___ Three squadmates share a tent the night before a dangerous mission.
Two of them become intimate while the third appears to be asleep.
___ The Night Before the Mission The camp was quiet.
Scouts moved between tents, finalizing equipment, checking the perimeter.
The mission at dawn would be brutal—a recon into Titan territory with no guarantee of return.
The air smelled of pine and iron, and the sky was a deep, bruised purple.
Inside the tent shared by the three of them, the lantern cast long shadows across the canvas walls.
Armin was already asleep—or pretending to be.
Mikasa sat cross-legged on her bedroll, her fingers tracing the edge of her blade.
Eren watched her from across the tent, his eyes dark, focused.
He knew she felt it too.
The tension.
The need.
If they were going to die tomorrow, he wanted to claim tonight.
Mikasa looked up.
Their eyes met.
She understood without a word.
Eren gestured toward Armin, who lay on his side, breathing slow and even.
Mikasa moved with the silence of a predator.
She reached over, pressed two fingers to the side of Armin’s neck, and applied a precise, gentle pressure.
His breathing deepened, his body slackening.
She had knocked him out—temporarily, safely.
He would wake in a few hours, none the wiser.
Then she turned to Eren, her eyes hungry.
“Quick,” she whispered.
“Before anyone notices.” Eren shook his head.
“Not quick.
I have a better idea.” He reached for his gear—the straps, the buckles, the lengths of durable rope they used for emergency repairs.
Mikasa’s eyes widened, then softened with understanding.
She had seen this look on him before.
The look of someone who wanted to take control.
She knelt without being told.
She knew her place.
Eren worked quickly, methodically.
He looped the rope around her wrists, cinching them tight behind her back.
Then he bound her ankles, leaving just enough slack for her to shift her legs.
He used the leather straps from his harness to secure her arms to her torso, pressing her breasts against the bindings.
He wound the rope around her thighs, pulling them apart just slightly, forcing her to kneel with her knees spread.
When he was finished, she was a web of black leather and rope, her body on display, her clothes still on but stretched tight over every curve.
Her breathing quickened.
Her nipples were visible through the fabric of her shirt, hard and pressing against the weave.
Eren stepped back to admire his work.
“Good.
Now stay.” She whimpered—a soft, submissive sound that she would never let anyone else hear.
“Yes, Master.” He liked that.
He liked it a lot.
He moved behind her, unhooked her belt, and pulled her pants down to her knees.
Her underwear followed.
He left her shirt on, but pushed it up to expose her breasts.
The cool air hit her nipples, making them pebble, and she gasped.
He didn’t touch her yet.
He wanted to watch her squirm.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Not yet.” He circled her, running his fingers over the rope, testing the knots.
He traced the line of her spine, the curve of her ass.
She trembled under his touch.
He leaned down and bit her shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.
She arched into the pain, her breath hitching.
“Master,” she breathed.
He rewarded her with a slap on her ass.
The sound echoed in the tent.
The skin reddened instantly.
She moaned.
He knelt behind her, spread her bound thighs, and pressed his mouth against her.
She was already wet, her cunt slick and ready.
He licked her, tasting her, and she cried out, her hips bucking against the ropes.
He worked her with his tongue, slow and deliberate, drawing out every shudder.
She came quickly, her body convulsing, her voice muffled against the canvas.
He didn’t let her rest.
He flipped her onto her back, her bound wrists pinned beneath her, and positioned himself between her open legs.
The ropes creaked as she struggled against them, not to escape, but to pull him closer.
He entered her in one long, slow thrust.
She was tight, hot, and she took him completely.
Her eyes rolled back.
Her moans filled the tent.
And then, from the corner of the tent, a small sound.
A sharp intake of breath.
Eren froze.
Mikasa’s eyes snapped open.
They both turned their heads.
Armin was still lying on his side, his eyes barely open, a sliver of white in the dim light.
His breathing had changed—shallow, ragged.
And beneath the blanket, there was an unmistakable bulge.
His cock was hard, straining against his trousers.
He had been watching.
He had seen everything.
Eren and Mikasa exchanged a look.
A silent agreement passed between them.
They said nothing.
They didn’t stop.
Eren thrust deeper, harder, his eyes locked on Armin’s half-lidded gaze.
Mikasa’s moans grew louder, more desperate.
She knew Armin was watching.
She knew he could see her bound, her breasts bouncing, her nipples pebbled, her cunt stretched around Eren’s cock.
She was completely exposed, completely vulnerable, and she loved it.
Armin’s hand moved under the blanket.
His fingers wrapped around his own cock, stroking slowly, watching them.
He thought he was being subtle.
He wasn’t.
Eren reached down and grabbed Mikasa’s bound wrists, pulling her up into a sitting position.
He fucked her from behind now, her back against his chest, her legs still spread and tied.
The ropes bit into her skin.
The leather straps creaked.
She was his prisoner, his toy, his slave.
“Who do you belong to?” he growled in her ear.
“You, Master.
Only you.” “Say it again.” “I am your slave, Eren.
Yours to use.
Yours to break.” He came with a shudder, burying his face in her neck.
She followed moments later, her body wracking with pleasure, her voice hoarse.
They collapsed together, still bound, still tangled.
Eren didn’t release her.
He kept her tied, kept her close, and whispered into her hair.
“Again.
We have all night.” And they did.
They went through three more rounds.
Eren used the ropes to suspend her from the tent’s center pole, her body hanging, her arms above her head.
He fucked her standing, her legs wrapped around his waist.
He turned her over, bent her over the supply crate, and took her from behind, her cries muffled into the fabric of the tent.
Armin watched every moment.
He didn’t sleep.
He couldn’t.
His hand moved in rhythm with their bodies, and he came twice, silently, into his own palm.
He wiped it on his trousers and pretended to be unconscious.
By the time the first light of dawn crept through the canvas, they were finished.
The tent smelled of sweat and sex.
Eren untied Mikasa slowly, reverently, pressing kisses to each rope burn.
The marks were there—red lines across her wrists, her thighs, her waist.
But they would be hidden under her uniform.
No one would see.
Mikasa dressed in silence.
Her movements were stiff, but her eyes were soft.
She looked at Eren with a devotion that had deepened overnight.
Armin finally stirred, stretching, pretending to yawn.
“Morning,” he said, his voice croaking.
“Morning,” Eren said.
Normal.
Casual.
Mikasa nodded.
“Ready for the mission.” Armin avoided their eyes.
He looked at the tent floor, the ropes coiled in the corner, the gear scattered.
He knew.
He knew exactly what had happened.
And when he stood, his trousers were still damp from the night before.
He didn’t mention it.
He couldn’t.
He just followed them out of the tent, his cheeks burning, his eyes fixed on the ground.
The scouts moved out at dawn.
Mikasa and Eren walked side by side, their hands brushing occasionally.
The marks on her body were hidden beneath layers of fabric.
But Armin knew.
He would always know.
And he would never look at them the same way again.