Work Text:
3:43 P.M. The time stayed in the back of Eight’s mind even as she continued to work, pen nib against paper, furious scribbles into one of her more decorated journals. Hardcover, though there was a layer of faux leather, enough to let her claws dip into the plush surface. And the cover sported a flowering tree etched into the material, the same desaturated tan: elegant but subdued, practical, unassuming but symbolizing stability and solidity, just like–
Steam poured into their kitchen-living combo from the bathroom, Tilly emerging with a towel held around his waist, and not a look spared anywhere except their bedroom door as he traversed back there. He hadn’t left it since noon except to bathe, limping to and from.
Eight looked at the time on her phone. 5:05 P.M. Just over an hour and a half he’d bathed three times, with the hottest water possible no less, she knew from the steam and prior experience both. It was an easy, comforting, if short-lived and somewhat meager attempt at pain management, a strategy he used often. His leg was acting up again, then…
A look back at what she’d written.
Strength, a heavy burden
on a steadfast captain
with an ever stubborn heart.
Who will never rest
She sighed. Her pen pressed in one spot, with continuous annoyed pressure, smearing the page with a big puddle of ink.
Even when told to lay
by a girlfriend who knows best.
Closing the journal and letting the elastic band keep it locked shut, she let it fall aside to follow him, lines of demands and insistences already on her brain. They’d done this countless times over a few years, and yet it would happen again.
Tilly jolts slightly when she opens the door, though quickly relaxes upon seeing its just her girlfriend. It wasn’t so unusual a sight, him spread out on the bed, arm thrown over his face– a face not one of resting. Even from here Eight could see it– his slightly pinched eyes, furrowed brow, the way her chest rose just a little too heavily and her other hand was balled in the sheets. If the clear signs of pain weren’t just a giveaway, the fact she was above the sheets, bottom half dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs would’ve told her all she needs to know.
(Eight remembers, at the beginning, at the height of it all, how he had writhed and cried and sobbed. How he’d described it like having veins brimmed of gasoline, burning like a supernova on its own, but that even something as light as the thin material of pajama pants felt like dropping a match, erupting flames under the flesh. A fire that you couldn’t entirely snuff out. It didn’t get that bad anymore, at least not from being touched, but old habits die hard, she suppose.)
“Eight.” Her voice was as full of affection as usual, but anyone would’ve caught the waver in it. “I thought you were writing?”
“I was.” No point beating around the bush. She came up to the bed to sit on the edge, staring questioningly at the limb. There was a long expanse of time she’d find it swelled, the skin there discolored, burning hotter than the rest of him, muscles spasming beyond his ability to control. And every time, even despite the intense misery, she would downplay it, as if she couldn’t see it right in front of her. “Your leg?”
“Not as bad as before, it’s still getting better.” Tilly flinches slightly at the sharp gaze that gets him, aware that’s not what she was asking. “It’s not that bad, really, I can handle it.”
“That doesn’t mean you should.” Reaching out a hand for his cheek, his head tipped to the side in turn to press both into the pillow, nudging into her palm, and Eight’s lecturing tone softened. “Did you take anything?”
“A little bit ago, yeah.”
“A little bit?”
She averted her gaze. “I mean, like, half an hour before the bath, it’s fine. Just needs to kick in. You know the drill.”
Eight would ask why she hadn’t taken anything sooner, but of that she was already aware, I didn’t think it would get this bad was the usual response. She would never understand the logic of it, of why one would fruitlessly deny themselves relief when all it took was taking some medication, even if the pain was lesser than the usual, but that was a battle neither would win.
Instead, she slid further up on the bed, hand gently placed on his calf. He wheezed, though she could tell it didn’t cause pain, just an instinctual reaction of a time where even featherlight pressure felt like a vice. But the skin was nonetheless cold and clammy, and she could feel the slight spasms of the muscles underneath. Though it wasn’t uncommon, something long since associated with his condition, it was still almost more concerning for the skin to be so cold, as opposed to burning hot. Frigid, almost foreign, almost like…though she wouldn’t say such a thing. Still bewildering, even now, the ways a body could trick and harm itself, she supposed.
“Want me to try to help?”
“You don’t have to, not sure it’s gonna do anything this time.”
A soft smile. “Try me.”
Tilly sighed, accepting defeat, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “Knock yourself out.”
