Disclaimer: I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan or any of the related material used in this fiction.

Story Warnings: Dub-con, rape, torture, gore, pedophilia, bondage, drug use, violence. Read at your own discretion.

Chapter Warnings: Rape, pedophilia

The Hunters
Prologue — In and Out

In and out. For a long time, everything was in and out.

In and out of my body.

In and out of my mind.

My mother and father had tried for years to have a child. After the first year of trying unsuccessfully, they applied for an adoption. Two years later, they were granted a little girl named Mikasa. Her father had died three months earlier, and her mother died from complications of the birth shortly after naming her. Two days after bringing Mikasa home, my mother found out that she was six weeks along.

Growing up, Mikasa was timid, but I was a hothead. I fought with everyone about anything, and somehow she always saved me when I fell down. We played with a blond boy two houses over named Armin. The three of us were thick as thieves.

When I was ten, I got into a fight with Mikasa and Armin—it was so stupid. It was my dream to join the military. We lived near the base, and I'd watch the men coming and going. They were strong, and kind, and I admired them above anything else. But Mikasa and Armin hated it, the idea that I could put my life in harm's way...they didn't understand what that meant to me. So, typical me, I got pissed and ran off. How could they disagree with me? I wasn't content to sit around while other people fought for justice in the world. I wanted to travel and see what was out there, like Armin. I wanted to protect the things I loved, like Mikasa. Wasn't joining up really the best idea, then? How could that be wrong? Those were the things I was thinking about when I ran off. Not that I should be careful around strangers.

I remember being too out of breath to scream and too tired to fight. When I opened my eyes, I saw the doors of a van. Someone beside me was shouting, and then a face was over mine, telling me not to cry. Telling me that I would be fine. When I woke up next, everything was quiet and dark. For me, it doesn't get more terrifying than that.

Even when he would come touch me, it wasn't so scary. I learned to handle feeling his grimy hands on me, learned to handle the sick, heavy breathing in my ear, learned to handle when he brought over playmates, learned to handle feeling sick all the time because he only fed me sweets, learned to handle being tied up all day and night; the stale stench in the air, the bucket I had to shit in, and the sound of the ring he wore scraping against the metal bowl he used to wash me—I even learned to ignore the screams of the other victims throughout the house.

But I'll never get over the darkness.

Darkness is suffocating. I never knew what time it was. Never knew when the food would come, or when I'd be clean, or for how much longer I'd have to hold my piss. I never knew if those footsteps were coming to hurt me, or if they were meant for someone else. Even when he turned on the dim light, I was always blindfolded. Always in the dark.

Until that day.

I heard his footsteps on the stairs, and I had eaten, used the toilet, and bathed all within what felt like the last hour, so I knew exactly why those footsteps were coming. The only question was what he was in the mood for. Would he use his hands, or his mouth? Would he say dirty things, or stay silent? Would he ask me to touch him? Would he cover his cock in maple syrup and tell me to lick it all off?

The first indication that something was different was that he untied my hands. My hands were never untied, even to eat. Next, he took the blindfold off, and for the first time, I saw his face. The light was pretty dim in that dingy basement, but I was sure I would always remember that face.

The last thing he did was leave the gag in—and he never left the gag in. He liked to hear me cry. I lay on my back, looking up at him. He put a hand on my stomach and smiled softly.

His voice was scratchy and deep. "You've been a really good boy, so I thought that you should be rewarded. Today, we're going to do something I save for only the older boys. Okay?" I nodded slowly, anxiety bubbling up into my chest and making my jaw tense. "Relax," he said lowly, stroking my stomach. The cotton of my shirt suddenly felt scratchy instead of soft. "You're going to do great. You're going to become a big boy today."

I grabbed his hand and whimpered.

He laughed and flipped me onto my belly, slowly removing my clothes, like he was really savoring it. He pushed my face into the mattress and my butt up into the air. I felt something cold and slick on my entrance, and then in me. It was the strangest sensation.

And then I was screaming and crying, and everything hurt. Everything hurt. Everything hurt. Everything hurt.

And then it was over.

"You were so good," he said softly, again and again, running a finger down my spine. "You were so good. Do you want a prize?" He removed my gag, finally.

