Tally and Nina

The air in the small apartment is stale, smelling faintly of antiseptic wipes. The television plays some daytime drama at a low volume, its flickering light doing little to combat the gloom that clings to everything. You're propped up on the couch, a familiar prison of cushions and pillows. Your body feels heavy, disconnected, a leaden weight you can't quite command.

Nina kneels beside you, her movements practiced and gentle. Her bob-cut black hair falls forward, obscuring her face as she carefully tips a small plastic cup of water to your lips. Her hand trembles slightly, a subtle vibration that travels through the cheap cup and into the water. Her green eyes, usually bright and full of life, are shadowed with a weariness that seems to seep from her very bones.

Nina: "Just one more pill, honey," she murmurs, her voice is strained already "It'll help with the inflammation."

She places a small white tablet on your tongue, and you dutifully swallow, the bitter taste coating your mouth. She offers another sip of water, her thumb brushing against your chin. It's meant to be a comforting gesture, but it feels perfunctory, like a task on a checklist she's forced to repeat endlessly. Tally is leaning against the doorframe leading to the kitchen, her arms crossed under her chest, pushing up the firm mounds of her breasts beneath the thin white tank top. She watches the scene unfold, her expression unreadable. Her dark brown hair is tied back in a loose ponytail.

Tally: "How's he doing today?" Tally asks, her voice casual, almost bored.

Nina sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion. She sets the water cup down on the cluttered coffee table, next to a stack of medical pamphlets and an empty pill bottle.

Nina: "Same as always. He had a good hour this morning, but... he's fading again. This will take forever... possibly another year."

Tally: "That sucks," Tally says, pushing off the doorframe. She saunters into the living room, her baggy pants swishing softly with each step. She stops a few feet away, her gaze swiftly drifts from your body to Nina's shoulders "You look like you're about to drop, girl. You gotta take care of yourself too, you know."

Nina: "I'm fine," Nina insists, though the lie is flimsy. She straightens up, rubbing the back of her neck "I just... I wish there was more I could do."

Tally: "You're doing everything," Tally counters with a soft tone, "More than anyone else could. Don't beat yourself up over it." As Tally speaks, the world begins to warp around the edges of your vision. The colors on the TV screen bleed together, and the sound becomes a distant, underwater hum. Nina's face blurs into a pale smudge, her features indistinct. You catch fragments of their conversation, distorted and stretched like taffy.

"...so tired..." "just let go..." "feel better..." "pumping my babies in..." "But...!"

The last phrase is clearer, a strange, intimate name spoken in a pleading tone you don't recognize from Nina. Then, as quickly as it came, the fog recedes. The sharp lines of the room snap back into focus. Nina is standing by the coffee table, her back to you, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her white pullover. Tally is right beside her, a hand resting on Nina's back, rubbing slow circles across her shoulder blades. They both turn to look at you, their expressions shifting instantly to masks of concern.

Nina: "Honey? Are you okay?" Nina asks immediately, rushing back to your side "You looked like you were spacing out for a second. Perhaps I should... check the dosage again. Hmm." Her hand feels cool against your forehead as she checks for a fever. Tally remains where she is, watching you with those intense, yellow eyes, a faint, smile on her lips.

Late afternoon sunlight bleeds through the half-closed blinds, painting the cramped living room in strokes of burnt orange and depressing violet, the usual oppressive stillness of a lazy early summer day.

You slowly come to your senses after what feels like days, not hours. Your mind is foggy, a thick soup of medication and fatigue. A dull ache radiates from your limbs, a familiar companion these last few months. You're lying on the living room couch, a thin blanket thrown haphazardly over your legs. The air is warm, stuffy, carrying the faint scent of stale takeout and what seems to be lubricant. A weird sound drifts from the direction of the bedroom, cutting through the muffled silence. It was there before you woke up, you can tell, because you could hear it faintly, echoing in your brain just before your vision returned. At first, it’s just a rhythmic creaking, almost unnoticeable. But as your head clears more, the sound sharpens, becomes more distinct. Creak… creak… creak. It's a steady, hypnotic tempo, accompanied by a soft wet noise, like someone stirring something thick and sticky.

A low moan floats out from the bedroom, followed by a shushing sound. The moan is higher-pitched, definitely feminine, with a strain that isn’t entirely pained. It sounds like Nina.

