Work Text:
Eto holds his face in her hands. They’re dry and calloused from years of wear and tear, yet he only stares at her blankly, as though their texture and the chill don’t affect him at all. Normally, words would come easily to her; she was an author, after all, and they were her tools of trade. They would spill from her lips like blood, staining the atmosphere in her desired pattern and bringing those around her down to heel, but she fails. She, of all people, does not speak.
With Arima, words fail her.
She can’t speak about him. She can’t speak to him. She can’t speak with him. Not anymore. Those days of old, where she was an untethered creature hurtling into the abyss, are behind her (and still ahead of her). Now, she has him to lead her around, siccing her on his inconveniences like the dog she is.
Instead of words, then, there is action. His trips down to see her end with his clothes folded neatly away, his limbs tangled with hers, and her feeling the strange warmth that contradicts his cold demeanor. When he approaches her, he pries her open shamelessly, and she allows herself to be pried open. Control, which she has desired for everything else, is ceded as he takes the lead— a hand over her breast, a thumb on her clit, his teeth grazing her chin. She responds. Arched back, sinking nails, gripping hair. He likes when she tenses up, gasping when he slides a finger into her, curling upward, inward. All she can do is respond, and respond. Gasp, twitch, shiver.
It started randomly. Before she learned his goal, before they wanted death more than each other, they did this. They sought solace— contact— in each other, because no one else would. They were people placed at the pinnacles of each other’s kind without asking, and it was lonely at the top. She thought it was passion at first, but she’d learned better now. Now it’s just habit.
It always feels good to be naked, but Arima is the one to stoke a flame in her. Not the flames of rage she tends to herself, but something else. Fire burns, but it can also be comfort. His finger leaves her cold, but it’s quickly replaced with his member as he climbs up her petite form. His erection, swelling to its full size, soaks her with anticipation.
It is then that Eto holds his face.
A simple gesture to most, perhaps, but a rare instance of her reaching out to him. He doesn’t seem to react, though. He never does. He is Kishou Arima at the end of the day.
He watches her with that blank stare as he presses into her. She reacts. Her lip bites, her eyes shut, her cheeks flush. He wouldn’t normally fit into a woman of her size, but her grotesque nature works to their advantage this time, and she makes space for the rest of him.
She pulls on his face to bring him down, but because he is Kishou Arima, who does not yield, she pulls herself up instead, and joins their lips. He allows her to do this, allows her to swallow his mouth and explore about his tongue. Whatever he derives from letting her do this, no one could know— a warm husk is still a husk.
He moves. She’s small and he’s big, so there’s a painful friction for her. Louder gasps, tighter grips, piercing skin. The walls of this room, formed of kagune and infrastructure both, contain the noise. Slamming hips, heavy breath, smacking lips.
There’s never been a moment where she can decipher him. There’s a weakness within her that refuses to do so, or there’s nothing there to begin with. Once upon a time, she thought she saw something, but whatever it was has been eroded away by his shortened time. What’s happening now is the dregs of that something— a walking corpse pretending it’s still alive.
He cums. Pulsing, rough, full. He squeezes her tight against him like he always does, and she swallows everything he gives to her like she always does. A pleasured grunt escapes her as he pulls out.
There’s a moment where he watches his seed spill out of her cunt. The viscous stuff spreads across the ground when it reaches, and Eto watches it with him. It’s hypnotizing, in a way, she supposes, though there’s no way of knowing what he gets out of it.
He dresses himself, and he leaves. She gets up and leaves in the opposite direction. Little else is exchanged in these types of meetings, and there’s little else she divines from his person. However, she’s left with one certainty:
He’d call again, and like a dog, she’d answer.