"Hey so... isn't this like those drawings of two onee-sans with a shota in the middle?"
Koyori, Laplus and Iroha are marooned on an island in a sea of filth. A small, temporary oasis in the midst of a no-mans-land of refuse, sure to promptly be swallowed whole again. Someone looking at them might liken the scene to the three wise men of Bethlehem knee-deep in the animal filth of the proverbial Manger, or three government officials meeting at the Demilitarized Zone.
"Eh..?" is all Iroha can muster. Iroha, of course, is a real woman with a real body, and she's not as innocent as the image she maintains. Although she knew very well exactly what Laplus was talking about, she chooses not to respond, busying herself instead with tidying up stray drink cans strewn across the floor.
Koyori half-heartedly giggles at Laplus' remark and pulls out her phone. It's clear both of them need a break from Laplus's antics. An hour and a half of non-stop tsukkomi, especially when Laplus is turning it up to 11 for the audience's sake, is taxing.
Neeeee.... Koyori onee san.. Koyori oneeeee chan..
Laplus, biting her lip in a grin, playfully leans her head back to look up at Koyori who's still in the middle of her gacha dailies. What Koyori really wants to do is to click her tongue at Laplus, but she knows Laplus will turn it into a moment of contention, talk to her even more, and in the worst-case scenario talk about it in her upcoming zatsudan. She instead keeps tapping her phone, pretending not to notice even though their faces are inches away.
Koyori oneeee chan... Chuuu....
Laplus purses her lips, closes her eyes, and twists her expression in a grotesque imitation of a little-sister act. Koyori notices Laplus' greasy, oversize t-shirt and gets an idea.
Iroha emerges from the bathroom where she's been trying to bag the mountain of used pads and tissues to a scene of Koyori tickling Laplus fiercely underneath her shirt. Laplus is unlike most of her colleagues in that when her laughter reaches a true fever pitch, it quiets down immensely as her laughs themselves transform into desperate gasps for air. Viewers often ask in the comments during these times if Laplus is tapping a pencil, choking to death, or attempting to beatbox, so uncharacteristic a sound it is. Iroha has no idea how long this has been going on since she didn't hear the laughter over her own cleaning.
Laplus can't breathe. Her spurting laughter is completely involuntary. A drop of urine beads on the inside of her underwear as she fights to speak. Koyori's fingers lapping the skin of her abdomen, kneading upwards and downwards in focused circles, her weight rendering Laplus immobile. Words won't form while the very core of her nervous system is being hijacked by the stimulation.
At the same time, Koyori finds herself unable to stop. It barely registers in her consciousness that Iroha is pulling at her shoulder with increasing urgency. A warm feeling spreads across her chest and her face flushes. The world seems to melt away, leaving only the sensation of her fingers and hands kneading Laplus' soft, tight body. Pleasure begins to erupt deep within Koyori's navel, giving way to shock when she realizes the feeling is both a sexual and a maternal desire.
Iroha's tugging on Koyori's shoulder is suddenly met with total loss of resistance. They crash into a pile of wrappers and cans, Iroha flushed with panic and physical effort, Koyori is flushed with an intense arousal. Koyori steals a glance at Laplus, who's still wheezing helplessly on the floor. Taking advantage of the moment, she wedges her lips into Iroha's own, lets go, sighs in broken, gasping, unstopping breaths that pour out of her like water from a shattered vessel. It was an act borne from a primal loneliness and desperate need. Iroha accepts this act as something women, especially women in their line of work, must do now and again for each other's sake. She cautiously, gingerly, takes Koyori's face into her hands and returns her kiss, pressing gently, then releasing.
You got me good that time, Laplus smirks at Koyori as she recovers from the attack. Next time, she gasps in between the subsiding laughter, I'll be ready for that. Iroha and Koyori join in her laughter as if the only thing that just transpired was an innocent episode of tickle torture between an onee-san and a shota.
