The world seems to stop for a few days as the DWMA gets fixed, as Death City reconstructs and heals, as her students heal.
She feels useless.
She knows it's irrational, is irritated at herself for feeling that way, but she feels it, all the same. Rachel is returned to her parents, her medical exam coming back clean of any dubious activity that would churn Marie's stomach, Azusa has gotten her notice to return to her station in Asia.
And Marie is stuck in limbo.
She is on the middle of a teeter and she doesn't know where she's going to step. All she knows is that Maka is in the infirmary, Crona is awaiting trial, again, Death has had a chunk ripped away from him, Spirit is in bandages from head to hips, and all her students had been in the ICU for at least two days as they recovered.
And she couldn't do anything.
Her healing wavelength could only help emotionally, not physically. Physical healing was left up to Stein, who hadn't eaten or slept while he had been with Medusa, who likely hadn't eaten or slept while he worked at the hospital, healing the children, who had circles under his eyes so dark he looked hollow.
She had barely seen him since they came back to the DWMA, since she ran off on a shard of hope that he was still in a place where he could be found.
She could have died, trying to find him.
She almost did.
Marie feels her bones and her skin and her very brain ache with the phantom residue of Stein's Soul Menace. The bruises down her spine and the back of her arms and legs are a sickly purple color, the edges shifting into green, into yellow. The pillar had rattled her head around so bad, she thinks the concussion lasted for four days. Her mouth still tasted sour.
She thinks it's a good thing they hadn't seen each other for a while. She didn't want him to see her so wrecked. It was easy enough to hide it when he was concerned over other things, when he was focused on getting Crona proper medical attention, when the Kishin was looming. She could pretend that she wasn't fractured and wounded all over from fighting him.
He would never forgive himself if he knew.
Would he?
She didn't know how he would react if he found out that he had thrown her six feet into solid rock. She doesn't want to find out. No, definitely better that he was in the dark to her condition, treating their…his students, administering morphine and checking wounds more severe than her own.
When they had first walked to the infirmary with Rachel and Crona, with the sacrificial lambs slung over their shoulders, walking back from the Snake Woman, he had asked if she had any untreated wounds.
She hadn't said anything, only spared having to by Crona's weak cough, and that had been the end of the conversation.
In fact, it had marked the end of most conversation that wasn't about other people's wounds and fights and pieces that would have to be picked up, later.
Stein didn't know she quit the DWMA.
Or maybe he did. Maybe he had always known. Maybe he thought she was stupid for quitting. Maybe that was why he wouldn't talk to her.
Death, the lab felt so empty without him.
She hated spending time there when he was gone. Sometimes, she woke up in the middle of the night with her heart in her throat, afraid he was gone, again, and when her soul reached out for his, he was never there.
That was always the most bitter. She had to remind herself that he was at the hospital, that he was winning himself back into the good graces of the DWMA, that he was proving he was fit to teach.
The madness wavelength was eradicated. Medusa was gone, scattered like ash in the wind.
Marie's job was done.
She had done it well, she thinks. Done it too well.
She doesn't want to leave. She knew the lab more intimately than she knew her apartment back in Oceania, where she had left multiple picture-frames, her beat up coffee table, the boy who always told her she looked lovely when she was getting tea.
She doesn't want to leave but she has to. She can't live in limbo, unknowing of what to do. She needs security. She needs to be in a place where she is wanted.
Stein didn't need her. She knew that from the beginning.
She didn't know if he wanted her there, either.
Weeks later, after she has put in her Death Scythe application and packed up her bags in a lab Stein hadn't stepped foot in since he ran away to Medusa, she finally sees him as she is walking out of the Death Room and he is walking to it.
It aches. It aches to look at him, tired and unkempt, but definitely accomplished. Maka's ribs had healed and he had stitched up all her wounds with no scarring. At least, that's what she hears from Soul, who visited Maka every day, who only bumped into Marie while he was on his way to see Maka, again. That was what she heard from all her students…ex-students, who had survived because Stein had hands that could heal anyone.
Her Meister, the genius.
Ex-Meister.
He must have known she was leaving, again because he had the same look on his face as he did years ago, when they were partners for the first time, 16 and 17 respectfully, after she consumed the Witch's Soul they got together after 99 other souls that padded her hips. The same look after he helped develop Izuna, after he drew the arrows on the floor of the lab. After she became a Death Scythe and got her station and was told she was ready to go for Oceania.
She hadn't known what to say to him, back then. She didn't know what to say to him, now. Last time, he'd let her leave without a goodbye. Last time, she'd gone to the airport alone, cried in her seat, off to a distant country without even a hug or a touch on her shoulder.
She refuses to cry, this time. She was a grown woman and he owed her nothing and she expected nothing from him. She went after him, walking deserts and worlds to find him of her own volition.
But when he opens his mouth, she can't help but be hopeful that he will ask her to stay. For once in his life, she wants him to tell her something blatantly, without her having to decipher it.
All he says is her name.
And she just smiles, and she knows it looks thin.
"Welcome to the world of the living," she jokes, feeling like she is forcing cheer into the air.
His lips twitch up for a single moment, but she knows it's just to humor her.
"Is…ah, is everyone…okay?" she asks, instead. Anything to cut the silence.
Anything to shift attention.
"Healed enough to go to their respective homes," he tells her, his hands holding various files, the fingers drumming on the paper, slightly.
"And you?" she asks, concerned.
He seems to appreciate that.
"Healed enough to go to the lab, as well."
This time, she's the one to quirk the smile for his benefit.
"Well, the lab misses you."
She did, too.
He looked at her oddly, as though glancing through her, trying to read her, and she notices that he's looking at her soul. The peek isn't surprising, but she looked up at him and quirked a brow.
