Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater nor any of it's characters. That's all Atsushi Ohkubo, people.
A/N: I am so sorry. Lol. You'll see why in a bit... but just know that it is all for your raw understanding of character dynamic... Oh god, so sorry. So very, very sorry! ::Runs and hides from incoming torches and pitchforks::
Um, also, Orgy-Stiches totally reminds me of the Stein/Medusa thing I have going on here... Yeah... I totally don't own that either. Heh.
Chapter 7:
Fondly, Medusa's wide sunny orbs take in the clear liquid, swirling in it's syrupy whirlpool inside the glass. Hundreds of thousands of reversed microbiological bacterium and viral impurities transposed within such a small container. The thick, water-like substance is, in itself, a miracle to behold, created by such a heinously young mind. A bright mind, not hindered by the pressing of society and the rush of adulthood. A brain put to dedicated use, without the restrictions of ethics and deadlines, thoughts and ideas unbridled by overseers and the need to impress. No, the only person needing that satisfactory thrill is that of the creator, this blonde child with textbooks and a fond inclination toward the medical sciences, driven by the things in which she doesn't want to speak. Only, to cure.
No, when her work is at it's full completion, no one will ever have to fall prey to the frailty that is human life. NO, when she is done, the world will be a better place, brighter, happier, with less violence and no threat of disease. Because, how will the world go to war with itself when all are immune, strong beyond the density of bone and the squishy liabilities that are entrails, that damnably sad sort of an excuse flesh and fat make as armor against those that wish to destroy it all.
No. When all is said and done, there will be peace. Her own children will be able to live in a world without fear of their body, of coming to an untimely end. Their children will never have to watch from a filth-ridden dumpster in frantic hush as their parent is disemboweled and organs are used as pitching practice by some drugged-out sociopath with a knife and the want and will to kill anything just to watch that light flicker from another's body, fading into the never-more. Like her father, the real one, before the long line of beat-happy men pounding in a successive line through her mother's shock-induced, traumatized, hole-gaped heart in the form of open legs and empty love.
"No." Lips curling around the whispered sound, she carefully places the vial back into the deep-freezer, pulling from her amazement-trembling hands the clean latex gloves, tucking the cold palms to her heat-flushed face. No, because when she is absolutely done, there will be no injury, no real sickness or premature necrosis. When she's done, she will have bumped up evolution with the very light of her microscope and these used-tools she bought on a bargain with her own hacked trust fund.
First thing is first, though. She will need to test on live subjects, will need to tweak her dosages and find the right time-frame to apply. The girl will need more than just the thousands of animals that sacrificed their lives for the greater good, more data, more variables. Medusa will need to figure out more than just the serum, this vaccine that will block most diseases and illnesses. She needs to work on protection. How does one keep another from being cut down? Would it be in the blood, those tiny inter-connected roadways mapping throughout every inch of anatomy from deep inside out, or in the skin, the barrier above all? Both? Questions, questions... Questions that will have answers, in time.
From the second floor, Medusa's ears perk at the banging upon the front door, so clamorously loud, unruly. Familiar. Another man, she supposes. Sniffling away her momentary fear, the child closes her eyes, thinking back to those warm hugs, that kindly laughing face of her father, the real one, in order to steel herself for the harsh reality of the rest of the world and it's volatile inhabitants that are mankind. Her mother has made a deep bed full of unwavering denial and masochism in order to feel something other than the hollowness that Medusa and Arachne's father's loss chiseled within her. The blonde girl will not make the mistake of helping someone that doesn't want to be helped and she most certainly will not let her mother's men touch her like that ever again.
"Alphonse, darling!" Once again, amber eyes focus on the world around as her mother's shriek echoes hauntingly through the house, breaking away the girl's daydream in place of impassive resolve. Pressing on her small workspace to help still shaky knees, she respirates meticulously, building her walls and strengthening emotional defenses against yet another unhealthy relation that must be endured.
O.O.O
DIIIING DONG~!
Ringing only throughout their workroom, the doorbell sounds for maybe the third(... or fourth) time. Its chime vaguely registers, breaking through her reminiscing thoughts like a hammer upon glass, shattering what once was into what is in an instant and her lithe hands push from the cool, transparent surface, removing her from the seat and on to her bare feet.
They pad across the smooth, off-white floor, its reflection of the lights above only eclipsed by her gliding form as she opens the old-style door with a simple turn of a key and pull that showers the braided blonde in the sharp contrast of shadow to her immediate front and the effulgence that lay behind.