Pulling her legs up, she gently lifted his to lay it across her lap, not missing the small audible wince as she did. She waited, letting him shuffle around pillows to be sitting up a bit, shifting into something less straining. Carefully, she let her hand run up and down his calf, featherlight, testing. He grunted at the slightest pressure, though slowly eased under the touch, turning firm and pointed as she picked out the particularly painful spots.
At first, they chattered as she did, about what she was writing, how far into that new journal she’d gotten. The fact she ruined an otherwise decent start to a poem in her frustration and for the sake of making fun of him (with love, of course) goes unsaid. But with a lack of small talk to make, her day relatively slow and his eaten up by…this, it falls into companionable silence while she works. Determined, skilled, used to this.
He’d been shocked, at the offer of taking a proper massage therapy class, for the sole sake of helping where she could. Eight had been there, always, from the first hospitalization, to every test, every physical therapy, every attempted treatment. And even after, always within reach, if not running errands or cooking or cleaning on his behalf, ready to lend icepacks and heating pads and distraction and a shoulder to cry into. He’d felt guilty enough for that, but for her to go even that far out of the way, always remembering discharge instructions, proper techniques, to pick up medications…
(He still thought, sometimes, about the fact of her coming to the surface, amnesia still a thick wall between her and her past, and how she really could have chosen to go anywhere, do anything. And yet, she was here.)
Eight picked her head up from her hands working the limb, noticing the inkling going quiet, though could still feel the gentle jolts when she ran over the areas that particularly hurt. Though the signs of pain were there just as much as they had before she started, she jolts realizing Tilly was looking up at her, eyes and smile fond and soft despite whatever discomfort she was going through, pupils dilated and affectionate.
“You are supposed to be focusing on the parts that hurt.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you’re easier to look at.”
She huffed, but not without a quirk to her lips and a small blush on her cheeks, knowing without looking her tentacles are standing at the tips, taking on rings of rusty metal. He was typically only good with words when it was vital or agent work related, but now and then, she would take her by surprise in little ways. Not a wordsmith like her, the inkling liked to say, and she would have to remind that something spoken simply but quite so genuine worked just as well as any flowery language she was able to conjure up. So maybe affection came easiest when waxing poetic. She was not any less lovestricken and honored when he comes home with new notebooks for her, bought bulk and cheap in the school season, or seeing that silly grin every morning, as if she hadn’t woken up next to him every day for how long?
Eight found herself glad for her ability multitask, what she can only assume was a leftover habit of being a soldier, her ability to keep her focus steady, able to keep counting mentally the time between massages and admiring the fond idiot under her at the same time. Two minutes firm massage, one minute light, then another two firm, just as she had been told. It was of no use at the height of the condition, when even so much as a breeze on the skin set off a chain of unbearable stings and burns. But useful when the pain was low, helping the blood flow, the unfortunate fact that keeping the limb immobile, while more pleasant, only made it worst.
It didn’t mean she felt any less guilty when he’d suck in a breath though, or squirm and bite back groans, the way his tentacles went pale. The other experienced enough pain as is, she didn’t like being an additional source, even if it was with the intention to help.
And so, when after three repetitions of that cycle, nothing had changed, she let her massaging slow to a stop. Eight sighed though her beak, disappointed, not at either of them, but at the situation. The only thing worse than causing the pain was being unable to stop it. “It’s not working, is it.”
“M’sorry,” carefully, she lowers the afflicted leg back onto the bed. “Not your fault.”
“Are you sure something warm won’t help? I can get the heating pad. Or some ice…Wait, you have the,” she could never remember the word for it. “The lotion, with the stuff in it, for the spasms.”
“If the water didn’t help I don’t think that will. And I did use it already, they uh, were worse before. Just gotta wait it out this time.” The inkling raised his arms somewhat, though, hands open, asking. “Stay with me?”
As if she would say no.
Humming in agreement, Eight leans to lay beside him, entirely expecting when she’s pulled into her hold, snug against her partner’s chest. Tilly nuzzles into her neck, where she can feel how shaky his breaths come now, clenching her hoodie in tight fists, more focused on her now than keeping reactions subdued. It makes her stomach drop, wondering if she’d actually made it worst. Trying to be soothing, she rubs circles into his back, pressing small pecks where of his face she could reach.