He at least had the decency to meet her gaze. "Ah, sorry," he said, though he didn't sound it, and this time, she thinks there was something sad on her face.
Sad in her bones.
"It's okay," she replied, chewing her cheek for a moment, "I don't mind."
He nodded at her, putting his free hand into his labcoat pocket, and she could only look at him for a few moments, blinking rapidly.
Death, couldn't he just talk to her? Ask her something? Ask her anything? She had tried visiting him but he had been running around with Nygus in their attempts at healing the students, neither of them free every time she tried.
If she waited any longer to talk, she would just start saying things she didn't want to blurt out.
"You must need to see Death," she said, the assumption ringing in the air. Why else would he be in the hallway if not for a medical report? He looked at her, his eyes tracing over every feature of her face as he slowly nodded.
"Yes."
"Ah, I won't keep you, then," she told him, smiling sadly and starting to walk. "Besides…my flight is tomorrow and I should really get some sleep."
As she walked past him, she could envision what could happen if she were in a movie. He would reach for her shoulder and whirl her around and she would look at the face of the man she had once loved in middle school and loved again as a grown woman. He would tuck her hair behind her ear and tell her to stay. He would kiss her, tell her he was sorry for all the grief she went through.
If it were a movie, she would gasp as he turned her, would grab his upper arms. She would melt to him. She would wrap an arm around his neck and hold him to her like she never wanted him to go.
They didn't do any of those things. Because it wasn't a movie; it was her life. And life was never so wonderful as dreams could be.
As she walked by him, their arms brushed, and she could feel something like hesitancy from him. As though he were ready to say something, or do something.
"Marie," he began, and she whirled around so fast she thought she got whiplash. The breath in her body compressed, her heart beating hard.
For once she just wanted to be the girl who got her happy ending. Just once. She wanted the movie. She wanted to believe, to hope.
"Sorry for keeping you," he said, instead, and she thinks he wanted to say something else, but he didn't.
He didn't.
Because she wasn't the girl with the happy ending. Not then. She was always the bridesmaid and never the bride.
Her voice was small when she told him, "It's okay," and she turned back around, walking to the exit where nothing waited for her but bags she would carry to a different continent. "I don't mind."
She was lying and he knew it.
But he said nothing nothing nothing.
She thinks it's the middle of the night when he wakes her, and she's probably a mess, with her hair in her tear-stained face and her sleeping shirt slipping off her shoulders. She had been sleeping in his bed for the past few days, just wanting to feel close to him in some way, even if it was artificial. He so rarely slept in a bed, so rarely left his computer, but the pillows smelled of him: antiseptic and clean soap and cigarette smoke.
But she is a Death Scythe and when she feels a touch on her shoulder, she cannot help but wake up despite how lulled and calm she is by the scent of the sheets.
A shame, too. She had barely gotten to sleep.
Were she anyone else and were he anyone else, seeing him right in her face would startle her so bad she'd scream, but as soon as her mind realized it was Stein, she was put at ease. She had an instinctive positive reaction to him.
She knows her body does, her soul. He had flared his up so as not to startle her, but she is still tired and her voice slurs when she talks.
"Stein?" she asks, rubbing at her eye, thankful that her eyepatch was still left on. She was usually better with removing it for sleep, but, over the years, it was just such a constant that she often forgot she was wearing it. All the better, she thought, since he wouldn't have to see the scar over the depressed eyelid that marked where she is missing an eye. With her only remaining eye, she looks over at him, taking in his expression in the dim light. He has a peculiar look on his face, one that seems both observant and…gentle. He still looks tired, but something has set in his eyes.
"Stein?" she repeats, this time more clearly, and she finally notes that his hand didn't leave her shoulder.
"You're in my bed," he replied simply, and she feels some part of her blush in mild embarrassment. But the majority of her was irritated at the lack of sleep, annoyed that it was one of the first things he was saying to her.
She huffs. "I hope you didn't wake me up for that…my flight is in-" she takes a peek at the alarm clock she dragged in, yawning.
"Five hours, twenty-three minutes," he informs her, and she's shocked that he knows, immediately looking back at him, feeling the confusion bubble inside of her.
"…yeah."
"Death told me," he said, answering the question she hadn't vocalized.
"Oh," she answers, feeling fidgety. He's still looming over her and she's still lying down and she can't help but feel her heart start to thump a little harder. "Yeah…sorry. I just…I packed all my things up so I needed to sleep somewhere."
"It's okay," he said, and she was jolted by the fact that her own words were being thrown at her, what she had told him at the DWMA when she walked away. "I don't mind."
She looked away. "I didn't think you'd be home."
He didn't say anything, but he still had his palm on her shoulder and she thinks if he stopped touching her, she'd be cold.
"I am." He waited a moment, the world narrowing to just them as he lowered his voice. "Thank you."
At that, her eyebrows went up. Franken Stein, THE Doctor Franken Stein, thanking someone? It must have been a miracle. But when she looked back at him, she knew it wasn't thanks for her general concern.
She went through hell and back, finding him, but she did it of her own volition. He had never asked her to do so, no one had. He didn't have to thank her. Still, it was nice to feel appreciated, nice to know that he cared enough to put himself out of his comfort zone to make her feel appreciated.
This time, she didn't tell him it was okay.
"You're welcome," she said, instead, and he nodded.
It still didn't explain why he woke her, though, why he dodging her initial question.
She blinked up at him, waiting a few moments to say something. The chuckle that bubbled from her was nervous and she didn't know why.
"Well…I guess I could go to the couch or something. You must be really tired."
"No, no need," he told her, and if she didn't know any better, she could swear he was leaning in closer to her.
"Of course there's a need," she threw back. "You've been out for weeks. And I leave in the morning, so I need to go to bed."
His eyes flashed in something akin to pain at the mention of her departure, and she almost reared back from how unguarded it was.
