Welcome to the Bread Slice Cult. You can call me Slices. I am 20, black and bisexual. She/Her/They. A Gemini. Idk about no rising, moon and sun and I’m too lazy. Edenian. Hufflepuff. Cabin 7. Shadysider. House Martell. On this blog you’ll find mostly writing that has to do with fandoms, but sometimes they’ll be original stuff. Enjoy your stay and grab a bread slicer since you’re here.
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HELLO! I remembered I have Tumblr again and imma stop forgetting because I got it on my new phone as an actual app instead of only using the website but anyway-
Walk with me on this random scene I have in my head,
Sihtric and Reader don't want any kids right now. Maybe they've had one recently and don't wanna deal with two babies so close in age. Maybe they just don't want one at the moment. Maybe there's another scenario I can't think of right now. Either way, they've agreed to slow down on sex, and when they do have sex, Sihtric cannot cum inside them.
And to be fair to them, it was working out.
Then Sihtric goes away and with so much time passing, by the time he gets back, safety is the last thing on anyone's mind.
Imagine Sihtric feeling such conflicting emotions because yeah, he should pull out, but every part of his body is telling him not to. That's the last thing he wants after spending so much time away. The only person who can get through to him when his mind is such a mess is his wife, which is why he uses some of his last bit of strength to plead with her - "please tell me to pull out".
She doesn't. She does the opposite. She tells him to keep going, she missed him, he feels amazing, she loves him. His resolve weakens and weakens until eventually it snaps.
And it is the best "loss" he's ever taken in his life.
some general headcanons for subby!aerion and his wife…
beware. headcanons with scenarios | pnv sex / minors dni | riding subby!aerion | cunnilingus | mentions of coming untouched | unprotected sex | creampies | aerion is a warning | mentions of blood | not proofread
your husband is a shallow man. he is vain, cruel in every sense of the word - mindless in his want for destruction and power.
at least, he was.
recently, you’d uncovered a different side to aerion. it was quite the shift. you were accustomed to his usual cocky, dominant, violent approach in bed — where, more often than not, he’d push you beyond your limits and leave you sore for days after. his needs fulfilled, and yours thoroughly forgotten.
yes, bedding your husband was pleasurable enough. sure, he’d bend your legs so far you’d fear they’d snap, and he’d bite so deep into your flesh that your blood would leave deep stains that wouldn’t come out in a wash. and yes, sometimes, he’d even trace his dagger’s edge along your stomach whilst he rutted into you, the one with the hilt embedded with a dragon.
but you were left satisfied, more or less. his cock would hit that spot inside of you without effort, and when he was feeling generous, he’d reach down to play with your clit and drag you to climax. and rarely, when he was in the mood, his tongue would bring you to the brink until you passed out.
but you weren’t really satisfied. something was missing.
after you’d ridden him for the first time, in which took much convincing, you’d uncovered a whole new side to him. to you.
that night, after you’d seen him like that for the first time — whining, at your mercy, pathetic — you knew what you’d been wanting deep down all this time.
and ever since then, you’ve been wanting that sight more and more.
“Fuck.. slow— slow down.”
His voice was strained, words coming shaky and harsh, like they were punched out of him with more effort than expected.
But you didn’t heed his demand. He was in no place to demand anything of you, not like this.
He was lay back against the pillows—silks of deep reds and blacks, the colours of his House. Fire and blood. Something to be feared, respected, obeyed.
It was a sweetly ironic sight.
His hands were everywhere, one clutching the thigh that bracketed his narrow hip, the other wandering your body - your tits, your stomach, your waist, your ass. It was as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.
Likely because he didn’t. How could he?
Your hips move without the grace or elegance expected of a princess, the wife of prince Aerion Brightflame. Instead, they are quick, filthy, determined to make your husband come undone with your pace.
It seems it’s working.
You tighten around him when his pelvis grinds against your clit when his hips buck to meet yours, and he chokes on the moan he emits. The sound is loud, and he pulls a swollen bottom lip between his teeth to muffle further sounds. Embarrassed.
Anger flashes behind his lust-filled eyes, and he finds himself trapped in the same inner war he is constantly confining himself into. Torn between his shameful, buried desire to submit to you, and the resentment towards his position.