And for a few minutes, it stays that way, content to accept the uneasy discomfort by virtue of having no other way to tackle it. Offering only what she has left in the form of support, something to bury himself into, and him gritting his beak and baring it, comforted only by the fact that, painful as it was, it only a fraction of the agony he’d experienced nearly daily even just a year ago, not to mention the years before.
At such a point, it was the best you could hope for, really. That didn’t mean she liked it.
(Nor did she like, though quieter nowadays, the part of her that was still angry about their situation. Both came out of that place with ruined nerves and broken bodies, but unfortunate as it was, the entire curtain of scar tissue covering her back, at least she didn’t feel it. Didn’t feel anything there, except for the occasional rare tingling the first couple of months after, an entire absence of sensation, the nerves dead in their rootings.
He was not so lucky. Why did she have to be so damn lucky?)
Still, not pleased with the lack of action to take, Eight did consider one other way she could help, but it was regardless only more of a bandage, and not something either was understandably always up for. Hell, Tilly didn’t even like to ask for it, even though she’d made it clear before most of the time she wouldn’t mind. But if nothing else was helping, and it’d offer even temporary relief…
She looks back down, looks at him again, at clear malaise, one that would last who knows how long, his scrunched features and slight shifting in response.
“Tilly,” a mumbled acknowledgement is muffled by her shoulder. “I could try something else.”
She feels her swallow, knowing from past experience what she meant. “I-I mean, you could see…”
“You’re certain?”
“You uh, you really don’t have to, I promise I’ll be fine. There’s been worse. Meds’ll kick in and eventually I’ll–”
“I know I don’t have to,” though she didn’t raise her volume, her tone stayed firm, not as timid as her usual self but with the assured cadence of a soldier. She would keep reminding that she doesn’t just not mind, but wants to do these things, as long as needed, the rest of time even. If her helplessly selfless boyfriend would just get that through the thick skull of hers… “But if I want to?”
“I-I… mean, okay, if you, if you want to. I um, wouldn’t mind.” A nervous, awkward laugh. “Not like ‘m going anywhere…”
Though this wasn’t with any alterative motive at all, she could still appreciate the ability to make him a stumbling mess. At the prospect alone, even, despite it being no uncharted territory of theirs. It shows when it takes only a gentle push against his shoulder for him to roll over onto his back, her not far away, carefully following him in a kiss as they went. This itself could be a distraction enough, she was sure, staying liplocked as long as needing oxygen would allow it. But she wasn’t aiming for simple distraction.
Eight followed his pace, keeping it lazy and leisurely, leaned over her with one hand on the inkling’s jaw, the other sitting patient at the hem of his shirt. She could feel how tense he was even like this, from his grip still embedded in her hoodie, the tensing and untensing of muscle under her hand, trying and failing to find a relieving position as if that was all it took to make it stop. How could it, when it wasn’t a matter of placement but broken nerves and brain wirings, flesh deep and unable to be repaired by simple means.
Tilly broke away with a small noise, when clawed fingers dipped underneath the fabric, nails lightly scratching as they went, faint paths in the color of his ink trailing behind. She let her hand roam, feeling over thin muscle and warm skin– unable to stop a pleased smirk at some returning definition, as the other was finally able to mostly exercise and participate in training and turfs once again. What was a little ogling going to hurt, anyhow. They were not going anywhere, not any time soon, and it wouldn’t do to leave it a means to an end, not when she is enamored as hard as she was, still is.
She let it stay there, tracing idly, back and forth, resisting the urge to pull the article up altogether. But decided better of it, instead deciding to slide lower, over his stomach, a sharp hipbone. Though muffled with their kiss, her tentacles still curl further when he groans, gripping her just the slightest bit tighter. She was springing this on her fairly sudden and fast, after all, and while in pain on top of that. To be slow was for the best, gentle, and what could she grumble about? It was not as though she had much better to do, and making her boyfriend putty under her hands, she wouldn’t call such a thing a chore.
Eight’s hand moved again, up her thigh, before inching over the crotch of her briefs, savoring the fluttering gasp as she did. The fabric shifted slightly, a short rolling motion against her palm.
“Still okay?” Tilly’s good eye followed the movement, before his gaze dragged back up to meet hers. Though his main ink color was a light, mossy green, the tips of his tentacles bubbled with a dirty copper, suitably glinting like metal if the light hit it just right. Pretty in its own right, but she couldn’t help a pleased chitter when the flush from her actions had his face lit up in those warm tones, practically glowing under the attention, as if painted in golden highlighter.
