Cringe and Command (Wesker's Assistant Chronicles)
Youâre Albert Wesker's assistant. Unfortunately for him, you refuse to take his villain speeches seriously. Even worse? You keep calling them cringe. He tries to fire you. Repeatedly. But somehow, you're still on payroll. Honestly, he might need therapy more than world domination.
"The world shall kneel before my new order," Wesker intoned, voice dripping with menace as red warning lights blinked around the lab, painting his cheekbones in dramatic crimson shadows.
You rolled your eyes from your spinning chair in the corner. "That line sounds like a villain wrote it after binge-watching bad anime dubs. Cringe."
Wesker froze mid-speech like someone had unplugged him. "Excuse me?"
You sipped from your Umbrella-logo mug. "I'm just saying, if you want people to actually kneel, you might wanna update your material. Maybe something less âtheatre kid turned fascist.â"
His jaw flexed. "You're fired."
"Cool. I'll pack after I finish fixing your disaster of a PowerPoint presentation. Seriously, slide three transitions simulate a car chase. Did you mean to make it look like a Michael Bay film?"
Wesker glared, his sunglasses somehow reflecting your judgmental stare even though you were indoors. You glared back, wholly unimpressed. The red lights continued to blink like a rave for evil plans, unnoticed by both of you.
Day 34
Wesker tried to fire you again after you brought cupcakes to a top-secret Umbrella executive meeting and insisted everyone sing happy birthday to Nemesis.
"You are the worst assistant I've ever had," he snapped, lips twitching like he was trying not to scream.
"Nemesis deserves joy, Albert," you replied calmly, placing a party hat on a bio-organic weaponâroughly eight feet tall with a permanent snarlâthat blinked once in confused gratitude.
He rubbed his temple. "I created life to destroy the world, not to⌠wear sprinkle cupcakes as hats."
You looked him dead in the eye. "Sounds like a you problem."
Day 46
You changed the labâs background music to Barbie Girl during a viral sample test. Wesker entered the room to find you and Mr. X doing a synchronized head bop.
"Do I even want to know?"
"Team morale, sir."
He tried to fire you. You printed the HR handbook in Comic Sans and highlighted the clause where he couldnât actually terminate staff without written approval from Umbrella HQ.
Day 58
You changed his password to "ILoveCringe69" and left a sticky note that said, "World domination is temporary. Memes are forever."
Wesker stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. He fired you via email this time. You replied with a meme of a raccoon giving a thumbs-up, captioned: "Mood."
Day 73
He returned to his office to find a slideshow titled "Top 10 Times Wesker Tried to Monologue and I Laughed."
"Number 4 was during a hostage situation!" he shouted.
"Exactly. Peak comedy."
"Get out."
You reached for your bag. "Do I take the laser pointer or...?"
He screamed into his glove.
Day 100
He gave up.
"Why are you still here?"
"Because no one else knows how to rewire the coffee machine without setting the lab on fire. Plus, I'm the only one who can decipher your handwriting. Is that 'Destroy the Resistance' or 'Dessert Inventory'?"
He stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere in the distance, a B.O.W. dropped a beaker. No one moved.
"...Fine. But no more cupcakes."
"Deal."
(You still brought cupcakes. With little Umbrella logos on top. Nemesis ate six. Wesker stared at the crumbs and muttered, "At this point, resistance is futile.")
If you want to see more of Wesker's Assistant Chaos, take a look at Part 2
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The Boulder Puncher and the Broken Couch (Chris X Reader)
Chris RedfieldâBSAA legend, boulder-punching icon, and lovable himboâwants 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, proudâcompletely 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 'heâll break your heart' way. More in the 'heâll 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 didnât 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 thingâs 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... wasnât 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. Itâs 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."
"Iâll fix it!" he offered quickly, eyes wide and hopeful. "Iâve 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 didnât have the strength to ask why he was carrying it. You really didnât 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 formalâlike he was reporting for a mission titled: âFix What You Broke.â
"Yes maâam! 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 shouldâve just let him punch a hole in the wall. At least that could be patched."