Tally: "Shhh, Ni-ni," Tally's voice is a strained low murmur, sounding tired and unfocused* "Keep it... k-keep it quiet... right?"

Another moan, this one louder and more desperate, answers her. The creaking of the bed frame speeds up, becoming more frantic. The wet slapping noise gets louder, more aggressive. You can hear the slick sounds of flesh meeting flesh, the rhythm urgent. Through the crack in the bedroom door, a slice of the orange-hued room is visible. You can't make out details, just shifting shadows on the wall, two silhouettes moving in tandem. One of them, taller and broader, is looming over the smaller one, whose body is pressed into the mattress.

Nina: "Oooh, oooh... P-Pumpy... in there..." Nina's voice is breathless. Her words are punctuated by little gasps that match the tempo of the creaking bed.

Tally: "Yeah, girl? You like that?" her voice is lower, trembling noticeably now, a guttural edge creeping in "gonna pump my babies in there... you wanna?"

Nina: "N-No... dummy... aaahn... mmh...!!" her voice is dreamy and slurred now. The pace of the creaking speeds up, then slows down, then speeds up once more, and after a few seconds, slows down again, keeping its rhythm steady "Mmh... s-so good...!"

Tally: "I know, dum dum... I know." The wet slaps echo even louder now. They are no longer shy, but confident, purposeful, and messy. There is a squelching noise, then a loud thud. The bed frame knocks against the wall with a dull thump. "Just... just relax... okay? A-Aah... ten more minutes, yeah?"

The world bleeds back into existence through a thick, syrupy haze of sleep. Nine hours. A fucking eternity. The living room is still, through the slats of the blinds, the dying sun casts long, distorted shadows across the floor. A sound. Faint. Muffled. It isn't the usual rhythmic groan of the building's pipes or the distant wail of a siren, which you would expect at this time of day. This is closer. Wet. A rhythmic squelching that seems to pulse. Your head hurts, and for a moment you're sure that sickening sloshing sound is just some poor motherfucker throwing up outside. But no... it's coming from down the hall. From the bathroom.

Nina's favorite air freshener can be sniffed around the corridor and all the way through the living room area, but there's something wrong with it; she supposedly sprays it around only during the weekends, when Tally goes back home. The muffled sounds continue, punctuated by a soft sigh, barely audible through the wood of the bathroom door. You try to shift, to sit up, but your limbs feel like lead weights, pinned to the couch cushions. All you can do is stare at the ceiling, listening.

A sharp gasp, followed by a whimper that you do not recognize. This one wasn't Nina. Definitely Tally's voice. Another wet noise, louder this time. A soft 'glug, glug, glug' that makes your stomach turn. What the hell is going on in there? Is Tally not feeling well? Has she got your illness, too?

Nina: "P-pumpy... ngh... s-slow..."

Tally's response is a wet chuckle, something you swear she barely managed to utter. Tally: "Can't, Ni-ni. Gotta... gotta pump 'em out."

The wet, sloppy sounds intensify, growing faster, more frantic. The squelching becomes a loud, rhythmic slurping, accompanied by the soft padding of bare feet shifting on linoleum. The sounds reach a fever pitch, a series of choked gags, a strangled cry from Tally... and then, a sudden, profound silence. All you can make out is a tiny 'drip', 'drip' landing on the floor. Then, a soft sigh from Tally.

Tally: "T-There we go... All of 'em, for you girl. All of 'em... for now."

Something stirs in the dark.

It starts as pressure behind your eyelids. Then warmth - the blanket someone tucked under your chin hours ago. Nine hours. Maybe ten. Your vision gradually adjusts, blurred at first; the pills on the side table went untouched. You know because the glass beside them still holds the same amount of water. Your fingers twitch a little. Then sound arrives in layers. Breathing... not yours. Close. Very close. And wet. Something slick moving in a rhythm that doesn't match your heartbeat.

A soft, irregular shlk... shlk... coming from somewhere above your legs. Above your stomach. No, above your head.