She gave a gentle squeeze, and the resulting whine was delicious.
“Yeah, I’m– I’m fine. You can keep going.”
She peeled the fabric down, letting it stay hooked around his thighs. Not hesitating, she minds her claws as grasps his length, feels the full body shudder against her own. The flesh there already slick, her hand glides down and back up easily, the tip curling loosely around the edge of her fingers every time she did. The resulting moan is subdued, shaky, his voice cracking a bit from it, evident too in the way his hips buck the slightest, the appendage gently pressing into her hand in search of more.
Satisfied it is not too much, Eight adjusts so she can reach it and still lay tucked into his side, tugging them back together in a kiss. Mildly overwhelmed already, it errs on the side of sloppy, quickly learning it was better for her to merely kiss his face, neck, wherever she could reach. Tilly simply couldn’t focus, between some exhaustion, the pain, and most of all her hand, wrist flicking as she stroked. He throws an arm over his face, too embarrassed to watch it despite the view hardly being anything new, if he could even keep them open, pressed as close to her as could be.
It worked well enough, allowing her to lay back and relax while Eight worked her, not too intense but just enough to pull his mind away from the misery of his leg, and let the floaty, blissed out state after give whatever temporary reprieve, be it a small break or at least an interlude to allow pain medication to kick in. A steady, uncomplicated pattern of pleasurable repetition as they lay, and Eight can admire all the while, at every fraction of change in his expression, every gasp and whimper.
He shoved his face into her hoodie, whining as she picked up the pace, fist tightening and loosening along the shaft. Another day, perhaps, when it was only a simmer she would draw it out, let the low pleasure be distraction enough, keep his senses adrift longer and she could keep her staring. But evidently, it’d been hurting for the better chunk of the day and she’s sure they both would prefer not to linger, though it was a shame she wouldn't be hearing those noises, watching every little reaction across her face for much longer, gripping her harder and gasping with every small bunny hump into her hand.
And really, that should've been it. Expertly work him until he finished, watch peace wash over and maybe stay here, cuddled close, even fall asleep curled up together if he didn’t mind, she can't imagine he'd say no. But well…
Eight meant this with absolutely no intention to make fun at all, she really didn't. Would never. But she also knew firsthand how their times like this usually went,
And if she was honest…This was kind of taking awhile.
For if they weren’t purposely attempting such, anyways. And she’d rather come to expect some certain reactions, depending on where they were, so as cute as the sounds she was earning were, it was clearly for naught. Even the tentacle in her hand, though leaning into the touch, was just barely folding over her fingers, still somewhat soft…Needless to say, even if she wasn't terribly observant, the inkling was usually fairly easy to read. And it was obvious enough this wasn’t going anywhere.
Tilly must’ve thought so too, pulling her face from the hoodie to look sheepishly up at her, trying to seem positive, but her face is strained. “S-sorry, guess pain’s never really been my thing, you know?”
The attempt at humor was shaky, and her brows furrowed, worried. She removed her hand entirely, running reverent knuckles up his cheekbone instead. “Not enough?”
“Oh, no! No no, Eight, it’s not you at all. You’re fine.” He grasped her hand, stopping it, holding it. “It’s– it’s just hard to ignore right now. You were doing a good job.” The color in his face saturates. “Um, you always do…”
Oh. The poor thing, she was worrying her right back. “Thank you, but that’s not what I meant.” A confused glance was her only answer. She sat herself up, stretching for just a moment before shifting to straddle the other’s waist.
Knees on either side of her, she smirks at the immediate shock, eyes like dinner plates. Instinctually, hands come to rest on her thighs, sheer muscle memory, but he doesn’t look any less stunned, the action automatic. Strong, but plush legs crimp her sides to keep her pinned underneath her. She’d always liked having him look up at her like that, awed and lovestruck. His ears perk up– inklings have funny little mannerisms like that, and the little beads of her own magenta ink appearing at the ends of his tentacles tell her all she needs to know.
Though she can’t fully feel it through the material of her gym shorts, she knows his length’s come to press against her backside by the damp blot left behind, slide up along the seam of the fabric. Bolder than he is.
