#Carlos Oliveira RE3R | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kisses-for-you · 7 months ago

Text

Preference: You're injured

Resident Evil Characters X Fem!Reader

Characters: Leon Kennedy, Luis Serra, Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira & Chris Redfield.

Requested ✅

Leon Kennedy:

Leon glances over at you, his expression tense as he assesses the situation. "Just stay close," he says. "Stick together, and watch each other's backs." He brandishes his knife, ready to fend off the Ganados.

"I don't think we'll be able to kill them all-" You're about to finish your sentence when a Ganado comes up from behind you, to which you have barely any time to react. "Y/N!" Leon calls out. You spin around just in time to see the Ganado lunging at you. Acting quickly, Leon pushes you out of harm's way and swings his knife, severing the Ganado's arm.

"Let's get out of here before more of them show up," you suggest, to which Leon nods and the two of you start to make a break for it.

After narrowly escaping the horde of Ganados, you and Leon find an abandoned building. As both of you catch your breath, you suddenly wince in pain, clutching your arm where a deep gash is bleeding profusely.

Leon notices and rushes to your side. "You're injured," Leon observes, concern evident in his voice as he gently examines your wound. Leon quickly rummages through his pack, pulling out a first aid kit. "Hold still," he instructs. You nod, grimacing against the pain.

His hands work carefully as he cleans and bandages your wound, his touch gentle yet firm. Leon's focused expression softens as he tends to your injury, his touch bringing some form of comfort to you.

"Thanks, Leon," you say, offering him a weak smile as he finishes dressing your wound. He returns the smile, albeit a bit strained. His gaze lingers on you for just a moment longer, making sure you're not injured anywhere else.

As the adrenaline begins to fade away, you feel a wave of exhaustion wash over you. Leon sees this and silently offers you a shoulder to lean on. You gratefully accept, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Are you okay?" Leon asks softly, his voice filled with genuine concern as he looks down at you. "Yeah, I think so," you reply.

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Luis Serra:

Your heart races as you find yourself surrounded by a group of snarling Ganados in the abandoned house. You fumble for your gun but the sheer number overwhelms you. Fear grips you as you realise you probably won't make it out.

But you hear a familiar voice call out, "Y/N!" Luis comes into view and with steady hands, he aims his gun and fires, each shot hitting another Ganado.

You feel relieved but that joy is short-lived because as the last Ganado collapses to the ground, it lunges at you; its claws tear through your flesh. You cry out in pain, feeling hot blood trickle down your leg.

Luis reacts swiftly, putting down the creature with one final shot. He rushes to your side, concern etched on his face as he assesses your injuries. "Cariña, are you alright?" he asks, voice filled with worry.

You nod weakly, trying to stand up. Luis gently supports you, his strong arms steadying you as you struggle to stand. "Easy now," he murmurs, his gaze soft and caring. With his support, you manage to rise to your feet. Luis keeps a close eye on you, his concern evident as he guides you out of the house to a safer spot.

As you both make your way out of the abandoned house, Luis keeps a protective arm around you. The adrenaline begins to fade, and the reality of your injuries sets in. You wince with each step, but Luis supports your weight with his body.

You find a relatively safe spot to rest, away from any potential threats. Luis carefully inspects your wound, his brow furrowing with concern as he assesses the damage. "I'm going to have to patch you up, okay?" he says, his voice firm but gentle. He starts rummaging through his pack, searching for supplies to tend to your injury.

As he begins to dress your wound, his touch is surprisingly gentle, his focus unwavering. Nothing is said between you two, but you don't feel the need to speak - it's a comfortable silence. When he finishes dressing your wound, he meets your gaze with a reassuring smile.

"Thank you," you whisper softly, your voice barely above a breath. Without a word, he pulls you into a tender embrace, his arms wrapping around you protectively. You lean in, closing the gap between you, and press your lips against his in a gentle kiss.