Had she hurt him? How? What had she done?
"Yes," he said, though it didn't seem like he was agreeing with her. And, if he was, she didn't know what he was agreeing, to. "Yeah, yes, of course," he continued, and his clumsy speech made her brows furrow and her heart throb.
"Stein?"
"I can occupy the couch," he said, lifting his palm from her shoulder for the first time since he came in.
Death, she felt so stupid when she just wanted him to touch her again.
"But I'm in your bed! That isn't very fair."
He only shook his head, and through the dim lighting, she saw him walk away and hesitate at the door. She was tempted to huff again at how stubborn he was being, but she only watched as he stopped in the doorframe.
"Stein?" she asked, tired of his hesitation, the mystery.
"…The key is under the mat…if you ever return."
Her breath hitched in her throat.
Not only because he'd keep the WELCOME mat she dragged to the lab, the one he said he hated, but the fact that he was anticipating a return.
She always felt like she had to decipher him, and she exhaled shakily.
"You'll…welcome me back, later?"
He turned around, his side twisting so he could look at her, and she sat up in his bed, looking at him with a wide eye. He seemed to chew over the phrase, and after a few moments, a piece of her sunk. Of course he was just saying it to offer pleasantries. Who did she think she was? What did she want to happe-
"I welcome you, now."
Her heart stopped.
Oh.
Oh.
Why didn't he just say so from the beginning? It could have saved her a lot of grief.
"…you…"
He was looking away from her, appearing awkward and every bit like the boy she had once known, before he grew into a myth of a man. It hit her once more that even he had trouble talking to people, talking to her. Even he could be scared.
Even he could be nervous.
He was just human. Just an awkward man looking for direction just like everyone else.
"You want me to stay," she breathed, and she almost didn't believe it, but he looked back at her and there was a vulnerability on his face, the same that she had seen when she appeared in his soul, holding her hand out to him.
"What I want is irrelevant-"
"Bullshit," she said, quietly. How could he not know that the only reason she was leaving was because she didn't know if he wanted her there? Didn't he understand how deeply she wanted to stay? How much she wanted to just bewith him? But she couldn't if she didn't have security, if she wasn't sure.
"Do you want me to stay?" she asked. She was tired of tiptoeing, she was sick of having to analyze everything he said, and she threw the covers off of herself, standing up though her bare legs wobbled, and she was glad that she had healed enough that he wouldn't notice the bruises she'd gained from being thrown into the pillar.
He seemed to shrink for a moment, but being 6 foot 10, there wasn't much to make him smaller, and she stepped forward until she was in front of him. Maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe she was being silly. But she would unpack every bag she'd packed and rip up her plane ticket if he just told her he wanted her.
"Stein," she said, ducking close to him so she could look into his eyes, and a piece of her wondered if she was being too pushy, too forceful.
She didn't care.
"…Do you want me to stay?"
He looked down at her, taking in a deep breath. "Do you?"
"Yes," she replied, not a trace of bashfulness evident in her voice. Either she put it all on the table or she regretted it for the rest of her life. In the worst case, he would find her horrific and she could retreat to Oceania and never see him again.
The outcome ached inside of her and she bit her lip, barreling on. "Yeah…I wanna stay. If you want me to."
If you want me, too.
The nod he gave was slow, a nod of understanding, she thinks. He had always had a hard time talking to others if it wasn't medical jargon or pranks, so she didn't blame him. But she just needed an answer. Any answer. A 'yes'. A 'no'. A 'get out'.
She sighed, feeling drained, and weary, and so damn tired.
"But if you don't want me to, if you don't mind, I need to sleep. My flight leaves soon and I don't want to be jet lagged."
Her voice sounded dead even to her own ears, but at that, she whirled back around, feeling silly and foolish, and so very, very exposed. She swallowed hard as she grabbed up her covers, the one thing she hadn't put away that she kept on his bed, and only when she heard the door click shut did she let her head hang forward, blinking back wetness from her eye.
Good going, she thought. Every ex-boyfriend she always had told her she came on too strong and there she was, coming on too strong.
She wasn't ready for his hand on her shoulder, and she gasped, whirling around and almost falling back onto the bed when he was stooped to her eye level. He steadied her, making sure she wouldn't wobble backward, and all he said was: "Yes."
It took her a moment to understand that he was answering her question.
She could only understand when he leaned forward, his hand moving from her shoulder to her neck, and she thinks everywhere he touched her goosefleshed, her body yearning for him to hold her.
"Stein?" she breathed out, and she was so damn hopeful. He could break her if he wasn't careful, right there.
Because he was so close to her face, she thinks if she still had both eyes, she'd go cross eyed.
When all he answered her with was her name, low and warm and wanting, both her hands came to his chest as she leaned to him.
The room was dark. It was the middle of the night. But she could still see him take in a shaky breath.
"Marie…do you want me to-"
Yes. Yes, she damn well did.
And she was sick of waiting.
One of her palms came up from his chest to cup the back of his head, and she stood up on tiptoes, bringing their faces together and cutting him off mid-sentence.
And for a moment, he didn't do anything, and the world was frozen in place.
He shattered it when his free arm wrapped around her, around her shoulders, pressing her closer and breathing hard through his nose as he kissed her back.
His lips were chapped, his hold on her firm, and when he opened his mouth to her, he groaned from somewhere in his throat and her legs felt weak at the sound. She didn't know how long they stayed like that, with him hunched over to accommodate for her far smaller form, his hand stroking down her back, his lips warm and welcoming on her own, but when she pulled away, she thinks it wasn't long enough.
Breathing hard, she pressed their foreheads together.