“E-Eight–! You, you uh, you– you really don’t have to, I mean not that I…It’s just– you’re going so out of your way and, and and and, uh…”
Not listening, she traces up from bracing herself on Tilly’s stomach to catch the fabric of his shirt, push it up up up to his neck, push down into the flesh along the way, watch her adam’s apple bob.
“Do you want me to, or no?”
His voice cracks, just a little, with an eloquent reply of “...if–if you, if you think it’ll help then, uhm, ah, b-by all means…”
Her smile is excitable, sweet. “Good.” And like that, she sits up to roll her shorts and panties down in one go, as far as she could still sitting on her like that, amused when he practically squeaks in embarrassment. It’s not as though it hadn’t affected her at all, fingers meeting wet, audible as she tests small strokes on herself, but it was fairly easy to ignore if she’d wanted to, especially not having originally planned going this far. And besides, even planned she often needed a moment to...er, prepare.
Eight carefully holds his chin, tipping his head back, a thumb coming to trace along his lips. They part obediently when she pushes, a small “ah” as she thumbs over her sharp fangs, pointed tongue. A quirk of his species, the way that metallic sheen concentrates in his mouth, a glittery luster to his tongue and inside of her cheeks, that lingers on the two fingers she enters. Shallow and quick, but she chitters lowly when they’re immediately taken in and sucked on, unquestioning, compliant.
Pupil blearily following her every movement, she savors the gasp from her spectator when she parts herself, slipping those two fingers in easy. Right in front of him like this, he can’t look away, watching enraptured as she did, at the wet sheen coating the digits, toned inner thighs, the way they clenched as she worked. She could feel his length still curling into her, clammy against her bare skin, seeking her. Her body rose and fell with his heavy, steep breaths, her own catching a bit, and upon finding a rhythm she liked, leaned back, reaching behind her to return to his dick.
A whimper, Tilly’s head tipping to the side to hide fruitlessly into the pillow, her name muffled into it, and the tentacle wrapped tight around her hand, gripping back. There we go , Eight thinks, grinning. He flushes to his neck, fingers rising to dig into her hips. She would need a minute to prepare, yes, but she had the feeling he didn’t mind much at all. And not much longer, either, as she felt herself more eager than she’d thought, faster than she would’ve expected.
Oh well, she supposed she shouldn’t be so surprised, she did love being like this. Having him so helpless under her, keening and desperate, though the other way around was just as fun, the rare times he could manage it. He was just always such a nervous thing, it was his nature, and she did dearly love that part of him, not in despite of but because of, such a meek disposition unexpected but so endearing on someone with a reputation and role such as his. The inkling scourge, the terror of the domes…Under her like this, whining and leaking onto her fingertips
(He’d thought it before, but never said it, didn’t want her to think he viewed this as a game. But losing to Eight...it didn’t feel like losing. And it was that same feeling here, watching her take control, take what she wanted, because that’s also what he wanted. Wanted so badly, even though it still felt like his leg was piled under boulders, clamped tight in a vice grip.
In a position where he had to make the right calls, the right orders, to always come out in the end, always have to be strong be it in the field or in his own body…It was freeing, for once, to admit defeat.)
Tempting as it was, to keep at it, stay like this, getting them off unison, she had something of a vision for this. Not that it was particularly uncommon of them– she’d always liked this, liked being on top, controlling the pace, happy to do most the work when it meant he’d look so helpless like that, pleading, begging. Like now, more bubbles of her ink tipping the ends of his tentacles, growing less pale as the pain became secondary to her, just as she’d wanted.
Enough was enough, and she knew her limits, anyhow. Licking her lips, Eight scoots back, hovers over his groin. The mutism, though she was perfectly comfortable speaking around her, has been for years now, extended to her noises. She simply couldn’t help it, powerless to explain why it was different, but they just refused to come out half the time. She does cheep a little one, however, when she feels his cock slap against the inside of her thigh, tip writhing and branding a moist trail to her skin in its wake. The body beneath her resists the urge to thrust into it, she can tell, shaking with the effort to force himself into the mattress below. “S-sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she breaths, giddy, eager. “It’s cute.” She grabs the hem of the hoodie to yank up.