Golden eyes adjust quickly, that door creaking to a slivered close, a singular beam from its crack follows Medusa as each raised step brings the doctor closer to the top of the narrow stair. The dinging alert sounds once more, muffled by the wood of the passed barrier and she smiles amused at her visitor's zeal. A wandering palm slides along the uneven design of the wall's plaster, her soles working up the wooden stairs with a graceful speed.
Birthed from darkness back into fluorescent glow, the walking woman rounds the immediate corner through her art parlor and straight to the large front door. Little effort is needed to flip the locks and welcome the guest into her home, as this is a routine. A lovely annual task that has graced her calendar since that first inaugural transaction.
"G'devening Meddy." Platinum grey tousling flippantly with the warm evening breeze frame those granite jade orbs and glass that reflects her own silhouette. This blessed, overly-familiar man grins at Medusa with a wink that almost makes her laugh.
"Hello, you." Shifting to stand behind the door, she lets Franken shuffle into their chilly abode, only just closing the door before her arms snake round his neck and legs wrap possessively at his willing waist.
He knows where he is going. He doesn't need to see where his legs are taking them as his pliant lips suck those lovely gasps from this woman, tongue laving ever-so lightly at feverish flesh, surgeon's thumbs rubbing circles precisely where she likes while the other digits play support.
When Stein stops, she slides from his grasp, her soft curves teasing his clothed chest until she pulls away, tip toes taking her backwards and down, those smoldering half-lidded amber orbs calling the man to the calignosity like a siren to a ship's certain destruction upon the sea. He follows without qualm, he wants to sink, to slip into those waters and drown.
The darkness hides her visage from view, but those skilled hands run, blazing trails along his skin, it is a wonder that his clothes aren't cinder by now as those small digits graze every inch from all sides. And when he feels that skilled little mouth press at his pants, that promise of wet heat and the hot breath that blows through to tease him makes his desire throb in quickened pulses.
Just as soon as it's there, it's gone again and he's being pulled down further with a tug of his bunched up shirt and a palm massaging his shaft through the fabric and the greyed man happily obliges, one stride after another until solid flat flooring graces the rubber soles of his shoes.
The air feels so much colder along his hot flesh, it feels so good; even better still when the blonde leans into her actions, her other hand slithering to move away the damnably thick cloth of his lab coat and Medusa's hot breath huffs at his trachea, her covered nipples tickle at his chest making want circulate in a dizzying tingle through his veins.
Her teeth drag openly on his neck, catching at stubble, that humid little cavern creating torrid sensitivity that fades out as atmosphere sets freeze into the slickness. She makes it difficult to breathe, this confusing mix of sensations culminating into a delicious orchestra of thundering desire that catches his respiration in helpless shuddering spurts.
Strokes fading into nothing, Franken voices protest only in a whining sigh, too weak to say much else but her tongue finds his lobe and a throaty 'shh~' hushes him as it raises the surface along his carotid with goosebumps, a shiver running through his limbs in waves euphoric intoxication. Cold is his body as she moves away, the places she touched lonely with only the memory of her feel wafting deep.
His hands move with her directions, a taunting game where only his tips can feel that silken skin and slinky material that barely covers it all, from the enticing dip of Medusa's collarbone to the exquisitely puckered center of her breasts. That downy hanging fabric causes friction to titillate every manipulated digit, the way she holds back her own frustrated pants drives his mind wild.
It's only moments when he realizes that she has set his hands free to roam that he falters, so much does he want to feel and not a certain place to start. Vibrations along his zipper pauses his own thought processes and he completely blanks when his heated manhood is removed from its constrictive confines, chill encompassing it in the most exciting of ways. The hiss escapes his lazy lips before he can stop it.
"No sounds!" The blonde forcefully whispers as she slaps at his attentive member, a grin in her voice and amusement apparent in her enthusiasm. Her palm connects hard, the smack of skin on skin jolting to the ears. He groans at the sting, making his sensitive head throb harder with every successive blow. Franken's knees nearly buckle when Medusa's seventh and last belt lands, the cries of pleasurable-pain dancing captive in his chest, obediently unreleased.
The braided blonde limply raises the front folds of her dress, it bunches at her back and curves in on itself as it hangs in her hand. An arched foot rubs along his ankle to the bend of his knee, her pampered toes digging into that vulnerable spot and it takes him down in height. That skilled leg slides further up and to the greyed man's waist, hooking and he takes the incentive, sweating, shaking hands gripping the tender, supple thigh.
