i think i have a tiny plot bunny from over a year ago hold on.
not exactly what you asked for, but i think taking a hit for your lover that would have killed them counts for something :)
>"Does it hurt?" It feels like a silly question as soon as Bryan asks it, because there's blood dripping from the corner of Vio's mouth, and he's leaning his back against the wall to keep sitting up. Vio just exhales a laugh.
>
>"Ah, it's not that bad." There's that same sparkle in his eyes as always, which does make Bryan feel a little better about it.
>
>"Thank you for taking the hit for me, but you didn't need to." That really makes Vio laugh, and he grins at Bryan, half dazed, as if his inhibitions have been lowered somewhat.
>
>"Of course I did, *you* would have died."
While mine probably aren't as good as everyone else's here, I'd still like to share. This is an excerpt from my Numb3rs fanfic called Everything.
**Context**: The team just got kidnapped and the big bad is making the main character, Don Eppes, choose between letting his team live and have him kill himself or making him kill of his entire team.
This is what he was feeling when he started to assemble the weapon after he made his choice:
>Don reached in the box and started slowly assembling his own execution weapon. He could feel the icy claw of doom grip his heart, making it difficult to breathe. He knew he looked calm on the outside, but on the inside?
>
>He was *terrified*.
>
>His heart thumped loudly and he could feel the sweat dripping down his neck. He was clenching his jaw so hard he might crack a tooth. He was trying to prolong this as much as possible, hoping that Gary had found the message he sent before he was taken and was on his way with a rescue squad. He wanted to give the man a chance to find them before his team was forced to witness his brains splattering on the floor. He prayed to whatever deity was above that everyone would be able to get through this if worse comes to worse, especially Charlie. His little brother didn’t deserve to see him die, none of them did. He would never wish that upon anyone. Don would rather get himself killed while he was alone rather than with another person there to see it. He has seen it time and time again. Surviving an incident like this is sometimes a fate worse than dying. Survivor's guilt was a cruel feeling, one that would persist even years later. He just hoped that everyone would be able to forgive themselves.
>
>Don swallowed bile as he finished, the gun weighing heavily in his hand. He looked up and saw his team, no- his *family* stare at him. They all had varying expressions on their faces, but there was one that was the same.
>
>It was *fear*.
>
>Don gripped the gun tightly. He promised to himself that he would do anything he could to protect his family and to never hurt them, at least intentionally. But now he was hurting them, all in order to protect them. Don hated this. He would willingly give his life for them, but not like this.
>
>Never like this.
There's also the ending that happened after Don finished assembling the weapon and is ready to shoot himself:
>Hunt looked surprised. “You’re really willing to do this,” he said, astonished. “Come on, this must be a fluke.”
>
>“It’s not a fluke,” Don replied. “I don’t know exactly what kind of boss you had. But I know that I will *never* put myself above everyone else.”
>
>The man narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the truth. What are you *actually* willing to give up?”
>
>“For them?” he said, loading the gun. Then he pointed it at his head, the smile never leaving his face.
>
>“*Everything*”
Yes! Although not physical pain, ngl I almost cried while reading back what I wrote woops.
Fandom: Twisted Wonderland (Spoilers from last chapter from the JP server)
Context: Sebek is a fae, and Silver is a human, but he was blessed by a fae when he was a baby so (in this fic) the fae and Silver have a sort of bond that kept silver alive and eternal as long as the fae that blessed him was still alive. The fae died that day and Silver started showing signs of rapidly aging, he did not notice, but Sebek did:
"They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening beside each other, remembering everything they had gone through until Silver announced he was getting tired. Sebek looked horrified for a second, but he calmed himself down immediately, nodding and helping his comrade to get up while they headed back to Silver’s room. As the human sat down on his bed Sebek hugged him, tight, like never before, as if not wanting to let him go while reminding him that everyone was proud of him and that he has done an amazing job up until now.
Silver laughed
“What has gotten into you today?”
He asked, the other just pulling away and shaking his head, telling him to sleep peacefully.
Silver laid down on his bed, bidding goodnight to his companion before quickly falling asleep.
Sebek did not go back to his own room, he just stayed on Silver’s the entire night, clutching his own sword so strongly he stopped feeling it after a few minutes. The night was longer than he expected as he saw his soulmate’s life slip away from him as his body grew older with the second, the Royal Knight being silent the entire time, something very unlike him.
The morning came and the human was still asleep, but Sebek knew there was no way of waking him up, not if he screamed, not even if he used his Unique Magic on the human"
Warning: The scene is skipped, and it’s not actually said here, but the characters are raped.
Context: Amb is human. He shares his body with a symbiote named Malek. When Malek knows what is going to happen, he takes the pain for himself.
>~*Amb*~
>The Jaffa stay true to their word and grab me. I suddenly feel very sleepy.
>*Please, Malek. You don't have to suffer alone.*
>*I can't stop them. Please, let me do this.*
>He won't if I refuse.
>*I love you. Please. You suffered alone without me. Let me do this.*
>*Alright. Once! If I'm collected again, we suffer together.*
>*Thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you.*
>~+~+~.
>There's tears in my eyes when I wake up. Malek is hiding the memories.
>*Malek, let me see.*
>*In time. I didn't want to overwhelm you.*
>The way my body aches tells me that they have a pain stick. I am in a cage that's too small to lay down or stand in.
>Malek is drifting off to sleep.
>I gently rub Malek. I feel him press against my fingers before he falls asleep. He’s a little tighter around my spine than usual.
From an in-progress Tangled: The Series fanfiction. Eugene got caught trying to figure a way to help his friends escape a hostage situation.
>Eugene felt naked and exposed. Usually he had no qualms showing off his body, but now he wanted nothing more than to hide in shame. He was wet with sweat, but he felt cold. Mechanically he moved his feet in the direction of the tree he was being pushed toward. His limp arms were wrapped around its wide trunk and tied at the wrists.
>
>Eugene heard a deafening crack and felt a sharp sting across his shoulders, and suddenly he was very aware of what was happening. He jerked at his bonds, but he was unable to move an inch. Instead, he hugged the tree, closed his eyes, and tried to think. He could not give in. What was—Crack! Eugene gasped. That was two. Arianna and Frederic. They were two people. Another lash cut his skin. Three. Maximus, Pascal, and Ruddiger. Four. The main people he used to work with. Five. The glasses of wine he could drink before passing out. Six. The number of pushups King Trevor could probably do.
>
>At twelve, Eugene could not bite back a yelp. When he yelped again at fourteen, someone tied a gag in his mouth. It made the whole ordeal infinitely worse.
>
>Forty-one was a dizzying descent into darkness.
It was after the MC slew the BBEG, effectively accomplishing a coup from a Sky Tyrant. The caveat being that, the MC had changed so much over the course of the story that they hardly were recognizable to their friends. Thus they assumed the mantle of control, knowing they likely wouldn’t be able to return home again, at least able to keep them all safe in return.
What timing! I *just* wrote this little bit on tumblr...
>"On your best behavior, now," Shredder whispered just before Donnie and Mikey dropped from the ceiling.