“Keep it on,” Tilly’s voice cracks again, a little desperate. He pipes down after, embarrassed. "I– I mean, if, you want to, you…you look good in it…”
Right, her hoodie. His, actually, though it had been sitting in that closet untouched for who knows how long before that one day she’d lent it to her. Ratty, threadbare, splattered with small holes and bleach stains and fraying at the edges but so so cozy. And his, but by all means hers now, she wore it nearly everyday since after all. It didn’t stop his brain from going fuzzy at the edges from the visage of her in it and nothing but it, cutely oversized despite their similar heights and his lithe body type, practically swimming in it.
Eight giggles. She was fully aware of his train of thought, and it had more than once, maybe, affected her decisions in stealing his jackets all the time. So adorable, so predictable
Obliging, she lets go and instead plants the hand tending to herself on his torso for stability as she leans forwards, lifting a leg each to pull her bottoms off the rest of the way. Lines him up, breath hitching when it drags across her slit. Familiarity and knowing was one thing, but it would always feel that way, so much more than it does in her hand, and the thought thrills her. She has the strength necessary to lower herself without seating entirely, keeping the hips below her still, controlling how deep it goes even when it rubs eagerly at her entrance and Tilly cries out, easy to take with its sloped shape– but to go further creates a minor stretch and with it her face fills with heat, probably looking no better herself, losing her carefully kept composure, face going pomegranate. Her tentacles crook around their own ends, olive green creeping in behind rings of bronze, writhing on her shoulders.
Eight relaxes herself best she can before seating herself the rest of the way, air leaving her wobbly and strained but oh , the entire body underneath her jolts, and the resulting wail can probably be heard by the adjacent apartments but she hardly cares. His blunt nails dig into her flesh and she chitters again, satisfied to see it from someone who so often touched her like fine china. Not that she minded, it was sweet, he was always so careful and considerate and interested in her wellbeing, especially since their time together, after leaving the metro, had at first been full of severe injury and tentative care. But really, she could handle it. More than handle it, bask in it, that little loss of control and composure he tried to hold onto so badly..
“E-Eight,” it comes out practically like a sob. The afflicted leg twitches harder, enough for her to notice, though he makes no sign of paying it any mind, at least not as much as he pays to where their groins meet, where she clamped around him, still adjusting. His whole body is shaking with it anyways. He vocalizes with every breath, tries to say something else and fails when she grinds slightly and his length squirms in her accordingly.
“Good?” Words come a bit harder, staying cemented where she is, still adapting to the sudden fullness, the way it wormed lightly against her walls. She could tell by it how excited she’d gotten him, glad she hadn’t let his modest platitudes stop her, wonders how unbearable waiting to calm down would be on top of the pain. Always so stupidly self-effacing, she thinks.
“ Yes , yes, it–” Eight starts to rock, short, slow cants that nonetheless make him jerk and cry out. Doing so harder scoots them both on the bed, shifts their whole bodies, and the sound below her sounds more like pain than the alternative. Gentle , she reminds herself, have to be gentle. “Pl-please, Eight, please …”
Repositioning herself, she tries and fails to prevent her claws digging pinpricks into the plane of his stomach, raising herself and lungs stuttering at the drag, the loss of fullness before lowering back down into it, arching and almost not even hearing the moan that tears out of him, near inaudible over her pulse in her ears. Finding another rhythm comes easy, though she minds the delicate balance of keeping it enough but not too much, even if her own desire had her wanting to buck down into it, speed up, take as much as she wanted, just knows Tilly would look so wrecked underneath her. Another night, perhaps.
For now, she watches her face as she rides her, debased and needy, too torn between it all to do anything but keen and grip the sheets in absence of her hips, a few meager, unsteady thrusts now and then that make her gasp and shudder in return. Just instinctual, she hopes, she has no care for her own release just yet, she can tend to herself after if she really needs to, and if he just aggravates that leg further trying to pleasure her–
“E-Eight–”
Ignoring it as another expletive of pleasure, she leans back and braces with arms behind her on the bed instead, to angle herself different. The first thrust after makes him practically howl , fisting the sheets tight, his length jerking and curling inside of her. She watched him foggily trace the movement, when he could keep his eyes open anyways, more of her color crawling up his own ink. His tentacles were almost purely her magenta now, as they always were when she took the reins, had him pinned under her like this, entirely submitting. Something deeply instinctual and almost animal finds more pleasure in that than anything else.