"Yeah," she said, bumping their noses. "Yeah, I want you to-"
This time, when he tilted his head and kissed her, the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed, and when she fell back to the mattress, he didn't steady her to keep her upright, only following her and catching himself on his palms. Marie gasped, and it gave him ample opportunity to slide his tongue along her lower lip, feeling her heat up beneath him. The temperature of the entire room seemed to rise as he traced over her teeth, exploring her mouth meticulously and Marie moaned softly, pursing her lips and sucking on his tongue.
Stein's hips bucked against her, and she almost felt dazed, her mind hazy as he shifted. She felt his hand in her hair, the fingers looping through her mess golden strands, and she grasped onto the back of his shirt for some kind of leverage.
It couldn't be happening. She could barely believe it. Part of her was entirely convinced that it was a dream, a fantasy, the likes of which she had as a girl when she couldn't even dare to hope that he would reciprocate her feelings. So she kept her eyes shut as he groaned his pleasure, and, slowly, he settled on his knees, his hands coming to her sides with a meticulous slowness that he saved only for the most delicate and confusing of experiments.
But Marie was no experiment; Marie was warm and responsive and alive.
And she could feel how his heart was nervously fluttering. The giddiness started to overwhelm her. Franken Stein was kissing her. Franken Stein was kissing her. On his bed, no less, in his lab, while she was in nothing but a thin sleeping shirt. The air felt thick as she took a deep breath in through her nose, tilting her head to kiss him harder, and her hands ran over his arms, stroking softly as he seemed to pour every emotion he claimed not to have into the kiss.
When his hands came to her hips, she opened her mouth to him, grinding against the leg he had between her own, and he dragged his touch upward, shoving her shirt with the motions, exposing her. The kiss was fierce, heated. She didn't think she ever wanted to stop kissing him. She would breathe him in until it was the only air she knew; even if that air was stale as cigarette smoke, even if he smelled of sterilizing solution and hospitals, she would suck it all down.
It was all intensifying so fast, her head was spinning. But she liked it, wanted it, had wanted it for such a long time. And as his nails softly came over her sides, she squirmed slightly, smiling against his mouth.
Marie had barely even touched him, yet, but he already felt like he was spiraling out of his skin, hurtling toward an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole. Marie was warm. She tasted like tea, like her strawberry toothpaste. She was plush and soft and pliant beneath him and he didn't know what to do. He felt her skin beneath his palms and felt like his body was tingling.
For a brief moment, his reaction frustrated him: he had felt flesh before. Flesh just as soft as her own, flesh just as warm, ready for a scalpel, but he didn't want to dissect her. The very idea of it made his spine shudder unpleasantly, a strange contrast to the building heat in his body at being allowed to touch her. Because that frustration couldn't last while he kissed her, while he let his curious hands rove over her, while she let his curious hands touch her.
The confusion was still there, somewhat, but it was in the back of his head. Asking why, if he had experienced all these motions, before, all the actions, was it so different this time?
Because it was Marie, he knew. Marie who came for him, Marie who trusted him, Marie who let his usually capable hands go clumsy as he lifted the hem of her shirt, scrunching the fabric underneath her breasts as he traced over the curve of her waist, fingertips drumming over her ribcage. When she squirmed in reaction, he kept drumming, licking at her lower lip and breathing hard through his nose.
He only broke away when Marie did, letting loose a small giggle, and he looked down at her, focusing once more. He was too in his head, locked away in his thoughts, that he hadn't even noticed the way her smile seemed to bloom over her face.
For a brief moment, he wondered if she was laughing at him, and he felt his ears heat up. But as he paid more attention, eyes tracing over her body, he noted that she only squirmed when he traced over her side, and he lifted a brow, a smirk stretching his facial stitches.
Ah, that was an interesting reaction. Slowly, he removed his hands, only tracing one finger down her side and then back up, barely even touching her. But she giggled once more, fidgeting beneath him and his grin spread over his face. It was too relieving, to go from the dreary, heavy emotions he'd been coping with for too long, listening in to her joy. It had been such a long time since Patchwork Labs heard such genuine laughter.
"Are you ticklish, Marie?" he asked, continuing to stroke her side as she squirmed, her laughter getting louder.
"N-no, I'm-" she broke off to squeal, since he had gently pinched her side, now fully taking advantage of how sensitive she was, and she took in fast gasps of air between her peals of laughter ."Not ticklish!" she finished, her hands coming up to his shoulders and gently pushing him.
"F-Franken!" she choked out, but the pressure against his shoulders was light. He knew if she genuinely wanted him off of her, she would have thrown him against a wall. And something about that thought, how vulnerable and open she was with him in that moment, and how strong and powerful she was in general, made his temperature rise.
He didn't know when his smirk had turned into a smile, morphing so genuinely and honestly that he was caught off guard, but he was charmed by her. He had been charmed by her for a long while, unable to admit it to himself, unable to understand it. There was so much he didn't understand, so much he thinks he was finally starting to piece together.
But, at the moment, he didn't want to dissect things and click puzzle pieces in a coherent pattern. She had kissed him back, she had laughed because of him, found joy because of him.
She had come for him, walking deserts and miles and worlds, despite not having any direction. He had heard from Death that she had quit the DWMA to find him. No one had ever cared so much for him, before. Arguably, no one did, now. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he had her beneath him, on his bed, her yellow comforter a halo around her entire body as she sunk into the mattress, and he got to look down at her. He couldn't deny it, how he felt when he saw her so happy, a flush settling over her face. As his ministrations let up, the tickling winding down, leaving her chest heaving and her breathing heavy, he knew he wanted to see her flushed for a different reason.
He blamed the serotonin spike, the endorphins, when he bent over, kissing the corner of her mouth as he scrunched her shirt up even higher. Marie hummed happily, arching to him and throwing an arm around his neck to tug him closer to her. This time, he opened his mouth to her, letting her explore the taste of him. He regretted having a cigarette before going to see her, but his nerves were jumping as hard as his heart was, and a quick smoke would calm him, prepare him for seeing her.
