#ResidentEvilCrack

[noobiestnoober]

Fallout & Feelings (Sequel to "Matrimony Mayhem") (Carlos X Reader)

What started as a joke—a fake marriage between you and Carlos to boost team morale—has spiraled wildly out of control. Now HQ thinks it’s real, HR’s scheduling couple’s counseling, and the team is planning a surprise reception. But amidst the chaos, one problem grows harder to ignore: you’re starting to like being married to Carlos a little too much. And worse? He might feel the same.

Fake vows. Real feelings. Team-wide delusion. Welcome to the fallout.

Welcome to the Aftermath

There was no escaping it now. By the time Monday rolled around, the HQ announcement board had a digital banner that read: CONGRATS TO THE NEWLYWEDS! 🎉 right above a reminder about proper biohazard disposal. No one questioned it anymore. It had become part of the landscape—right next to the “All-Clear” drill notifications and mission success tallies.

The breakroom TV kept glitching into a slideshow of wedding-themed stock photos with your and Carlos’s faces lazily Photoshopped onto them. You tried to shut it off. Twice. It rebooted itself both times. Someone—likely Jill—had also programmed it to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love” every time the coffee machine was used, meaning an emotional Elvis serenade every fifteen minutes.

You could handle the Elvis soundtrack. You could even tolerate Leon’s theatrical interpretation of slow dancing with an invisible bouquet every time you entered the room. But when Rebecca compiled a “training retreat” proposal that suspiciously resembled a honeymoon itinerary—complete with “couple trust-building exercises” and a scenic lake cabin? That’s when it got real.

You could ignore the monogrammed towel set. You could tolerate HR’s weekly “Marital Wellness” check-ins—even when they made you and Carlos fill out compatibility quizzes that sounded suspiciously like dating app surveys. But the part that was really getting out of hand?

You were starting to like it. All of it. Carlos was… good at being fake married. Too good.

He saved the last dumpling for you without asking. He carried your gear even when you didn’t need help. He casually touched the small of your back like it was second nature. He called you “wife” with that relaxed drawl that made it sound less like a joke and more like a fact. And worst of all? He smiled like he meant it when he called you mi esposa.

What had started as a laugh was turning into… something else. The line between fake and real was blurring faster than you could process. Somewhere between the shared meals, the inside jokes, and the casual touches, your heart stopped remembering where the act ended and the truth began.

The Turning Point

It happened after a particularly rough mission. Long hours. A close call. You were scraped up, exhausted, and coming down from the adrenaline high with a crash. Blood on your sleeve, dirt under your nails, and a dull ringing in your ears from the last explosion.

Carlos sat next to you on the infirmary cot. Wordlessly, he reached for your hand and held it. Not for the bit. Not for the team. Just for you. His hand was warm and solid. Familiar. Steady.

“You scared me today,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.

Your throat tightened. “Wasn’t planning on dying, if that helps.”

“Still,” he said again, softer this time. “I don’t think I could handle losing you. Even as a fake wife.”

You turned toward him slowly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and real. The fake wedding ring on your finger felt heavier than it should’ve, like it suddenly meant more than plastic and poor decisions.

“Carlos… do you ever wish it wasn’t a joke?”

He went still. The kind of still that usually meant danger. Except this time, the only thing in danger was your heart. Instead of deflecting, instead of making it weird, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

“All the time.”

Your pulse skipped a beat. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. You just looked at him—and he looked right back, like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

Operation: Team Chaos

The team was spiraling. Spectacularly. Jill had set up a Pinterest board labeled “Reception Vibes.” It had categories. Subfolders. Color palettes. She was serious.

Leon was aggressively researching “Best Man speeches for emotionally stunted sharpshooters,” and had started leaving half-written cue cards in random places. One ended with: “...and if anyone objects to this union, speak now or shut up forever, because Carlos will shoot you.”

