A/N's: First attempt of a MedusaxStein ficlet, but they're just too hot together. And I'm becoming aware that any Soul Eater fic of mine seems to have to start with an s...
Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater and all that jazz.
Any normal night Stein shouldn't find the shadow of Medusa flat on the floor in front of him, thicker even than the night that surrounds them like a cloak. He shouldn't hear the husky laugh that barks into his ear with every puff of her breath, or taste her very scent in the air, hot and electric like need. But then that's on a normal night and Stein hasn't had one of them now for so long, thanks to the insanity.
"Did you miss me?" There are timbres of a purr in her voice that disgust and excite him at the same time, a snake in his belly curling up and seizing every inch of him in its grasp. His fingers play with the hem of his fraying jacket and he wonders if he should just give up the pretence now or lay back and let it take over. If he could just close his eyes and breathe deeply-
"Don't you want to play?" There's a pout in her voice like a spoilt, petulant child and it makes him want to grab hold of her, sink his fingers in and shake.
"No," he whispers, and then it's much too late because she's snagged him and it may as well be like he's drowning.
Her fingers walk up the length of his arm to rest against his neck; cool and icy as if she could sink her fangs in right there – and he'd let her, he thinks, maybe.
"Just for a little while," she whispers, voice right below his ear and the smell of her, cinnamon and aniseed; heavy over his skin.
He has learnt that you can't bargain with insanity. That the longer it holds over your body, the tighter its grasp holds over your mind, sinking itself into you until it runs along with your blood. He turns around and his hand skims over her hip to press against the small of her back, pushing her closer to him until there's just the thin material of their clothes as separation.
"Medusa." The name rolls off of his tongue to clot in the room; heavy and thick like smog; taking up every inch of space in the small study until he finds it hard to breathe.
Her hand crawls up to knot in his hair and she laughs a high pitch that cuts through everything to make it clearer. "So you do want," she presses her lips to his collarbone and traces her tongue along one of his scars, "to play..."
He tries to push her back, damn it he does, but his hand follows one of her curves and then she's moving her own to press against his chest, fingernails making half moon marks all over his skin. His hand moves to stop her, grabbing the skinny bones of her wrist; practically swallowing her whole in his grip.
"Let yourself go," she smirks. "What's the worst that could happen?" He could throw her to the floor, but her smile is like poison and he's drinking it in like any other fool would. So he tastes her then, lips moving slowly from her jaw to her lips and feels the anger inside of him flare like a firecracker.
"What do you want?" He breathes and snarls because he can't help it.
She throws her head back, arcing her neck like an arrow and laughs, throat as white as a rose and just as soft he thinks. Like a whip, she snaps back into place and crushes herself to him; mouth hard on his as she wraps herself around him, tight like a vine; fingers slipping through his shirt. He pushes her down, weight on top of her, feeling her hum beneath him. His hands are all over, peeling off the layers between them until there's nothing but skin and sweat and he's inside of her, hot and wet and found again.
Everything is desperate and he feels himself shift, breaking apart from the inside out until there's nothing left of him but a hollowed out husk that a snake can lay claim to. Every glance between them is heavy and on fire, and she can't fix him because she's the reason he's broken in the first place. And being careful, he tells himself, can only last for so long and then you just have to let it all go.
He isn't ready for that, he thinks – and most likely she wouldn't let him go.
When he wakes in the morning he's all alone again, twisted tight in the bed sheets, cool air on his arms, the scent of cinnamon and aniseed heavy on his skin. Laughter echoes around him, pressing down on his eyelids and crowding like dust in his throat; louder and louder until he realises it's his own voice making the noise – and hell, he just can't stop.
Comments and crit are appreciated!