The thought of her leaving had left him feeling heavy and jittery, and he had known that she would. It was why he avoided her, throwing himself into healing injuries and writing up reports. But the entire time, he was haunted by the image of her bare, golden, glowing, her hand extended. She wasn't salvation but she had looked just as inviting, had come for him when no one else would. This woman who was so small, able to crush mountains to rubble, able to soothe negativity, able to bring his heart to the point of cardiac arrhythmia. As a child, when he was around her, he had simply assumed he had a heart murmur. He had ignored the fact that it only stuttered around her.
Now, as an adult, he knew that heart rate fumbled in times of high emotional situations. Fear, fury, joy. Arousal.
He groaned against her as she brought her hand between them, and he felt the back of her hand brush over his chest as she, no doubt, unbuttoned her own blouse. His heart skipped another beat, the permission in her actions, the implications, making him feel like he was going to swallow his own tongue. He had never thought he would be in such a position, when she was smiling against him, her soul thrumming so happily, he didn't even need to have perception to feel it. Marie bathed everything in a warm, gentle glow. She made him feel relaxed, and yet, the coil in his belly as her tongue slowly slid over his was undeniable.
Stein assumed she had finished unbuttoning her shirt because she had moved on to his, her fingers hitching at the hem of his sweater. He was glad she was bold: he didn't know if he would have the nerve.
He'd never had sex, engaged in coitus, "made love" before, the phrase making him cringe. Honestly, he didn't believe that he could: make love, that was. Not that he couldn't have sex: he had the parts, knew the motions, memorized the anatomy down to a dry, simple science. But he didn't understand love, couldn't understand it, and, before, he hadn't necessarily wanted to. Sometimes, the thought of trying it, perhaps to understand what it felt like, why Spirit was so obsessed, seemingly only ever having one thing on his mind, why the entirety of the adult population seemed to enjoy it, flit through his mind. But not for the sake of simple pleasure.
He had thought it empty, frivolous.
There was nothing empty about it, now. In fact, he felt like there was too much going on. The farthest thing from empty, he felt like was going to pop.
At least there were no buttons to deal with in regards to his shirt: he didn't have to think to know how to remove it, and he, almost regretfully, pulled away from her to loop the material up his body until he could throw it to the side, exposing his scarred torso to her.
But any thoughts of himself left his head as he looked down at Marie. Her oversized sleeping shirt was open, revealing more of her golden skin, but he focused decidedly more upward, namely taking note of the fact that she wore no bra to bed.
The heat that had pooled beneath his skin seemed to intensify. Of course she didn't wear a bra to bed: why would she? She was going to sleep, and from what he had seen, the metal underwire did not a comfortable experience make, so it was rational that she would have retired to bed with nothing but a pair of plain black panties beneath her top. It seemed he was beyond rational thinking, or, at least, the calculated thinking that made his mind run a mile a minute. She just made everything in his head so quiet.
He had grown so, so sick of noise, of the static.
He swallowed hard, looking at her. The material of her shirt was still covering her breasts, hiding the majority of the flesh from his gaze. He was only privy to her cleavage, and though it was a sight he had seen before, on her, as well, it was the context that made him feel like the air was suddenly thicker. Marie looked up at him, slowly coming to one of her elbows, and the material fell away even farther.
He didn't have the time to hide how sharply he inhaled, seeing the cloth open and slide down her arms. She was so slender and the top was so oversized that it pooled down to her elbow immediately, and he saw the way the cold air made her nipples pucker.
Or, perhaps, it wasn't the cold air, at all. Slowly, as though afraid she would startle him, she reached out and he nearly jolted at the feeling of her soft fingers trailing down his inner arm until she got to his wrist. As she felt at his pulse, which had skyrocketed at the sight of her, she seemed to blush, fidgeting. He must have looked frightened, or off guard, because Marie flinched away for a moment, hunching her shoulders in. His gaze traced over the curves of her, from her navel to her two full, plush breasts, up to the creamy column of her neck and the delicate slope of her jaw. His eyes settled on her lips as they parted, and the sight of them, darkened from their kissing and slightly swollen, caused a shiver of pleasure to him through him.
"Franken?" she asked, and he could have burst at the sight of her lips shaping his name. "Do you…want to?"
He blinked a few times, his mind slowly chugging along behind him. "What?" he asked, only partially understanding the question. He was still too wrapped up in the fact that this was happening. He was too wrapped up in the fact that, even having seen corpses and cadavers and bodies aplenty, something about Marie's was making the coil in his belly tighten. All his blood was rushing south, and he felt tense, like he was wired too high. Marie bit at her lip, the lips he wanted so badly to kiss again, the lips he wanted to shape his name, and her cheeks pinked further.
"Do you want to?" she repeated, looking like she was ready to pull her shirt around her and hide.
She was so vulnerable. Not always, rarely ever, but in that moment, certainly. He blinked at her, almost incredulously. How could he not want to? How could she not see how much she was affecting him, how the sight of her skin, bared to him without hesitation, had almost instantly made him feel like a spring wound too tightly? He had never understood it, before, never thought he'd have the experience he was having, but there, with her, in the middle of the night, he had never wanted anything more.
"Marie," he murmured, and his body moved without his permission, hand coming out to cup her cheek. Her hair was messy, loops and strands of gold that flicked over her sunkissed shoulders, that got trapped between his palm and her warm, responsive skin. Marie, instead of flinching from his destructive, ruinous touch, only leaned to him. In fact, her face turned slightly as she kissed his palm, and one of her arms slipped out of her shirt so she could place her hand atop his, pressing him closer. "Oh, Marie," he said, again, feeling something inside of his chest stutter at the sight of her.