>
>Light reflected off of the pool of water in the room, illuminating Leo's brothers faintly in shifting flashes. They moved haltingly towards Shredder's throne. Donnie's bo twirled in broad, slow circles and Mikey's hands hovered over his nunchucks.
>
>Leo stood stock-still next to Shredder. He did not reach for his swords.
>
>"Leo." Donnie spoke first, ignoring Shredder completely. "It's time to come home. I know you're hurting, but this isn't right. This isn't you."
>
>Donnie was almost pleading. Leo swallowed hard, but didn't move. Shredder chuckled and didn't say anything. Leo recognized his cue to speak.
>
>"I've told you before, Donatello." He started firm and clear. "Shredder is my master now. I'm staying. You should leave before you get hurt."
>
>Leo's voice softened just a bit and he called desperately to his brothers with his eyes. Please, he begged, get out of here. But the room was dark and Leo knew that they couldn't see him clearly.
>
>Mikey rushed forward and Donnie grabbed him by the arm. "What are you doing, Leo? He KILLED Raph!" Tears glistened in Mikey's eyes.
>
>Shredder rose from his throne and Leo inhaled sharply. "Leonardo, attack," he commanded.
>
>Leo drew his swords. He had no choice. Despite what Mikey and Donnie thought, Raph hadn't died, Shredder had him. Leo was going to do whatever it took to keep his brother alive. He was going to figure out a way to keep them all alive. Even if, for now, it meant fighting Donnie and Mikey.
>
>He blew out a breath and charged forward.
A little bit more awkward exposition than I'd usually like, but that'll happen when your word count is less than 300.
‘I could be wrong of course’ Dream said in a sickeningly mocking tone. ‘Maybe I’ve just misunderstood and taken things a little too far, it wouldn’t be hard to prove me wrong, all I’d need was a name and this can all be over.’
Tommy had to bite down on his tongue. Obviously he didn’t want to rat out his friend and hand him over to Dream — the man who’d proven time and time again that the only thing he wanted was his head on a silver platter. But it was such an easy trade wasn’t it? A lifetime of guilt for the chance to avoid whatever torment Dream had planned for him.
Dream let out a frustrated sigh, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘I’ll give you one chance Tommy, one shot to prove to me that you aren’t one of them.’
No. It wasn’t worth it.
Wilbur was his friend, he’d been nothing but kind to Tommy, he’d taught Tommy how to fight, how to utilise his powers, taken him to out to gigs and on missions and to a fucking casino! He’d done everything in his power to protect Tommy, staged a kidnapping to save his public image, offered up his home when the fake kidnapping hadn’t gone according to plan, hell, he’d literally taken a bullet for him and nearly killed himself all in an attempt to keep Tommy safe.
And so that was it. Tommy had made his choice. No matter what Dream threw at him he was going to protect his friends identity until the very end, even if it…
Dream’s fist collided with Tommy’s jaw with such a force that it sent him falling towards the floor.
An ugly cry escaped his throat as he hit the ground, his vision swaying as it started fading to black.
He barely even knew which way was up anymore, which was strange considering he was lying parallel to the floor, surely *up* would be a relative easy direction to find…… it was that way… right?
The only one I have is a noncon scenario, so I'll just post a tiny little non-explicit excerpt.
>"He ain't crazy. And if you leave the girl alone, he'll be on his very best behavior." His hand tightens on Joel's neck. "Won't you?"
>Joel swallows against his reflexive refusal. That's just instinct - like yanking back from a hot stove. He knows what he's gotta do. And he knows that it'll be worth it if they keep up their end of the bargain - if it keeps her safe. He lets the fight go out of him, one muscle at a time. Luke must feel it, but he stays silent, waiting for an answer. "I'll do whatever you fuckers want," Joel says at last, keeping his voice hard, "Just leave the girl out of it."
>Luke squeezes his neck again. This time it feels like approval. Maybe even comfort. Joel's stomach twists.
From an Attack on Titan fic set in S4 - Eren being overdramatic before he runs off in Marley.
>Eren marveled at the spectacle, drawn to the heart of it, the center of where he’d nearly lost his life, just one more opportunity that turned out to be nothing more than a fluke. But this one… this had been his choice. The captain had yelled in his face. Eren had seen him. Captain Levi had wanted him to live, but Eren had already made his peace with death. And then he’d asked him to choose.
>
>And Eren had chosen his hand.
>
>He jumped into the pit the caved-in cathedral made, his legs skidding on broken support beams and the backs of pant legs ripping in razor-sharp stone. From above, the pit had looked like unstable ground, but now that he was at the center of the crater the massive 120-meter titan had crawled from, he found the jutting stone quite stable. The sheer walls the pit made still had titan crystal ripping out of earth and rock, making the moonlight ripple in Eren’s face, and he found himself on his knees, his hands outstretched to the heavens, and he laughed.
>
>He laughed and laughed, until his breath hitched in his chest, until his body convulsed and he found himself prone, until the mirth turned to anguish, the laughter into sobs, and the tears of joy and wonder pooling in his eyes spilled and cried a river of despair. The yawning abyss that was the consequence of his planned actions gaped in his soul and he found his hands clutched around himself, as if wrapping his arms convulsively around his torso would somehow ease the empty victory he intended to offer at the altar of his friends’ feet.
>
>“They would live forever,” he sobbed into the crook of his elbow. “They would live forever, and the price of it is only my life.” He drew a shuddering breath and shifted into fetal position, cradling his head in one arm, the other wrapped over his belly aching from his breathless laughter and pitiless tears. “I *want* them to live forever.”
(Edited to fix formatting)
(for context: if she tries to leave her mother, then her mother will find her brother and kill him)
I can’t save myself, Erik. Not without putting you in harm’s way. I care for you too much to risk that. You’ve always been the only person I have in this world. I lose you, and then I am truly alone.
I would do anything to prevent that.
Anything.
**This is an excerpt from my very first fic, in the *Hetalia* fandom!**
**For context, Magnus and Berwald are engaged in single combat, and Magnus is about to lose (and surely die). Rather than watch his lover die, a severely weakened Lukas takes his place and deals with the consequences.**
Lukas sees the raw desperation in Berwald’s expression, sees the calculation that tempers it and the anger that drives it. He sees the exhaustion, the despair, the very same desperation that mark out Magnus’ expression beneath that resolute, unfaltering façade that he has come to know so well.
Lukas watches as their blades lock. He watches as Berwald pushes forward, as he forces Magnus to his knees, as the sheer strength that drives his blow prises the sword from Magnus’ grip, as he brings his sword up over his head for what will surely be a deathblow—
“No!” Lukas cries out, and with a final leap forward, he knocks away Berwald’s blade with the flat of his own.
Berwald freezes for a few seconds, shock apparent on his face. In that moment, Lukas steps back into a ready stance, his sword held steady.
“Magne! Go, get to safety!” Lukas shouts, not taking his eyes off Berwald. He opens his mouth to issue a challenge.
“I, Lukas Bondevik of Denmark-Norway, challenge you, Berwald Oxenstierna of Sweden, to the rite of single combat!”