He knows that later, when you are asleep beside him, utterly spent and exhausted, he will lie awake - hating himself, feeling shame burn unpleasantly in his stomach. For his vulnerability, letting someone see such a deep part of him he thought he’d never let see the light of day. He’ll reassure himself silently, that you are riding a dragon, he should feel accomplished. He hates it. Hates feeling lesser to anyone. He is the blood of the dragon.
But his body will always betray him.
He can’t help the whimper that wrenches out of him when you nip at his neck, your cunt fluttering around him, despite him biting his lip so hard that blood rises in his teeth’s wake. He can’t resist when your lips smash against his, his blood staining you. And when your tongue dances languidly with his, and his cock twitches inside of you, and he’s on the verge of cumming inside of you for the umpteenth time that night — it doesn’t matter anymore. His name, his blood.
When his seed fills your womb, and your cunt soaks him with your own release, and he can’t help but moan and writhe with the overstimulating pleasure when you keep moving, eyes rolling back into his skull, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
of course, this newfound taste for offering up his control of things has translated into other scenarios too.
wherein before, he’d have you pinned to the bed by your hips, his strong fingers holding you in place as his tongue ravaged your pussy, leaving you writhing and begging and thrashing. and cumming. lots and lots of cumming.
and whenever he sinks between your thighs now, which you’ve realised is somewhat more often (he thinks he’s being subtle), he’ll smirk smugly up at you - assuming it’ll go like it always does. you submitting to your dragon’s tongue, letting him decide when you finish and when you don’t, letting him speak filth to you.
but for some odd reason, one he just can’t figure out, it always goes differently once his tongue finally meets your cunt…
You’re on the verge of death, you’re sure.
You’ve already met your climax a good four times now, and you’ve got the proof to show for it. Your bare skin is covered in a coat of sweat, your chest rising and falling harshly with each intake of breath. Your stomach is tensing with the shocks of pleasure buzzing at your nerves, and your husband is still between your thighs.
“Aerion,” you push out, breathless and desperate. “Husband, that’s.. that’s enough now.”
Usually, he’d snap at you, tell you that he decides when you’re done. Or, more likely, he’d part from your cunt and climb up your body, ready to shove his cock inside and take you rough, like he always does.
But now? He just shakes his head, and tries to sink his tongue impossibly further into your hole - the guttural moan he lets out vibrating against you.
Your breath hitches, and the fingers that are buried in his pale hair tug slightly - and you slightly hope it might aggravate him a little, make him cease his ministrations as ‘punishment’. But he just grows deep in his chest, hips twitching against the bed, and his eyes roll back behind his eyelids.
Despite yourself, you let out a moan of your own. You love him like this. Desperate, needy, unlike himself.
And when his tongue drags up to flick at your clit, you decide a fifth peak wouldn’t hurt.
“One more,” He mutters, words slurred against your sex. His voice is still deep, still his, but it’s lilted with a whine at the end. It almost disarms you. Almost. Instead, you smile, and your fingers tug again at his hair. He grunts, and repeats, more high-pitched than before, “Give me one more.”
You nod, even though his eyes are closed blissfully, and silently part your trembling thighs more for him. A hint of a cramp curls in one - his broad shoulders keeping them parted uncomfortably.
It’s worth it when he sighs against you, furrowed brows relaxing, and tongue lapping at you with all the grace of a man starved.
And, despite your exhaustion, and frankly, your belief that you have no more orgasms left to offer - when he groans deep against you at the taste of your cum, and rags you harder against his face, you decide one more wouldn’t hurt.
You briefly wonder, amidst the throes of mind-numbing pleasure, when you’ll tell him to lie back, and seat yourself on his face.
Soon.
and finally, aerion has lost himself completely.
once he let you mount him for the first time, it was inevitable.
now he cannot crawl between your legs without turning into a green boy that paints his breeches white. pathetic. humiliating.
but now? you have completely stole him of everything he once prided himself of.
he cannot even fuck you like he once did.
he would hold your calves against his elbows, pushing them back, and his hips would snap against yours so aggressively that there are still dents in the wall from the headboard.
and he’d whisper pure filth in your ear, promising you his seed, vowing to paint you until you’re dripping with it for weeks, and even after that, he’ll keep going. all night, if he must. however long it takes.
now, things are different. he’s different. maybe he isn’t, not really. mayhaps he’s always been this way. mayhaps you have merely conditioned him to be like this. he supposes he’ll never have the answer to such intriguing queries - but he does detest the change so.