Tendrils of cloth mold and fall over the ridges of his arousal, petting at the swollen member with its soft hem-line as her core hovers so near, the unfettered juncture fills him with the scent of her molten arousal; the sweet vanilla of her ivory flesh, the musk of her womanhood, the heady antiseptics, its so hard to stand, so difficult not to plunge into Medusa, to complete them both.
Downy fabric sways along the silken steel of his erection, catching at his ridge and falling to frictious tickles rippling at his end's slit and she pulls ever closer, that cloth lifting and draping back at his base. His cock barely runs along her slick lips, her pulsing little nub teasing with her own concealed need. He gasps at the feel of her and she retreats, her dress playing its little game once more as her hand rears back and delivers his harsh punishment.
"I said to be quiet." The woman growls out her warning as once more that dress vacates his member and her folds wet his member, a cruel show of both what may come and what he can't have quite yet.
Cheek burning, the blonde gives it a loving rub before once more dominating Franken's free hand. Her dress skimming his arousal, she directs him to hers, using him to create delicious attrition for her own wants. A selfish goal that she silently laughs at as he shivers in absolute need.
His digits flex and extend against her hungry core and she moans into her own shoulder. When he delves into her tight, hot little sex, her hips roll, accepting as much as he will give with a feverish tenacity. Pumping curved fingers, he strokes at the woman's clenching inner walls, searching for that smooth flesh that will make her a cursing, quivering mess; to conquer and domineer Medusa's sensations in the only way his subservience will allow.
The desire that races through his veins and throbs in his gently tortured arousal hurts, engorged at its brink, that damned silkened fabric drives him mad. His dexterous hands translate his necessity into an intensity when he reaches his long-sought goal. Plunging into her warmth and pulling out, twisting his twittering digits and hitting that condemning spot, over and over; again and again.
The blonde stiffens, grip on her own dress so tight as her leg squeezes Stein's body closer. Tension and heat building so rapidly she can't move, her mouth hangs open decorating the lines of bliss crinkling her brow.
More. He gives her more speed, more pressure, more fire that tips her facade of collected mewls off the edge and into a free-fall of gasping screams as that dam breaks and the waves of unbridled sensual solace wash over her from curling toes to lolled head.
Still panting, the braided blonde wrenches from bespectacled man, dropping the folds of her night-like dress as her palm connects to his still stinging cheek.
"Knees!" Fingers still wet with her nectar, he complies, forcing back the lopsided grin painting his face to something suitable for the light. It's rough, the staircase and landing don't leave much room in which to maneuver, but the submissive manages, feet lifted upon the first two steps with his arms to support in front, his shaft jutting proudly through the gap at his fly. Vulnerable as she likes him.
"Go." A whine of metal and wood takes the two from inky black and into a bath of blinding brilliance that the greyed man has to squint at to accustom himself to before scuttling on ahead at Medusa's command. The hard floor is hell on his joints, but Franken makes it to the center of their rooms at the foot of the brushed steel table and waits as the door closes and locks; the scraping of the key sending shivers to his curved spine.
Downward jade orbs take in the feet coming his way, but he sits, quiet and good, even when he sees her stop in front of him and hears the shuffling of something above. Something that snaps when pulled, like rubber, or latex; his heart beats swiftly behind his ribs, a giggle burning for its release that he will not give.
The blonde snaps, pointing skyward and he raises, palms leaving the icy marble. Golden eyes take him in as she lowers, planting a soft kiss onto his lips, nipping the bottom with her teeth she pulls until it pops from its hold. A solitary blue glove is in her grasp and with it she rubs the elastic material from tip to base, enjoying his squirms as the thin, sensitive skin pinches with its resistance.
His slit is beaded with obvious liquid excitement, it pains him that he is so hard and he realizes what she is doing with that glove when she ties it in a crippling knot around his shaft, he has to bite back a panicked cry. Oh god, its so tight that he visibly throbs, painted dark red with the pressure deepening his vicious arousal's sensitivity. And when she blows at him, a self-satisfied little puff from her pursed, smirking little mouth, he moans, unable to contain it any longer.
