Soul Eater mind over mattress

**AN: **Established relationship; probably post-animeverse but it's not really canon-defying. And it's rated for a reason, so don't read if you're not comfortable with that kinda thing.

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**mind over mattress**

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Franken gets his groove when normal people are thinking of sleep. He sits astride his desk chair in a puddle of murky moonlight, the only amount let in by hastily drawn curtains, fingers flying across his keyboard with conviction.

He's probably realised he has an audience, but he's paying it no heed. Marie, slumped in the kitchen doorway, sips water absent-mindedly from a beaker while he plays maestro to whatever document it is he's composing. That poor computer – it's a wonder it's still _functional_, considering the fervent abuse it takes whenever Stein puts his mind to it.

"Aren't you tired?"

She lets the question linger once it's left her lips, though she doesn't know what she's expecting. Certainly not a response – she can't see anything in Stein's eyes past the glow of the monitor, a sheen of white noise reflected from his spectacles. Focused_, _and probably up to no good.

A moment more passes in which she receives no reply – which is, she decides, _unacceptable_. It's one thing for him to ignore her during the day, when he's throwing himself heart and soul into disrupting his colleagues, but it's quite another for him to dismiss her when she's tired and in need of a warm bedmate. After setting her beaker down on the counter, she resolves to make her way towards his desk, flattening creases in her nightgown as she goes.

She moves _slowly_, of course, bare feet padding along the floorboards. Not to avoid startling him – he's not an easy one to startle, exactly – but because it gives her ample opportunity for stretching, arms crossing at the wrists above her head while she puts on a grand show of yawning. Her nightgown barely brushes her knees at the best of times, but now it rises _up_, hem sweeping leisurely along her thighs.

Any skin exposed is gone again by the time she reaches his chair, arms flopping with substantially less grace at her sides again. She tips her head, alternating between glancing at the computer and its operator: she doesn't really understand the bewildering notes glowing on the screen, but they make more sense than him _ignoring_ her. As far as improvised seduction missions go, she'd been rather pleased with that one.

"Did you hear me? Because I'm tired. And you know I don't like sleeping alone."

Proximity, at least, works in her favour for capturing his attention. He raises his head, momentarily breaking his hunch over the keyboard, to address her with a blank stare.

"Hm?"

"_Bed_." She pokes a thumb over her shoulder. "You coming?"

"Oh – yeah. Soon; I'm nearly done. You should go on without me."

He waves her off with his airy tone, attention once again won by his computer... but she's heard _that_ one before. 'Nearly done' generally means he'll only complete the write-up of his current whim at around five in the morning, when it's not quite day and not quite night, crawling in beside her so unceremoniously that she wakes to groan at the disturbance.

Marie huffs. She _would_ employ the part of her brain reserved for military strategy, an attack on two fronts that will leave him with no other option than surrender – but she's off-duty for the night. The death scythe wants her pillow _and_ her scientist, so it's unthinkable she might leave here without one.

He's ignoring her again, anyway, and her bargaining would only fall on deaf ears. She spends another fruitless moment watching him type exclusively in jargon, only beginning to move again when he pauses to formulate his next sentence: that's her opening.

"_Franken_," she coos, as she steps behind his chair, leaning sweetly over him. Her hands come to rest on his shoulders while her chin lodges firmly in his ashen hair, voice a murmur when she adds, "You should finish it _tomorrow_."

"I can't," is all he says.

He's not moving, though. She's not exactly luring him out of his chair but he's not pushing her away, so she decides to proceed by rubbing her palms over his shoulders: a repetitive, circular movement.

It doesn't surprise her that he's tense, because it's rare she finds him relaxed. But she wonders if he's only tense because she's touching him – not that it's going to stop her. Touching him is _nice_, her hands slow, kneading, fingertips pressing into his flesh while her head shifts, nuzzling lazily into his hair. It's always surprised her how soft it is, but she likes his scent most of all. Ignoring the stench of cigarettes is an art Marie's perfected by now, so she can focus on his curious musk, like chemically treated paper... with the slightest hint of her own perfume.

That part just makes her feel smug.

"Why _can't_ you, sweetie? Is it something Lord Death put you up to?"

"Not exactly." He turns his head, just slightly, a half-hearted attempt at glancing back over his shoulder. He doesn't want to dislodge her, it seems, and she smiles quietly to herself as he goes on, "It's something that hadn't occurred to me before. It might be beneficial to record it."