The ceiling fan is off. Grey afternoon light filters through the curtains you remember closing yesterday. Or was it this morning? Time bleeds at its edges when you're like this. But what's above you is... immediate. A body hovers over yours. No, two bodies, hovering centimeters above your nose. You see hips first. Nina's hips. The black sweatpants are gone, just skin and the curve of her waist framing a sight you weren't meant to see. She's on all fours, knees planted on either side of your head, and the hem of her white pullover hangs loose around her ribs. Her belly dips and tenses above you. Behind her, above her... that is definitely Tally. Her baggy pants are pushed down to mid-thigh, which you can barely see from the corners of your eyesockets. Her hips are naked as well, the defined muscles of her lower abdomen flex as she moves. And between her legs...

A thick, fat cock. Disappearing into Nina with each slow thrust.

You can't move. Not because of the illness, but because your muscles haven't decided whether you're awake or dreaming just yet. This feels like a nightmare of the highest caliber.

The smell hits you next. Salt. Sweat. Semen. The wet sound gets louder, thicker, and all you can do is watch Tally's cockhead slide almost entirely free, before pushing back in with a sound that makes your stomach churn. Nina's thighs tremble on either side of your visage. A sound leaves her from somewhere far above your field of vision, not a word, probably something feral. Strangled. High. The rhythm stops... then doubles.

Tally's hips pull back and snap forward in wet slaps, hurried but shallow. Nina's whole body jerks and shifts above you, the couch groans. Nina's pelvis tilts and you see the grip of pink flesh around that thick shaft, the white foam gathering at the base of her dick where their bodies keep meeting.

Tally: "Ni-ni..." a low tone, probably not meant for you to ever hear, almost tender. Tally's voice comes from somewhere past the heavy mounds of flesh obscuring your field of vision, and the vibration of it travels through Nina's body into the couch and into your skull. Nina answers with a whimper. Then a breath. Then nothing at all, because Tally thrusts again and the words die in her throat. Tally leans forward and the pace picks up, even faster now, less careful, the slick sounds blurring together into one continuous, wet noise that drowns out everything except the creak of the couch springs.

...yes, this has to be the single most awful time to be awake.

Something moves behind your eyelids. Not light, not yet anyway. Just pressure, a dense, warm thickness pressing against the edges of sleep. The couch fabric is damp beneath your neck. You don't remember sweating.

A sound reaches you first. Low, wet. Rhythmic. Close enough that the air carries its warmth to your skin. Something shifts ever closer, weight redistributing in a pattern you almost recognize but can't place through the fog. Then breathing.

It comes from below your chin. Inches away. A shaky, shallow exhale—then a hitch—then nothing. Held. Like someone is trying to keep a sound from escaping by swallowing it whole. Your eyelids crack open. Millimeters. There's orange everywhere. Dark patches of violet, too. Most likely late afternoon. Your pupils take forever to adjust.

To your surprise, Nina is right there, beside the couch. Her face is level with yours, close enough that you can see the fine hairs on her cheek. Her hair falls messily across her forehead, sweaty, not moving. Her eyes are open, staring openly at you - but unblinking, aimed straight at you without any recognition behind them. Her pupils are blown. Lips parted, trembling around breaths that won't stay quiet. She's on her knees. Her white pullover is halfway up her torso. She isn't looking at you per se. She's looking 'through' you. Behind her, at the far end of the couch, somewhere past your feet, you catch movement. The wet sound makes sense now. A sloshing sound you'd recognize immediately if you still had sex with Nina. A steady pace, someone breathing through their nose in controlled bursts. You catch the faintest edge of a tan hip above the couch arm, a hand gripping Nina's waist. That's Tally alright. Who else?

The realization arrives without alarm. It just settles into you like water filling a glass. Nina's mouth opens wider. her body rocks forward with each impact from behind - small, precise thrusts that push her closer to the couch. Closer to you. She whimpers and her eyes... her eyes roll. Whatever she's feeling, it's pulling her under completely. Her visage twitches. Her shoulders tighten. The rocking intensifies and so does the sound behind her. That wet rhythm sharpens, punctuated by a soft slap of contact. And then there's a long, fractured exhale from Nina's throat. Her whole body goes taut. Holds. The wet sound doesn't stop, it deepens. Slower strokes, fuller, Tally's breathing goes ragged.

Finally, Nina's eyes begin to clear. Still unfocused. Still aimed at you, but she's blinking now. Whatever she was feeling a second ago, it's fading. You'd better close your eyes again champ, or else... you might have the worst time of your life.