"Undress me." He knows that she means to do it by mouth with limited use of his hands and he pants, trying not to thrust his hips into the small breezes she creates as she stands at her full stature and he bends to capture that damned hem that teased him in his huffing maw. He makes sure to run his docile labrum against the curve of her thigh, whispering over that ambrosial mound and upward, past her navel and to the juncture between her swollen breasts where he is finally allowed to use his hands to rid her of her clothes.
The light fabric tickles as it dances up raised arms and over her ears. He's so gentle with the woman, so tender with her, especially during these games they play. She grows warmer with the thought, but only lifts a brow at the man before her.
Done with his task, he tries to go back to his sit to await more of her husky words but Medusa slides behind, freezing him into place with those soft palms at his chest and those elegant little digits slipping button after button from their holes. He would plead if he had to, just to feel that velvety touch on his burning flesh, his stomach flexing in hopeful anticipation that makes his manhood palpitate.
Braid thrown over her shoulder with a simple brush, she leisurely traces each of Franken's abs through his shirt, each dip a road to travel, every swell a hill to run over, down and down. When her tips meet the hard, cold brass of his buckle she unloops the leather of his belt, pulling it from its trappings and setting the lovely black thing aside to finish stripping him of his trousers and underthings.
Those slacks drop heavily with naught but a single pull of their hook and her amber orbs brighten with his sob as the notches in his zipper scrape at his engorged affliction. Swiftly, she kicks the back of her pet's leg, sending him to the shining surface, startled, hands shakily saving him from impact.
No good. She straddles his back and yanks a handful of white-grey hair so that he has no choice but to stare at the fluorescent bulbs above.
"I want your chest to the ground, you defiant thing." She snarls in his ear before forcefully pushing away his scalp, removing herself from his back as he drops and the blonde circles him to inspect her work. The perfect forty-five degrees from the base of his skull to the elevated tailbone unsatisfactorily hidden by those ridiculous tri-tone boxers.
An irritated pull at his underwear forcibly jolts his stiffened shaft, the waistband catches at the delicate end gland in a way that electrifies every nerve in his body. Stein bites back the yelp, gritting his teeth until they grind.
That hoarse laugh bubbles from behind and he nearly faints from the thrill. This humiliating position leaves nothing to the imagination, all areas hidden day by day are lit by the bulbs above and he is helpless as his puckered anus and testicles lay on display. Heart skipping beats and breath puffing from his nose like a bull on rage, he lifts his back tailbone that much more, into the pillowy feel of her downy, mild hands as she rubs at his susceptible cheeks.
The leather whistles as it cuts through the air, the narrow belt bites at his milky skin, instantly welting up in angry pink when it makes slapping, solid contact that rocks him forward in slight and jumbles his stiffened, suffocated erection in ways that makes his stomach clench. His mistress leaves it there a a few seconds, the heat of the punitive cincture against the blazing of his buttocks almost unbearable, until his lady flips the band on its side, the margin creating large circles on the crimson streak, much like scraping a sunburn with fingernails.
And then, it's gone, replaced with the frozen air. A moment of solace, as she pulls the leather above her head, only for it to scream warning to the bespectacled man of its downward descent. His whole body stiffens as it connects and leaves to connect again, and again. The brutal contusions decorate the backs of his thighs, straight across and in some instances wrapped 'round a leg and hanging sack. He isn't breathing, but his body is protesting in wriggles that nearly paralyze him, his protruding manhood like an over-filled balloon, everything a possible irritation, and so sensitive, oh so delicate.
When she stops and the buckle chinks against the stone of the floor, his cheeks and forehead are a shade of violet new to the color spectrum and his open backside burns against the atmosphere's soothing chill.
"Aww! Was that too much for my little pet?" The blonde coos when he gulps in oxygen, strutting round once more, happy with this end result. That perfect pedicure stops in front of the man's nose, and he kisses the arches in his hushed appeal.
"Oh, you want something, boy?" Humming the question, she kneels, spreading only enough to slide a finger through her folds and bring it to his lips. He sucks on the finger greedily and Medusa chuckles, sitting so that her bent, long legs span either side of his achingly arched body, her womanhood just close enough to ravish if he stretches his neck painfully with his chin bruising against the unforgiving floor.
His tongue laps flat, gratefully. Those sweet purring moans echoing in his throbbing prick, feeding his starving need in the delicious form of sucks and licks. He slurps at her clit, breath stopped in surprise when he feels her downy palm squeeze at his tender head. It speeds him, makes his work frantic and sloppy, but the reaction he's hearing beyond the thundering in his ears and his own pressing frustration says that the blonde doesn't mind.
