAKE CANT YOU JUST FUCKING DIE ILL KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKER and i think thats beautiful
A Luis Serra Navarro x reader story by @smokeburn (tumblr) - chapter 1
[English isn't my first language — I apologize for any errors]
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A cold night in the Winter of december, 1996.
The office smells of espresso and isopropanol disinfectant. It's all in a days work for the biology department of Umbrella Corp. But something is different tonight. Usually, only one man stays behind, working tiredlessly on the new formula for the "Over the counter'" drug. Now, under the dim light of his cooped up office, is an unusual duo.
Luis Serra Navarro, nagging someone to stay behind? Very uncommon. Someone staying behind with him? Well, there is a first time for everything.
"I don't understand. We did everything right!" the frustation the biologist feels comes out in the shape of a scoff, hands tugging at his lab coat. The fingers of his dominant right hand come up to trail across his notes, barely grazing the ink soaked paper.
"It's okay, Luis. Maybe it's just a smaller oversight we haven't thought about." you suggest, even as your own head tries to get to the conclusion on just what went wrong. Nothing comes to mind, sadly. Only now, when you both breathe in the same frustrated way, do you seem to notice just how much your colleague seems to be upset. It's his notes that possibly were in the wrong, so you understand to some extend why his brows furrow together. What you don't understand, however, is just why he keeps fiddling with the edge of the paper.
In the last 4 months since starting your job in this specific department, you've never quite been able to pinpoint what makes the man next to you so great. Is it drive? Motivation, perhaps? Or is it something entirely different? A hunger for knowledge, which cannot be quenched no matter how hard he tries?
As if the universe planned it, he looks at you the moment you start thinking about him instead of the damned notes. Even as you notice the lingering scent of cigarettes, even as your pupils shift in size and your nose lets the smell of him overwhelm you. "Dont be upset. We'll figure it out. How complicated can it be, when we've got so many achievements under our belt?" you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.
"Yeah… Guess so." he matches your smile with one of his own. "Want to take a smoke break?" he asks, reaching into his coat. He leans back into his chair, before pulling out a pack of his favourite cigarettes and giving it a shake to pull your attention to it.
And sure, you don't smoke often. When the opportunity arises and the stress gets a little too much, you'll reach for your pack. Or is it a habit and you dont want to admit it to yourself? Either way, who are you to refuse Luis, when his smile is so inviting and his presence brings a sense of calm, even with the frustration of a failed experiment?
You find yourself soon bundled up in your coat as the outside winter bites at your fingers and you quite literally feel the cold wind in your bones. Luis offers you from his own pack, being the gentleman he is. You're not stupid, so you take it and offer a greatful little "thank you", which reveals just how cold you are when your voice slightly wavers. He doesn't comment on it, just reaching to retrieve the Umbrella Corp lighter he lit his cigarettes with… And lights the cigarette between your lips, even holding his hand to the side where the wind blew to shield the small flame. He puts you first, how sweet. But he could've just given you the lighter so you could do it yourself. Why didn't he? No time to think, because he strikes up a conversation as he lights his own cigarette. "Didn't think you'd actually stay behind with me, you know." His eyes narrowed slightly from the wind, eyelashes framing the brown of his eyes now. Tilting his head back ever so slightly to lean it against the wall, he looks at you as he smokes. And something about it makes you nervous.
"Well, I also care about the research. And… why would i dismiss your request?" you say, deciding to play along with his game. He wanted to act charming? You'd give him charming. "After all… you're a very important member of our team. It's important that we cooperate together and give Umbrella Corp good results, no?" your lips exhale the smoke that had filled your lungs with warmth..
"Ah, so I'm flattered. Important, you say? Is that really the word you'd describe me with?" his voice sounds like it could lull you right to sleep with how soft and rich it is. It reflects how beyond exhausted he is after days of hard work. Some people in the office and lab whispered how he was a little too dedicated to the cause.
"I can think of a few more." You chuckle. His reply is fast. "Oh? Like what? Charming? Handsome? Delightful company?" He sounds so sure of himself.
"I was thinking something more along of the lines of workaholic. But sure, whatever makes you sleep better at night" you shrugged, taking a long drag of your – his cigarette.
"Wow, ouch. What's wrong with working? Someone has to be making progress. And besides, my best ideas come when it's quiet in the lab and office." He offers a playful scoff, his lips still pulled into a relaxed, tired smile. "Then why am I here?" you ask.
"Isn't it obvious? … I find myself curious about you. We don't interact outside of work. Is it because you don't like how much I work? Is that it?“ he chuckles. "No." You reply, voice betraying just how much your body isn't used to working until literally 3am. The smoke keeps your mind nice and relaxed, nicotine already making its way into your system. "Then what is it? Everyone else knows me. Everyone likes me. But you… you barely even glance at me when we have meeting or dissections in the lab. I remember last week I had to chase you down to try and talk to you about the new virus. Tell me, [name]. Tell me why everyone in this building knows me and talks to me, but you can't find it within yourself to approach me first?" he says, voice shifting into something more serious. Like he actually gave it some thought.
The accusation seems to stop you, hand freezing just before your lips could attach to the cigarette again. You let the smoke curl around, before a laugh escapes you. It isn't mocking. It's warm, sweet. Like his words had woken you up more. "God, you're funny. You're real funny, Luis. I just… didn't think you'd want to talk to me outside of what was necessary. That's it. That is the entire story." The smile on your lips stays, as you look at him with your head resting against the wall now as well.
"…Seriously? That's it?" he scoffs, smiling and chuckling at his own stupidity. "And here I was, thinking you were actually like… trying to avoid me." He shook his head and exhaled the smoke. "So… does that mean we could drink coffee together now, señorita?" The words come from his lips before he can change his mind, the exhaustion making him lean into you with the same charming smile as he usually wore.
Of course you agreed, the two of you sharing a moment. This friendship would prove in the following years to be one of the few connections that stood the test of time… And disaster, which you'd be unwilling participants in.