Chris looked five minutes away from a full bureaucratic collapse. His desk was buried in a mountain of paperwork he’d printed out to “fix this mess.” Every time someone asked what he was doing, he just muttered about protocol breaches and chain-of-command violations while shaking an HR handbook like it was gospel.

Rebecca? Oh, she’d escalated. She drafted an HR-approved marital health form titled “Love on the Front Lines: A Wellness Journey” and began scheduling sessions like a wedding planner on a mission. Her latest suggestion was a “Communication & Conflict Resolution” workshop. Mandatory.

There was talk—actual, serious talk—of a surprise wedding reception at the base cafeteria. Jill had a playlist. Leon was practicing a toast. Someone even requested cake options from the mess hall staff. You didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry.

And amid the chaos, you caught yourself smiling. Because this wasn’t just about the prank anymore. Somewhere in the whirlwind of well-meaning lunacy, the team had started rooting for you. For real.

Carlos caught you on your way to the shooting range, eyebrows raised.

“So, uh… do we fake-renew our vows or actually do it this time?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Let’s survive one more mission first.”

He nodded. “Deal. But next fruit basket? I’m picking the contents. No more weird kiwi jam.”

“Agreed. And I get veto power on towel embroidery fonts.”

He grinned, and it felt different now. Real.

[fvrxdrm]

Among Us with the RE Gang

Jake: Start

Y/N: Alright, alright. *starts the game* *u r the impostor*

Leon: *Follows you around*

Y/N: *Decides to play innocent and pushes the emergency button in the cafeteria*

Claire: What is it, Y/N?

Y/N: Eyo, Leon! Why u being sus?

Leon: What? I was just doing a task!

Y/N: What task?

Leon: T-the one with the download shit.

Y/N: No, you were following me around.

Leon: What??? No!!!

Y/N: Leon SUS Kennedy!!!

*Claire, Chris, Carlos, Jill, and Jake vote Leon off*

Leon: Wait, you don't have any proof! Wai-

. 　　　。　　　　•　 　ﾟ　　。 　　.

　　　.　　　 　　.　　　　　。　　 。　. 　

.　　 。　　　　　 ඞ 。 . 　　 • 　　　　•.

Leon was not The Impostor.　 。　.

　　'　　　 1 Impostor remains 　 　　。

　　ﾟ　　　.　　　. ,　　　　.　 .

Y/N: *kills every single player left* MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

Leon: I'm out.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I don't know what I was doing here tbh...

[sonamy-and-bbrae-lover]

OMFG I LOVE THIS!!!! The game is whole lot less scary now. 🤣🥰🤣🥰🤣

[noobiestnoober]

Fanfic Found Files (HUNK X Reader)

You, a mildly sleep-deprived writer with a chronic AO3 addiction and a caffeine intake that would alarm most doctors, post thirst-fueled Resident Evil fanfiction during ungodly hours. Your favorite subject? One infamously silent, masked Umbrella operative known only as "HUNK." What you don’t know is that the actual, very real HUNK has stumbled across your account... and has been binge-reading your archive like it’s classified mission intel. His off-days now consist of black coffee, knife maintenance, and quietly spiraling over your latest smut-filled update.

Scene Start:

The secure Umbrella command center was eerily quiet, lit only by the dim blue glow of a computer monitor. The hum of servers filled the room like a distant storm. HUNK—yes, the Grim Reaper—sat stoically in full tactical gear. His mask was on. His gloves tapped rhythmically against the keyboard as he leaned into the screen. His mission debriefing? Complete, filed with terrifying efficiency. His field report? Flawless, naturally. His kill count? So high even HR pretends the file doesn't exist.

His current objective?

"Chapter 14: Tactical Submission — Part 2."

He clicked.

"The air was thick with tension as she shoved HUNK against the wall. 'You’re always in control,' she growled. 'Let’s see how you like following orders for once.'"

He tilted his head.

“…Damn,” he muttered, his voice muffled under the helmet.

He was about to continue when the door to the control room hissed open.

“Yo, you comin’ to the briefing or—?” an operative started, holding a clipboard.