She grips in beats alike a heart, making his own pound visibly, shaking his lab-coat. He hasn't a set respirative pattern, and everything is a blur of sensation. Nothing is clear to his except the fact that he tastes, feels, sees and smells only Medusa. She is a maddening drug that he can't get enough of.
With a shriek, her legs shudder, closing in around him. Her fingers clasp around him blinding him and stealing his breath. He's shaking, hot, cold and clammy, sweat trails his forehead and gathers with the tears in his eyes.
That tension is so wound, that if it doesn't break soon, he will. The greyed man can't move even if he tried, as long as she has a hold of him, he is stuck. Her pallid, obedient living statue. Her pet. When he's released, he doesn't know whether he should sigh in relief or cry out in pent vexation.
"Take off your clothes." How did she get all the way across the room? When did he shut his eyes? He scrambles, trying to stand on legs that feel like jelly with a supportive grip on the metal slab at his side. Its near impossible to kick off his shoes when his head is both airy and lead, the flashes of bright black and floaters don't help much either but he manages to step from his clothes and shrug from the heavy torso coverings, glasses an nuisance afterthought. Falling back to his knees, he hisses at the accompanying bounce of his shaft, hanging his head, Franken slumps over to the blonde tapping her foot in impatience.
Finally at her side, she passes over the step and into the tiled alcove, steam already billowing from the wall's spray. Following Medusa is an effort, with tingling stings that prickle down his inner thighs to the soft underside of his feet every time he raised his knee the height of the step, but he manages with an aching jaw and grinding molars.
"Come over here and stand under the shower, darling. You've done well." A self-satisfied smile tugs at his pressed mouth at her praise and he stumbles over to the source of the steam, unused to his upright position. As the vapor wraps around him, that fall of hot water soaks his hair and cascades down flesh that seems cold in comparison, even though inside of this man is an inferno. His stomach flutters, that tension winding tighter with every stray drop and he closes his eyes, allowing the spray to beat into his body; to follow her every word.
A single startling suck brings all of his walls down, his testicles clinging to his body as they try to force his seed into the wet, fiery velvet surrounding his cock and yet, it doesn't happen because of the rubber wrapped 'round him. That dry orgasm almost knocked him to the ground with a reverberating, suffocating moan stuck in his chest, and his only savior was the shower-glistening woman knelt before him. Her knowing palms presses him into a lean against the cold ceramic squares before moving lower, nails dragging crimson lines into his rocky, pale abdominals and even further still to that damned blue rubber where she yanks the knot from its holding all the while her tongue rounds his ridge.
Throwing the offending glove to the corner of the small room, she lets her lips dance over his head, welling in overly-sensitized feeling, pins and needles introducing Stein to a new type of heaven when Medusa takes him all in, swallowing his length down into her throat. That multi-sided, soft yet strong heated silk tugs at him, it demands everything of him and with a strangled, croaking cry that pressures the backs of his eyes and navel, he spills into her in violent, quivering jolts that leave him momentarily blind putty. Sliding down the tile with the welts on his backside burning with the steamy rain, his still rigid member pops from Medusa's maw and he sits, slumped over and malleable.
"Let's begin with the basics, shall we?" Reaching over, fingers gripping around plastic and blade, she smiles.
~O~O~O~
The blood beneath the heel of his palm is sticky, Crona's glassy crystal gaze hasn't left the wound, for fear that he would mess up and it would start dripping again. His body trembles; in fear for her and that deep-seated terror within himself.
Seeing her like this, holding Maka as she lifelessly sags against him, it doesn't hurt him necessarily physically. But this, no, this ache in his chest is worse than most of the pain he's encountered.
His ears are strained, trying to hear beyond his own thundering heart and ragged breaths to make sure hers hasn't stopped. The rosette can't tell, even with her body pressed to his own. The boy is shaking so bad, every one of his nerves reduced to buzzing static focusing on the main processes: eyes to keep her injury at bay, the touch of his hand to keep it raised with enough pressure to stop the flow, his ears for that faint whisper of breath and his own respiration. That is all he is, that is all that he can do.
Crona can't lose his story's protagonist. It's not over yet. It can't be over yet. He hasn't been given enough words, the paragraphs ahead are still to blurred to be made out. Please.
Please. Please, please don't...
