Warning: This is rated NC-17 for a reason guys, disturbing material and implied rape.
Le Petite Morte.
The first thing he became aware of was the pain.
It hurt to breathe.
He wished that his heart would stop beating so it wouldn't constantly thump against his broken ribs. He could smell his blood, could taste it in his mouth.
Coppery and thick.
He faded into unconsciousness again, coming back to his surroundings an undetermined time later. It was dark: so dark that closing his eyes made no difference to the inky blackness of his resting place. He could now smell fetid water over that of his drying blood - fetid water and something else.
Fear.
Stark terror.
It permeated everything, stirring memories within his mind.
What was he doing in the dungeons? For he knew without a doubt that's where he was, most likely put there because of something he had done. Or then again, maybe not: sometimes he was beaten for no discernible reason.
He tried to move, and hissed in pain. Eyes narrowing in sudden anger.
How dare someone lay their hands on him.
He lay back down on the floor, his mood flicking from indescribable rage to controlled calm faster than sanity should allow.
He lay quietly, listening to his own ragged breathing echo in the silence. He could have been there for minutes or hours - he didn't know: it was impossible to measure the passing of time in this dark, damp place.
Gradually, a feeling crept over him: the pricking sensation of eyes on skin.
There was something else in the darkness with him.
He listened carefully, straining his ears for an indication of what and where his company was. Long seconds slipped by, making him doubt his senses, until a voice cut through the silence:
"You seem to have disobeyed my orders again."
The rasping voice belonged to the darkness from which it emerged: it seethed with malice. It spoke of promised pain.
He closed his eyes, as if he could somehow block out the voice, as a rush of recent memories flooded his mind.
"I recall giving you instructions for forty percent of the population of Delta two-sixteen to be left alive, as they would have proved a useful addition to my empire."
He remembered the corpses now, thousands of them - stretching from horizon to horizon. The stench of decay and death hanging heavy in the air.
He had always found it easy to kill - taking life from another intoxicated him with a sense of power that he was rarely able to feel when off the battle field.
Sometimes though, he found it hard to stop.
Sudden movement.
Somewhere off to his left - something coming closer. He flinched, drawing his knees up to his chest in a foetal position, despite the pain of his ribs.
He did not want it to touch him.
The thought came to him with such clarity that he didn't pause to question it: instinctively fearful of whatever lurked in the darkness.
"It seems that you are in need of a different lesson this time, one that I will enjoy giving."
Laughter: loud in the dark. Eventually being replaced by broken, sobbing screams. The other's voice grunting in sick pleasure.
He prayed that the next time he awoke he would not regain his memories: his young mind washed clean of humiliation, shame and fear.
His own name.
Forgotten.
Pure and free.
And maybe, when he had forgotten all that he was, and all that he had ever been, maybe then would he be able to forget the rasp of that voice, so close, whispering into his ear:
"You are mine, chibi ouji, you are mine."
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The title "Le Petite Morte" (The Little Death) is a French (no shit!) term for an orgasm, this is just me twisting its true meaning into something a little darker.