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Jill Valentine:

Jill instinctively steps forward, hiding your body behind hers. "Stay behind me," Jill whispers, her voice remaining steady despite the current situation.

You have no time to even respond as the B.O.W from earlier - Nemesis - lunges forward, coming right at you both. Without thinking, you push Jill to the side and you both fall to the ground - out of the creature's reach.

Jill quickly rises to her feet, grabbing your hand and pulling you up with her. "We need to find a way out of here," you say, scanning the area for any possible escape routes. Jill nods, her expression determined as she grips her weapon tightly. Together, you make a dash for the nearest alley.

When you can no longer see or hear the B.O.W, you and Jill stop to catch your breath, leaning against the wall of a building that appeared to have been some sort of restaurant before this whole mess.

"Are you alright, darling?" Jill asks, concern etched in her voice as she checks you for any injuries.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you reply, though the close encounter with Nemesis has left you quite shaken.

Jill pulls a slight face, as if not believing your words. She takes a closer look at you and as she looks at your shirt, she realises, "Y/N, you're bleeding."

"I am?" You glance down at your shirt, noticing the stain spreading across the fabric. "That thing must've got me earlier." You shrug, trying to downplay the injury but as the adrenaline fades, the pain worsens.

Jill's expression softens, her concern deepening. "Let me see," she insists, gently lifting the edge of your shirt to look at the wound.

Jill carefully inspects the wound, her brows furrowing in concern. "It's not too deep, but we need to clean and bandage it quickly," she says, her voice firm, leaving no room to argue. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a first aid kit, efficiently cleaning the wound and applying antiseptic before carefully bandaging it up.

Not long after, she's done. "Thanks, Jill," you say softly. She looks down at you, her eyes softening with a small smile. "Of course, darling," she replies.

Gently, she reaches out and cups your cheek, drawing you closer to her. And without another word, you lean in, closing the distance between you, and press your lips against hers in a lingering kiss.

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Carlos Oliveira:

In your cozy kitchen, Carlos and you are cooking together, getting ready for a fun night. You joke around as you chop some vegetables, but as you laugh at another one of Carlos' stupid jokes, you fail to pay attention to what you're supposed to be cutting.

Looking away from the vegetables for a split second, you manage to accidentally cut your palm with the knife. Pain shoots through you and you wince, dropping the knife with a clatter.

"Fuck!" you exclaim, clutching your hand to your chest as blood begins to seep from the wound. Carlos's laughter dies away instantly, replaced by a look of concern as he rushes to your side. "Hey, are you okay? Let me see."

You wince as he takes your hand in his, examining the cut with furrowed brows. "It's not too bad," he says, his voice gentle yet reassuring. "But we should clean it up so it doesn't get infected."

He gets you some paper towel to try to stop the bleeding and while you try to stem the bleeding, he goes to grab the first aid kit. With his steady hands, he cleans the wound carefully, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Thanks, Carlos," you murmur, feeling a mix of embarrassment and relief.

He smiles warmly, his brown eyes softening. "No problem, mi amor. Just be more careful next time, okay?"

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Chris Redfield:

You and Chris are on holiday in a small cabin in the middle of the woods, a place for you to get away from your busy, demanding life. This was the perfect place as it was quiet and a way for you to just relax.

Next to you, Chris is fast asleep but you find yourself restless and unable to fall asleep. With a sigh, you slip out of bed, deciding to go for a quick walk to clear your head.

After what felt like a couple minutes, you start going back towards the cabin but lost in thought, you fail to notice the tree roots in front of you. With a sudden jolt, you stumble, pain shooting from your ankle and up your leg as you crash to the ground. You struggle to stand as the pain overwhelms you.

You manage to lean against a nearby tree and start thinking about how you're going to get back now. Just as you're about to rise and start limping the rest of the way back, you see what looks like a flashlight in the distance and a familiar voice call out, "Y/N!" It's Chris.

"Here!" you call back.