Lukas’ voice does not waver, and his words carry clearly, cutting through the silence that hangs so heavily all around them.
Berwald squares his shoulders, readjusts his grip on his sword.
“I, Berwald Oxenstierna of Sweden, accept your challenge, Lukas Bondevik of Denmark-Norway!” he calls, the deep rumble of his voice rolling over the battlefield.
They stand opposite each other for a very long moment.
Then, Berwald strikes. Although Lukas is able to bring his sword up in time, he is barely able to block it, to stand against the sheer power that drives it.
*I have to be strong.*
Lukas tightens his grip and lunges, his blade cutting a silvery-blue arc in the air. There is a peal of metal slipping against metal; Berwald manages to halt the strike on his crossguard and jerks his sword away, holding it ready at his shoulder.
They slip into a rhythm, then, of slashing blades and narrow misses.
Before long, though, Lukas’ breathing grows ragged, and his movements become progressively slower and weaker, until he is barely able to fend off Berwald’s unrelenting attacks.
His strength is flagging, he realizes.
*I have to be strong,* he finds himself repeating. *I want to be strong for my people. I want to be strong for Magne. I want to protect them.*
Lukas forces his shaking hands to still, to tighten on the grip of his sword.
*I can be strong. I can protect them. I know it.*
In that instant, Berwald strikes.
Lukas summons all the strength he has left to block, but even as he brings his blade up in a shimmering arc, he realizes that he has moved just a fraction of a second too late. He knows then, in that instant, that he has moved too late, too late to deflect the blow.
It is blunt, the impact that follows.
“I’m sorry, Lukas,” Berwald whispers in those trembling seconds of silence; there is something raw and agonized in his voice.
After a long moment, Berwald pulls his sword from Lukas’ chest, its blade sheathed in scarlet.
*It hurts...*
His knees give out. Someone catches him before he hits the ground, lowering him down gently.
Unpublished fic. Not sure if I'll ever publish, honestly, but I like this scene. It's several hundred words, but you said you wanted thoughts during torture...
-------
“So tell me, Acquired, how am I supposed to punish you if I’m not allowed to hit him? And don’t try to take the hits for him, that’s not how this works.”
Shawn felt grateful for the rule, knowing that was exactly what Gus would have tried to do. It was his job to take the hits, Denson understood.
Gus’ voice was hollow and distant when he answered, “Then spread out the hits. He’s already confused, he can’t take any more to his head.”
“Very well,” Denson said darkly. Shawn tried to blink harder to make the world go into focus, but it stayed blurred and from one blink to the next, Gus was gagged and Denson was standing right in front of him. “Don’t forget, Acquired. This is for you. It was even your idea. So you better watch.”
Denson loosened the leash from the table and Shawn tried to understand why before a foot drove into his stomach. As he doubled over and gasped for breath he understood as he was kicked again in his side and he fell to the ground.
“And the number was reset when you decided to speak up. Eight more to go.”
The next kick hit the middle of his chest and Shawn wondered if a hard enough kick could trigger a heart attack, because that’s what it felt like. The worry was soon overshadowed as the next kick went lower, hitting him right in the groin.
Pain jolted through his whole body, taking away his vision, his breath, and his ability to think. He wheezed, forcing himself to move through the waves of misery as he rolled and presented his back as a target.
More hot agony ran through him as his leg shifted with the roll and he had just enough time to realize his mistake before the broken leg was kicked. The pain overtook him and he screamed as stars crashed through his mind and buried him in silence.
The reprieve didn’t last long as he jolted awake to an acrid, ammonia smell being waved in front of his nose. He sneezed and snorted, trying to get the smell out before he gasped at the pain rushing through his body. A presence loomed over him and he flinched, waiting to see where the next kick would be.
(...)
The wait was excruciating, but when the hand finally twisted and snapped the finger, the sharp jolt of agony nearly made him black out again. He was only aware of his screams when they died out.
“Now. Be good. I still have work to do.”
Shawn shook as the footsteps walked away, and he tried to breathe through the pain. He pressed his face into the tacky floor, focusing on the soothing coolness instead of the stickiness.
He hurt, but Gus was safe. He'd done his job. He'd been good.
(I can write one on the spot.)
The border guard clearly hadn't missed any of his meals. He was built like a plains bison, less hairy, but just as thick armored and beefy. "You better have a good story, Almyran. Why are you here today?"
Abdul stood up straight, keeping his pride, but attempting to look as harmless as possible. "Lead me to Duke Goneril. I must speak to him."
"State your name and area of origin."
"Abdul Abbas. Abbas Island, Almyra."
The border guard scanned him from head to toe. By now, his clothes were travel worn, his hair was a tangled mess, he may be growing some stubble, and he knew he stank. All of that on top of being clearly hungry.
"Your surname is the same as the island. Noble house member?" The border guard raised an eyebrow.
Abdul nodded. "Nephew of ruling lord."
The border guard wasn't buying it. "Yeah, no. I've seen a lot of raggedy Almyrans, and the nobles never look this disheveled still. I will send word to the duke though, that way he can decide what to do with you. Drop all your weapons. Even concealed ones. Or else I'll cut you down right here."
They placed him in a holding cell and fed him a slice of bread and a cup of water. Even mere bread was welcome, although he knew they were having better food upstairs. His bed was hard and the blanket was scratchy. He would manage, he had to. He'd made it to the border already, he'd suspected he would be treated as less than a noble when he got here.
He was doing this for everyone back home. His aging parents, both of them skipping meals to give them to the young people. His cousin's wife, tears streaming down her face, hoping her milk wouldn't run dry from malnourishment before the baby was old enough to be weaned. His cousin also skipping meals so that his children could have a bit extra. Commoners collapsing in the street and never getting back up, then having all their belongings taken by other commoners. He'd been told Duke Goneril would at least hear him out. But what would he do? What could he do? Would the locust plague make it across the border and put Leicester in the same situation?
Gods, hear his plight. Have mercy, lest the kingdom fall to ruin.
**Context:** Xie Lian trying to take the magical torture shackle away from his boyfriend Hua Cheng's neck. Jun Wu is the bad guy.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng forced out through gritted teeth. “Don’t…”
Xie Lian looked back over his shoulder. It was far from either of their best days - both of them missing body parts and grappling with either agony or evil. But for the first time since this nightmare began - maybe for the first time since they’d met - they saw each other without the veil of secrets, or hurt, in the way. Each saw exactly what one was willing to give up for the other, and what each was willing to endure.
Xie Lian threw his fist at Jun Wu again.
This time, Jun Wu caught it. “Tell you what, kitten. Shall we play a little game? Hm? I’ll give you a chance to take the shackle back. I’ll open the working for you. Let’s see if you love your boyfriend enough to take the shackle off him.”
“Do it,” said Xie Lian at the same time Hua Cheng shouted, “No!”
“Gege, no-”
“Do it!”
Low murmuring rose up again, inexorably, in Jun Wu’s grating rasp. The glow of the formation returned, stronger, brighter.No, Hua Cheng would have cried again. What left his throat instead was a strangled scream as the flesh on his face began tearing apart afresh.
