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offbloom · 1 year

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𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬;

pairing: luis serra x gn!reader

summary: "“I’m a scientist, Luis. Faith is the absolute antithesis to how I operate.”"

words: 3.8k

warnings: 18+ only, smoking

notes: luis stans it’s dinner time!!! this was a request by a lovely anon and i absolutely adored writing it.... he deserves more love

Luis is… well. Many things.

Charismatic, intelligent, flirty on his worst days. He talks a lot of shit, in that good-humored kind of way where you can’t really stay angry at him. Given the situation you're stuck in, his humor is a welcome reprieve from staring down microscopes and blurring your eyes on computer screens.

Most importantly, he gives you cigarettes to share on your smoke break.

“So, I heard you talking to your boss earlier.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, looks down at you as the end of his cigarette burns bright orange, smoke curling up and overhead. “Didn’t sound too pretty.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, you’re stuck with me.”

“And what, exactly, does that entail?”

“They cut off my resources. Until I accomplish what I came to do, I can’t go home.”

“Wow. And I thought my boss was bad.” That pulls a laugh from you. A breathy chuckle that leaves you coughing out smoke. “Look on the bright side. At least you have me to keep you company.”

You push away from the wall and stamp out the butt of your cigarette into the dirt. “What would I do without you, Luis?”

“Let us hope you never have to find out.”

Back inside the lab, you pull up a seat at the computer while he looks over your notes nearby.

All things considered, he’s a handsome man. Dark hair, brown eyes, well-built. But the personality—it’s his personality that caught your eye. Very few people in your field of work remember what laughing feels like. He seems to have some invisible daily quota to meet. And you would be lying through your teeth if you said that his flattery hasn’t affected you on some basal level. Regardless of how many people have heard such affections.

You’re science partners, and you spend most of the day every day with him. Feeling special is an embarrassing consequence of that.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re ogling me.”

You whip your head around, back toward your computer, and huff out a joyless laugh. “I was not ogling you.”

“Leering, then.” His steps echo off the floor in slow thumps, but you refuse to look away from the lines of wordy data on your computer screen. “Staring, perhaps?”

“None of the above.”

Sandalwood sweeps over you, and then he leans forward, grips the desk with one hand and the back of the chair with the other. “You, my dear, are a liar.”

The accusation leaves you turning, almost catching him at the chin. Your head tilts back, eyes glaring sharp and curious. “A liar?”

His teeth gleam with a wide smile, eyes darting between the features of your face. “I seemed to have hit a nerve.”

“I’m many things, but I’m not a liar.”

“You lied about your employer, did you not?”

Your blood runs cold. The defiance drains from your eyes. How does he—

“Umbrella likes to test loyalty,” he says, turning to prop himself up against the desk. “Especially with new blood like you.”

“I’m guessing I passed.”

He shrugs, sighs long and low, in that teasing way that worms beneath your skin. “I might be able to put in a good word. But…”

“But?”

You dread what he might say next. Have only known him a few months—the days blur together like photo album pages—so you can’t fully, undeniably solidify your trust in him. If he knows your affiliation, then he can fuck you over.

But he doesn’t seem the type. Maybe that speaks more to your naïveté than his character.

“No more lies.”

“That simple?”

He scoffs as if offended, reels back with a thud that jolts the monitor and sends a few pens rolling.

“You have such little faith in me.”

“I’m a scientist, Luis. Faith is the absolute antithesis to how I operate.”

He relaxes, forgoing his usual dramatics. “I suppose that makes sense. However, science and faith can coexist.”

“I’ve yet to see it.”

“But you have. You just don’t know it yet.”

“You believe?”

He nods, and you watch the cracks in his façade slowly form. Widen. Break apart. A calm collection, a budding warmth that leaves you deflecting your gaze to the computer screen. Almost wrong to witness, like staring unprotected at the sun.

“I believe in us. Don’t you?”

Your breathing stutters. He looks upon you as if he means what he says, a certain clarity, a pride to his eyes that curls sweetness between your ribs.

Fuck. You’re feeling things. Things you most certainly, most definitely shouldn’t.

“I do.”

“That was very unconvincing, my dear.”

“Maybe I don’t believe it quite yet.”

“Then we must get to work.”

Luis shares ideas, thoughts as if they’re simple. Common sense. Broad knowledge.

Mutating a virus is much more complicated than getting to work. Working within a time crunch, beneath the threat of desertion by your employer effectively halts progress.

Luis is patient. Despite your failings, he still believes. Days turn to weeks turn to another month, and you resign to the idea of hanging up your coat and escaping into the forest. Perhaps the wolves will enjoy your offering of ignorance, your last-resort desperation.

“You’ve given up, haven’t you?” Luis asks, hovering a few feet away amongst the thicket of trees.

He lights a cigarette with his engraved zippo, the intricate design glinting beneath a sun-speckled canopy.