“Oh… that’s- fuck..”
Indeed.
Your husband is above you, elbows pressed against the mattress, either side of your head, and his biceps tense and strain with the labours.
His hips slap against yours, sloppy and nonsensical - different. His cock has been twitching since the moment he sank inside, and your thighs had wrapped around his narrow waist so perfectly.
“Yeah?” You whisper, the hand that’s holding the back of his neck pulling him down towards you. Your lips brush his cheekbone, and your eyes flutter when his hips dart forward faster. “Do you like that? Hm?”
He’s the one fucking you, he thinks, it should be him asking you that.
But it’s difficult to remember that when you clench around him so deliciously.
And instead of snapping at you, snarling and ripping at you, he just groans - deep and guttural - and nods. He fucking nods. Fury flares in his gut. Sorceress, you are. Come to steal his soul, a dragons magic, and leave him human and obeying.
He wants to hate you for it, to thrust harder, rougher, make you bleed and apologise, like he used to. But all he can do is sink his head into the crook of your neck when your fingers rake through his hair, nails tickling his scalp, and let you.
And where he used to bite, he now kisses, and where he used to dig his nails in, he now just grips to ground himself.
“Fuck— I can’t, I need..” His voice is sharp, words cracking and quick. He lifts his head from the safety of your neck, lidded eyes flitting down to where the two of you connect again and again and again and the sight is so lewd he’s already going to come-
“Aerion,” You moan, thighs twitching around him, pussy clenching. “Doing so good..”
He chokes out a garbled sound, brows pinching as he stares down at you, violet irises staring into yours. His hips stutter in their pace.
“I’m going to come.” He announces, rather loudly (you foolishly hope the guards outside didn’t hear that), and his tip hits that spongy spot inside your cunt so perfectly when his cock twitches.
You nod, your legs coming together harder around him, making it harder for him to actually keep up with his thrusts.
“Come inside of me.” You demand. You nod encouragingly again, willing him to continue. He stares down at you, fingers flexing beside you, pace growing more desperate.
His breath catches when you reach down to rub at your clit, and when you tighten around him impossibly more, he doubles over, face meeting the pillow, his nose against your cheek. His pathetic moans are hit against your skin.
“I’m.. oh— you’re going to make me-”
“Come.” You interrupt, nails digging into the back of his neck. “Give it to me, Aerion. Make a mess.”
Your face turns towards his, and his eyes barely open to meet yours. Your other hand reaches to hold his cheek - lovingly, softly, like you can.
“My dragon.”
And then he stuffs you full, coming undone with a cry that you muffle with your lips.
And it’s so filthy - his seed drips out of you, staining both your and his skin, the bed. Both of your bodies are slick with sweat, and your breaths are panted into the others, until you can’t decipher who’s is who’s.
And he’s looking at you, his pale lashes tickling your cheekbone with how tired he is. And for once, he doesn’t have it in him to rebuild his walls, reconstruct that facade of dominance.
A moment to seize is not to go to waste, you’ve gratefully learnt.
“Again,” You mutter. Your hips shift slightly to encourage him.
And, with a nudge of his nose against your skin, and the fluttering of his eyes, he shakily picks himself up again - already hardening inside of you again at just a mere demand.
He doesn’t know when this shift underwent. He hates it. Hates you for making him like this. Manipulating him, torturing him.
Yet, he finds himself seeking it out more and more, this, you. Don’t ask him to admit it though, because he likely will. (And regret it later).
synopsis. Aerion Brightflame—living proof that old Targaryen tyranny is still rife in the blood, and that dragons still live amongst men. A prince of the blood, who becomes but a weak man at your touch.
beware. subby!aerion | overstimulation & edging (m!receiving) | wife!reader | mentions of male masturbation | minors dni | allusions to improper use of a knife (not specified/graphic) | aerion is kind of misogynistic | begging | bratty!aerion
✉️ from aria. need more people on the bratty sub aerion bandwagon NEOW | could be read as a loose continuation from this , but can also be read as a one shot :)
How long has it been now?