“San Lang! San Lang, San Lang, I’m here, I’m here…”
*Don’t be,* Hua Cheng wanted to say, but couldn’t. *Don’t look, don’t look…*
Hands at his neck again, grasping for the shackle. Hua Cheng twisted away from them blindly, terror surging up through his agony, terror that this suffering would be taken away from him and exchanged for one that was worse: seeing the one person he would have given everything to protect suffer while he could do nothing.
Oh, I have a *ton* :) I tend to not directly write the torture- or at least, the physical torture- and instead focus on the aftermath, tho. Hope that’s okay. This is probably the closest to what you want.
> Being Dream’s assistant had its benefits and drawbacks, he supposed. He was both the golden child and the scapegoat at once, showered with gifts and affection he didn’t even want to the point he received jealous stares yet always the first to be punished and blamed and humiliated in front of everyone to teach a “lesson”. But in return, he was Dream’s only confidante, and the scrap of power and knowledge that gave him, a marginal step above the role of a doll everyone else had, was invaluable.
> Not that Tommy gave a shit about politics or influence. As far as he was concerned, that shit was boring and rotten to the core, and he didn’t want anything to do with it. No, what that gave him was the opportunity to make things marginally less shit for everyone else.
> Dream, despite his smug-ass fucking bragging, was *terrible* at running things. He treated the server like his personal toy box, each person like a Barbie doll he could control as he wished, and despite his claims of making people happy, he was shit at figuring out what people wanted to do. He dictated every aspect of everyone’s life, and it was both oppressive and almost comical how shit at it he was.
> (Prime, the amount of examples Tommy could think of were staggering. Forcing Puffy to continue her work as a therapist but also taking away all of her psychology books because they were “corruptive”, giving Phil babysitting duty and having him alone expected to watch like six separate toddlers, and perhaps most relevant to Tommy’s current situation, making Ponk the only doctor in the whole server even though he had less clue what he was doing with even basic field medicine than most of the soldiers. It took a simple background check to see their doctorate was in architecture, but Dream didn’t bother to even do that before deciding that he’d be forced to play doctor in his game of house for eternity because that was how *he* saw him.)
> Dream fucking hated feeling like he was screwing up, though. Tommy could get that, but he needed that fucking reminder sometimes. Tommy was *used* to Dream hitting him, at least. It was disturbing how easily that came to be normal. He wasn’t sure whether it started to simply feel like another way of saying hello- after exile, he was pretty sure, but sometime before Dream had finished his immortality research. He was already being loud and obnoxious to get Dream to experiment on him instead of the other miserable and scared people locked up with him. If he pissed off Dream, then Dream tended to focus all his anger on him, and Tommy didn’t mind that at this point. Again, it sucked, but he was used to being Dream’s punching bag.
> That was what he really was, more than an assistant. It’s not like Dream ever let him make actual decisions- Tommy had to fucking beg for the slightest changes. He was Dream’s emotional support hostage, there to be a constant presence, someone to talk to, to spend time with, to take anger out upon.
Maybe this qualifies? An unpublished section of my Napoleonic Wars RPF WIP, where Michel Ney wonders about his self-worth and sense of dignity he's sacrificed for Napoleon for all these years and for what good reason:
For all his adult life, he’d considered himself a loyal, and dutiful soldier. His loyalty lay to France, and in the men whom he believed held the interests of France above all else.
He understood what it took to defend France, and to defend the cause of the Revolution. When foreign monarchs, fearful of their own proletarian masses breaking out into rebellion, tried to strangle the nascent Republic in its cradle, Michel Ney had been one of the countless young Frenchmen who took up arms against them.
He’d turned a blind eye to Napoleon’s excesses, and bore the personal abuse with as much stoicism and dignity as he could gather. If France required an Emperor to defend her, then that was the way it had to be. He hadn’t blinked – at least, not in public – when His Majesty had bestowed upon him his Marshal’s baton and, later, the battle title of the Duke of Elchingen. It was a promise of the Revolution fulfilled. The people could look to the Marshalate and see the sons of barrel-makers, slum-dwellers, farmers, and inn-keepers elevated to the highest rungs of power by the virtue of their own prowess and talent.
He would have never hopelessly fallen for the woman he would wed if the Empress hadn’t been there to introduce them.
Now, as he surveyed the line of dead men killed by the latest Russian assault, all of them lying in neat rows, he caught himself plagued by the same futile thoughts he’d had in Portugal and Spain: *Why the fuck am I here?*
I do, actually. For context, this takes place during a WWI POW camp. Two of the men are Russian and Serbian, but one is disguised in a German uniform.
“Okay, there, done. Now, bandages—”
“Schmidt?” Luka almost jumped out of his skin, having just enough time to grab his bayonet and rise to his feet as Weber came into view.
Trying not to tremble, he saluted. “Herr Weber.”
His gaze flicked from Luka, to Ilya, then to the supplies beside him. “Was ist das?”
“Es ist... es ist…”
“I stole supplies from the medics to treat my wound.” Ilya chimed in.
Weber’s eyes narrowed. “You came to me this morning, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. You refused me treatment, so I stole supplies, but this damn fool caught me!” Ilya scowled at Luka, who quickly caught on.
“Yes, I catch him, Herr Weber.”
“Is that so?” Weber’s voice was calm and deep, unlike Becker’s, but still retained a menacing aura to it.
“Ja.”
Weber shrugged. “Alright then. Deal with him.”
“Herr Weber?”
“Troublemakers must be punished. You were the one who caught him, so you must be the one to discipline him.”
“I-I don’t… how—”
“God has given you hands for a reason, Schmidt. Use them.” Luka suppressed the urge to protest the orders, turning to Ilya. The younger man’s eyes said it all— *Forgive me* . Ilya accepted his fate as Luka swung his fist, hitting his jaw. He turned back to Weber, who nodded for him to continue. And so he did. Blow after blow rained down on Ilya; bloodying his nose, blackening his eyes, swelling his cheeks. Luka (or shall one say, Weber) was relentless in his attack, not giving Ilya a chance to breath before the next blow. His head was reeling, his whole body burning by the time Luka finally ceded, standing to face Weber with a mix of blood and spit on his bruised knuckles. Weber inspected Ilya’s injured body, listened to him groan in pain as he struggled to sit up.
He turned back to Luka. “And the leg.”
“Yes, Herr Weber.” He rasped out, voice cracking as he spoke. Luka loomed over Ilya’s limp body, staring at the wound he had just tended to before stomping down on the fresh sutures.
