Disclaimer: Some aspects of BDSM and D/s will be twisted, inaccurate or modified for the sake of the story and will not be a reflection upon the reality of a healthy BDSM or D/s relationship.

Warning: Potentially graphic – graphic & explicit content.

L'humanité D'un Monstre

The first time I was caught stealing, the men had a dog they set on me. It was a vicious, nasty thing – it smelt of wet animal and sickly sweet decay turned its breath lurid. It had no hesitation in goring me however possible. I don't remember how young I was, just that I was young. I remember they cheered the dog on as he bit into my leg. I hated them then, as much as I feared the animal attacking me. No one stopped to help, no one would because none looked kindly on thieves no matter their justification. No matter that half of them were orphaned children looking for a meal.

I didn't die though, owed my life to some fool with too-kind eyes that seemed to mock me – pity me even as he demanded the men back off with their pet. He offered no words of comfort, only his name as he cleaned, stitched and bandaged the wounds.

He asked my name, but I never gave it.

He gave me a bed to sleep in, but I left before he could wake – unwilling to be trapped in some circle of debt to some bastard with a need to dirty his hands with the weak.

I was wary of dogs ever after, though as I grew older it waned – with the knowledge I could easily kill one should another attempt what that first did.

It taught me a valuable lesson as well, and thereafter I was never caught. Not for a very long time.

~ ~ * éclater * ~ ~

The tavern was full of bodies as the sun began to set, milling about or near collapse with tankards of lager in hand. Some harassed the waitresses, others puffed foul smelling cigarettes and tossed cards, chips and money on the table between themselves and acquaintances. These were regulars, the smell of the tavern as much a part of themselves as the clothes they donned day after day.

It was disgusting – how settled they were, how happy with just being. But they weren't the targets, no, they had nothing to give as it was – although should situations become dire they themselves may find a target on their back. In the far corner a group of men sat and chatted over topped glasses, they wore the uniform of the legion; khaki and white with that ridiculous harness twined about their bodies as closely as a lover. They were clean cut, their posture rigid and their expressions flat. From a glance one would know these were not men of the Military Police, posh bastards that they were, they would never dirty themselves with such a place. Neither were they Garrison. No, these men were intimately acquainted with death – and they were dangerous. Perhaps that was why he targeted them, despite the slightly hostile outlook on the Recon Corps; they were the only division to pose any real threat.

So he watched and he waited, as they drank and talked in hushed voices – never glancing away from their circle yet always seeming aware. It was enthralling to see, in a place where looking through wool was a favored state of mind, their eyes were opened – forcefully or otherwise – they lived without the delusions of the general populace.

In a way, it was a test of his own abilities, to pit them against senses fine-tuned in an environment where a second's hesitation or distraction could and would mean death. So he waited more, sipping at the glass of vine he was likely too young to be consuming. It wasn't as though anyone cared, not in this part of the capitol. Here, he was known – not by name but by face and reputation – and had little to fear from the sheep milling about, drinking away their worries or stress before heading home to sleep and repeat routine the next day. It was loathsome, but understandable.

It was also entirely understandable (at least to him) that he would find these soldiers in their midst so fascinating.

He watched them become more and more inebriated, more relaxed and boisterous the more alcohol that slid past their lips. He wanted to sneer, did so internally, mocked them their stupidity of forgetting where they were. They were not on their turf now, they were in his world – where not paying attention could land you in a gutter with your throat slit and purse strings cut. Fools, all of them, so arrogant in their abilities and so condescending to a world that would swallow them whole and regurgitate them without a second's hesitation.

People feared Titan's, called them monsters and fled from them like rats. He knew better, knew how monstrous humanity could be – how disgusting and vile. Titans were mindless, pathetic. Humans were premeditated; they could be manipulated, bought or threatened into committing atrocities that would make Titans look like child's play.

He held no fear of either. Fear was the equivalent of death and there was no room for it.

So when the Recon soldiers rose, staggering from the bar, he made quick work of lifting their coin. It was laughable – he hadn't degraded to such petty theft in so very long. Now, he lifted goods from cargo ships and the rich, had them pissing their knickers and sobbing as they begging their lives be spared. Even many of his own comrades feared him, feared apathetic eyes and ruthless murder – snatching lives with the same whimsical quality pigs were slaughtered for food. There were bigger hauls to be had than some fool's pocket change, but it was the potential of being caught that drove him to it.

He slipped away, a dark shadow not to be recounted. Or so he planned. A vice grip at his arm set the first wave of warning, though he had little time to react before he was spun and shoved against a wall. Dark grey eyes, impassive and unafraid met equally stoic blue of a towering blonde – one of the men he'd counted among the sots stumbling from the bar. He'd thought him equally gone to danger; he'd obviously been wrong. Yet, there was no overt hostility, although he didn't relax, merely waited – for an opening or the man to speak.

"I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you." The blonde's tone was flat, unrevealing and he felt the first tingle of interesting – of respect for him.

"Perhaps they should've held onto it better." He replied, an easy drawl.

The blonde tilted his head, almost considering, but those too-alert eyes never stopped watching. Waiting for some sort of violent action. He wasn't a fool, he could easily feel the strength in the hand holding his arm – how much was held back was another matter.

"Perhaps, but stealing is a crime. Technically I should turn you in." He laughed at the blonde, who seemed momentarily stunned and near recoiling, but equally fascinated at the feral grin he was given.

"Only when an individual steals…"

The statement didn't need to be elaborated. Taxes were high, poverty was high – damned near theft by the Crown of its own people to live in posh houses and castles, bear titles they did nothing more to earn than sit on over-fed asses. The silence stretched almost thoughtfully.

"You do not look as though you need to steal." He blinked slowly at the man, chuckling again.

"Do I not? Perhaps it was just the challenge, then."

How strange, there was still no anger – wariness, a tensing in preparation for action… but no hostility. The guy was unnerving in a way, entirely too composed, almost detached. He could see this man going far, perhaps one day soon, perhaps in the not-so-distant future.

"Perhaps you should choose your marks better next time."

It was warning, but the hand was gone and the blonde turned to leave, green cloak dancing about his shoulders. It left him confused and slightly bewildered, a warning but no threats – a promise without immediate action and then the guy departed… He tilted his head, dark hair falling just past his shoulder, bound in a leather tie dusted over his face. What was even the point of approaching him? Besides letting it be known he was not to be taken as an incapable fool.

He hummed thoughtfully, dusting at his coat sleeve where the hand had rested. Warmth still lingered there and it was uncertain if he dusted at invisible dirt or the feeling itself.

Shame he hadn't asked him his name. Perhaps then he could have paid him a visit in the dead of night, see if that stoicism held up with a blade pressed to his throat while he lay unassuming and slumbering in bed. It sent a thrill of excitement through him.

Maybe one day.

Notes:

Written to A7X – The Wicked End

Has a slow start, starting before the time Rivaille joined the Recon Corps. Though will likely not go too in depth with it because that would deviate from the plot… but just a bit of buildup I guess.