I sniffled and tried to stop crying long enough to answer. "F-food. Real food. Not ca-cake. No more cake."

The man laughed. "Tonight, you won't eat cake."

I stayed in that terrible position for an eternity, too scared, too embarrassed, too in pain to move. I don't know how long it was, but he came back, and something smelled great. He laughed when he saw me on the bed there.

"You can't eat until you're clean." He took whatever he'd brought with him back upstairs, then reappeared with the metal bowl. The sound of his ring hitting it was hypnotic. It made a pretty sounding pitch. He cleaned me gently, and for once, the water was warm instead of cold.

"There." He untied my legs. "Put these new clothes on, and I'll bring you some real food."

I knew I had to bide my time, so I put on the clothes. An olive green, long sleeve shirt, and some soft, thin, white pants. Every move was agony. Pain radiated throughout my body from where he'd fucked me. I could feel the blood and cum starting to leak out of me again. It took everything in me to stop crying.

"Sorry it took so long. I didn't want you to eat it cold." He sat on the bed with a smile. Always fucking smiling. But he'd made good on his promise, bringing me macaroni and cheese and some juice. The drink was too sugary for my taste, but I wouldn't complain. He ran his hand through my hair as I ate, asking if I liked it. I would just nod and keep eating. When I was done, I smiled, holding the fork loosely in my hand.

"You know, I have four other boys here. But you're my favorite. You don't fight me at all. You've been so good, Eren." That was the first time he'd ever said my name.

It was sickening.

I stabbed the fork into his eye and ran. The split second where I saw the tines of the fork pierce him, where the blood gushed out, that surreal moment still occasionally replays in my dreams.

I ignored his screaming. I didn't try to help free the other boys. I just kept running until I couldn't anymore. My feet were cut up and bleeding and swollen. Tears stung my face, and my throat hurt. It burned all the way up my spine, even days later. I had no idea where I was or how long I was in that basement. Some nights I wonder why no one stopped the kid running around with blood stains on his white pants—but I think I would have attacked anyone who tried to touch me, anyway.

I slept under a bridge that night, by the water. It was fucking freezing. And then, I didn't know what to do. I needed clothes, and food, and a place to stay—and any rational person would have asked for help, gone to the police or something, but I couldn't do it. I didn't trust adults. I didn't want to be anywhere near them. I'd kind of lost it at that point, and things that should have made sense didn't.

It was easy enough to figure out from the newsstands that I was in Arizona, and it had been nine months since I left home. But I was dying to know how I was gonna get back. I couldn't do it without help, but every time I tried to approach an adult, I felt sick and terrified and ended up running away. I'd either have to get over it, or figure something out myself.

It turned out that fending for myself was easier. I just hung around parks after school let out and waited until some defenseless looking kid passed by. It took a few tries, but I was able to hold my own long enough to steal things from them. Their clothes, their leftover lunch money—anything. I didn't care.

One day, I had the bright idea of following a school trip to the library—I easily convinced a bored, teenaged intern to give me a card. It was there that I found out how I'd get home.

Or rather, that I wouldn't.

I googled my parents names and found their obituaries from Buttfuck-nowhere, Pennsylvania. Grisha and Carla Jaeger were killed instantly in a collision with a runaway tractor trailer. Their adopted daughter was placed back into foster care.

Well, fuck.

So, I learned how to steal, cheat, con, and pickpocket my way into and out of everything. I bullied other kids to practice fighting—and I got beat up a lot, but that didn't stop me from trying. By the time I was thirteen, I was a little pro, and I didn't lose fights anymore. I didn't need Mikasa to bail me out. I didn't need anyone.

By the time I was fourteen, I'd figured out that my body was a valuable asset. It sure beat sleeping under bridges and on playgrounds. It was easy to chat with men online at the library and have them take me home. Once they got what they wanted, I got what I wanted: wallets, watches, jewelry, and cash. And not long after that, I realized that I didn't even have to con guys out of their money. They were perfectly willing to pay for my services.

My life had become a hateful series of in and out.

All it took was a little momentum; one guy would tell his friends and bring a playmate, and soon they were showing up regularly at my shitty, hotel room door. On my fifteenth birthday, I slept with eight guys.

And four months later, I met him.

The Corporal.