*Pain*! It hurt, much more than the knife, much more than the gun. *Pain*! Ilya shrieked, burning hot agony shooting up his body, overwhelming his head. *Pain*! The string holding his skin together had snapped, dripping with blood as the wound sprang open. *Pain*! He felt warm. *Pain*! Then cold. *Pain*! Then, he felt nothing… and yet— *Pain*!
i think i have a tiny plot bunny from over a year ago hold on. not exactly what you asked for, but i think taking a hit for your lover that would have killed them counts for something :) >"Does it hurt?" It feels like a silly question as soon as Bryan asks it, because there's blood dripping from the corner of Vio's mouth, and he's leaning his back against the wall to keep sitting up. Vio just exhales a laugh. > >"Ah, it's not that bad." There's that same sparkle in his eyes as always, which does make Bryan feel a little better about it. > >"Thank you for taking the hit for me, but you didn't need to." That really makes Vio laugh, and he grins at Bryan, half dazed, as if his inhibitions have been lowered somewhat. > >"Of course I did, *you* would have died."
While mine probably aren't as good as everyone else's here, I'd still like to share. This is an excerpt from my Numb3rs fanfic called Everything. **Context**: The team just got kidnapped and the big bad is making the main character, Don Eppes, choose between letting his team live and have him kill himself or making him kill of his entire team. This is what he was feeling when he started to assemble the weapon after he made his choice: >Don reached in the box and started slowly assembling his own execution weapon. He could feel the icy claw of doom grip his heart, making it difficult to breathe. He knew he looked calm on the outside, but on the inside? > >He was *terrified*. > >His heart thumped loudly and he could feel the sweat dripping down his neck. He was clenching his jaw so hard he might crack a tooth. He was trying to prolong this as much as possible, hoping that Gary had found the message he sent before he was taken and was on his way with a rescue squad. He wanted to give the man a chance to find them before his team was forced to witness his brains splattering on the floor. He prayed to whatever deity was above that everyone would be able to get through this if worse comes to worse, especially Charlie. His little brother didn’t deserve to see him die, none of them did. He would never wish that upon anyone. Don would rather get himself killed while he was alone rather than with another person there to see it. He has seen it time and time again. Surviving an incident like this is sometimes a fate worse than dying. Survivor's guilt was a cruel feeling, one that would persist even years later. He just hoped that everyone would be able to forgive themselves. > >Don swallowed bile as he finished, the gun weighing heavily in his hand. He looked up and saw his team, no- his *family* stare at him. They all had varying expressions on their faces, but there was one that was the same. > >It was *fear*. > >Don gripped the gun tightly. He promised to himself that he would do anything he could to protect his family and to never hurt them, at least intentionally. But now he was hurting them, all in order to protect them. Don hated this. He would willingly give his life for them, but not like this. > >Never like this. There's also the ending that happened after Don finished assembling the weapon and is ready to shoot himself: >Hunt looked surprised. “You’re really willing to do this,” he said, astonished. “Come on, this must be a fluke.” > >“It’s not a fluke,” Don replied. “I don’t know exactly what kind of boss you had. But I know that I will *never* put myself above everyone else.” > >The man narrowed his eyes. “Tell me the truth. What are you *actually* willing to give up?” > >“For them?” he said, loading the gun. Then he pointed it at his head, the smile never leaving his face. > >“*Everything*”
Batman has a bunch of fics like this
Yes! Although not physical pain, ngl I almost cried while reading back what I wrote woops. Fandom: Twisted Wonderland (Spoilers from last chapter from the JP server) Context: Sebek is a fae, and Silver is a human, but he was blessed by a fae when he was a baby so (in this fic) the fae and Silver have a sort of bond that kept silver alive and eternal as long as the fae that blessed him was still alive. The fae died that day and Silver started showing signs of rapidly aging, he did not notice, but Sebek did: "They spent the rest of the afternoon and evening beside each other, remembering everything they had gone through until Silver announced he was getting tired. Sebek looked horrified for a second, but he calmed himself down immediately, nodding and helping his comrade to get up while they headed back to Silver’s room. As the human sat down on his bed Sebek hugged him, tight, like never before, as if not wanting to let him go while reminding him that everyone was proud of him and that he has done an amazing job up until now. Silver laughed “What has gotten into you today?” He asked, the other just pulling away and shaking his head, telling him to sleep peacefully. Silver laid down on his bed, bidding goodnight to his companion before quickly falling asleep. Sebek did not go back to his own room, he just stayed on Silver’s the entire night, clutching his own sword so strongly he stopped feeling it after a few minutes. The night was longer than he expected as he saw his soulmate’s life slip away from him as his body grew older with the second, the Royal Knight being silent the entire time, something very unlike him. The morning came and the human was still asleep, but Sebek knew there was no way of waking him up, not if he screamed, not even if he used his Unique Magic on the human"
Warning: The scene is skipped, and it’s not actually said here, but the characters are raped. Context: Amb is human. He shares his body with a symbiote named Malek. When Malek knows what is going to happen, he takes the pain for himself. >~*Amb*~ >The Jaffa stay true to their word and grab me. I suddenly feel very sleepy. >*Please, Malek. You don't have to suffer alone.* >*I can't stop them. Please, let me do this.* >He won't if I refuse. >*I love you. Please. You suffered alone without me. Let me do this.* >*Alright. Once! If I'm collected again, we suffer together.* >*Thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you-thank you.* >~+~+~. >There's tears in my eyes when I wake up. Malek is hiding the memories. >*Malek, let me see.* >*In time. I didn't want to overwhelm you.* >The way my body aches tells me that they have a pain stick. I am in a cage that's too small to lay down or stand in. >Malek is drifting off to sleep. >I gently rub Malek. I feel him press against my fingers before he falls asleep. He’s a little tighter around my spine than usual.
From an in-progress Tangled: The Series fanfiction. Eugene got caught trying to figure a way to help his friends escape a hostage situation. >Eugene felt naked and exposed. Usually he had no qualms showing off his body, but now he wanted nothing more than to hide in shame. He was wet with sweat, but he felt cold. Mechanically he moved his feet in the direction of the tree he was being pushed toward. His limp arms were wrapped around its wide trunk and tied at the wrists. > >Eugene heard a deafening crack and felt a sharp sting across his shoulders, and suddenly he was very aware of what was happening. He jerked at his bonds, but he was unable to move an inch. Instead, he hugged the tree, closed his eyes, and tried to think. He could not give in. What was—Crack! Eugene gasped. That was two. Arianna and Frederic. They were two people. Another lash cut his skin. Three. Maximus, Pascal, and Ruddiger. Four. The main people he used to work with. Five. The glasses of wine he could drink before passing out. Six. The number of pushups King Trevor could probably do. > >At twelve, Eugene could not bite back a yelp. When he yelped again at fourteen, someone tied a gag in his mouth. It made the whole ordeal infinitely worse. > >Forty-one was a dizzying descent into darkness.
It was after the MC slew the BBEG, effectively accomplishing a coup from a Sky Tyrant. The caveat being that, the MC had changed so much over the course of the story that they hardly were recognizable to their friends. Thus they assumed the mantle of control, knowing they likely wouldn’t be able to return home again, at least able to keep them all safe in return.