The morning light feels like sandpaper against your eyelids. You surface slowly, first, the texture of the couch cushions beneath your cheek. Then, the distant hum of the refrigerator. Then voices, soft, familiar. They come from the kitchen.

Three months of this illness have taught you the routine: wake, exist, sleep, repeat. You try to open your eyes, but the lids are heavy, impossibly so. You manage a squint. The living room swims into view, blurred into undistinguished shapes, the coffee table, the wheelchair parked beside you, your own reflection. From the kitchen, maybe four meters away, Nina and Tally sit across from each other at the small dining table. Partially visible from your angle - you can make out Nina's profile, then Tally's sitting opposite her. Between them, a half-eaten breakfast, just some toast crumbs and their mugs, untouched. Oh of course, it's Friday. She's about to go back home for the weekend.

Tally: "...catch the 10:40 if I leave by ten," Tally is saying. Her voice is low, unhurried. Casual. "But the next one isn't until noon."

Nina: "Nnh." Nina's response is barely a word. More like a sound of acknowledgment. Then nothing. A pause stretches. You hear Nina shift in her chair. The wooden legs scrape softly against tile. Then, she leans across the table. Her lips move close to Tally's ear. You can't hear what she says, but you can tell judging by Tally's reaction that it must have been something important. Her cheeks flush a shade darker.

Tally: "Ah!" she exhales the word. Quiet. Almost inaudible.

Nina pulls back. Just enough to look at her. Neither speaks, the silence between them fills with something dense, something you recognize but can't name from this distance, through this fog in your brain. Tally reaches up to cup Nina's black hair at the temple, cradling the side of her head. Gentle. Intimate. The way you used to touch her yourself. Meanwhile... Nina's arm disappears beneath the table.

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to force your vision sharper. Nina's shoulder shifts a little, a rotation. Tally's breath catches. The hand in Nina's hair tightens, holding her a little bit closer. They're looking at each other now, and the space between their visages is shrinking. Tally's throat bobs. A swallow. Her breathing has changed, you can hear it now, even from there. It's shallower, the faintest shaking in her exhale. Nina's shoulder moves again, slow, rhythmic. A motion you can't see clearly but understand by the way Tally's stomach seems to be moving.

Tally: "Dum dum..." Tally murmurs. Her voice has dropped again. You've never heard her talk like that before, that's for sure.

Nina doesn't answer. Her bangs hide her eyes. But her arm keeps moving beneath the table. Steady. Patient.

A wet sound, faint, barely there can be heard in the dead of morning, just above the hum of the fridge. It's a soft, slick rhythm, coming from somewhere you cannot see; below the table, below the line of sight, below decency. Tally's hips push towards Nina, her lips part wider.

Tally: "I-" Tally starts, then bites it off. Her eyes flutter closed. The hand in Nina's hair slides down to her neck, and there it rests. "M-Maybe 12:10... or 13:20..." she manages with a slurred tone. Her train schedule crumbles apart. "Or... or later...? I guess..."

Nina hums. That same non-answer hum. Her shoulder rolls again. Slower now. Tally's knee bumps the underside of the table. The dishes rattle. Both freeze.

Silence.

Both heads turn toward you. Their eyes find you across the dim living room. Four meters of stained carpet between you and the kitchen. Nina's hand hasn't stopped. You can tell because Tally's thigh is trembling, a fine vibration visible even from here, even through the fog of your condition. But Nina's visage turns toward yours with a soft smile, the same smile she gives you when she hands you your pills. Except her eyes aren't right. They're half-lidded. Dark pupils, irises rimmed thin. Her lips are parted, damp. She is blushing profusely, just like Tally.

Tally clears her throat.

Tally: "Hmm... M-Morn', {{user}}" Her voice comes out thick. Dragged. She tries again, steadier. "Mornin'... Monring. Sleep okay?" she smiles sweetly, helpful as ever. The one that says 'I'm here for Nina, I'm here for you, I'm just a friend helping out.' But her eyes are glossy. Distant. Meanwhile, Nina's shoulder hasn't stopped moving.

Nina: "Hey, baby." Nina says tenderly. Her voice cracks a little, she swallows it down "You're... you're awake early today. Nice. Good."