Minutes? Hours? Mayhaps the morrow already?
It feels as if an eternity has passed you by since you first got your husband here, with you, like this.
And how delectable this is.
Aerion’s upper back is flush against your chest, pale hairs tickling your chin as you lean over him for a better view. His legs are spread, milky thighs offering a tiny tremble if you know when to look. His hands are clenched, one around the thin fabric of the sheets so fiercely that you briefly fear a rip, and one on your thigh that brackets his hip. He’s gripping the soft flesh so tight that little reddened drips of blood are visible where his nails have dug into them. Painful. Grounding.
For him, at least. For you, it is but a distraction.
Your hand is wrapped around his cock, delicate as a flower, but cunning as a snake. Your pace is methodical - slow, enough to give him the friction he craves, but not nearly enough to quench the everlasting fire that burns within him.
You hadn’t really intended for it to go for this long, or like this at all. When your lord husband came storming into your joint chambers, pacing with all the grace of a petulant child, complaints spilling from his snarling lips - curses, vows to burn, vows to kill - what choice did you have?
You’d only wanted to offer him some release, Seven know he needs it. You’d only meant to let him have his way with you this night, as he had many nights gone by. Leave you satisfied and battered. Warm and shaking. But when you’d lay back against the pillows, spreading your legs like you knew he preferred, that restless glint in his eyes did not diminish. Not a slight.
You’d considered flipping him, then. Straddling his narrow hips and claiming him like the true dragon he was - yes, that’d ought to get it done. The position was new for the two of you, still as riveting and un-navigated as it was the first.
But tonight, you found you had your own desire for release. As a wife, you silently accept that many of your own desires are to be buried in favour of your husbands. And so, dutiful as you were, you’d indulged him many a time - when he’d bent you so steep you’d broken, when he’d had you until you fell unconscious, even when he’d unsheathed the dagger from his belt once, bringing it into your bed.
However, since the newfound discovery of his enjoyment of relinquishing control, no matter how begrudgingly, your own tastes had been satisfied along with his. And you long for more. Mayhaps being a new princess of the realm has infected you with all the greed expected of a royal.
At first, he’d protested the idea. Of course he had. “Riding your dragon is enough,” he’d spat, brows furrowing, eyes glaring at you incredulously - as if you’d uttered the most heinous request ever. “I am no inexperienced bachelor needing the guidance of a woman.”
But you know him better than he knows himself. Though, you’re certain he’d have your head in a second for thinking so. After all, no fondness he holds for you could compare to the high regard he holds himself to.
So you respected that regard.
You’d agreed with his ranting on the insipid courtesans. The expectations of a prince. The unbearable glances he is sent from serving girls and his own father, as if he would flip at any moment. Not entirely inaccurate. But you’d agreed nonetheless.
You’d reassured him that he, your dragon, is superior to all of them. That they are mere men in the presence of a god - an embodiment of magic beyond their feeble comprehension.
And with that, he let you guide him back against the pillows with you.
“Speed up.”
You huff a laugh at that, your lips curving against his temple as you brush your lips over his skin. “Is that how you request something of a lady?”
You could practically feel his scowl. “You are no lady. You are— fuck.. a witch.” He spits the words at you, anger bubbling in his chest. He’s humiliated, torn between his pride and desire to succumb to you completely.
“Do not make poetry of it, Aerion,” You roll your eyes, pressing a soothing kiss to his hair. His breath comes in quiet pants, his eyes flicking between your slow, languid movements on his cock, to the other hand that rubs his side softly. Lovingly.
It’s all too gentle for his liking.
His hips buck up roughly, pushing his cock harder into your fist. A grunt punches itself out of his lungs, and if you listen close, the end of it almost trails into a whine. He thrusts up again, and again, and again.
You indulge him for a moment.
“Is my poor dragon so desperate he needs to conduct himself so filthily?” You tease, your voice dim with lust. Your cunt throbs at the way he pulls his swollen lip between his lips at your voice. “Am I not giving him what he needs? Hm?”