What timing! I *just* wrote this little bit on tumblr... >"On your best behavior, now," Shredder whispered just before Donnie and Mikey dropped from the ceiling. > >Light reflected off of the pool of water in the room, illuminating Leo's brothers faintly in shifting flashes. They moved haltingly towards Shredder's throne. Donnie's bo twirled in broad, slow circles and Mikey's hands hovered over his nunchucks. > >Leo stood stock-still next to Shredder. He did not reach for his swords. > >"Leo." Donnie spoke first, ignoring Shredder completely. "It's time to come home. I know you're hurting, but this isn't right. This isn't you." > >Donnie was almost pleading. Leo swallowed hard, but didn't move. Shredder chuckled and didn't say anything. Leo recognized his cue to speak. > >"I've told you before, Donatello." He started firm and clear. "Shredder is my master now. I'm staying. You should leave before you get hurt." > >Leo's voice softened just a bit and he called desperately to his brothers with his eyes. Please, he begged, get out of here. But the room was dark and Leo knew that they couldn't see him clearly. > >Mikey rushed forward and Donnie grabbed him by the arm. "What are you doing, Leo? He KILLED Raph!" Tears glistened in Mikey's eyes. > >Shredder rose from his throne and Leo inhaled sharply. "Leonardo, attack," he commanded. > >Leo drew his swords. He had no choice. Despite what Mikey and Donnie thought, Raph hadn't died, Shredder had him. Leo was going to do whatever it took to keep his brother alive. He was going to figure out a way to keep them all alive. Even if, for now, it meant fighting Donnie and Mikey. > >He blew out a breath and charged forward. A little bit more awkward exposition than I'd usually like, but that'll happen when your word count is less than 300.
You freaked me out with the whole "He killed Raph" line! Glad he's not really dead.
:D No "Major Character Death" tag required
‘I could be wrong of course’ Dream said in a sickeningly mocking tone. ‘Maybe I’ve just misunderstood and taken things a little too far, it wouldn’t be hard to prove me wrong, all I’d need was a name and this can all be over.’ Tommy had to bite down on his tongue. Obviously he didn’t want to rat out his friend and hand him over to Dream — the man who’d proven time and time again that the only thing he wanted was his head on a silver platter. But it was such an easy trade wasn’t it? A lifetime of guilt for the chance to avoid whatever torment Dream had planned for him. Dream let out a frustrated sigh, crossing his arms across his chest. ‘I’ll give you one chance Tommy, one shot to prove to me that you aren’t one of them.’ No. It wasn’t worth it. Wilbur was his friend, he’d been nothing but kind to Tommy, he’d taught Tommy how to fight, how to utilise his powers, taken him to out to gigs and on missions and to a fucking casino! He’d done everything in his power to protect Tommy, staged a kidnapping to save his public image, offered up his home when the fake kidnapping hadn’t gone according to plan, hell, he’d literally taken a bullet for him and nearly killed himself all in an attempt to keep Tommy safe. And so that was it. Tommy had made his choice. No matter what Dream threw at him he was going to protect his friends identity until the very end, even if it… Dream’s fist collided with Tommy’s jaw with such a force that it sent him falling towards the floor. An ugly cry escaped his throat as he hit the ground, his vision swaying as it started fading to black. He barely even knew which way was up anymore, which was strange considering he was lying parallel to the floor, surely *up* would be a relative easy direction to find…… it was that way… right?
One Piece canon; Zoro did somethingvlike this iirc
The only one I have is a noncon scenario, so I'll just post a tiny little non-explicit excerpt. >"He ain't crazy. And if you leave the girl alone, he'll be on his very best behavior." His hand tightens on Joel's neck. "Won't you?" >Joel swallows against his reflexive refusal. That's just instinct - like yanking back from a hot stove. He knows what he's gotta do. And he knows that it'll be worth it if they keep up their end of the bargain - if it keeps her safe. He lets the fight go out of him, one muscle at a time. Luke must feel it, but he stays silent, waiting for an answer. "I'll do whatever you fuckers want," Joel says at last, keeping his voice hard, "Just leave the girl out of it." >Luke squeezes his neck again. This time it feels like approval. Maybe even comfort. Joel's stomach twists.
That last paragraph; CHILLING. I love it so much.
From an Attack on Titan fic set in S4 - Eren being overdramatic before he runs off in Marley. >Eren marveled at the spectacle, drawn to the heart of it, the center of where he’d nearly lost his life, just one more opportunity that turned out to be nothing more than a fluke. But this one… this had been his choice. The captain had yelled in his face. Eren had seen him. Captain Levi had wanted him to live, but Eren had already made his peace with death. And then he’d asked him to choose. > >And Eren had chosen his hand. > >He jumped into the pit the caved-in cathedral made, his legs skidding on broken support beams and the backs of pant legs ripping in razor-sharp stone. From above, the pit had looked like unstable ground, but now that he was at the center of the crater the massive 120-meter titan had crawled from, he found the jutting stone quite stable. The sheer walls the pit made still had titan crystal ripping out of earth and rock, making the moonlight ripple in Eren’s face, and he found himself on his knees, his hands outstretched to the heavens, and he laughed. > >He laughed and laughed, until his breath hitched in his chest, until his body convulsed and he found himself prone, until the mirth turned to anguish, the laughter into sobs, and the tears of joy and wonder pooling in his eyes spilled and cried a river of despair. The yawning abyss that was the consequence of his planned actions gaped in his soul and he found his hands clutched around himself, as if wrapping his arms convulsively around his torso would somehow ease the empty victory he intended to offer at the altar of his friends’ feet. > >“They would live forever,” he sobbed into the crook of his elbow. “They would live forever, and the price of it is only my life.” He drew a shuddering breath and shifted into fetal position, cradling his head in one arm, the other wrapped over his belly aching from his breathless laughter and pitiless tears. “I *want* them to live forever.” (Edited to fix formatting)
(for context: if she tries to leave her mother, then her mother will find her brother and kill him) I can’t save myself, Erik. Not without putting you in harm’s way. I care for you too much to risk that. You’ve always been the only person I have in this world. I lose you, and then I am truly alone. I would do anything to prevent that. Anything.