“Eight– Hold– hahhh –hold on…”
Surprised, she stops entirely, a little more suddenly than she means to, but concern outweighs by far any thought towards finer motions. Oh no, were they making it worse? Maybe taking it so far in that condition wasn't such a good idea after all, but it’d worked before, and…
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine, just…Here.” To Eight’s surprise, he begins to sit up with a grunt, her pulling off and moving back accordingly, shivering at being suddenly empty. The switch had his legs swung off the edge of the bed, properly sitting on the edge, her kneeling above his lap. She doesn’t miss the wince it all causes, the way she can feel his body stiffen under her, slowly relaxing as he remains still again. “Like this.”
“No, lay down, if this is hurting you…”
“Nah,” Tilly gave a small, tight smile, looking up at her. The pain still throbbing in her leg nothing to this. To Eight so close, looking down at her, the crappy ceiling light working just fine as a halo befitting her head. “I’m gonna hurt either way, so I wanna be close to you.”
She huffs, disbelieving. “What am I going to do with you…”
“Keep going, preferably.” It was almost smooth. And then he seemed to return to himself again, flustering and going meek, pulling at the hem of the hoodie. “I mean, if you, still want to and everything.”
Again, she thinks: as if she would say no.
She lets her yank up the hoodie, leaving it to lay discarded on the bed beside them. His hands soothe down her back, firm but not pressing or digging, mindful of her own injuries from the ink tank explosions. Even at times like this, in the throes of passion or foggy with pain or both, she was mindful of her. Accepting that like herself, too stubborn to let him deny this when it meant some relief, he would push against reason and pain to have her how he wanted, Eight chooses not to fight the change.
Instead, arms wind around Eight as she settles back in place, pulling her close, hands settling on her waist in place of her back. Lips briefly trace up from above her breasts, to her collarbone, up her neck. She keeps one clawed hand on his chest for stability, the other wrapping again around his length, still slick from them both and writhing, excited, savoring the tiny gasp that results. And then the bigger, louder, wobbly moan when she slides back down, easing it back into her. Her own sound leaves her as a sigh.
Even like this, she is quiet: not for any reluctance, shame, or displeasure, just a quirk of the mutism. What sounds did come out of her, like her spoken words, were a rare treat for him to indulge in. But when he leans forward, enough for his forehead to be pressed flat and gently on her chest, he can hear the hearts within beating so fast, a tangible sign of her pleasure. So close, he can feel every minor jump and jolt, every shudder. That is what he wanted, this confirmation she was enjoying it just as much, the knowledge that he was making her feel good too.
Her skin so warm against his cheek, his own, soft and real and hers . With no need now to keep herself upright, her arms wind under his, one to grip between her shoulderblades and the other to cradle the back of her head, clawed fingers so gently brushing against his tentacles. Good , this was perfect, exactly all Tilly could ask for: fully enveloped in her, as close to her as physically possible, skin to skin, the agony in her leg far in the back of her mind in competition with Eight’s comforting presence.
The first thrust does earn a huffed, throaty whine from her, his own noises much the same, though instead shamelessly loud when not muffled by the contact. His face presses closer into her still, grounding against the feeling of her, of being in her, like a balm for every pain, because it is her. Eight, his Eight.
She resumes her previous pace, hips swiveling, the grip on her tightening, and something about being able to feel his groans and gasps against her skin has her tentacles curling again, now around his biceps, able to reach out and touch with him so close. The minor, reciprocating cants underneath her return, made easier by the position, and oh it is so very different when they are in synch, friction and stretch and heat.
It likely won’t last much longer, she thinks, can feel more force and desperation behind the movements, the way his dick can hardly stay still inside her. And well enough, this had been much longer than she thought, and he’d been in agony for even longer, maybe after this she would finally get some rest. Smiling to herself, pleased, Eight keeps it up, clenching just to feel him startle and shiver.
One hand parts from her, the arm pulling back, and while quiet, nothing would’ve stopped the yelp when she felt fingers toy with her clit, clumsy and hectic what with the continued thrusting but she hardly cares, all thoughts of not inducing pain thrown away with the need to steady herself against the feeling. Instinctually she comes to grab at her back for purchase, grateful she still had a shirt on as a barrier to her claws, which would no doubt be leaving scratches in crop circles in her skin, not that Tilly had never complained about such a thing. The opposite, really.
