Two Octolings, their tentacles writhing with anticipation, find themselves alone in the abandoned Splat Zones. Driven by primal urges, they discard their weapons, their ink cartridges clattering to the ground. They press their bodies together, their slick skin adhering like magnets. Their tentacles entwine, exploring every crevice and contour, while their beaks clack in rhythm with their mounting pleasure. The room echoes with their wet, squelching sounds, a symphony of their insatiable hunger.