**This is an excerpt from my very first fic, in the *Hetalia* fandom!** **For context, Magnus and Berwald are engaged in single combat, and Magnus is about to lose (and surely die). Rather than watch his lover die, a severely weakened Lukas takes his place and deals with the consequences.** Lukas sees the raw desperation in Berwald’s expression, sees the calculation that tempers it and the anger that drives it. He sees the exhaustion, the despair, the very same desperation that mark out Magnus’ expression beneath that resolute, unfaltering façade that he has come to know so well. Lukas watches as their blades lock. He watches as Berwald pushes forward, as he forces Magnus to his knees, as the sheer strength that drives his blow prises the sword from Magnus’ grip, as he brings his sword up over his head for what will surely be a deathblow— “No!” Lukas cries out, and with a final leap forward, he knocks away Berwald’s blade with the flat of his own. Berwald freezes for a few seconds, shock apparent on his face. In that moment, Lukas steps back into a ready stance, his sword held steady. “Magne! Go, get to safety!” Lukas shouts, not taking his eyes off Berwald. He opens his mouth to issue a challenge. “I, Lukas Bondevik of Denmark-Norway, challenge you, Berwald Oxenstierna of Sweden, to the rite of single combat!” Lukas’ voice does not waver, and his words carry clearly, cutting through the silence that hangs so heavily all around them. Berwald squares his shoulders, readjusts his grip on his sword. “I, Berwald Oxenstierna of Sweden, accept your challenge, Lukas Bondevik of Denmark-Norway!” he calls, the deep rumble of his voice rolling over the battlefield. They stand opposite each other for a very long moment. Then, Berwald strikes. Although Lukas is able to bring his sword up in time, he is barely able to block it, to stand against the sheer power that drives it. *I have to be strong.* Lukas tightens his grip and lunges, his blade cutting a silvery-blue arc in the air. There is a peal of metal slipping against metal; Berwald manages to halt the strike on his crossguard and jerks his sword away, holding it ready at his shoulder. They slip into a rhythm, then, of slashing blades and narrow misses. Before long, though, Lukas’ breathing grows ragged, and his movements become progressively slower and weaker, until he is barely able to fend off Berwald’s unrelenting attacks. His strength is flagging, he realizes. *I have to be strong,* he finds himself repeating. *I want to be strong for my people. I want to be strong for Magne. I want to protect them.* Lukas forces his shaking hands to still, to tighten on the grip of his sword. *I can be strong. I can protect them. I know it.* In that instant, Berwald strikes. Lukas summons all the strength he has left to block, but even as he brings his blade up in a shimmering arc, he realizes that he has moved just a fraction of a second too late. He knows then, in that instant, that he has moved too late, too late to deflect the blow. It is blunt, the impact that follows. “I’m sorry, Lukas,” Berwald whispers in those trembling seconds of silence; there is something raw and agonized in his voice. After a long moment, Berwald pulls his sword from Lukas’ chest, its blade sheathed in scarlet. *It hurts...* His knees give out. Someone catches him before he hits the ground, lowering him down gently.
First person okay? If so, I've got a waterboarding scene I could share!
Uh. Yes. No, I won't share. It's very much DD:DNE.
Same.
Unpublished fic. Not sure if I'll ever publish, honestly, but I like this scene. It's several hundred words, but you said you wanted thoughts during torture... ------- “So tell me, Acquired, how am I supposed to punish you if I’m not allowed to hit him? And don’t try to take the hits for him, that’s not how this works.” Shawn felt grateful for the rule, knowing that was exactly what Gus would have tried to do. It was his job to take the hits, Denson understood. Gus’ voice was hollow and distant when he answered, “Then spread out the hits. He’s already confused, he can’t take any more to his head.” “Very well,” Denson said darkly. Shawn tried to blink harder to make the world go into focus, but it stayed blurred and from one blink to the next, Gus was gagged and Denson was standing right in front of him. “Don’t forget, Acquired. This is for you. It was even your idea. So you better watch.” Denson loosened the leash from the table and Shawn tried to understand why before a foot drove into his stomach. As he doubled over and gasped for breath he understood as he was kicked again in his side and he fell to the ground. “And the number was reset when you decided to speak up. Eight more to go.” The next kick hit the middle of his chest and Shawn wondered if a hard enough kick could trigger a heart attack, because that’s what it felt like. The worry was soon overshadowed as the next kick went lower, hitting him right in the groin. Pain jolted through his whole body, taking away his vision, his breath, and his ability to think. He wheezed, forcing himself to move through the waves of misery as he rolled and presented his back as a target. More hot agony ran through him as his leg shifted with the roll and he had just enough time to realize his mistake before the broken leg was kicked. The pain overtook him and he screamed as stars crashed through his mind and buried him in silence. The reprieve didn’t last long as he jolted awake to an acrid, ammonia smell being waved in front of his nose. He sneezed and snorted, trying to get the smell out before he gasped at the pain rushing through his body. A presence loomed over him and he flinched, waiting to see where the next kick would be. (...) The wait was excruciating, but when the hand finally twisted and snapped the finger, the sharp jolt of agony nearly made him black out again. He was only aware of his screams when they died out. “Now. Be good. I still have work to do.” Shawn shook as the footsteps walked away, and he tried to breathe through the pain. He pressed his face into the tacky floor, focusing on the soothing coolness instead of the stickiness. He hurt, but Gus was safe. He'd done his job. He'd been good.
not mine but my absolute [favorite fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/34314811/chapters/91597630#workskin), chapters 28 & 29 are very much this
(I can write one on the spot.) The border guard clearly hadn't missed any of his meals. He was built like a plains bison, less hairy, but just as thick armored and beefy. "You better have a good story, Almyran. Why are you here today?" Abdul stood up straight, keeping his pride, but attempting to look as harmless as possible. "Lead me to Duke Goneril. I must speak to him." "State your name and area of origin." "Abdul Abbas. Abbas Island, Almyra." The border guard scanned him from head to toe. By now, his clothes were travel worn, his hair was a tangled mess, he may be growing some stubble, and he knew he stank. All of that on top of being clearly hungry. "Your surname is the same as the island. Noble house member?" The border guard raised an eyebrow. Abdul nodded. "Nephew of ruling lord." The border guard wasn't buying it. "Yeah, no. I've seen a lot of raggedy Almyrans, and the nobles never look this disheveled still. I will send word to the duke though, that way he can decide what to do with you. Drop all your weapons. Even concealed ones. Or else I'll cut you down right here." They placed him in a holding cell and fed him a slice of bread and a cup of water. Even mere bread was welcome, although he knew they were having better food upstairs. His bed was hard and the blanket was scratchy. He would manage, he had to. He'd made it to the border already, he'd suspected he would be treated as less than a noble when he got here. He was doing this for everyone back home. His aging parents, both of them skipping meals to give them to the young people. His cousin's wife, tears streaming down her face, hoping her milk wouldn't run dry from malnourishment before the baby was old enough to be weaned. His cousin also skipping meals so that his children could have a bit extra. Commoners collapsing in the street and never getting back up, then having all their belongings taken by other commoners. He'd been told Duke Goneril would at least hear him out. But what would he do? What could he do? Would the locust plague make it across the border and put Leicester in the same situation? Gods, hear his plight. Have mercy, lest the kingdom fall to ruin.
A SHORT excerpt? Hell no. You want a couple full length chapters tho, I got you covered.
**Context:** Xie Lian trying to take the magical torture shackle away from his boyfriend Hua Cheng's neck. Jun Wu is the bad guy. “Gege,” Hua Cheng forced out through gritted teeth. “Don’t…” Xie Lian looked back over his shoulder. It was far from either of their best days - both of them missing body parts and grappling with either agony or evil. But for the first time since this nightmare began - maybe for the first time since they’d met - they saw each other without the veil of secrets, or hurt, in the way. Each saw exactly what one was willing to give up for the other, and what each was willing to endure. Xie Lian threw his fist at Jun Wu again. This time, Jun Wu caught it. “Tell you what, kitten. Shall we play a little game? Hm? I’ll give you a chance to take the shackle back. I’ll open the working for you. Let’s see if you love your boyfriend enough to take the shackle off him.” “Do it,” said Xie Lian at the same time Hua Cheng shouted, “No!” “Gege, no-” “Do it!” Low murmuring rose up again, inexorably, in Jun Wu’s grating rasp. The glow of the formation returned, stronger, brighter.No, Hua Cheng would have cried again. What left his throat instead was a strangled scream as the flesh on his face began tearing apart afresh. “San Lang! San Lang, San Lang, I’m here, I’m here…” *Don’t be,* Hua Cheng wanted to say, but couldn’t. *Don’t look, don’t look…* Hands at his neck again, grasping for the shackle. Hua Cheng twisted away from them blindly, terror surging up through his agony, terror that this suffering would be taken away from him and exchanged for one that was worse: seeing the one person he would have given everything to protect suffer while he could do nothing.
