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ensnared and strangle perhaps? for the prompt game? pretty please :)

For sure! (For this prompt list)

Ensnared/Strangle

"Leon S. Kennedy," the smooth voice drawls, accentuating every syllable. A shiver runs down Leon's spine as he tugs uselessly at the strange, fleshy vines twining around his wrists and ankles, arms strung above his head and legs forced to spread by the tendrils stretching his limbs as far as his creaking joints will allow. He grits his teeth, thrashing--only to freeze as a dark-clothed figure steps with contained grace out from behind a pillar, orange eyes gleaming in the shadows. Around him, ouroborous tendrils cling to the floor and walls, a grotesque web forming around the spidery man that refuses to die.

"Albert Wesker," Leon mocks, doing his best to mimic the man's controlled tone as the vines begin to wrap more securely up and down his arms and legs, slithering over his clothes until he can barely see through the seething mass. "Mind letting me out of here? I feel like it's a little unfair to fight an enemy who can't move."

Wesker sneers, laughing darkly. "What is the nature of man, if not unfair? Nature itself subsists upon a delicate balance, the process of selection her inherent injustice, bound to--"

"What kind of thesaurus do you use?" Leon asks innocently. "I'd love to borrow it the next time I have to write a report. Or did you just memorize that passage from Shakespeare?"

Wesker slithers out from the shadows, black tendrils writhing in his wake. In the light, his face is a patchwork of twisted scar tissue intercut with patches of rotting, mutated skin the color of coal. Glowing irises stain his sclera an unnatural, bloodshot orange, thin hair slicked back to reveal a high, severe forehead. He sighs.

"Impertinent."

In an instant, the tension around Leon's limbs disappear, his body slamming into the pavement before he can even register what's happening. Dazed, he can only choke on the lack of hair, clawing at the warm, leather-gloved hand squeezing tightly around his throat. Above him, Wesker looms with a snarl, knee planted solidly in Leon's solar plexus.

"You will regret it."

Leon gags, vision blurring. Wesker's strength is superhuman, fingers like iron as something in Leon's throat begins to tighten. His hands scrabble for purchase on thick snakeskin leather, the ouroborous virus beneath Wesker's skin visibly writhing and forcing his skin out of shape. Leon kicks uselessly, head throbbing. God, why does this always happen to him?

The sudden sound of gunfire barely registers over the rush of blood in his ears, a growl echoing strangely as Wesker ducks back. Leon chokes. Shudders. He's on the very verge of unconsciousness when air returns in a rush, ragged coughs stuttering in his throat as he struggles to suck in a pained inhale. An instant later, he finds himself being dragged upright, Wesker's hand fisting in his hair as dark vines wrap him like a fly in a cocoon. Leon's breath catches harshly, senses wavering. He feels like he can't breathe right--something is probably broken.

"Chris," Wesker hisses, bitter hatred and utter disdain audible in his tone. "So nice of you to join us."

#whump #ask game #my fics #drabbles #<33333

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Magical healing that doesn't immediately or fully mend everything, that can only hasten or bolster the body's own ability heal, that lends a bit of power and a nudge in the right direction, or tips the scales just enough in their favour, slowing bleeding or dampening pain or fighting infection or replenishing strength, but still leaves the slow remaining process of time being the best healer to truly complete the job.

#yumm #magical healing #whump

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A deliriously ill/fevered/drugged/confused character begging and pleading and calling for their companion- the companion who's right there beside them trying to shush and soothe and reassure them, but they're too out of it to register their presence or recognise them even when the companion is clutching the fevered character's hand and stroking their hair and cradling their face in their palm and leaning into their line of hazy sight and talking softly to them; all to no avail as the distressed and delirious character continues to cry out for them with increasing desperation and mumbled sobs.

#hmmm...... #hokding on to this. for no particular reason. cough cough #whump #fave

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see the thing that annoys me a lot about so many self-professed dark fiction enjoyers is the like the. implicit belief that because a romance is predatory or meant to be read as horrifying means that all the tender or caring moments are just for manipulation or some shit. like ok fair im one of those annoying "everything is about love" bitches but just because the love is horror doesn't mean like. the people involved aren't capable of genuine tenderness towards each other lol

#this

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push me

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24. Bedridden or 66. Bedside Manner, with comfort/caretaking from the team? Leon's gonna need it... (can be a continuation of something else, or a standalone, up to you)

He definitely does 😭 (For this prompt list)

Bedridden/Bedside Manner

"Fuck," Leon hisses weakly, arching backwards into Piers' arms as Jill tears yet another of the barbed spikes free of his thigh, the sound coming out closer to a sob. His breaths come harsh in his chest, one hand squeezing Chris's meaty palm in a death grip where he's decided to lean into Leon's space from the edge of the dusty bed, the other clawing into Piers' arm where it's been wrapped securely over Leon's chest. He shudders, sweat dripping down a temple.