He shakes his head sharply, brows pinching when you slightly tighten your hand around him. He’s already nearing the brink, he realises with dread, likely due to your relentless teasing. He moans quietly, his hips twitching. His head lolls back to your throat, despite how he tries to hold it up with dignity. “Fuck, that’s..”
His tip, flushed a deep red, is leaking more excessively now - your hand growing slippery, needing more concentration to keep it wrapped around him. You smile, toothily and smug, pressing more soft kisses to his hair as you begin to flick your wrist in time with his thrusts.
He gasps at the feeling. He bites his lip again hard, embarrassed at the sound - his face flushing. You want more.
His pace grows sloppier, stones growing taut with his imminent finish. His eyes flicker shut, losing himself in the sensations of your hand stroking his cock, your fingertips stroking his ribcage and leaving goosebumps in their wake, your lips offering kisses in abundance. Before he can catch himself, a high-pitched moan leaves his lips.
“I’m going to..” He tries to warn you, though it’s likely you know already, based on his harsh panting and uncoordinated pace. His words trail off anyway, drifting into a guttural groan as he nears the edge - and it’s good, so fucking good, he could cry—
You stop.
Your hand leaves his twitching cock. Your free hand wraps around his stomach, having clearly predicted how he’d shoot up, ready to strike you, finish himself off, do something. His hips buck up uncontrollably, and his cock leaks onto his pelvis. He feels hot, overwhelmingly so.
He fucking growls at you. It rumbles deep in his chest. Unbridled fury flashes in his blown eyes as he glares at you, incredulous and murderous. The hand that’s gripping your thigh grows impossibly tighter, fingers digging in agonisingly deep, and you bite back a wince.
His chest rises and falls hard. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to say. There is nothing he could say that could convey how he feels.
“You stopped.” He settles for. His voice is shaky, the words cracking. Your cunt clenches around nothing.
“I stopped.” You hum, still offering that fucking smile.
He exhales sharply, as if in pure disbelief at your audacity. He seethes quietly, yet he makes no move to remove his hand from you and tug at his cock.
“You are my wife,” He mutters, voice firmer now, his anger bubbling beneath the surface, barely. “That is why I will spare you one more chance. Continue. Now.”
You blink at him, feigning offence. “I believe that is how you ask service of a whore, husband, not your lady wife.” You will yourself not to grin at the mad look that crosses his features.
“You are no better than a whore,” he spits with disgust, frown growing deeper. He sputters on his words out of pure aggravation. “You are— scheming, and cruel, and fucking sadistic. In fact, a whore might at least do the job better. Mayhaps I shall make a visit to the Street of Silk tonight-”
You’ve heard quite enough of this farce.
Your hand wraps around his cock again, feeling it throb instantly at the slightest friction. He gasps, disarmed, and you seize the moment to start pumping him - quickly. Like what he truly needs.
He groans, head falling back against you. His hips practically thrash under your touch. His violet eyes roll back into his skull, and he almost smiles ear to ear - satisfied, spoiled. Assuming. You smirk.
Your hand is unrelenting in the pace it sets, no matter the ache in your wrist and the numbness of your leg as he grips it to ground himself.
He’s already approaching the brink. So worked up, from the day’s endless responsibilities, from your nightly tortures.
“Fuck— yes, yes… that’s it..” He encourages, his voice carrying a whiney lilt. He is growing desperate, perhaps even fearful that you will deprive him of finish as you did before. His hand leaves your thigh, making you bite back a sigh of relief. His hand flies to his own mouth, slapping over his lips to try and muffle the whimpers that he simply cannot hold back.
You tear his wrist from his face immediately, tutting disapprovingly.
He grunts, snarling at you. You just tighten your grip, and his jaw falls slack, eyes fluttering.
“Are you close?” You whisper sultrily, teeth nipping at his earlobe. He nods, breath catching in his throat.
You grin, and double your efforts. He groans, deep and guttural, back slightly arching from your chest as his hips buck to meet you. “Fuck.. I’m- you’re going to make me-”
His orgasm hits him like a bull, quicker and more overwhelming than before. His eyes roll back so far it borders pain, and his mouth opens into a silent scream.