She feels a small smirk from him, the slightest hint of his very quiet purr, and decides not to hold back, throwing herself back against his hips as hard she could manage, grinding down on his cock and fingers, and doesn’t fight again her going over the edge. Whimpers escape her, claws piercing tiny holes into the fabric beneath them, tentacles coiling over themselves, euphoria in her veins.
Eight pulls back, to watch with hungry, gleeful eyes as he follows seconds later, moaning into her and grabbing her at the hips again to manage a few last pumps before she feels him still, a distinct warmth at his release. And all draws to a stop, panting, sweat-sticky wherever their bodies meet, the bliss and relief on his face obvious, still pressed to her chest, good to see instead of that pained state she’d found him in. Expression unguarded, open, not even a hint of his normal nerves, just satisfied and alleviated.
And then without warning, she’s looking at their sheets below, when without letting go of her and without any indication they fall backwards onto the bed, Tilly’s back hitting it first and her right after, unable to brace herself and instead kept pinned in that tight hug, landing disorientated, laying against his chest. “T-Tilly!”
Worry snaps through her, like a cold ice bath, sobering her afterglow with it. Oh cod, was it really that much, enough to fall uncon–
A giggle, giddy and delirious, against her chest, and a wet press dictating a kiss placed between her breasts.
“...What are you doing?”
“M’sorry,” he snorts, “tired.”
Couldn’t even wait til pulling out to do that? Well, he seemed quite out of it after all, and no harm no foul. If anything, the coils of her tentacles tightening betray her, affectionately delighted by such a silly action. Fine, for a few moments they could lay like this, rolling onto their sides and held close to his chest, nuzzled into. His purr was always very quiet, near inaudible, but she must’ve done well, able to hear it so strongly, could feel the vibration against her skin from the strength of it. Eight rakes nails over his tentacles, earning a content hum.
“I will take it the medicine has kicked in, then?”
“Yeah, and you, like you a lot better.” It’s warm like this, still worked up and basking in each other’s heat. He could fall asleep, if he didn’t force himself not to. “You’re a good distraction.”
“And the pain?”
“Barely feel it.” Another kiss. “Thanks, y’didn’t have to do that.”
“I hate to see you like that…And it is not as though I get nothing out of it.”
A snort. “Uh huh, ‘cause you’re sooo selfish.”
Not gracing it with a response, she lets herself stay wrapped up like that, savor the drowsy peace and coziness of the position, minutes passing by in seconds. But the more she lay, the more she becomes aware at the uncomfortable wet between her thighs. She hadn’t pulled out, but laid like that long enough she wouldn’t need to, and they’d be bleaching another bedsheet, again.
“Tilly,” a gentle push against his shoulder. “I have to clean up.”
Eight tries to wrangle her way out of the hold, though the hug just tightens, his face pressing in harder. She can distinctly make out a whining, pathetic “ noooooo ” from below her.
“I will be back in a moment, you are such a big baby.”
“But yer comfy,” his words slur together, likely a mix of exhaustion, endorphins, and the slight brain fog the medication often caused. “Just stay a couple more mins, please.”
It was beyond reason. It would only be a momentary parting, just the barely a minute it takes to make it to their bathroom, and she was probably going to leak all over the bed at this rate. But well, they’d gotten that protective topper for the mattress, and he looked awfully sad like that, brown eye dilated and dopey, staring up at her in an open plea. It tugged at her heartstrings, and he knew it, knew she was every bit as terribly indulgent to him as he was to her.
Eight sighs.
“Fine,” she groans in mock annoyance, fully expecting the arms circling back around her– his legs, too, locking around hers, and it makes her roll her eyes. “You are very pathetic sometimes, you know this?”
“Heh, yeah…I know.” The purr returns. “And yer datin’ me, so…”
“Yes, and you are lucky I like pathetic, treasure . Or else I would not indulge you so much.”
Her inkling was modest, and a little insecure, yes, but like this, tangled up in him against better judgment, simply because he looked so cute and hopeless in front of her? Even he would call her bluff, emphasized by the tuck into her neck, blissed out sigh against her skin. In the corner of her eye, she can see one of her tentacles coming to curl around the nape of his neck, keeping him secured close, still glimmering with hints of bronze. Around her hero, the very lovely inkling who saved her, who she saved in turn, who fought so hard.
She did quite like pathetic, indeed.