"One more," Jill says grimly, to which Piers subtly tightens his hold. She doesn't give Leon a chance to prepare himself, cutting deep into his leg and yanking the final spike out in a gout of fresh blood. Leon can only gasp, spasming.

"Got--got anything for the poison, yet?" he slurs, feeling the burn of it through his veins now that the overwhelming source of pain has dulled. He thinks someone responds, but then Jill clamps down hard on his leg to provide pressure and Leon can't stop himself from passing out entirely.

He comes to with a cough, blinking blearily at the sensation of a cool cloth against his forehead, a callused thumb so large it can only belong to Chris sliding gently beneath his eye to collect the tears that have fallen there. He's still slumped against Piers' solid body, shivering weakly despite the warmth his fiancé provides. Leon moans.

"Shh," Chris soothes from Leon's left, Piers' hand smoothing over his hair as he shudders involuntarily. "We've got you."

Another, smaller hand is propped under his knee to hold it up, white gauze and bloodstained bandages visible in his blurry vision when he glances down. He winces as Jill pulls the top layer tight, bare thigh pale where it sticks out from beneath the thin blanket thrown haphazardly over his legs. He's still wearing his jacket, the distant growl of BOWs audible outside of the shack they've crawled into for shelter.

"Piers," Leon croaks as Jill finishes what she'd been doing and gently tucks his injured leg under the blanket, pulling it up until the top edge is aligned with the neckline of his t-shirt. "P-Piers--"

"It's okay. I'm here," Piers murmurs in a low voice, holding Leon tightly when his body spasms for what feels like the hundredth time.

"Piers..."

He can't remember what he'd been about to say. Chris's hand slides back into his, squeezing as Leon's eyelids flutter. He stays like that for a moment, trembling--until Piers is helping him slightly more upright, the metal edge of a canteen meeting his lips. The water is cool and soothing enough that Leon can reopen his eyes, Jill's solemn face meeting his where she holds the canteen on its side. Chris is beside her, looking worried, but Leon doesn't have the strength to comfort either of them. He's starting to feel a little sick, if he's honest, the full weight of whatever had been in those spikes wreaking havoc on his system.

"Thanks, nurse Valentine," he rasps when Jill pulls away, mainly in an attempt to lighten the mood. If anything, it makes the lines on Chris's forehead even more pronounced, voice lacking in enough conviction to play off his condition. He sighs. "We should--keep moving."

"Absolutely not." Piers is firm, then softens. "There's no way you can stand without help, and we have no idea what the toxin might do to you. Just rest."

"He's right," Chris says softly, voice too gentle. His brown eyes are wide and watery when Leon manages to look, a forced smile on his face like he's trying to convince himself that it's real. Jill pats Leon's uninjured shin.

"Sleep it off, Kennedy," she says roughly but not unkindly as she sits down in a chair near his feet, in typical Jill fashion. As if following the order, Leon's muscles suddenly relax, the cottony haze in his mind becoming more pronounced as he sags into Piers' arms. He whimpers. Spasms.

"It's okay," Piers whispers, voice cracking. Leon doesn't have the energy to ask why. He reaches up blindly, hand getting caught in the blanket until he can free it to brush his fingers against Piers' jaw.

Unconsciousness takes him.

#idk if this fits the prompt ahahdhshs #whump #ask game #my fics #drabbles #<33 #might do a gentler one you got me thinkin now hehe

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Can I have whip and infection for thw prompt list? If not, just whip is fine :)

For sure ;) (For this prompt list)

Whip/Infection

The whip comes down with a violent crack, a flash of fiery pain licking Leon's split flesh as he jerks against the chains holding his hands above his head and sucks in a ragged breath. He can barely see through the reflexive tears blurring him vision, lost in a haze until another snap of leather drags him back to momentary awareness with a strangled scream. The metal grating of the cargo ship digs painfully into his knees through the fabric of his tactical pants, stifling air doing little to soothe the inflamed, angry wounds opening on his back with every lash.

