This chapter's rated M for sexual content. Including some sadomasochism and dub-con(...?). ...Writing warnings for MedusaxStein fics always makes me feel like a horrible person...
Neither of them is thinking straight. He's trying to admit to himself—or trying not to admit to himself, he forgets which, he forgot long ago—that this is happening, that she's playing his body with a brutal grace and he wants her to. And there is a possessed light in her eyes as she holds him down by the throat and grinds against him, words spilling out of her:
"I want you, Stein, I want to be the itch beneath your skin, the image behind your eyelids, the pulse that beats in your blood and your mind—" Her mouth presses hot and hungry against his clavicle and her fingers pull too tight in his hair. He shudders—tries to catch his breath—opens red gashes in the skin of her back with his nails. She, too, has lost the distinction between pain and pleasure, so she only gasps and buries her face against his neck. "I want to rush through your veins and live in your bones, I want to be everything, Stein, your every last thought, everything…"
She means it; there is a desperation to her voice that gives her words an air of confession. Usually she does not speak of her own desires so much as mock and manipulate his, so this is a lapse in her self-control. She'll hate herself later for saying it, for needing.
"Narcissist," Stein whispers, a smile playing on his lips. His thoughts are not connected to the words; his insult is only based on the ghost memory of how he used to deal with her. He knows to strike when the enemy is weak. "You have no idea how to love anything but yourself."
Suddenly her teeth sink into his shoulder; suddenly vectors hold him down and Medusa does something with her hips that makes his mind go blank. He bucks towards her instinctively, and she moves again, this time eliciting a long groan in response. She leaves him no time to recover. She uses the physical to push away the mental, wielding his body against him as expertly as she does her own, and the screwed-up part of it is that he can't tell if he hates her for it. He can't tell, when he starts begging and saying her name over and over again, whether he wants her to stop or continue or just allow him a little autonomy, dammit—
But she does stop then, and peels herself away and glares down at him. Her eyes are cold. Still bound, he is left breathing and needing and spun out of control. "Medusa…" he mumbles, aching, dignity be damned.
She reaches towards his face—but instead of stroking his cheek or lips she takes his screw and cranks it delicately in reverse. The grating echoes in his skull and he tenses and twitches and tries to catch the threads of his unraveling thoughts, but all he can do is look at Medusa with a fear that's not fully his own.
"Someday," she says, "you will learn that love means something different for people like you and me. It is jealous and painful, and you may be right to call it narcissistic. But trust me, I know exactly how to love."