His seed spurts from his tip in silky ropes, painting his stomach and your hand. Some shoots so far it coats his chest, his collarbones. He grunts harshly, the sound forced from him with the pleasure consuming him. Subconsciously, one of his hands reach blindly for yours, fingers gripping yours painfully as he rides his high.
But for a dragon, he certainly grows sensitive quick.
When your hand doesn’t cease its ministrations, let alone slow, his breaths grow quicker. Panicky.
His eyes don’t open, but his brows pinch together, head lolling back against you. He’s burning hot, his sweat dripping from him to you, and he’s panting like he’s been underwater for hours.
“Is this what you wanted?” Your voice is no more than a murmur amongst the lewd sounds of your hand stroking his soaked, overstimulated cock, and his own noises.
You wonder a moment if he hadn’t heard you, but then he shakes his head roughly. You tut. “Words.”
He chokes on the sound that leaves him. “No.” His voice is strained, higher than usual, breathier and uneven.
He’s much more agreeable like this.
“No?” You feign confusion. “I thought you wished for me to continue.”
He thrashes, overwhelmed, never having felt anything like this before. “Seven fucking— I can’t, I can’t think-” He swallows dryly. “That’s enough!”
His voice raises at the end, frustrated and disoriented as his cock twitches in your hold. You act like you don’t hear him, your lips softly brushing his damp, pale hair as your hand continues to stroke him mercilessly.
He whimpers. You drip into your smallclothes.
“I can’t take- fuck.. I’m going to-” He doesn’t shy from letting the noises spill out now, likely he can’t even think to. He garbles out moans as his hips begin to twitch into your hold now, and not away.
And when he cums again, thoroughly spent, he groans so loudly that he’s surely heard all across the realm.
His cock offers two ropes, stones utterly emptied.
Finally, your hand slows. He collapses against you, muscles finally un-tensing as he goes limp. You let go of his softening length, lifting your wet fingers to your mouth. Warm, slightly bitter, him. He doesn’t bother to open his heavy eyes to watch you.
His breathing has quietened. Release, indeed.
“Good.” You praise quietly, and he hums back at you, on the verge of sleep. He will deny this ever happened, and will be most reluctant to relinquish his control so drastically for a time - but he will. Because even dragons need to forget themselves at times.
The way the soldiers held Pete back at the end, like they've dealt with this scenario before...how many other winners threw themselves onto the runner up, trying to save them? how many others tried to step in front of the carbine rather than lose yet another person? Did any succeed, or were there just two corpses in the road?
The idea of a successful revolt is so cool. Maybe the revolt is early on so there’s more people to help, or maybe there’s an outside group that ambushes the guards because they also hate The Long Walk. Oooo maybe they’re the old winners of it? Fun idea to think of
The concept of Carlos from RE3 having a kid who's in Raccoon City during the events of the game (visiting family? Sleepover? School event and they made a pit stop? Idk yet) and while they do indeed find each other, his kid has a bite mark and Carlos has to put them down.
So I've read a few people discussing that they're afraid of mischaracterizing Carlos because there is so little about him in the RE canon, so I wanted to take a moment to cover what we do know about him from the RE3 remake, which is actually more than you would think. (I'll also touch on both the Umbrella Chronicles and the Perry Novelizations, as they expand on Carlos' background a bit more.)
U.B.C.S. Corporal
Let's start with the basics. In the original, Carlos is a Corporal in the U.B.C.S. (Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Services.) Historically, the U.B.C.S. were private military contractors hired by Umbrella. While it's unclear what their role was prior to the t-Virus outbreak, they appeared to be a bit more public-facing than the Umbrella Security Service (U.S.S.) which was the special operations division of Umbrella. Given their role in Raccoon, it appears they were likely trained for disaster relief, but were more likely intended to hold the perimeter in the event of a biohazardous materials spill or other such event.