His muscles lock up when yet another comes down, the twentieth--thirtieth? He's lost count--strangled cry scraping through his trachea. Strands of damp hair hang limply in front of his eyes, teeth chattering despite the heat. He can't breathe right.

Leon hazes in and out of consciousness as blows continue to rain down, time warping in the wake of the all-encompassing burn. He comes back to himself just long enough to find two of the sailors untying his hands, the bearded man he recognizes vaguely as their leader stepping forwards to crouch in front of Leon's limp form.

"Let's hope you've learned your lesson, hm?" He sneers, nodding to the sailors. They hoist Leon to his feet by the arms, the pain of muscles flexing along his back enough to send Leon spiralling into darkness. He only returns to daylight when his body hits the floor of the cell they've been keeping him in, a tiny moan all he can manage as the agony races up and down his mangled back. He sobs.

"The hell did they do to you, rookie?" a gruff voice asks, and then there are large hands on Leon's shoulders, holding him in place as he tries and fails to lift his head.

"Krauser," he slurs, and blacks out.

He drifts for a long time, eyelids flickering open every so often. Whatever he sees must not make sense, because he dips back under every time, sleep drawing him into its soothing embrace. All the while, the flames grow in intensity, burning down through his damaged back and into the rest of his body. The next time he manages to pry his eyelids apart, his very bones have been turned to embers, whimpering at the sheer agony that seems to pulse through every fibre.

"Hang in there," Krauser says from above, broad figure barely visible when Leon turns his head weakly to the side. His lips are dry, throat parched when he tries to speak. There's something damp on the back of his neck, a spot of coolness that does little to put out the fire. He shivers.

"Wha--" Leon swallows, panting for breath. "What--"

"Take it easy. They did a damn number on you." A cool hand comes down on Leon's forehead, the relief of it prompting a groan. "You've got yourself a hell of an infection, too."

"Feel like a pirate," Leon mumbles with a strained laugh. "Didn't know they still whipped people like--"

"Shut up, Kennedy. The last thing I need is to hear your jokes."

There's something musty and stiff beneath Leon's cheek, the sight of a dingy, water-stained mattress swimming into focus as he groans tightly and clenches his fingers against it.

"Hurts," he moans, panic and nausea fluttering in his chest. The fire has grown excruciating, every broken nerve in his back screaming out from the abuse it's suffered. "Krauser--"

"Breathe." The cool cloth dabs at his bare shoulders, swiping over his cheek a second later. Leon leans into it as much as he can, a brief flash of comfort to the fever charring his insides. He tries to do as Krauser says, but the agony is too much to bear.

With a whine, he lets it swallow him up, slipping into a fitful sleep that does nothing to stop the pain from following.

#whump #ask game #my fics #drabbles #ehehhe

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Forced to watch for the ask game? 👀 Thank you!

Sure!! (For this prompt list)

Forced to watch

"Can your friends in FOS hear you?" the man sneers as Leon stifles an agonized gasp, skinny hand twisting the knife he's jammed into the meat of Leon's thigh until fresh blood oozes forth, soaking into the torn fabric of his jeans. He reaches out to fist a hand in Leon's hair, leaving the blade in place. "Do they hear how pathetic you sound?"

Leon concentrates on keeping himself as quiet as he can, Hunnigan's keyboard typing frantically in his ear.

"I'm getting in contact with Chris, Leon. I can't legally send out a team, but he can if he knows the situation. We're going to find you, you hear me?" she says, a steady stream of soothing reassurances that Leon tries to anchor himself on as the man slaps him violently across the face and slams the knife deeper without warning. Leon can't stop a strangled sound, hating the falter in Hunnigan's voice when the noise carries through the mic attached to his comm. "Focus on your breathing, Leon, that's it."

"Well, tell them this," the skinny man continues, gleeful. "If they want their precious agent back, safe and sound, they'd better give me my demands. You know what they are, don't you, Hunnigan?" He leans back, reaching for another of his tools from the tray he's set out in an attempt at intimidation. Leon raises his head just long enough to see some sort of power tool, a long cord attached to the end of it. He presses it against Leon's upper arm with a grin.

"Hunnigan," Leon croaks, "turn off your comm. Don't--don't listen t' --"

He's cut off by a spike of agony in his bicep, pained moan impossible to hold back. The power tool makes a loud ka-chunk sound, a bead of blood forming around the steel nail Leon can see embedded in his skin when the man pulls it back again.