You hear his pace quicken, coming in your direction. As Chris approaches, concern etched on his face, he looks at you and notices something is wrong. "What are you doing out here so late? Are you hurt?" he asks, crouching down beside you.

You wince, trying to hide the pain in your ankle. "I... I tripped over some roots," you admit sheepishly, trying to brush it off as nothing serious.

Chris's expression softens as he gently examines your ankle. "Let me take a look," he says, his voice calm and reassuring. "It's swollen," he observes, his brows furrowing slightly with concern. "Let me help you back to the cabin and then we can ice that ankle," he offers, gently lifting you up and supporting you as you hobble back. He wraps an arm around you protectively, guiding you every step of the way.

As you reach the cabin, Chris helps you settle onto the couch before disappearing into the kitchen. Moments later, he returns with a bag of ice and a makeshift wrap.

"Here, let's get this on your ankle," Chris says, kneeling beside you and carefully placing the ice pack on the injured area. His touch is gentle yet firm, comforting you despite the pain.

"Thank you, Chris," you say, to which he smiles warmly.

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messenger-of-babel · 1 month ago

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Drinks and a Dream

Summary: Trying to escape the outbreak in Raccoon City, you find an ally amongst the chaos- might as well flirt a little. (Carlos Oliveira x fem! reader)

Word Count: 3.1K

Notes: Back to Resi! Some love for my boy Carlos, the remake did him so well. Mentions of injury, blood, and death, as expected of Raccoon City. It might be a little short because I'm wiped rn (who knew graduating university would be so labour intensive? 😮‍💨) We are literally on the home stretch now, I really hope that you all have enjoyed my writing so far, and thank you so much for your lovely feedback as always.

Enjoy Lovelies~! xx

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Blood. Screaming. Chaos.

You'd just come back home from work, tired from your shitty shift at the local newspaper. Your key had been shoved into the lock a little rougher than it needed to be, and the door swung open to slam into the same dent carved into the paper-thin walls. Bag thrown on the couch, shoes tossed carelessly across the living room to clatter near the doorway for tomorrow, and phone pulled out with take out on speed dial.

You'd just settled into watching the first thirty minutes of your comfort movie, half eaten pizza in front of you when you'd heard it. The undeniable screeching of tires and the shattering of glass that seemed to shake the frames of your cardboard constructed apartment. alarmed you had sprung from the couch, shoving open the window that groaned with protest as you leaned over the fire escape to see better. From your apartment on the fourth floor, you could make out the crumpled frame of a car, hood smashed into a light post like a crumpled piece of paper. You winced.

Something was always happening around Raccoon City. Not to say that it was always as spectacular as a car crash, in fact, you'd been assigned some boring historical piece on the Raccoon City Orphanage earlier this week. No, Raccoon City was a place just busy enough to keep the press rolling, but still so dull as to make every hour one to regret becoming a journalist. However, as the panic started, and the pitches of the screams outside swelled into a chorus, the cold pit in your stomach told you that maybe Raccoon itself had been the bad choice.

One moment you're thinking of who's going to be the sucker headed into the RPD the next morning to try and get a statement from the police about the crash, and the next minute you're the sucker rattling the bars of the closed RPD station, flipping off Irons as they board up the windows and begin to barricade themselves in.

It's not like you had to scramble down the creaking metal of the fire escape ladder as the upstairs neighbour, Mrs. Smith, falls from her window on the sixth floor to make a sickening painting on the pavement. Or the fact that somehow the city went from a shithole to a shithole on fire in what felt like only an hour. No explanation for the dead that suddenly reanimated and chased you through the alley ways. No explanation for the barricades at the city exit. No explanation for why or what or who or how.

There had been survivors of this of course. At the start at least. you'd been lucky enough to live downtown to a hunting store but even by the time you got there you'd only secured a half box of ammo strewn across the floor and a shotgun you'd had to pry off someone’s body. You'd done everything, anything to get out of this god damned city, to not get bitten or scratched or grabbed or whatever the hell it was making people rapidly decay. To not die.