"If you sleep first," Marie insists, "you'll be able to word it better."

That's not a winning argument, of course, so she's quick to accompany it by arching her back in the manner of a cat. Her hands slide forward again, relishing over his broad shoulders, before clasping in front of his chest. He can't _see_ what she's doing, but he can feel it, the soft weight of her breasts pressing against his back while her arms wrap around his neck, her cheek nuzzling in a decisive line over the territory she's gained – until her forehead is wedged _just_ behind his bolt.

It's shameless, but he's _male _– by general definition. He's not immune to her dazzling womanly wiles (so she assures herself), and that hypothesis appears valid when his head keens away from her, only to let her nuzzle in decisively further. _Surrendered_ territory.

"You're irritating."

"You're not exactly telling me to go away."

Stein doesn't have a reply to that. Instead, he lets out a curt sigh, staring patiently at the screen like he expects her to get bored eventually. What he clearly isn't anticipating is just how dedicated Marie can be, when it comes to making him do what she wants.

"Come to bed."

"No."

Content that he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, she scowls. She buries her face against his neck and places her hands on him again, savouring the way he freezes, breath hitched – because this time, her fingertips are trailing along his face.

Marie straightens up again behind the chair, but she doesn't retract her arms. This is something he rarely likes: he's not ashamed of his scars (and he's quite proud of what he found out from cutting himself open, too), but he doesn't find it pleasant when Marie traces them – like she's doing now. Without being able to see it, she locates the stitching there and runs one finger over it, from the dip of his nose across otherwise intact skin.

But that's not what she wants to focus on. Now she's _tamed_ him, he remains static and quiet while she maps out his cheeks, his jaw – all in gentle, winding caresses, until the pads of her thumbs are pressing in beneath his ears and her fingertips are ruffling forth into his hair.

"Come to bed," she bids again, flattening his locks by the roots. "Come let me _cuddle_ with you."

She takes personal offence when she once again receives a _no_.

"Mm..." The pout resurfaces. "You're not above cuddling, Franken."

"I've working," he replies, tone unsettlingly devoid of inflection. "You're making it difficult to concentrate – which is only hurting your own cause."

_On the contrary_, she thinks; successfully distracting him is the first step to victory, and Marie spares a grin while pulling away from him entirely.

This, naturally, makes him suspicious. He finally turns his head enough to look back at her, but she simply stands there with a gentle smile, hands behind her back and nightgown at a reasonable drop. He offers her only a blank stare before his keyboard steals him away again, receiving the _domineering_ swipes and force of his fingers that should all be spent on _her_ – but now isn't the time for fantasising about those large, quick hands of his.

Now is the time for action.

He always sits with his legs wide apart – which no _normal_ person would find comfortable, but he's never normal and it thankfully makes it easy for her to drop to the floor and crawl through the gap. Marie does so in a swift, fluid motion, her descent and wriggle all part of the same path, and before he can respond to her treachery her arms are wrapping _gracefully_ around his calf, her cheek now pressed to his knee.

Really, this is how she should have begun her little campaign, because it's certainly won his focus.

"That's my leg," he helpfully informs her, pushing off from the floor with his heels. His chair shifts with him, rolling back just enough to make Marie let go – but she shuffles forward again, simply glad to be let out from beneath his desk before coming to seize him again.

She makes a point of batting her eyelashes up at him, something she never does. She isn't a sickly-sweet coquette, but seeing him stare at her with blank bewilderment is _fun_.

"I know." Her eyes don't stray from his face, head tipped back just enough to look at him, while she presses a soft little kiss to his inner thigh – sadly blunted by his trousers, but it serves its purpose in making him tense. "I thought, if you're not going to come peacefully, I could always drag you to bed."

"And yet, you're not."

"I got your attention, didn't I?"

Stein's eyes are lost to her behind his glasses, lenses once more glazed by the light of his electronic mistress. "It doesn't bother me if you stay there. I can still type."

"Cute." Marie begins moving a hand, one arm fixed in place around his leg. Her fingernails drag slowly across his thigh, her gaze shifting its interest to the creases left behind in the fabric there. "Cute that you think I'd let that _happen_, I mean."