"Well?" she asked against his touch, and he felt her lips move against his skin, wanting to feel them everywhere on him. "Do you?" Just as he opened his mouth to answer, her singular eye fluttered shut, her skin warming against his hold on her. "You don't have to," she reassured him. "We can just-"
"Marie," he said, amusement coloring his voice as his other hand came to cradle her face, thumbs stroking beneath her eye and patch as he leaned over her. "Yes."
He closed the gap between them, gently cupping her jaw as he connected their mouths, and Marie made a soft, pleased noise against him as he did. The sound was intoxicating enough as it was, something he wanted to hear more of, but aided with the feeling of her as she arched to him, her bare breasts pressing to his chest, made him feel electric. The sparks in the air could have well been imagined, or they could have been the result of her tender, powerful soul coming out to twine with his, and the resonance between them hissed and flickered with how instantaneous it formed.
Stein let one hand drop from her face, instead coming to her shirt and fully tugging it off, tossing it to the side with his own as he settled more fully on his knees and eased her onto her back. Marie went without any resistance, her hands coming to his hips and pulling at his belt as he sucked on her cupid's bow.
Kissing her was incomparable to anything else. Marie's lips were responsive to his, the soft intakes of air that she stole in the swift moments they disconnected were sweet and soft. He felt the fluttering of her eyelashes tickle his cheek, the slickness of her tongue as it traced his lipline. And between those moments, those sensations, she had finally managed to undo his belt, and he continued stroking her cheekbone as though in reward. She tugged at the material of his pants, but she forgot to undo the button and pull down the zipper, so she let loose a frustrated noise when the material didn't go anywhere.
He hummed in amusement, pulling away from her and grinning, no doubt creepily, especially in the dim lighting. When Marie's gaze locked onto his, however, she didn't recoil from the horror that was his smile. Instead, she only huffed, pulling at his pants once more as though to tell him to deal with it, and he chuckled deep in his throat as he released his hold on her to undo his button, pulling down the zip and shimmying the cloth off of him. Marie blinked up at him, as though memorizing what he looked like, and the feeling of her soul changed, slightly, as she looked over his body.
He didn't stop her when her hands came to his chest, when her fingers felt over the scar tissue that made up the majority of his flesh. It was part of him, and he was proud of the wounds, the incision lines, the cuts he wouldn't let fully close. And, as gruesome as they were, Marie did not flinch. Her soul couldn't lie to him, and it never showed disgust or contempt. There was no malice. There was, however, a tenderness to her touch as she slowly, as though memorizing, traced down to his hipbones. He had never been touched like that, before: like he was something worth treasuring, something, someone, delicate and worthy of care. As Marie's hands brushed downward, her palms found the waistband of his boxers, slung low on his body from having been dragged down slightly with his pants.
This time, she didn't ask if she could take the material off. She knew she could. His soul stroked over her own, encouraging her, showing how eager he was.
Not that she needed to read his soul to know that much, he though wryly. The physical signs of his arousal were evident enough to her, and she brushed over his erection, forcing him to hiss in a breath at the sudden feeling, the sensitivity. Marie's gaze flicked up to lock on his as she slowly, almost teasingly, pushed his boxers down, being particularly careful not to catch them on anything that was particularly tender at the moment. His hips flexed at the cool air, and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back.
Marie made a surprised noise when she saw him, and for a moment, the confusion that welled up in him was enough to make his brows furrow.
When he felt her touch, hesitant and gentle and so fucking good on him, he couldn't help but buck to her hand. Before, when he was trying on himself, it had always been so useless and impotent, but Marie's touch made him feel electric.
"You have a bolt…here?" she asked, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, she was blinking with her eye wide, her thumb coming over the head of his cock. He groaned, trying not to move his hips for more friction.
"Not a bolt," he informed, his eyes half-lidded, the desire in him swelling up until his tongue felt thick and his mind heavy. "An apadravya."
Her soul told him she wasn't freaked out. More curious and intrigued than anything else, and Marie's lips parted as she nodded, though he could see that she was more interested in touching him than in hearing technical terms. He dropped his head forward as she stroked over him, one finger tracing the sensitive vein on the underside and he choked, hips stuttering forward.
If she kept doing that, he was going to unravel, and the very thought of doing so before he'd pleased her was too embarrassing to think about. He grabbed her wrist, not tight enough to hurt her, but enough that the surprise in her soul spiked up as he shuffled over her once more, bringing her hand above her head. Carefully, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, trailing to her earlobe. As he nuzzled her, taking in the scent of her shampoo, he worried the skin of her earlobe between his teeth, listening in to her whimper.
His free hand moved down her body, skipping over her breasts entirely as he brought his touch between her thighs, and Marie cried out, the sound so close to his ear that it felt like everything was amplified, louder than it truly was. When he breached the line of her panties, her soft breaths got harder, her body arching against his even as he kept one hand captive, and, slowly, he brought his middle finger between her lips, feeling her dampness.
She was so wet, and he trailed his finger down to her opening, feeling just how slick she was for him. The thought made him groan deeply, the sound no doubt felt by her, since she gasped, wriggling her hips. But he wasn't ready to slide into her, not yet. The sadistic side of him wanted to bring her to the very edge, first, and his hand pushed against the fabric of her panties as he parted her, fingers feeling for her clit. He knew he found it when he felt the smoothness, and the pleasure spiked so high in her wavelength that it thrummed into his, making his pulse jump, and she bucked against him. As he stroked over her, listening to her wail, he finally began to trail kisses down her body.
Pausing at a moment to suck on her pulse, feeling how hard her heart was beating, he only continued moving down. Over her collarbones and between her breasts. He released his hold on her wrist to, instead, cup her even as his fingers kept moving over her slickness, and Marie arched against him as he ran his thumb over her nipple. She cried out at the action, and he kneaded at her skin, glancing up to see her expression.