Yet here you were, propped up on some buildings fire escape, ladder pulled up so no one can follow you up while you clutch at your bleeding shoulder. Who knew your biggest threat was the living? Some asshole had shot you instead of the zombie, their shaky hands betraying their aim despite you calling for them to wait so you could get clear first. Instead of that there was simply the bang, the scream, and the retreating footfalls of the survivor that had left you out of fear or guilt. Either fit.

The crimson spilled between your fingers in small trickles, warm and sticky. It burnt like crazy when you put pressure on it, and despite your brain telling you to press harder, that you needed to press harder to try and slow the bleeding, it became a conscious effort. Your palm subconsciously lifted every now and then to try and reduce the pain and discomfort, unable to commit to pressing down hard enough as the body's override kicked in. You considered yourself lucky, as lucky as you could be in this situation. The bullet could have gone into your neck, but maybe that would've been a kinder death than whatever fate awaited you when the wound inevitably got infected. You sigh and lean your head on the cold railing of the stairs. How messed up.

"Hey, up there. You alright?"

Your eyes fly open and instantly your free hand goes for the shotgun, propping it on your knee as you point it to the man who had called up to you. Other hand still trying to press on your wound, you shoot him a glare. He raises his hands in surrender, palms open as you scan him over with a critical eye. He was tall and stocky, gun slung over his shoulder and armed to the teeth. A mop of dark, unruly curls fell over his eyes, which looked you over with a sense of concern and wariness.

"Did you get bit?"

You purse your lips before shaking your head once. "Shot."

His warm eyes widen slightly. "Shot? who shot you?"

"I wasn't really asking their name when it happened."

He takes another step towards you, and you readjust the gun, warning him. He freezes, reaching out with his hands slowly in a soothing motion. "Hey, hey, take it easy. I'm with Umbrella. I'm evacuating civilians, you can trust me." he says slowly and calmly. "We've got a train heading out of the city, we can put you on it, you just need to trust me, okay?"

you could almost cry from relief hearing that there was finally a way out of this hell, that someone somewhere had come to help.

"What's your name sweetheart?" he calls out, approaching where you are with a little more confidence once your shoulders drop. You heave a deep sigh, chest suddenly feeling a lot heavier than you thought before, eyes taking a second more than usual to pry themselves apart after each blink. Despite it you still get the energy to call out your name, making a boyish smile flicker at his lips.

"I'm Carlos. I'm going to get you out." he smiles back, lowering his hands once you pull the shotgun to your side once more. His gaze scans over you, flickering around your figure. "Can I come up there? help you out with that shoulder?" he asks. You just nod, sighing through your nose as you get tired, and a small moment of silence envelops the two of you.

"I need you to drop the ladder to get up." he tries to coax, eyes trying to maintain contact with yours after each languid blink. You shift your own blurring vision to the ladder you pulled up behind you.

"What’s the password?" you mumble, a lightheaded smile twitching upwards for a second. Carlos is almost taken aback, the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes crinkling upwards.

"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your ladder," he calls playfully, yet voice tinged with the same shade of worry as before.

"Close enough." you grumble, thudding your heel into the ladder and causing it to unfold again. you swear you only blinked once, but when you open your eyes again hes crouched next to you.

"Welcome back." he chuckles, and you have to stop your face form flushing as you take in his features up close. The sharp line of his jaw is visible as he turns his head to pull gauze and an alcohol pad out of one of his many pockets. His hair falls softly in front of his face, the stubble of his beard bobbing as the muscle in his jaw clenches. you're snapped out of the daydream as he places a broad palm over yours on the wound, pressing firmly and making you hiss. Unlike you from before, his hands are trained and deliberate, not easing up as they find the right pressure you were unable to.

"Sorry about that." he murmurs, eyes flicking to your face to see your reaction. He pulls back the shirt slightly, easing pressure only momentarily so his fingers can gently press on the inflamed skin around the wound. "Shit…" he whispers softly, other hand coming to feel the back of your shoulder.