“And remember,” he crosses the small clearing to sink down beside you, slumping hard against the large tree, “no lies.”

“In that case, absolutely. I am fucked.”

“Actually, we are fucked.” At the cut of your glare, he pulls you close, until the smell of leather catches on the wind. “Partners, remember?”

He hands you the cigarette with a tender grin, watches your lips curl around the filter. Glances back up to meet your eyes.

“Is this your idea of flirting, my dear?”

Smoke fills your lungs, harsh and bitter, and you turn away on the exhale.

Is it?

You care for the man, but any further connection would see you suspended. Blacklisted from the field. A big mark on your newborn record, given the paper-thin ice you already tread upon.

You can see it now: is known to prioritize interpersonal relationships over the betterment of mankind.

But you’re already fucked. You said it yourself. Might as well—

“I guess it is.”

“Typical scientist. Speaking in maybes and guesses.”

“And I think in hypotheses.”

He clicks his tongue as you pass him the cigarette. Takes a long drag, sighs out a cloud all opaque and grey.

You spend the rest of your smoke break in silence. Only the rustle of leaves keep you company. The burn of consuming flame.

Day turns to evening, and the sun sets over the mountain up ahead. A blanket of burnt orange, overcast shadow. Still, you stay. So does he.

“Do you ever have second thoughts? About Umbrella, I mean. If we’re doing the right thing,” you say, tilting your head to look over at him.

He looks prettier in gold, you think, almost glowing beneath the dying sunlight. A lovely, nonsensical contradiction.

Most of your recent life has been poisoned by contradictions, it seems.

“All the time. Why? Are you having these thoughts?”

“They’ve been more frequent.”

“Such is the nature of our work. To question everything—that’s what we do.”

“Are you gonna tell on me?”

He exhales a soft laugh, sucks a sharp breath through his teeth in contemplation. “Never. I like you too much.”

You digest him with curious eyes. The way he looks at you, almost a longing, most definitely a lingering heat that you aren’t sure how to categorize.

“You are infuriatingly difficult to read.”

“Thank you.”

You pull away from him with a roll of your eyes, and he collapses against the tree in a fit of almost-contagious laughter. If not for your inner turmoil, you would share his amusement.

You wait for the forest to settle again.

“I should get back to work.”

“Work that you aren’t even sure you should be doing.”

You take one last glance his way, find him seated against the tree nursing his cigarette. He smiles at you, the upturn of his brows almost pitying.

A realization burns painful in the pit of your stomach.

You care for him. In a way that you shouldn’t. In a way that will no doubt come back to bite you.

The next few weeks are characterized by long hours, dry eyes, paperwork, smoke breaks, and flirting. A lot of flirting.

Subtle remains absent in Luis’s vocabulary. If anything, he’s become brazen. Unashamed. Hides his thoughts behind a see-through veil of jesting.

You know where this will lead should you give in. Tell the truth. Bare your heart.

Most likely, bent over the table you currently stack papers upon. Notes and journal entries and findings from the nearby townspeople.

Or maybe he would be soft. Postpone the affair to lay you upon an actual bed. Maybe that would better suit the second time.

Second time? You’re getting much too ahead of yourself. It’s humiliating. This… thing may be just a pastime for him, borne from proximity and some hard-wired need for connection.

Luis strolls in just as you begin typing out the day’s report to quiet your thoughts, rushes over with his journal gripped tight between his fingers.

“You, my dear, are amazing.” He pulls you forward by the back of the neck and plants a rough kiss on your forehead. “Simply wonderful.”

When he steps away to flip through its pages, you almost careen forward, if not for the hand you plant against the edge of the desk.

“Why am I wonderful?”

“Oh, for many unrelated reasons that I can’t even begin to list off. This time, however…” He shows you a page scrawled upon by hurried script. The date: today. Time: an hour ago. Patient Zero: Ra—

Patient Zero?

“Oh. Oh shit. It worked.”

“It worked. All because of you.”

You should be happy. For proving your worth, for showcasing your knowledge and skill. And part of you does feel that way.

But another part, a mess of pieces with no place, sends something bitter curling over your tongue. Into your chest, then stomach. An acidic rock that chews on guilt and sadness and dread.

You feel all of those things, and feeling those things brings you to confusion.

You should be happy.

“No, you definitely did most of the work.”

A breath of laughter, and once again, he presents to you a tender vulnerability. “While I appreciate the acknowledgement, your method of distribution gave us our first host. That, you cannot deny.”

He rests a hand on your shoulder, squeezes lightly to catch your attention, and the swirling warmth in his eyes speaks to adoration. A contagious feeling that curls your mouth into a smile.

“No. I suppose I can’t.”

“Then we should celebrate.” He tosses the journal onto the desk and pulls a cigarette pack from his back pocket. Offers for you to claim one.