When she deigns to look at him again, he's grinning. His teeth are bared at one side, mouth contorted with the sort of smugness she'd usually punish with _ferocious_ kisses – but he's never appreciated that and he's certainly not appreciating her now, the great pulveriser reduced to clinging to her meister's leg while he writes up some weird science stuff nobody cares about.

It reminds her of when they were children, but that was different: she only clung to his leg to prevent him from hunting strangers for sport, and at _no_ point was it because she wanted to cuddle up to him for the night. Back then, she was wise and knew boys to be gross; sometimes she wonders where that wisdom went.

Still, when they were children, she'd certainly never had any of the more _blue_ thoughts currently flitting through her mind.

With no hint of irony, Franken chuckles and reaches out to pet her head, the physical rendition of 'at least you tried' – and that's really the final straw. If he won't notice her, she'll _make_ it so, and she lurches forward with sudden enthusiasm to press her face into his lap.

Oops. Perhaps she moved a bit too quickly, because the next thing she hears from Franken's mouth is a groan. Not the delicious sort of groan he usually gives when her mouth is in that general vicinity – but a groan more befitting a man who's just been headbutted in the balls.

"Sorry!" Marie declares in a squeak – there's no other description for it. She kneels between his legs and delicately pats his crotch, wondering if her healing wavelength extends to genital injury.

"This – this really _isn't_ convincing me to go to bed."

"I didn't mean to!" She huffs. "I was trying to be... spontaneous. Sexy."

"I'd say you're managing to pull off spontaneous."

"Oh, _hush_. It wasn't _that_ hard."

She steadies herself by placing her hands on his thighs, squirming where she's sat. He's tenser now beneath her touch than he was before, and she can only hope he doesn't think she's going to try that again: breaking a part of him that she enjoys using to her own advantage isn't on her evening's agenda. So much for the element of surprise.

It's gone for good when Stein nonchalantly asks, "Are you going to blow me?"

Marie narrows her eyes. She directs her glare to him (receiving only another cocked grin in return), sinking her nails into him instead as punishment.

"That, _hm_. That was the plan."

"All right." No sooner has that underwhelming agreement left his mouth than he's unzipping himself, leaving Marie to wonder where all her hard work towards gaining the upper hand went. "You'll have to be gentle, because for some reason it's feeling kind of _tender_."

He earns another glare, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she pushes his hands away and presses her palm, flat, to what's exposed of his boxers.

Even when soft, she can feel his _size_. He's ridiculously large all over – when walking beside him, it's always tempting to simply demand he carries her, knowing full well that she slots in perfectly with her head on his chest and her legs tucked against his stomach. And when they're sleeping, on the odd occasion she _does_ get him to come to bed, he seems naturally inclined to curl around her rather than lie straight, their legs tangled while his arms do nothing less than cocoon her.

Marie has no objections to anything about him: he's an abstract work of art, not that she'd ever tell him that. He'd only disagree, preferring to describe himself as a specimen before dragging another scalpel through his skin.

Well. She likes to think she's put a stop to that, what with all the times she's scolded him for it – but she knows he'll probably do it again, someday, if he hasn't already. When he's asleep and she's not, she runs her fingers over him, counts each stitch and scar until she's content none of them are new. Until she can finally rest.

There are, thankfully, no stitches _here_: if he can't handle a simple bump from her nose, it's no wonder he can't go cutting up the most sensitive part of himself. He grips the sides of his chair as she rubs and caresses, having zoned out enough not to realise what effect she's having on him: but it's positive, judging by the slow rise beginning to poke up at her palms.

"Is that nice?"

"It's," he begins – then shudders out the slightest little sigh. "It's better than what you were doing before."

Marie tries to hide a giggle by turning her head down again, kneading lightly at his cock. Her jaw gives a dull ache, as though anticipating what she intends to do, but it's not unpleasant; in truth, she _likes_ doing this to him. It immerses him in _her_, makes him entirely engrossed by the movements she makes and release she grants, and there's no greater feeling than reducing the great, formidable meister to a trembling mess.

She eyes him to silently check she's all right to proceed. He says nothing, simply watches her right back – so she pushes aside the useless material separating them and fishes out his cock, providing relief he hadn't known he'd wanted. A proper sigh, long and contented, leaves his lips, as her hands wrap around what they've done to him, erection jutting proudly towards her and demanding her attention.

