alternatively:

Me? Writing SteinMarie again? My comfort ship needed now more than ever? Nooooo. Neeeever. 

Anyway, this was entirely inspired by @frankandstein‘s awesome art, found HERE and I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of these two

“Franken Stein,” Marie said from the doorway, “don’t you dare light that cigarette.”

He grinned around the filter, not turning to face her, yet. Instead, he closed his eyes and honed in on her soul, annoyed. No doubt, she had that expression on her face where one side of her mouth bunched up. He liked it most when she’d close her eye and ball her fist, too. It was, in the most objectively speaking way, quite cute.

Lethal, without doubt. But also cute.

Of course, he wasn’t intending on lighting any cigarettes, in the first place: partially because of said lethality. But he’d let her think what she wanted.

He hummed in response to her and listed and as feet tapped their way toward him, a clean, crisp staccato before he felt her arms come about his shoulders, one hand coming to pluck the match out of his grasp, though the other didn’t yet reach for his cigarette. Instead, it dangled from his lips, the filter loosely held between teeth. He couldn’t help but be reminded of just how small she was in moments like then, too. She was minute in height but enormous in presence. Her enormity, however, did not mean she was often in the positions he currently found herself in, her chin perfectly aligned to rest atop his head. He could use her as an armrest even when she stood tall, but she could balance the playing field if he was in his chair.

“Ah, Marie,” he said, “when did you come in?”

He felt her huff against the top of his head, fluttering a few loose strands.

“You promised you’d start going outside,” she said, instead, not falling for his bait. Did he? Oh, he did. He thought back, remembering. That’s right, Marie’d found ashes in a “tea” beaker and all but stormed over, telling him she wanted to live to have children and that these are the good beakers, and are you listening, Franken?

“Are you listening, Franken?” she asked, and his lips twitched around the cigarette.