“A smoke break?”

“How else would we celebrate?”

He leads you opposite the route you normally take, further underground, deeper into the dark.

“Where are we going?” you ask, head whipping around to mourn lost light, an echo from the lab two hallways down.

A large arm cuddles the line of your shoulders, pulls you closer against him. “I want to show you something. A secret.”

“Does this secret involve me meeting a gruesome end?”

“You know, you should really work on your pessimism.”

“And you aren’t the first person to tell me that.”

“I will pretend to be shocked.”

Another hallway, a locked door, and you’re presented with, “A bedroom?”

Not so much a bedroom as a… bed inside of a room. But the bed looks comfortable, and there’s a nightstand with a lamp. A rug, too.

“You haven’t slept in three days.”

“That’s what the cold showers have been for.”

An opportunity presents itself. The build-up to an invitation.

You cross the room and recline back on the creaking mattress, sheets cool and rough beneath your hands.

A decision to make. Between eternally destroying your partnership, or succumbing to whatever tension stagnates between you.

Fuck it. You have nothing left to lose.

“Will you join me?”

He lingers in the doorway a moment, sways on his feet and stares as you remove your jacket and shoes and leave them forgotten on the floor.

“Is this a proposition?”

Your heartbeat rises into your throat when he fails to move closer. Maybe you misunderstood. Misread his words, his body language.

The fear makes you almost back out.

“That depends.”

Almost.

Then he approaches you. Relaxes his posture, adds a sway to his hips, and still, you can’t get an accurate read on him. You still don’t know what he’s thinking.

He joins you on the bed, the mattress groaning in protest, and begins removing his shoes. “I need more than that, my dear.”

“It depends on if you’ll say yes or not.”

“If I say—“ He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you suddenly feel quite silly. You’ve misread his intentions in a completely different way. “I thought I’ve been quite obvious about my affections.”

Okay, very silly. But the soft grin he gifts you dampens the embarrassment. “It’s better to actually hear you say it.”

“Then yes. I accept your offer.” He reclines back on the bed and stretches out his arms. “Do with me what you will.”

You gaze upon him in the comforting darkness of the room, at the softness of his eyes, the butterfly-buzz his presence fills your chest with.

You feel safe here, with him. Nothing else can touch you here. Not Umbrella, or second thoughts, or antitheses.

He was right to keep his faith. You seem to have caught it, too—an idea that you embrace without fear, of believing in people again, the good they possess.

“I have a few ideas.”

As if you have any right to judge character.

His lips stretch wide into a smile, and his eyes never leave your face, bright and anticipating, even while you undress him.

“I am yours.”

“I bet you say that to all your lovers.”

“You overestimate me.”

He sits up to remove his shirt, and you scratch blunt nails over his chest, through the dark curls of hair that reside there.

“From where I’m sitting, my concerns seem perfectly rational.”

He strikes a sensual pose, fluffing proverbial feathers, and your face pinches up in protest of a bubbling laugh.

“Am I just as you imagined?”

“Much better.”

“So you admit you’ve pictured me naked.”

You tug off your own shirt, and his hands rise to cradle your waist, warm and soft and broad. Comforting. “On occasion. Anything is better when you’re staring at a computer screen all day.”

He tuts, shakes his head in a show of joking disapproval. “And here I thought you actually liked me.”

“I do. Just trying to keep your ego in check.”

He tosses his head back to laugh, the expanse of his neck beautifully on display, and you lean forward to trail kisses down his pulse—receive a low grunt from him in response, a tightening of his fingers, a breathlessness to his words. “Finally, we have a confession.”

You reach down to toy with his belt, the metal buckle clinking as you pull the strap from the loops.

“Can I?” you ask, nosing at the curve of his shoulder.

He feels so warm against you, a solid weight. Soothing. So soothing and familiar and lovely.

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He kisses you. Curls a hand around your nape, tugs you close, and pleasure curls in the pit of your belly. Your hands begin to shake as you remove his belt and unzip his pants.

The wet heat of his tongue licks into your mouth, curls soft against your own. He pulls away to sigh when you wrap a hand around him, half-hard and thick.

“You spoil me, my dear.”

You lower off the bed and onto your knees, hands massaging the muscle of his thighs. “I can spoil you more, if you’d like.”

Of the months you’ve known the man, he’s never been quiet. Never been stunned to silence. But his jaw relaxes as you situate yourself between his legs, and he laughs. A high-pitched sound, almost incredulous. Giddy.

“You are a dream.”

“I am very real, actually.”

“Thank the heavens for that.” He motions down his body, where his cock lay heavy and dripping against his belly. “You may continue. Please.”

You curl a shaky, enthusiastic hand around the base, follow the pulsing vein with your tongue. His head drops back with a rickety sigh, and you digest the expanse of tanned skin—the dips of his hip bones, the curve of his muscles, the dark hair dusting chest and arms and groin.