~O~O~O~
With steady, skilled grace Medusa guides the razor over the soapy man's torso. Quick, smooth flicks that eradicate all the stubborn, prickling little hairs from his chest now down to the last bit below his navel. That wiry line that leads to what makes him male, it protests against the sharp little shaver in clicks and pops until nothing is left as it washes down and around the screen drain.
She nudges the placid Stein's chin with a knuckle and with nimble fingers isolates the desired area just behind the man's temple, eliminating the hair in a narrow section and uncovering that familiar white scar.
"Rinse off, pet." Done with the hair removal, the blonde leans into Franken, claiming him with a kiss that drags him back from mindless bliss, the pinch of her teeth making him follow by way of reaction as she goes to stand.
His arms encircle Medusa's curved waist, pulling her soft body into his, heated rain trickling between them as they embrace. This gentle, tender emotion shared without word as the steam rolls from their flesh.
There is always risk involved, every time one goes under the knife. Franken being the initial subject, an ongoing experiment of multiple magnitudes... There is always that chance that his system shuts down, and at his age, all of his scar tissue...
Science is about hypothesis and in turn there is trial and error. Somewhere along the lines, it stopped being so cut and dry. Somewhere in their years of partnership, taking his life in her hands and bearing his children... It became real. Not a dream, not a nightmare. Reality.
A single boy to traipse into her life and let her take charge. One to be beaten and dominated, the opposite of the men her own mother whored herself out to. Her slick hands wrap around Stein's neck and head as she pulls him even closer, their forms radiating warmth from the shower's spray and each other. She rests her cheek at his heart, listens as it beats in a slow, calming rhythm and she closes her eyes, inhaling deep the cleansing vapors, exhaling in a lazy, ready draw.
"It's time, my loving brother." Her mouth forms a smile. She can't doubt her outcomes or her subject and gathering what she needs to add to their near-lifetime collection of data does still hold the same appealing excitement.
"After you, Meddy." He holds out his arm like a gentleman while his other hand shuts off the shower. The blonde twists the excess water from her locks, stepping just out of the shower-room to reach for crisp, clean towels.
Rubbing rogue droplets from her top, she bends to get her legs catching the greyed man's stare in the process. Quirking a brow, she finishes quickly, throwing the cloth over her shoulder.
"Does my dearest Franken want punishment?" The woman calls over her shoulder as she disappears behind a corner to adorn a fresh, form fitting lab coat and surgery smock.
His non-answer is answer enough. That scientist's glow back in those golden orbs as she detours from the table he's setting with pads and sheets, to look over the capsule anesthetics she's personally manufactured at her corner shelves. With a pop and rattle, she has his punishment in the palm of her hand.
Franken is already laying upon the prepped table by the time she turns back, naked feet padding on the cold ground. He's already stained with betadine and waiting. Her tools are organized atop her rolling tray and his clothes shoved into its underside basket.
"Open your mouth, darling... But no swallowing." Medusa warns with narrowed eyes, a spark of something making the peeking depths gleam as she tucks the pills beneath his tongue. "And since it seems you couldn't wait, you'll have to bear the pain until those bitter things dissolve."
"Should I secure you in the straps, pet?" Pulling more blue gloves from the box before swabbing herself with the disinfectant, she coos the question, knowing his response before he can speak it. She pulls the latex over her digits, a smirk tugging up. "Or... do you think you can handle it?"
His foggy jade orbs shine as he lays upon that table beneath those brilliant lights and sucks at the capsules with a smiling grimace. Those white-lashed lids are looking a bit heavy, so she reaches for her scalpel, the device beside it already recording as her patient tread takes the woman from the head of the table to the side.
With still, strict fingers the blade presses into the derma above a previous mark. A tonal hiss escapes the subject's lips but otherwise he doesn't tense, which makes it easier to follow that pale, puffed scar down and minutely beyond. Once to break that upper barrier, twice to push through that thin layer of yellow spongy fat, and three times to cut into muscle.
Thread-like ligaments connect the thick crimson tissue, there has been no change from this observation and the first, aside from normal growth and she notes as such matter-of-factly and flat, unsurprised. Quickly, the cutting instrument set upon the tray, she closes up her incisions, taking care to join his abdominals in their proper alignment before tying up the upper flesh in his preferred patterns.
The next is further up, deeper. Franken's brows are furrowed in the pain that she's causing and in the sour taste of those no-doubt slimy, absinthal pills. His lids are clenched shut, drowsiness setting in as the numbing agents gradually spread. A time-release formula that lets him feel her process, requested by him, no less.