Her lips were parted, eye closed as she took in deep, shuddering breaths, her face flushed. He memorized the image, rubbing her slower and watching as she cried out again, her hands flailing around for a moment before one came to the headboard, grasping it hard, and the other found his hair, her fingers tangling. He kissed between her breasts once more, the rotation of his wrist starting to ache, but he didn't let up, rewarded by the twitch of Marie's thighs and her gentle calls of his name. As he licked her nipple, taking it in his mouth and sucking, he finally traced his touch between her thighs down to her opening, and he circled her a few times before, slowly, he sunk his middle finger in to the knuckle, making sure to catch the front of her walls.
Her cry was different than before, higher, and she bucked more aggressively against him as he crooked his finger, rubbing at her from the inside. She was chanting his name on a loop, her voice high and breathy, and he could feel the pleasure mounting in her wavelength as he moved from one breast to the other, cupping it before kissing the hardened peak.
When he slid a second finger into her, moving the two together, she bucked, voice high and breathy as a "Please," slipped out, tatters of his name lining her mouth, and he moved from her breasts, down to her navel, looking up at her as her head moved side to side. His wrist was killing him, the motions, done without rest, making his hand cramp, but he didn't ease up until her toes were curling and he could feel that she was right there.
As he stopped, hitching the fingers of his free hand beneath the elastic of her panties and tugging them off, sliding his previously occupied fingers out of her at the same time, she swiveling her hips. It wasn't that he was trying to deny her an orgasm, one she rightfully deserved, it was just that he wanted to be in her when she experienced it. He wanted to feel her body against his as she throbbed and tightened, clenching involuntarily as he brought her to climax, and the thought of it made his breath shallow. He kissed her belly once more before he grasped one of her legs, hitching it around him and brought himself up to her face to kiss her.
His fingers, still slick with her, ran over his cock, and he almost hissed with relief at the feeling. The slickness, the heat, the image of her writhing at what he was doing was too much. He felt like, if he didn't find his way inside of her, he would simply spiral inside of his own skin until he was lost. Likewise, however, was the thought of being in her. In Marie.
His thumb dabbed at the precum that was dripping out of him, and he would have been embarrassed at how much there was if it weren't for the fact that Marie had left a wet spot on the sheets. In fact, she had dampened his entire palm with how wet she was, and he stroked himself to distribute the slickness, aligning their hips as he delicately nipped at her lower lip. One of Marie's hands came to his cheek, cradling him even as her other wrapped around his neck, clutching his body to her. Her leg hitched higher about his waist, the other joining until the heels of her feet were pressing onto his lower back.
As he positioned himself, he finally pulled away from her mouth, looking down at her face with something indescribable swelling in his chest.
She was a sight. Her lips, now more swollen than before, were parted with her panting. Her cheeks were high in color, her amber eye almost black with how blown wide her pupil was. After a beat, his eyebrows furrowed as he took note of the fact that her eyepatch was still on, and with his free hand, he grasped the elastic, hearing her gasp.
"Stein-"
"Can I?" he asked, feeling her soul shudder nervously.
"Stein, it's…I…"
"Marie?"
"Don't…it's…it's ugly," she whispered, turning her face away, and this time, his brows furrowed for a different reason. That she thought any part of her could be unappealing made his blood heat up, but he bit his tongue, kissing the corner of her lips once more and using the hand that was at her eyepatch to direct her to face him again.
"Doubtful."
She sucked in a breath at that, her good eye inspecting his face for any trace of deceit, finding none.
"Franken…"
"You don't have to," he told her, echoing her statement from earlier, and the familiarity of it seemed to spark something in her. Though her soul was still nervous, there was something else, trust and faith and comfort, that hummed over it.
"Okay," she told him, nodding slowly, and he felt his heart stutter as he pulled the patch off, leaving her entirely bare.
When she had come for him, when all was sick with static, when the world was a haze of red and white noise, he had envisioned her like this. Not exactly like this, of course, not beneath him, wet and shuddering and so ready, but bare. But, unlike in that moment, when the manifestation of her soul had come to him, extending her hand, Marie's physical form was scarred from years of hard battles. And this was no different. The scar tissue was thick over the depressed eyelid, indicating that there was nothing beneath it, and the silvery tendrils spoke of a wound long since healed.
But who was he to judge someone based on their scars? If anything, his attraction to her grew, and he despised whoever, whatever, made her believe it was ugly. He lowered his lips to her eyelid, kissing it without thinking. He found that thinking was becoming overwhelming, had been overwhelming for a while, but he seemed to have done something right, because Marie's soul swelled, and their resonance sang between them, warm and full.
Marie caressed his jaw, and he felt her smile against him as she tipped her chin up, kissing his cheek. He pulled away from her, looking back down at her face, catching the serene expression. He wonders if his own smile had gotten less sinister, if it was softened by her, softened by her wavelength, because when it spread over his face, she only grinned harder, raising up to kiss him quickly on the lips. With the eyepatch removed, his hand had settled next to her head, and she let her touch on his jaw drop so she could trace over his shoulder, down his arm, until she wormed her hand beneath his, twining their fingers.
"Are you ready?" he asked, voice dropping to a whisper, and her heels dug into his lower back, pushing him forward a few centimeters as she nodded, squeezing his hand as she pulled him down, using the arm around his neck, to connect their mouths once more.
He only waited a moment, letting it sink in, before he guided himself into her, and Marie swallowed his groan as he did so, her own moan muffled by his mouth as he slid into her for the first time, ever, joining them.
Fuck, he could have spilled himself right then. She felt so good.
He was unprepared, inexperienced, and he shuddered when he inched into her. She called out his name as his piercing slid in, stretching her further, and she arched in pleasure as the natural curve of him dragged the barbell over her walls. She tightened around him as a result, gasping.