"What?" you grumble, head lolling to the side to look at him, frown forming. His eyes meet yours, the hesitant glance still enough to send your heart fluttering. "Can't feel an exit wound." he winces, making the air in your lungs exhale in one long sigh.

"You've got to be shitting me," you mumble. He shakes his head, already packing his things.

"Come on, we've got some painkillers back at base and I'll have to get it out," he says, cringing as he imagines it. "we're not too far away, I can get you there before this gets worse."

He slings your gun over his shoulder, before dragging his eyes between your increasingly groggy state and the fire escape.

"You okay to get down?" He asks, boyish demeanour coming back. you lean forward slightly, eyeing the ladder before nodding.

"Fireman's carry okay?"

You head turns to him, where the grin has managed to stay on his face this time, albeit a little apologetic looking. "What?" you ask, eyebrows drawn together. He shrugs. "Sorry, it's the only way actually. Can't do bridal to get down the ladder unfortunately." without another warning Carlos strides over to you, one arm sliding under the bend of your knees and he kneels next to you, other coming around your middle to lift you onto his shoulder as you yelp.

"Hey!" you protest as he covers the distance to the ladder in two strides, and then he's climbing down. You must've slipped out of consciousness for another second, because the next blink that you register, he's patting your calves to wake you up. "There she is," he murmurs. "We're nearly there."

You groan, head light and dizzy. "You could've put me down; I got shot in the shoulder not the leg."

"I did. you folded like a pack of cards."

"Well why not bridal style then?"

"Who says you can't carry a bride like this?"

"Me."

"Well sorry, hot stuff. Need a hand free to use this." he says, and you hear the rattle of his gun as he shakes it in his other hand. "But on a good note, we're here."

When you had gotten into the transformed train station, he'd introduced you briefly to Mikhail, his boss who was running the evacuation operation. You'd just been able to nod weakly as Carlos set you up on a crate, ripping your shoulder sleeve more to get a look at the wound. Turning your head you could see the sticky mess it had made of your flesh, causing your skin to crawl at the metallic smell. "Is this going to hurt?" you whisper out to him. Carlos places a warm hand on your knee, squeezing it lightly. He offers up a small smile, the comforting curve of his lips betraying his words.

"It'll probably feel like hell."

He wasn't lying. While he'd been digging the bullet out of your shoulder, he'd made you bite onto some spare cloth they'd rustled up, although the flimsy material was hardly enough to block out the noises ripped from your throat. However, eventually it was done and he'd moved onto the more peaceful endeavour of wrapping it up, disinfecting the wound while you tried to catch your breath, sweat beading your forehead. "How you feeling, hot stuff?" he chuckled, catching your glare.

"I can't decide whether I'm pissed off or tired." you reply, throat aching.

"Probably both," he hums, tucking the bandage tight. "I know that I sure am."

You meet his eyes, and there’s a thrum that races across your skin. Maybe surviving wouldn't be that bad after all.

Carlos stays with you, and eventually the burning pain mellows out into a dull throb. "That's the stuff," you groan out, head against the brick wall with a light exhale. He chuckles looking down at you from his position beside you.

"Painkillers kick in?"

"Hell yeah they did." you mumble back, and it feels like the weight on your chest has lightened somewhat. You make small talk while his squad makes plans on evacuation the rest of the city. It bleeds from minutes and feels like hours, but you weren’t sure if that was the pain meds or Carlos himself. He talked in a smooth, low tone that had your tension melting instantly, smiling like he had known you all his life. he was friendly and optimistic despite the circumstances, and you couldn't help but feeling drawn to him and his persistent personality. The boyish grin he wore and the soft curling of his hair in front of his eyes made your pulse race, heart thudding every time your eyes met.

You both talked about basic things, like your favourite movies and meals. he rattled on about how much he couldn't stand the fake spray cheese, and you traded your childhood distaste of tomatoes. You weren't sure if it was the conversation or the blood loss to blame for the hazy glow that had appeared behind his head, or the tingle in your hands. That's when you make your next words, you can't help them when they slip out past your lips.