"I'm not going anywhere," Hunnigan says stubbornly, at the same time as the man sets his nail gun on a spot a few inches above Leon's uninjured knee.

"I had this baby amped up," he says conversationally. "Usually they don't go through skin as a safety thing, but I made a few adjustments."

Leon's entire body shudders when he presses down again, a whimper sneaking out from behind the lump in his throat as another nail shoots deep into his leg. The man isn't done, though--he pierces two more spots in quick succession, Leon's cries harder and harder to hold back with every click. He pants as the man pats his head, chest heaving. His trembling fingers ache where they've already been broken one-by-one, nails removed with surgical precision. Sweat stings his eyes.

"Hunnigan," he pleads.

"I'm not going to let you go through this alone," she insists, though Leon can hear the shake in her voice. "I'm here for you, remember?"

"I hope she's enjoying this," the man goads, jamming a fourth nail into Leon's thigh for good measure. Leon chokes.

"Sh--she's not listening," he tries, voice slightly more dazed than he'd hoped. "She turned it off."

"Ha!"

The man jams the nail gun into Leon's hip without hesitation, a ragged scream tearing out from between his lips. He shudders against the ropes holding him in place, unable to even protest when the man lifts his chin with a hand.

"Hang in there," Hunnigan says miserably. "It'll be okay, Leon, we're going to get you out."

"Tell her what I want them to give me," the man orders in a low voice. His eyes gleam. The muzzle of the nail gun comes to rest under Leon's collarbone, a dangerous weight. "Or the next one goes into your lung."

#whump #ask game #my fics #torture #drabbles #haha thanks anon <3

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Nice whumpy thing: when people are intensely pragmatic about their injuries illnesses.

“Listen, if I pass out…”

“If you let up pressure, I’ll bleed out. So just, don’t move.”

“I know it ill hurt, just do what you need to.”

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Hi hi for the whump drabble game could I get some hurt Chris with either dangling or perhaps painkillers? No worries if not ❤️❤️❤️

For sure!! (From this prompt list)

Dangling/Painkillers

Chris's arm trembles with the effort it takes to cling to the cliff face, gloved fingers already slipping even as he forces himself to dig deep into the mud and rock in the desperate hope that it will save him. Below, the ocean thrashes at the vicious spires of rock reaching upwards like ragged claws, rain and wind lashing the frothing surf into a roil. He gasps for air, left arm stretched taut where Jill hangs below him, her limp, unconscious form held up only by Chris's hand around her thin wrist. Above them, BOWs growl audibly over the rush of the storm, scenting the blood that pours down Chris's side in hot rivulets despite being too dumb to tell where it's coming from.

Chris blinks rain from his eyes, gritting his teeth with a groan when an attempt to haul Jill higher leaves his head spinning. Below, the waves lap hungrily at the rocky cliff edge as if sensing his growing weakness, eager to swallow them up into oblivion. Chris growls. What a stupid fucking way to die--knocked over the edge of a cliff he should've seen, bleeding out and unable to reach his radio. There's no way he's letting Jill die here like this.

He clings to the rock, eyelids fluttering. No giving up, no matter what.

Chris isn't sure how long it is before the sound of gunfire and squealing bioweapons filters in over the ringing in his ears, arms burning from the endless, intolerable strain that's becoming too much to bear. He's so tired. Rainwater freezes the back of his neck in icy sheets, hair slicked to his forehead as he gasps in defeat. He doesn't even have the strength to call out.

"Captain!"

He doesn't have to, though, because one of the men who'd been part of their backup team--he can't tell who over the rain--is staring down at him wide-eyed, two measly feet above where Chris is clinging to his crumbling lifeline. The man reaches down as another soldier appears behind him, already wrapping his hand around Chris's wrist.

"No," Chris snaps raggedly, unable to hold back a cry as he drags Jill to his chest with a sudden burst of superhuman strength. His heart is pounding, vision flickering, but all he knows is that he needs to save her. "Jill first."

The men bicker amongst themselves as they do as they're told, taking Jill's weight a split-second before Chris's arms fail entirely. He whimpers as his grip slides further, left arm useless as his right hand aches from the effort it takes to hold himself in place.

"Captain!" He hears someone shout, and then the cliff is breaking apart under his fingers, solid earth giving way to open air and the drop of free fall in his stomach. His eyes widen, and then he's slamming into the dark abyss of the boiling sea, and Chris knows no more.