Once more, the land of skin parts into a valley of fat and muscle that she studiously traverses with that sharp edge and prying eyes. That sinewy blanket of red, living tissue slops mutely as she holds it off to the side, monitoring the hidden sanguine, frosted cartilage and bone density of his ribs, slathered with a coat of tendons and meat. Behind the cage-like barrier, she also voices the lack of change, her curved needle and forceps piecing the man back together and wiping off the residual back-splash and smear with sanitary gauze.
Medusa peels the soiled latex from her person, solemn expression leaving her features blanked as she pads along toward her cabinets. Pulling from it what would seem to be a carpenter's tool box and placing it upon another mobile tray table she rolls from under the polished counter top.
Wheels creak in bursts and the metal instruments within rustle and clank together as that cold cart drags behind. Coming to a stop once more at the head of the operation surface, she lifts and flips the lid of the container to set up the tools, putting them in the order of use with their handles conveniently inclined on the tray's lip. One last dip into a small, sectioned, plush compartment and the blonde doctor raises from it a single vial, a hard-labored concoction of their cure-all serum with a touch of their son's inky plasma and a proven cocktail of synthetic testosterone, adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin, oxytocin and vasopressin. This tiny inch-long, eight-gauged, dissolvable tube contains a year's worth of chemical lust and obsession, loyalty; everything needed to keep this man by her side with a love of their work, their accomplishments... and her. She sets it aside for it's later necessity.
A cleansing breath, visor face-guard in place and a fresh coat of muddy golden betadine beneath sterile blue rubber and she lifts the powered-up bone saw from its place on the tray, whirring in its controlled, punishing rotation. The doctor brings it down in steady, practiced movements as the familiar zip of the scalp being cut sounds out followed by the indescribable scraping of skull and metal that resounds deeply, making her nerves dance frantically on end reminiscent nails on a chalkboard and tenfold in intensity.
... Until suddenly it stops and in turn, Medusa switches the machinery off swapping out with the curved spatulate and clamps. She's diligent, lifting and spreading, uncovering the last titanium plate she placed. Her work with the saw took care of its bone-cement trappings that held it and quick maneuvers with forceps remove it from the goal and into a sterile bath.
With conscientious irrigation and suction, she sees it. That walnut-sized device peeking demurely from the folds of Stein's diencephalon, each part of that adorable inter-brain housing her atomic, thread-like leads that has pumped her concoction into the root of this man throughout the years. A simple, flat-head screwdriver brings that open, empty slot into view and she slips her prepared vial into that crevice, closing it back up with the turn of that almost barbaric device. The curling, interconnecting matter around that angled edge pulses with every beat of his heart, pushing sanguine life through innumerable passes, a road-map of him that tints this delectable specimen a healthy, throbbing pink.
It is done with another year secured and semi-successful. She sighs, a syringe between her digits as she busies herself with the last touches. Drawing blood from Steins limp arm, she delivers it to a bowl with casting powder inside and empties it. The red mixes with the bright white in a compromise of something a shade more natural and within moments the titanium and bone are dried and coated with the goo. A perfect fit to the hole in Franken's head that Medusa paints with more of the cement as it dries, adding to it's strength.
It's a tedious process but the woman performs dutifully, artfully until complete when she can finally stitch him up once more.
~O~O~O~
It feels like hours have passed. Maybe minutes... Seconds? He doesn't know really but with the way Maka's breathing sounds -stronger, more impressionable, makes him think that it might be okay to move. His limbs are numb and stiff, like if Crona were to stay like this any longer, he may very well end up stuck like this.
She whimpers in his embrace, her lungs puffing the pitiful sound out in triple and the pinkette flinches at such a pained, airy whine.
Maybe her body aches like his own? The boy almost jumps at the thought, but catches himself before the action jumbles the blonde's injury.
He tries to twist, to lay her head upon the grass with one arm, while maintaining elevation for the other and it just doesn't work. His legs, his feet... None of them does as his mind demands. The silk of his robe gets caught by wayward forces: her bottom, his foot, her hip, his knee. He is pinned and it's a little discouraging.
The teen tries once more, a different tactic forming as he raises the hem of the black cloth, his joints shifting slightly one after the other so that The girl's body is supported against his chest and he can finally, freely kneel. Dropping the offending fabric, he uses the open palm to set her down, cradling her with all he can of his arm until nothing of her is touching but the drying slashes and sagging wrist.