Your mouth wraps around the side to slick him up, then the other, and you work a fist over his length until he grunts. Says, “I’m not above begging,” with a quick lift of his head.

He meets your eyes, and his breathing stutters, and you think of his beauty. His smile. His laugh. All the jokes and the flirting. His patience. His cigarettes.

You’re fucked. He’s ruined you. Made you believe in something—someone again. Damn Umbrella, damn the project, damn everything outside of this room.

His cock settles heavy and hot against your tongue, and his reaction lances a fire to the pit of your belly.

“Yes, yes.” His thigh tenses beneath your palm, and he sucks a breath through his teeth, and he braces himself with a hand on your shoulder. “Oh, how lovely you are.”

A stroke of pride makes you swallow around him, makes you bob your head until your lips meet your fist.

He’s been stripped bare, broken apart, reduced to instinct. To moans and sighs and pleas. The façade he wears, left somewhere outside of this room.

All because of you.

The hand on your shoulder moves to your neck, a thumb pressing tight over your pulse. You pull back and swirl your tongue around the head, lick tight circles over the sensitive skin of his frenulum.

“You are no fucking scientist,” he hisses, brow knotting as he stares down at your mouth, and your lips stretches into a grin.

“I have other talents, you know.”

“As I’m finding out.”

He brushes shaking fingers over your cheek, and his eyes swear fealty, worship, faith.

You change your mind.

You’ll stay with Umbrella. You’ll work on this goddamn virus. You’ll do whatever it takes for him to look at you like this again.

His thigh begins to tremble beneath your hand, and he cups the back of your head, coaxes you lower onto his length.

He doesn’t look away, and neither do you. Only when his cock enters the sheath of your throat, when you gag around the burning, when tears spring to the corner of your eyes.

“Just like that, my dear. So good.”

You pull away to catch a breath, to spit on the head and slick him up, and his hand follows you. A steadying weight, a reminder of his appreciation.

It’s dizzying. Addictive. Fantastic.

You quicken your pace, swallow him down until the hair at his groin tickles your nose. Then his hips buck, and you steady both hands atop his thighs, and—

“I’m close. I’m—“

Your throat tightens around him. Once, twice, and then he spills with a breathy whine. Keeps you still with a press to the back of your head.

During those hours-long data sessions, you thought about what he would look like, all vulnerable beneath you, wrought by orgasm.

He’s loud. He cusses in his native tongue. His brows tilt upward and his face darkens with flush, and each pulse of his cock leaves you swallowing, leaves you verging on a cough.

Until he releases you and immediately slumps against the bed, boneless and heaving for breath.

You give him a moment of recuperation. Tuck him back into his underwear and re-do his jeans. Give a soft kiss to the divot of his hip as the movement of his chest evens out and slows.

An almost painful need coils thick at the base of your spine, and you know you’ll be sneaking to some dark corner before the night’s end. Because this isn’t about you. Instead, showing appreciation and affection and thanks. Your way of saying I believe you now. I have faith in us.

He reaches for you blindly, pulls you onto the bed to straddle his waist, and kisses you all soft and slow. He groans out when your tongue pushes into his mouth, grips hard at the curve of your ass, insistent and wanting.

“I believe it’s my turn,” he says, grin sated and lazy.

“That isn’t why I did this.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. Have you thought that maybe I simply want to?”

His hands climb higher, ghost soft and warm over your back as he waits for your response.

You want him to. Want it so bad it hurts, more than sleep or air or water. Your underwear’s been left a mess, sticky and wet, and yet, “They’ll be calling soon to hear the good news.”

“Then we let them. Maybe we should let them hear, hm?”

“And have all our work go to waste when we’re inevitably fired?”

After a long moment of pursed lips, he sighs out in disappointment and pats at your hip, signaling his want to rise. “In that case, we should head back. I have a very long ‘thank you’ letter to write.”

You roll off of him and bend down to collect your clothing while he does the same. Both of you sharing a secretive, sated smile.

“Who are you writing to?”

“Why, Umbrella, of course. Your skills have been invaluable to our progress.”

You blanch at him, fingers freezing at the first button of your coat. “Luis—“

“You can read it before it’s sent.” He reaches over and takes your hand. Rubs a thumb over the swell of your knuckles, and sugar-sweetness fills your lungs with warmth. “All jokes aside, you deserve better than this.”

Better than… what? The location, the work, the partner? He’s made the last few months bearable. Why else would you want to be anywhere else?

You squeeze his fingers and soften your lips into a smile. “I like where I’m at, actually.”

He says nothing in response. Instead, he analyzes your expression, your words. Looking for… something you can’t quite place.

Something that he finds.

“It relieves me to hear you say that. Now,” he dips into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a half-crushed cigarette pack, “how about that smoke?”

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