HUNK shut his laptop with spine-snapping speed.

“No.”

The operative blinked. “You… okay, boss?”

“…Tactical reasons,” HUNK replied flatly, standing stiff as a board.

You, in pajamas, sipping from a chipped mug that reads “#1 Simp,” while giggling at the notification: *New Kudos from SilentReaper95.*

You have absolutely no idea that the subject of your 40k-word “masked mercenary angst erotica saga” is not only real but has read every word. Twice. Judging. Blushing. All while claiming he never removes his helmet... is out there... Reading... Judging... Blushing under a helmet he claims not to take off. Ever.

[noobiestnoober]

The Boulder Puncher and the Broken Couch (Chris X Reader)

Chris Redfield—BSAA legend, boulder-punching icon, and lovable himbo—wants to impress you. Unfortunately, his idea of "impressing" someone involves recreating his infamous volcanic boulder-punching feat… inside your living room. What begins as a casual visit spirals into a chaotic blend of caffeine, confidence, and couch carnage.

It started innocently enough, as most disasters tend to do.

"You ever seen a man punch a boulder?" Chris asked, arms crossed, biceps bulging like he was starring in a late-night fitness infomercial from 1998. His grin was boyish, proud—completely unaware of the domestic doom he was about to unleash.

You blinked at him from across the kitchen island, coffee mug mid-sip. "Chris, no. And I feel like I should keep it that way."

He leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Wanna see something cool?"

That should have been your first warning. Maybe even your last. In hindsight, inviting Chris over to your apartment after a long mission already teetered on the edge of questionable judgment. But letting him drink three cups of extra-strong espresso? That was a full-speed sprint across the line into absolute chaos.

Caffeinated Chris was a dangerous man. Not in the 'he’ll break your heart' way. More in the 'he’ll accidentally break your walls, ceiling, and possibly the space-time continuum' way.

"Okay, okay, stand back," he said, cracking his knuckles with the kind of intensity most people reserved for defusing bombs or performing emergency surgery.

You didn’t even have time to protest before he dropped into a half-crouch and squared up with your couch. Not a punching bag. Not even a pillow. Your couch. Your not-so-budget-friendly, questionably purchased beige IKEA couch.

"Chris, what are you doing?"

"This thing’s got the structural integrity of a lava rock. Perfect for this," he said, glowing with confidence.

Before your brain could process the absurdity, he punched. The couch exploded. Springs shot into the air like confetti at a doomed celebration. Fabric tore with theatrical flair. One of the legs snapped off and rolled under the coffee table like it was tapping out of the chaos. You stood frozen, coffee cup hovering mid-air, one drop clinging to the rim. Chris looked just as stunned, holding half a seat cushion in one hand and a detached armrest in the other. He stared at the destruction like the couch had somehow betrayed him.

"That... wasn’t supposed to happen."

You set your cup down slowly. "Did you just punch my couch?"

"Technically, yes," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But in my defense, it looked very boulder-like from that angle."

"Chris. It’s beige. And tufted. With decorative buttons."

He pointed at the wreckage. "It was beige."

You exhaled through your nose and pinched the bridge of your nose. "That couch cost more than your entire tactical vest setup."

"I’ll fix it!" he offered quickly, eyes wide and hopeful. "I’ve got duct tape."

You blinked.

"A lot of duct tape," he added, pulling out an industrial-sized roll from his tactical backpack like it was sacred equipment.

You didn’t have the strength to ask why he was carrying it. You really didn’t want to know.

Instead, you waved vaguely toward the destruction. "Just... clean this up before Jill gets here. I am not explaining this again."

Chris straightened and gave you a salute, serious and overly formal—like he was reporting for a mission titled: “Fix What You Broke.”

"Yes ma’am! Operation Couch Resurrection is underway."

As he knelt beside the ruined frame and began reconstructing it like it was a hostage negotiation, you muttered under your breath, "I should’ve just let him punch a hole in the wall. At least that could be patched."