Now, U.B.C.S. (and Umbrella as a whole) is historically known for fielding its contractors from dubious backgrounds. Think enemies of the state and death row convicts. Easily pulled through the cracks. In the RE3 remake, we see this practice holds true in Murphy Seeker, who was convicted of killing the men who murdered his brother. We don't know who exactly Carlos is in the remake, but he was originally advertised as being a communist guerrilla of "South American heritage" (more on that later.) This seems to hold true as Carlos's character introduction in Survival Unit is: "A veteran mercenary in Umbrella's private U.B.C.S. unit. A seasoned guerrilla fighter able to handle any firearm as well as pilot helicopters and small planes."
In terms of rank, most paramilitary don't really use rank and the RE3 remake seems to have mostly gotten rid of the military references to chain of command from the original. Nikolai is no longer referred to as a Sergeant, though he was still listed as such in his file as it appeared in the RE3 artbook. In the file "Unfinished Activity Log", Tyrell refers to Carlos as simply a soldier and not as a Corporal, so his role in the chain of command is unclear. To our knowledge, the U.B.C.S. had a force of 120 contractors with four platoons of 30. Delta Platoon was captained by Mikhail Viktor, and in the original, Carlos' position as a Corporal would make him the lowest-ranking officer, likely only in command of a four person team at most. Still, it's clear that Mikhail holds him in very high regard, as he entrusts Carlos with several objectives throughout the outbreak.
Skillset
Carlos appears to be trained in a variety of combat systems including assault rifles, anti-tank heavy weaponry (I'm tenuously identifying the weapon he uses on Nemesis as a M202 FLASH Rocket Launcher), demolitions breaching, and some hand-to-hand combat. Additionally, we see him pilot a helicopter in the RE3 remake's finale and the above quote from his Survival Unit introduction also claims he can pilot small planes. Also of note are Carlos' medical skills, demonstrated when he helps Mikail on the subway. Most people in the military undergo basic combat medicine for the field, but this is absolutely an underutilized skill in his toolkit.
One of Carlos' biggest skills, in my opinion, is that he is an incredible mediator. This touches on his personality a bit, but he is clearly someone humble and willing to put aside his own ego for the greater goal. He consistently de-escalates volatile conversations and doesn't waste time arguing with people. Given how borderline flirty he is, I think some people might mistake him for being a bombastic hothead, when his behavior is exactly the opposite.
Characterization
Here is where we really dig deep. What I think draws most people to Carlos is the lighthearted, easygoing, and a little flirty side to him, all of which are all fair. Something to note, though, is that he's most often using this to bouy the atmosphere of an incredibly horrific situation. Generally, resident evil characters are very quippy to balance the tone of the genre, and humor happens to be a common coping mechanism. As said before, he also keeps his head even in situations where someone is yelling/insulting him.
What compels me even more about Carlos is how genuinely selfless he is. When the rest of his team evacuates, he stays to get Dr. Bard. When he hears a report of the bombing, his first response isn't "Let's get out of here." It's "There's still people in the city." It's easy to think that he spends so much time helping Jill because he has a romantic interest in her, but the more obvious answer is that's just what he does. At his core, he helps people, even in small and unglamorous ways like helping clear rubble so the train can safely shuttle the civilians out of the city.
(It's also nothing to sneeze at that he genuinely respects Jill. When Tyrell calls her his "girlfriend", Carlos immediately shuts that down. Even makes a little grimace. This isn't to say that he isn't interested her, just that he sees her as a peer and equal and wants her to be seen on her own merit. Pretty sexy of him, honestly.)
Here's where we get to my favorite element of his character. The only time we see him losing his head in the entire game is when he finds out that he's working for the same people who caused the outbreak. Just a moment, when he's by himself and he doesn't have to put on a strong front. After days fighting for survival without sleep – acting as the voice of reason when tempers get hot, likely pushing aside any of his own stress or irritation or fatigue – this is the place where he snaps. The moment is explosive, precise, and as soon as he lets his anger out, he puts it right back in the box. I appreciate this moment so much because it shows us some of the tension that exists with Carlos. He is very capable of raw and violent rage, but he keeps it locked up where it builds until he can't hold it in anymore. This recontextualizes everything we know about Carlos. Goodness is a choice. Patience is a choice. Optimism in the face of despair is a choice and to me, that makes his strength of character so much more evident.