Yeah. Because _now_ he wants that attention.

"You don't deserve this," she insists. Despite her grumbling tone, she lowers her mouth towards it, running her hands along the shaft because she wants to relish the feel: warm flesh, alive in her hands. Pulsing with blood and uncomfortably stiff, all because she can get him excited without really trying. It's flattering, sort of – or he's just the pervert she's always expected him to be. He's lucky she loves him.

"Thank you, then," he murmurs. "For giving me what I clearly don't deserve."

He cups her face, thumb rubbing just beneath her eye; she closes it and smiles. It's rare he's affectionate, but it's nice when he is, especially when he decides to stroke her hair instead. He pets her like a prized cat –he's probably learnt _how_ to be affectionate by dealing only with cats – but she doesn't mind, tilting her head into his touch while squeezing his cock, her two hands applied to pleasuring him.

When his petting ceases, she dips down (more _carefully_ than before) to kiss his leaking slit. But that's far too familiar, and she isn't here to be nice to him: she's still technically annoyed.

The tip of her quick, pink tongue flickers out to lap up his fluid, and her lips stretch to accommodate his cockhead for just a moment. Then she pulls away again. It has the desired effect of making him groan, one of frustration... so Marie merely emits another breath of laughter before he _silences_ her quite effectively.

His hips buck upwards to accomplish it, cock aiming for her mouth but pressing instead against her cheek. She grips it, holds it there, and reverently nuzzles his shaft – something he isn't pleased with, because he's never been too patient and she can tell he must already be rather sore. He enjoys teasing _her_, sadistic man that he is, but when he's on the receiving end of prolonged fondling he's always so desperate to try ending it.

A grunt escapes his throat like he's checking his watch, so she makes a point of throwing her head back, tossing it to and fro so her long, blonde hair swings across her shoulder blades instead. Getting strands in her mouth would completely spoil the sensation – and it's her final little act of defiance, his eyes drinking her in as he anticipates, restless, what's about to come.

Then she lets him inside. Her palms again find their way onto his thighs, but his limbs are no longer so stiff: now there's something hot and moist around his need, he can afford to feel alleviated. Marie relaxes her mouth, her throat, anything she can do to make him slip forward, increment by increment, her lips stretched almost uncomfortably around something they're not used to accommodating.

Though having such an _endowed_ meister earns her self-satisfied brownie points outside the bedroom, the opportunity to boast quietly in her head whenever her girlfriends complain about disappointing hook-ups... There are some _practical_ issues that come with the territory.

Not that Franken cares. He grips one side of his chair while simultaneously seizing her locks again, if only so he can hold her head steady while he pushes in, making no attempt to hide how eagerly he's watching the spectacle of her cheeks stretching around him. She scowls – as much as she can do when she's got a cockhead nudging the roof of her mouth – but doesn't stop. Her jaw was right to dream of aching before, but she _likes_ this.

It's his smell, for the most part. The soft, downy hair that's darker than hair on the rest of him, musk stronger _here_ than anywhere else. It's easy to forget he's a man when he acts like a machine... or monster, sometimes. But now, with her, he lets her _do_ these things, and her head swims gleefully through his scent while the taste of him rubs off on her lips, drips onto the back of her tongue.

She grips what she can't engulf of his cock, shuts her eye, and finally begins to dip her head. This is the easy part: her tongue twists and writhes, and her thighs press together as she wills herself to ignore the effect his _flavour_ has on her. Her core is pulsing, all warm, wet heat: it's the itch inside her skin that makes her terrible at seeing these things through. If the situation was any different, she'd probably abandon trying to bring him off with her mouth soon in favour of sliding snugly into his lap, but using her greatest bargaining tool now won't tempt him into bed.

Oh, Death; she really, _really_ wants him to get between their damn sheets.

Franken doesn't seem to realise how much, because he's being comparatively gentle with her when he could be tugging her hair this way and that, for all Marie minds. She takes him in and slides him out again, not all the way, but enough for cool air to hit him while he glides easily, slick from her spit.

The rest receives friction from her fingers while his own pin back her hair, trail aimlessly over her head. He's leaning back in his seat, tipped back _just so_ on its hind wheels, though it's no wonder he doesn't let it roll away from her when those long legs of his are spread wide again.