Crona can feel them, each and every one. The grooves and their swollen edges, how differently spaced they are, how some of them run down two or three others, creating a gaping separation, but with enough pressure can be forced to seem whole again. This agony she caused upon herself in this place where he recently learned was a place for fun and laughter.
Why?
He doesn't have a clear answer and perhaps Maka doesn't have one, herself. All that he has is facts. Right now, it is a warm night with breezes that could pass for cool, if you really strain and above, the stars shine in speckles like that stuff he saw in a movie once -glitter upon an indigo canvas. It is silent aside from the static songs of insects and the rustling of the dry stalks and clicking leaves of the branches hanging taller than him.
No one is here but her and no one else is present but him. When his azure orbs see this for what it is, a fondness softens his features more. His body no longer shakes, already missing the girl's warmth even though he's relieved that the contact they share is limited.
Touching her was indeed terrifying, that hurt he felt, a hurt for fear of someone else... Unfortunately, is not new. The pit of his stomach still swirls and knots in nauseating uncertainty, Maka and Ragnarok factored in the like. What will become of this blonde? What's happened with Ragnarok?
The rosette still holds tightly to the sleeping girl's wrist, but lays beside her in the swaying grass, to watch over her. He wants her to be okay and most importantly, wants to be there when she wakes. That crimson stain between them only strengthening his resolve.
~O~O~O~
Tools cleaned, sanitizer sprayed, floor bleached, Franken covered with lines injected, freshly showered and dressed once more, Medusa closes the door and locks it behind her. He will be out for most of the day, tomorrow and the intravenous leads she placed should keep his fluids regulated enough so that he doesn't become acidotic or septic. But mostly, it's just there so that he doesn't dehydrate.
His procedure is complete, but her work is far from over. These night-time hours are some of the braided woman's most lively. Checking on her other patient, bringing food to Crona and inspecting his room's order. All in a day's work.
She swiftly climbs the dark stairs and meanders purposefully into the kitchen, brushed metal surface is fogging with the small tendrils of steam rising from a pot she left to slow cook. Butternut squash puree with a hint of mint oil and basil. The easy-to-digest entree made only slightly thicker, to ween the boy from his otherwise thin-liquid diet. Its a little late, but it is done.
She lifts the lid and turns the appliance off with the flick of her wrist, grabbing a bowl from the in-lain cabinetry above and setting it upon a metal serving tray. She scoops a hefty helping, setting a spoon atop a rectangular napkin and retrieves a pre-poured covered glass of apple juice from her large refrigerator.
It's not hard to navigate these floors, each room is open and uncluttered with the proper space for walking permitted. At the base of the tri-flight steps, she takes one at a time, correct posture granting her balance to carry the platter of food and drink without wobble or falter as she travels upward, again and again. Twists and curves land her in front of those special glass doors that lead to her greatest culmination of experiments, there at the end of this hall.
Medusa switches hands, the food in her left as she pulls another key from the ring in her pocket, put to use to grab a cart from the supply room. She sets the tray down and pushes, through the doorway and into Crona's empty room.
As disappointed as she feels, it does not surprise her. The wonder of the world beyond her operating table must be vast indeed. He's technically an adult now, anyway, so to keep this entry locked and her child captive would do nothing but hinder her further plans.
He is complete, after all. The cart stands lonely in front of the boy's cool cot, reflecting the ever-present fluorescent glow and stark, blank white and she sighs at the sight. She won't look at the other side of the room. She can't.
Leaving the eerily silent accommodation, she makes one last stop before returning to Franken's side. Those hand-warmed keys jingle as she stalls, the body frozen in its lock as she breathes in; A trembling, disheartened respiration in preparation of the sight beyond.
With head hung low, braid hanging even lower, she slips in so quietly, so quickly, the heavy barrier clicks shut near immediately, lock grinding back into its slot so that Medusa is not disturbed.
A/N #2:Well, another short-ish chapter, but the end of a looooooong day. lol.
Anyway, I would like to say to you lovely reviewers and favorers and followers (most of you one in the same, yeah?) THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT SO FAR! ... I screamed that, didn't I? Well, I really, really mean it. This is (and my other story Stolen) the first time I have EVER put up an 'in-progress' story. I usually wait until it's all done so it just magically appears. So, you guys are awesome! Until next time!