Background
This is where we enter pure speculation. Jeff Schine (Carlos's voice actor for the RE3 remake) has mentioned that he had originally auditioned for the role with a more Latin American accent, but ultimately went with his natural North American accent instead. Benson Mokhtar (the face model used for Carlos' photogrammetry template and, rumor has it, Carlos' arms as well,) is from Portugal and Oliveira is a Portuguese surname, but as said before, there is no specified nationality for Carlos. There won't really be wrong answer to the question of his heritage, so good research and (even better) good friends can give insight into what any particular nationality would bring to Carlos' story. As an example, I have frequently written Carlos as Brazilian because the geopolitics of the story I was writing meant that certain doors would be open to him on the basis of nationality. I also based his guerilla background on the Araguaia Guerrilla War, because the context provided by those events added a facets to his character I wanted to explore in the story.
The Umbrella Chronicles Novelization places Carlos's origins in an unnamed country in an area where organized crime was so embedded in the community that two of his older brothers had died before he was even born. His older brother, Pedro, was also involved with gang(?) activity, which resulted in the retaliatory murder of Carlos's brother, Tonio. Carlos seemed to take on the role of a provider for his family, leading to an incident at the age of ten when Carlos was caught stealing by a paramilitary unit in the area. He was saved by local guerrilla, who he later joined up with. The novelization claims that he was a "leading figure" of the communist guerrilla by the time the government took an initiative to eradicate them. S.D. Perry takes a different approach in her fifth Resident Evil novel, "Nemesis", where Carlos occasionally uses spanish words and has seemingly worked as a mercenary and possible hitman prior to his contract with Umbrella. Specifically, he is said to have two assassinations under his belt, including a "tyrannical drug lord" and a child pornographer, respectively. The live action Anderson movies take him in such an entirely different direction, I'm not going to include that potrayal here.
I hope this was a helpful insight for anyone who made it this far. Ultimately, remake Carlos is just an all around pretty awesome character who was a highlight of a fairly underwhelming game. Regardless of whether or not he makes it into RE9, his story will carry on for however long the community continues to tell it, in whatever form it takes.
Hello, I'm ranting about Sirius in the Marauders fandom
I need y'all to hear me and hear me well before y'all come for me.
I hate the way Sirius is feminized is the Marauders fandom. I'm sorry, but I do. I feel like some people don't understand that you can be a pretty boy and not be completely rid of your masculinity
I don't mean to sound like a fucking right wing "WHERE ARE ALL THE MEN?! WHOS GONNA BE THE BOY?!" and I know I'm explaining this terribly, but I feel like Sirius is almost being morphed to become the girl in Wolfstar. Which is stupid... Because they're both men. Actually since we're here, what's with people only valuing Remus and Sirius when it comes to Wolfstar? They're still two people. Each Marauder is important and YES, PETER IS A MARAUDER! That's for another time though.
Sirius is a male in the 70s. A rich white male at that. Him being punk? Love that! Him being androgynous looking? Period. But, in my head at least, he's still masculine, he's just in touch with certain feminine traits. Like having long hair, nice skin, soft lips, stuff like that.
Also, I hate to say it I hope I don't sound ridiculous, the Marauders are dick heads. I'M SORRY. A group of white men in the 70s? I don't think they're as woke as we are in 2026. Like, I don't think Sirius is saying "nigga" but I do think the Marauders would be a little ignorant about certain things. Sirius and James the most
Am I making sense? Listen, when my meds come back in stock, I'll be back and hopefully have my words together lmao
i'd like to think for no reason in particular but for my own enjoyment that if mbav did get a season three, they would've remade the intro so i did just that :3
I could very well be tweaking, especially since I haven’t finished the show, but Sihtric is giving very much loverboy.
And because of that
He’s givingggg munch
Come on ya’ll, you can’t be a loverboy and not eat coochie? I thought we were in love.
You can’t say you love your girl and she’s your world if you aren’t putting her legs over your shoulders. Am I the bad guy?!
Sihtric specifically is giving the vibes that he has random urges to eat his wife out. A craving, you can say. If he’s away and not around Reader for an extended amount of time, he’s miserable purely because he can’t satiate this need he has.
Once again though, I could be trippin. Who knows 🤷♀️