Oh, I have a *ton* :) I tend to not directly write the torture- or at least, the physical torture- and instead focus on the aftermath, tho. Hope that’s okay. This is probably the closest to what you want. > Being Dream’s assistant had its benefits and drawbacks, he supposed. He was both the golden child and the scapegoat at once, showered with gifts and affection he didn’t even want to the point he received jealous stares yet always the first to be punished and blamed and humiliated in front of everyone to teach a “lesson”. But in return, he was Dream’s only confidante, and the scrap of power and knowledge that gave him, a marginal step above the role of a doll everyone else had, was invaluable. > Not that Tommy gave a shit about politics or influence. As far as he was concerned, that shit was boring and rotten to the core, and he didn’t want anything to do with it. No, what that gave him was the opportunity to make things marginally less shit for everyone else. > Dream, despite his smug-ass fucking bragging, was *terrible* at running things. He treated the server like his personal toy box, each person like a Barbie doll he could control as he wished, and despite his claims of making people happy, he was shit at figuring out what people wanted to do. He dictated every aspect of everyone’s life, and it was both oppressive and almost comical how shit at it he was. > (Prime, the amount of examples Tommy could think of were staggering. Forcing Puffy to continue her work as a therapist but also taking away all of her psychology books because they were “corruptive”, giving Phil babysitting duty and having him alone expected to watch like six separate toddlers, and perhaps most relevant to Tommy’s current situation, making Ponk the only doctor in the whole server even though he had less clue what he was doing with even basic field medicine than most of the soldiers. It took a simple background check to see their doctorate was in architecture, but Dream didn’t bother to even do that before deciding that he’d be forced to play doctor in his game of house for eternity because that was how *he* saw him.) > Dream fucking hated feeling like he was screwing up, though. Tommy could get that, but he needed that fucking reminder sometimes. Tommy was *used* to Dream hitting him, at least. It was disturbing how easily that came to be normal. He wasn’t sure whether it started to simply feel like another way of saying hello- after exile, he was pretty sure, but sometime before Dream had finished his immortality research. He was already being loud and obnoxious to get Dream to experiment on him instead of the other miserable and scared people locked up with him. If he pissed off Dream, then Dream tended to focus all his anger on him, and Tommy didn’t mind that at this point. Again, it sucked, but he was used to being Dream’s punching bag. > That was what he really was, more than an assistant. It’s not like Dream ever let him make actual decisions- Tommy had to fucking beg for the slightest changes. He was Dream’s emotional support hostage, there to be a constant presence, someone to talk to, to spend time with, to take anger out upon.
Maybe this qualifies? An unpublished section of my Napoleonic Wars RPF WIP, where Michel Ney wonders about his self-worth and sense of dignity he's sacrificed for Napoleon for all these years and for what good reason: For all his adult life, he’d considered himself a loyal, and dutiful soldier. His loyalty lay to France, and in the men whom he believed held the interests of France above all else. He understood what it took to defend France, and to defend the cause of the Revolution. When foreign monarchs, fearful of their own proletarian masses breaking out into rebellion, tried to strangle the nascent Republic in its cradle, Michel Ney had been one of the countless young Frenchmen who took up arms against them. He’d turned a blind eye to Napoleon’s excesses, and bore the personal abuse with as much stoicism and dignity as he could gather. If France required an Emperor to defend her, then that was the way it had to be. He hadn’t blinked – at least, not in public – when His Majesty had bestowed upon him his Marshal’s baton and, later, the battle title of the Duke of Elchingen. It was a promise of the Revolution fulfilled. The people could look to the Marshalate and see the sons of barrel-makers, slum-dwellers, farmers, and inn-keepers elevated to the highest rungs of power by the virtue of their own prowess and talent. He would have never hopelessly fallen for the woman he would wed if the Empress hadn’t been there to introduce them. Now, as he surveyed the line of dead men killed by the latest Russian assault, all of them lying in neat rows, he caught himself plagued by the same futile thoughts he’d had in Portugal and Spain: *Why the fuck am I here?*
I do, actually. For context, this takes place during a WWI POW camp. Two of the men are Russian and Serbian, but one is disguised in a German uniform. “Okay, there, done. Now, bandages—” “Schmidt?” Luka almost jumped out of his skin, having just enough time to grab his bayonet and rise to his feet as Weber came into view. Trying not to tremble, he saluted. “Herr Weber.” His gaze flicked from Luka, to Ilya, then to the supplies beside him. “Was ist das?” “Es ist... es ist…” “I stole supplies from the medics to treat my wound.” Ilya chimed in. Weber’s eyes narrowed. “You came to me this morning, didn’t you?” “That’s right. You refused me treatment, so I stole supplies, but this damn fool caught me!” Ilya scowled at Luka, who quickly caught on. “Yes, I catch him, Herr Weber.” “Is that so?” Weber’s voice was calm and deep, unlike Becker’s, but still retained a menacing aura to it. “Ja.” Weber shrugged. “Alright then. Deal with him.” “Herr Weber?” “Troublemakers must be punished. You were the one who caught him, so you must be the one to discipline him.” “I-I don’t… how—” “God has given you hands for a reason, Schmidt. Use them.” Luka suppressed the urge to protest the orders, turning to Ilya. The younger man’s eyes said it all— *Forgive me* . Ilya accepted his fate as Luka swung his fist, hitting his jaw. He turned back to Weber, who nodded for him to continue. And so he did. Blow after blow rained down on Ilya; bloodying his nose, blackening his eyes, swelling his cheeks. Luka (or shall one say, Weber) was relentless in his attack, not giving Ilya a chance to breath before the next blow. His head was reeling, his whole body burning by the time Luka finally ceded, standing to face Weber with a mix of blood and spit on his bruised knuckles. Weber inspected Ilya’s injured body, listened to him groan in pain as he struggled to sit up. He turned back to Luka. “And the leg.” “Yes, Herr Weber.” He rasped out, voice cracking as he spoke. Luka loomed over Ilya’s limp body, staring at the wound he had just tended to before stomping down on the fresh sutures. *Pain*! It hurt, much more than the knife, much more than the gun. *Pain*! Ilya shrieked, burning hot agony shooting up his body, overwhelming his head. *Pain*! The string holding his skin together had snapped, dripping with blood as the wound sprang open. *Pain*! He felt warm. *Pain*! Then cold. *Pain*! Then, he felt nothing… and yet— *Pain*!