Another SteinMedusa story? Yeah, I'm boring, I know it, but what could I do? I'm not in the mood for translating my SteinMarie, so I keep writing about my favorite pairing.
This fanfiction came to light some days ago, while I was looking for more news about the mythological character of Medusa; she has snakes on her hair, a petrify gaze and blah blah blah, but she was also an ancient symbol of fertility, a divinity deep connected to the earth. When I thought that the name "Stein" means stone in German language – tell me, my German readers, is that so? – for me it was over. I had a new experiment to write. Ah, there's some spoilers of the chapter 22 and 60, but it doesn't really matter, right?
I must thank my only and unique betareader, Snjeg, for supporting me and correcting my stories. My dear, you're the best! *_*
She's earth, - mud under her nails, a sticky trail of dirt along her face, on her black wisps – she's heat and salt, she's sweat and seeds and grass and she laughs in a whisper tracing whorls and circles on his bare chest, painting his muscles' lines with dust, sinking her fingers into his scarred skin.
Stein, she murmurs, and her breath is cold against the curve of his neck, but her fingertips are too hot, too careful, while she exhales his name in the shell of his ear, again, again and again, Stein, Stein, like a spell - like a curse; she's earth, but he's stone, and he can't be broken.
He's stone, because his name means this, but he's not a tomb or a statue, he can cry, beg and suffer: he writhes in pain when she plants her nails on his shoulders, wet mouth against rock-hard flesh, dry fingers against of the toughness of his torso.
Why you're still here, he thinks, pushing her on her back; his tongue traces glassy lines of saliva on her skin, his teeth bit down hard: bloody flowers of new and little wounds bloom on her belly, why, why. He thinks of grass and insects and snakes, - her lips taste like blood, he breathes her, vanishing ghosts of wet soil, a distant scent of roses and other beautiful and venomous flowers, - where are your thorns, your fangs, Medusa?
Her hands slip through the cracks of his back, her fingertips flow in the knotty relieves of his spine: now she can mold him into whatever she likes – he isn't strong enough. She presses herself against the raw lines on his abdomen, and it hurts a little when she curls her fingers around his forearms and asks: what are you thinking about?
He turns away from her gaze, but there's no peace, without her, no daylight that dances and twists and fades slowly behind his closed eyelids, only a frightening immobility; there's a flow, a movement only into the thumb that touches her swollen lips, in the tip of her tongue that brushes it, into the motion of her fingers that sink in the damp soil, in the wetness that slides between her tights.
He pushes into her, abruptly, - he's stone, he isn't kind, this isn't part of his nature – desperately, breath coming hard like he's dying and an answer tangled deep inside his throat. His hands plant buds of bruises in the whiteness of her hips: her hair are dark vines on the chocolate-colored ground.
He thinks, obscurely, that he could tear her pale body apart, he could stain with her blood his fingers covered in dirt, water and mud; but she laughs silently, scratches his nape, pushes her teeth against his shoulder blade and says, whispering the words on his powdered skin, Stein, always so strong, so proud, my beloved enemy, you can't run away from me, do you know that? Have you ever tried to escape from me?
And again, like long time before – I love you - as he sinks deeper and deeper into her, she leaves a new and deeper mark on his soul: you'll be always mine.
Medusa is earth, and he isn't stone anymore: he's crumbles.