Her eye flutters open to look up at him. His head leans to the side, mouth slack, and save for the occasional low noise he's barely responding at all – which, as she's come to learn, is just how he enjoys this sort of thing. It was unnerving at first, but now she can't imagine sex without it: languid sighs into her ear when he comes inside her, hitched hisses and groans from the very depths of his throat.

And making _Stein_ come is not a difficult task, his legs already trembling with the effort of keeping his chair in place. His head suddenly jerks in the opposite direction, neck emitting an unpleasant _crack_, and it renders both his hair and glasses askew.

It's another good sign, though Marie hates it when he does that. It's _weird_.

But he's a weird guy, and she chose him so it's basically her problem now... as he's fond of frequently reminding her. Trying to smile all doe-eyed at the thought, with lips that are already rather busy, hurts. So she refrains.

The urge to increase her pace seizes her, mostly because he's beginning to thrust, harsh, long strokes through her mouth until he hits the back of her throat. Her gag reflex became familiar with her poor life choices long ago, making it no stranger to abuse at the mercy of her boyfriend's penis, even if it _is_ uncomfortable. Her head frantically pulls him in and draws him out, her mouth sucking, tongue lapping and laving; anything to bring him relief before he goes seeking it like an unfixed dog.

Maybe she can play calm and collected temptress another night. For now, she's still Marie and he's still Franken, so she can do anything to make these exchanges classy but somehow, it'll always come down to manic ramming and frenzied rutting.

It works – he goes suddenly still halfway into her mouth, and she's just about to shift her position to see if that'll please him when an insistent twitch tips her head back ever so slightly, his essence following down her throat soon after.

And that is _gross_ with a capital g. He won't kick those damn cigarettes despite how bitter they make him taste. Well. She swallows it anyway – she's too surprised to do anything else.

A moment passes in which he doesn't move, mouth caught in the slightest parting. She keeps him in place, hands folding neatly in her lap, as she waits until he's soft. His face angles away from her, head leaning over the back of his seat: she can't see his expression, nor determine what he's thinking, so it doesn't really come as a shock to her that his chair finally zips away from her once her mouth is removed from the equation.

Marie watches, blankly, as he zips himself up while rolling across the room, drawing the back of her hand across her lips. Aroused though she most certainly is, that smoker's taste is something that lingers. He _definitely_ owes her.

She's staggering to her feet when he finally begins making his way back to her, one hand lodged firmly in his hair – he looks almost dazed. Wheeling towards her coyly, with his legs crossed around the front of his seat, he propels the chair forward bit by bit almost through the power of his own will – physics certainly don't apply to sitting on a wheeled seat backwards and somehow managing to shift it. Just another one of his immeasurably pointless talents.

"_Marie_," he declares, tone lyrical like her name is a song. "My Marie. I could get used to you being spontaneous."

"Oh, really?" she asks, with an incredulous little smile. She reaches out to displace his hand, making a point of ruffling his grey mop instead. "Well, don't, because I'm not going to be so nice _every_ time I want your attention."

He grins up at her, arms wrapping around the chair's back. "That's a shame."

"But you know I had another motive."

"Hm?"

Marie's smile expands. She stands up straight and closes her legs once tightly more, though it's difficult to ignore her own interest.

"I think," she declares, "considering how nicely everything goes when_ I'm_ spontaneous, that you might want to try it, too – and miraculously change your mind about turning in for the night."

Stein appears to consider it. He scratches his chin and his blissed-out gaze glazes over, with the only reason he's not turning his bolt being the fact he's too post-orgasm floppy to exert himself.

These are all encouraging signs. He might obey.

Maybe she could train him to do the laundry next.

Or maybe not; it's more realistic she'd only fail miserably, a reality she has to face when his answer finally arrives. It's a simple, brisk response, one word delivered in the lackadaisical tone of a man who's happy he got to come, but is still sneaking longing glances towards his computer.

"Nope."

The bastard doesn't even give her time to protest – one sudden swoop later (with a momentum that comes from_nowhere_), she's yelping as she's forced to jump out the way of his chair while he sails in to sit at his desk again. She can't believe what she's seeing, eye twitching with seething rage as she watches, but she should've expected nothing less than the taunting _giggling_ Franken's taken to emitting.

To hell with bargaining. Tomorrow morning, Marie resolves, she's going to smash that thing to pieces.

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**-x-**


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