"Marie-" he choked out against her lips, immediately pausing and dropping his hold on himself to fist the sheets, instead. He could almost feel that, if he were to keep moving, he'd lose it right there, and yet, even just being inside of her with no motion at all was making the heat that pooled beneath his skin feel overwhelming. Marie writhed, wanting to take more of him inside, and he cried out, clenching his eyes shut as he moved from her mouth, hiding his face against her shoulder.
"I- a minute-" he managed to stutter out, and Marie rubbed at the back of his neck, hitching her legs higher around him as he collected himself. He was barely a few inches in, but even that felt amazing, and she moaned as he stretched her, telling him how good he felt. She was ready for him, he could tell by her slick heat, how he could feel her pulse around him, and he didn't want to leave her unfulfilled. He just needed a moment to collect himself. He remembered overhearing talk of disappointing flings, faked intimacy.
But it didn't feel fake. It feel overwhelmingly real; not just the physical aspect of it, but the rest, what he was grasping at with stumbling fingers, that rounded out what being intimate meant.
He didn't know how to do this. He felt clumsy, his lack of experience was no doubt showing, and it was only with so many years of reigning in his control that he didn't immediately spill himself inside of her, bucked and moved and found his own pleasure inside of her as she was left to hold him. No, he didn't want that. He wanted to feel her twitch and shudder against him, to feel her bite his shoulder to try to hold down her cries, to feel the warmth that was her. He sucked in a harsh breath against her skin, closing his eyes as he sucked at her pulse, listening to her whimper as he inched deeper inside of her.
The room was hot. She was hot, impossibly slick, impossibly perfect around him. Her soul pushed against his, urging him on as she adjusted herself beneath him, moving her hips around to accept him in her.
And, slowly, he found his rhythm, making certain that he aimed upward, that the ball-end of his piercing was rubbing over her front walls, stimulating her further. Her cries were soft and genuine; Marie was a lousy actress. She couldn't lie, and especially not when he had such a direct link to her soul. It told him everything, what was working and what wasn't, and when the hand that wasn't holding her own came back between her thighs, rubbing once more, the immediate pleasure that yawned in her shuddered through the both of them.
And with it, Marie opened her mouth, her voice high and almost breathless when she let "I love you," slip out.
He stopped completely, his eyes widening as he shook, and Marie's own eye went wide as he did so. When she opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, he only kissed her, fiercely, hard, his rhythm in her faltering as he started up again, hearing her whimper as he did so. As he pulled away, she kept her mouth open, shreds of his name passing by her lips, but he was losing himself in her and he knew it, finding his completion as he desperately rubbed her.
"F-Fr-Franken-"
"Say-say it-it again," he demanded, kissing over her jaw, sucking hard at the underside, listening to her yelp.
"Fr-Franken! Oh, g-god, Franken! I love you!"
The immediate spike of pleasure ran through him like an electric current and he said "Again," once more, unable to control his breathing as it broke up the words, but Marie said it again, calling it out into the night air, into the heat of their room, and found that he had lost all sense of control, his head spinning as she chanted, and he called her name on a loop, repeating it mindlessly as he drove himself into her, his frantic rubbing making her thighs twitch.
He was so close. He wanted to sob against her skin as she pulsed and tightened around him, and his hold on her hand had gone almost bone-white. Marie's own grasp only got more firm as she came to the precipice, too, where he was waiting for her to fall so he could catch her.
As he reared up, kissing her and unable to hold back anymore, her legs tightened around him, her back arching high against him as she shuddered and trembled, her orgasm shuddering through her and through him, through the link of their resonance as he spilled himself, everything intense and too bright and too sensitive.
The world could have fallen around his ears; his head was spinning, his body twitching and spent, even muscle in him relaxing immediately. He didn't have the good sense to roll, taking Marie with him, and, instead, she yelped softly when he landed on her, his knees weak. He felt dazed, like he was falling to madness yet not, like his head wasn't screwed on the right way.
Marie's golden wavelength made her glow brighter than before, brighter than he had ever seen her, and she was whimpering when he finally caught enough sense of himself to realize he was likely crushing her far smaller form. Mustering all the energy he had, he rolled to his back, and the action pulled him out of her. Marie was shuddering in his hold, and he wrapped an arm around her, breathing hard, their hands still twined together. She was pressing her cheek to his, and when his mind caught up to him, he realized that she was still saying his name.
As the heat died down, ebbing away and being replaced by the slight chill that was always characteristic of Patchwork Labs, he released his hold on her long enough to grasp a blanket, throwing it on top of them and replacing his arm around her, holding her close.
"Franken…" she said, and though her voice was tired, he could make out the contentment. It inspired him to tangle their legs together, his soul coming over her own as though to encompass her.
"Yes?" he asked, stroking over her hair.
"I think…I'm going to miss my flight."
The words jolted through him. For a heart stopping moment, the cruel thought that she would still leave dragged through him, as jagged and painful as a bolt of lightning, but her soul was too happy, too attached. He could practically feel their resonance rate increasing, and he rubbed a circle between her shoulder blades.
"On accident?" he asked, half for clarification and half to simply listen to her voice, finally regaining his breath as he settled, pliant and relaxed against the mattress, and Marie settled against him in the same way. Slowly, she turned her head, kissing him on the cheek and adjusting herself so she was resting her head on his shoulder.
"On purpose," she answered, and he wondered just when she'd gotten under his skin, worked her way beneath his sternum. His hold on her tightened, fingers playing at the still flushed flesh of her hip, her body glowing in undeniable proof of her climax, her wavelength playing over him in soothing, healing waves.
And he didn't want to let go of her.
I remember seeing this prompt, 'First Time', and thinking I was going to write maybe 500 words, a short drabble, for it. 10K later, here is this behemoth. I'm not sorry.