He comes to to the sound of shouting and helicopter rotors, rain dotting his face as the sky above him swims. He's moving, he recognizes vaguely, a blurry sillhouette holding something plastic over his mouth and nose. Chris frowns, shifting--only to meet resistance over his chest and hips, a strangled noise of protest escaping him.

"Can you hear me, Captain Redfield?" The figure slowly squeezes the plastic thing as air floods Chris's lungs, leaning down to reveal the concerned face of a medic. "You're alright, we're just taking you to the emergency chopper. Captain Valentine is safe."

Safe. Something warms blooms to life in Chris's veins, tension he didn't know he'd been holding slipping away as his muscles go limp. Well, more limp.

"Hang on a little longer, Captain, you're doing great. Those pain meds should be kicking in right about now."

Chris is too far away to respond, eyelids fluttering closed with the hazy warmth that swallows him into oblivion.

#whump #ask game #hehe thanks abby #sorry it posted prematurely #drabbles

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CHRIS REDFIELD FOR THE BINGO GAME

Huggable grumpy old man <3 He's elusive to write sometimes but I do love making him worry excessively 🥰

#ask game #character bingo #asks #<33

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ooh for the ask game i think glazed eyes could have some interesting scenarios attached

👁️👁️ (for this prompt list)

Glazed eyes

"Chris?"

Leon's voice breaks through the haze holding Chris hostage, the snap of fingers in front of his face startling him back to reality. He blinks, glancing around. They're on the edge of the lake, several of the men shouldering packs on as they finish tearing down camp. The sunrise is a distant glow amidst the forest's tall, thin, leafless trees, early morning dew dotting the silk of a spiderweb that Chris can see in the corner of his eye. Leon snaps again, impatient.

"Hello? Earth to Chris? Please blink or something, you've been staring at the same tree for the past ten minutes." He narrows his eyes, dirty-blonde hair glinting gold in the sunlight. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," Chris manages faintly, the word sticking to the back of his throat. There's something buzzing in the back of his mind, some intangible trail of thought he'd just been on, but he can't seem to grab hold of it. Leon's face swims for a moment, the buzz increasing until it's a pressure behind his eyes. There's something drawing his attention, gaze sliding almost automatically towards a distant spot in the forest that seems darker than the rest. It whispers to him, a near-silent voice sending shivers of apprehension down his spine even as something warm and right settles deep in his gut. They need to go that way.

"Are you sure?"

The world telescopes back into focus, Leon's blue eyes staring up at him. He's frowning, but Chris can't quite piece together why. His head feels fuzzy. There's a twitch under Leon's left eye, a minute spasm of the muscle that Chris focuses on as he speaks again.

"You're acting really weird, Chris."

"This place is weird," Chris murmurs, a brief flash of clarity dragging him out into the coolness of the morning. He becomes aware of the assault rifle already in his hands, frowning as his vision seems to sharpen into high definition. "I--There's something wrong here."

"No shit. Ever since we entered that... zone, everything's been..."

"Weird."

"Yeah." Leon's eyes are glazed over, his own weapon suddenly in his hand where it hadn't been a moment before. Chris can't see the rest of the men anymore, sitting down hard on the ground. He breathes in sharply, watching Leon turn towards the same spot he'd been drawn to a moment later. "We need to get out of this place."

#was going for some sort of Annihilation vibe but idk if this is anything #ask game #my fics #thanks anon!

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need him broken and bloody and bruised. need him dragging himself forward across a cold, unforgiving floor. need threatening footsteps just a pace behind him. need his ribs heaving while he struggles to drag in raspy breath. need his eyes glassy and shadowed.

#yummmm

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Chapters: ½ Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Leon S. Kennedy/Chris Redfield Characters: Leon S. Kennedy, Chris Redfield (Resident Evil) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Making Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Leon S. Kennedy Needs a Hug, Leon S. Kennedy has PTSD, leon s kennedy talk about your feelings and dont lie challenge Summary:

It always comes back to just the two of them.

#ieuueuuu

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“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it

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Kinda counts 😭

This week’s word is…

✨ MOTION ✨

Find the word in any WIP and share the sentence containing it. Reply, reblog, stick it in the tags, tag us in a new post, or keep it private. All fandoms, all ships, all writers welcome.

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I just adore the aesthetics of blood loss. The color leaching from their face. Clammy skin. Quick panting breaths. Rapid heartbeats under anxious hands. Leaving behind a streak of blood as they slide down the wall, legs unable to hold them any longer.

God, me too

#yum #whump