"We should go out some time," you tiredly say. "My friend lives in the next city over, runs a nice bar. I can get us some free margaritas." you shrug, dopey smile on your face. He gives you a stunned look, head whipping around so fast his hair flies. The sight makes you giggle, your filter slipping. "Come on, I'm not the worst company, am I?"

He regards you in silence before sighing softly, shaking his head as a smile creeps across his face. "Margaritas? Really?" he asks.

"Hey, what's wrong with them?" you defend. "Plus, they're free. You really gonna draw the line at margaritas?"

He chuckles, arm sliding behind your back to help support you. In your haze you can hear another soldier corralling the other survivors into a train cart, undoubtably where he's taking you too.

"I tell you what," he hums, a cheeky smile now flitting across his face. "If they're free, I might swing by." he grins at you. "And I might have you on my arm for that. Fair deal?"

Your head lolls arounds, the painkillers really starting to numb you out now. "Correction," you slur. "You're gonna be on my arm."

That pulls a bark of a laugh from him, as he helps you sit down in a train seat. He crouches in front of you, pushing your hair from your face and helping you sit up properly. The joking tone in his voice slips away a little as he regards you with soft eyes. "You're gonna be okay, sweetheart." he murmurs.

You can't keep yourself up properly, making him sigh and help you lie down. To him you look out of it, hair splayed out behind you and pupils dilated. He feels a stab of guilt, maybe he shouldn't have given you the painkiller that had the strong sedatives in it. However, to you, he looks ethereal. You smile, looking up at him to memorise his face before the claws of sleep fade over your vision. "See you on the other side, sweetheart." he grins at you, giving you a mock two finger salute. You grin lazily, blinking rapidly to stay awake. "Come find me for a drink, Oliveria." you say, tone beginning to taper off softly. When you fall asleep he makes sure that you're comfortable, stepping away as he hears the calling of Mikhail. He casts you once last glance, softly huffing to himself before he joined the rest of his team and Mikhail patted the side of the passenger cart, the train beginning to move.

When he goes out to continue his mission, his heart is still for the first time since finding you on that fire escape. Sure, you had been a bit forward, but he had found it endearing. He liked the way that your eyes sparkled when you smiled, and the way that your hair fell across your face. He respected how you had persevered by yourself until then, and it hadn't even been the zombies that had taken you down. There was a spark in you that he couldn't help but be entranced by, your fire sparking something in himself. He had ridden that content bliss knowing that in the midst of it all the carnage, life could continue on around it.

Yet that bubble got shattered the moment he had gottan the radio call from Jill, who should have been well on her way out of the city by now.

He could hear the panic in her voice even through the crackling of the comms. T looked at him in worry, glancing from the computer screen to Carlos' falling face. There was a certain type of dread that settled into his bones and froze his blood, stopping his heart when he managed to conjure up the sleeping image of you. You had been on that train too.

Words bounced around in his head, derailed, Mikhail, Nemesis...it all seemed to ring together in one droning sound. He can vaguely hear T calling him, Jill on the other side too. "Yeah, copy." he says into the earpiece before Jill cuts out.

"I've got somewhere to be," he calls at T, who waves him off with a nod. Carlos' steps are harsh and heavy as he finds his way out of the hospital. No matter how fast he walks he can’t get the image of you out of his head, alight with flame in your peaceful sleep. He had seen you just hours ago. He had patched that wound of yours and laid you down like it was a hospital. He had promised you that you'd get out.

Carlos lets his jaw clench, teeth grinding against each other as he hurries to the last location Jill had said over the line. When he said he’d see you on the other side, he didn’t think you’d go that far from him.

“They better have margaritas up there, hot stuff.” He mumbles under his breath as he reloads, anything to stop the shake of anger boiling in his fingertips. “Have one for me.”

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