She breaks like thunder

Death City has rain for the first time in what she later realizes is months. She is left waiting out the downpour in the lab she could find her way through blind and without touch, curled up on her purple couch with nothing to do. There are no papers to grade anymore because she no longer has students to assign work to. Instead, she finds herself reading her student's essays that she didn't have the chance to give back.

Tsubaki's is the first she picks up and Marie stares at the B minus she gave the girl for more moments than she cares to dwell on. How easy it was to pretend that such things meant anything. How simple it was, then, to hand out a grade and act as though it held meaning. Tsubaki spent two weeks in the hospital, her own blood fighting her. What business had Marie to assign such things?

Before she knows it, she is hunched over and erasing all the grades from the papers she had gotten.

Then, she is erasing all the grades from the alternative assignments. She pauses when she finds Patti's origami project, that beautiful piece of art she gave an A to: it was worth more than that. Her hands cup the creation, a human body with a small opening for the paper soul.

"A sound soul dwells within. . ."

Marie does not want to be emotional, in that moment, but the lightning flashes and she sees it through the windows of the house she has called a home, and feels her bones thrum as though in reply.

She wants a calling.

.

.

.

She should know by then that her Lord is one for theatrics, because it comes as a literal calling: a ring from the mirror she and Stein kept at the end of one of his hallways. And she stands from her spot on the couch to answer it as quickly as she could. Stein was sleeping, drained of all energy and trying to get in a few precious moments of rest after working nearly nonstop to treat the kids, and she is unwilling to let anything, God or otherwise, rouse him from the first nap he has allowed himself to indulge in.

Her lack of heels is, for once, a blessing. Between working with construction and being informed that she was to have proper nurse shoes when she was in the hospital, donating her wavelength, she has grown strangely used to flats. They make no noise and she glides to the gateway to their Lord with the silence Stein used to use to spook her when she first moved in.

She missed his silliness. There was a hope that it would return now that he could relax.

She accepts the call with no hesitation, and before she can even open her mouth, Death is asking if Stein is available to speak in a cheery, happy tone. The fact that she has not spoken to him in what felt like too long gnaws at her, gnashes her stomach to pieces.

"He's asleep," she informs, bringing one foot behind her and tapping it, nervous for a reason she does not wish to admit.

"Could you wake him?" he asks, and she looks Death in his eyes with her one, ready to deny him, but he only chuckles. "Ah, no. It's okay! Tell him to give me a call when he can!"

Her brows furrow. "Sir-"

It is the expectation that she will be cut off and the fact that she isn't that makes her feel embarrassed, for Death waits. Death waits for her.

But she does not know what to say. All she can do is blink at who practically raised her, her stomach churning. The static from the rain, the humidity wafting through the windows makes the back of her knees and neck sweat, and she feels herself being beckoned outside where she can slick her skin with raindrops and turn into the rumble of thunder. She wants to be intangible, wants to flutter aside like a sound people yearn to remember later: a symphony with no name.

"This is DWMA business," he informs her, gently. Death was tender, when he wanted to be. He knew when a soul was trembling, when she was ready to peel open and sink into the ground. The air leaves her body, the wet heat pressing in around her from all sides.

She must have choked out some noise of understanding, because Death only looks at her with something unsaid in the air, and then he is gone, his image a ripple that settles to the clean, reflective surface, once more.

DWMA business. Crona, no doubt. What other business can the DWMA have when it was barely even reconstructed? She is angry that the first priority is a second trial for a child who barely made it out of the meat-grinder of life, who fought for every breath they ever took in.

She thought of Crona who was practically living by Maka's bedside as the girl recovered. Crona who watched Marie when her hands glowed gold over Maka's stomach, trying to speed the healing of her fractured ribs, her busted gastro-intestinal tract. Crona who barely ate, not until Marie showed up with something the nurses gave her dirty looks for. She didn't know why they felt the need to be so haughty: they were working in the DWMA to treat the injured because their hospitals fell to ruin and rubble. It was Marie who knew the turf better than they did.

And yet, she also did not. For the first time in her entire life, she walked the halls of what had been her old school as a stranger with no affiliation. It wounds her. She knows who she loves, what she loves. She takes in a deep breath, finding her hand pressed to the wall as support. One of the sanded down, metal stitches found its way against her heartline and she could breathe just a little bit easier at the familiarity. Stein. She'd left the academy for him the same way he didn't come back after she left for Oceania. He had to know, at that point, what she had done. Why she had done it.

Why couldn't she have it all? What was stopping her?

She had been waiting for something to tip over but she'd been standing on the balance beam the entire time, teetering.

DWMA business.

The house rumbled with another shudder of thunder and her feet move before she can command them to, her breath fogging up the mirror once more, slim fingers writing down 42-42-564. When Death picks up, it seems as though he is expecting her, her Lord.

"I am DWMA," she informs him and the air hums, her hair lifting from her shoulders with the static and electricity, her single eye boring into the black-hole of Death's gaze.

"Well," God begins, his voice not overly cheery or demonically low, only thoughtful. Her breath hitches in her lungs, the very world shimmering around her with tension.

"Of course," he continues, "You always have been."


She breaks like silence

When she goes to see him, she feels like a girl, again. Not like when she would show up with Kami, but when she first came to Nevada from Sweden, the only Mjolnir to step foot near Death for over four generations. Back then, she was shaking in her fur-lined boots, gifts from her mother, only twelve years old with English foreign on her tongue. She was terrified.

She isn't, now. Not so much. Nervous is closer to how to feels, concerned, uncertain. The rain they had gotten makes the air feel thick and sticky, and when she steps into the half reconstructed DWMA, the dust seems to suspend in her throat with each breath she takes.

Walking to who she called Lord, God, Death, she is nothing but a hesitant foot in front of the other, walking a line as though she were walking to her execution.

But when she glides past the guillotine hallway, makes her way to the newly patched over Death Room, he is waiting for her with tea.

She remembers reading Emily Dickinson in her English Classes, such contrast to Soul Theory and Resonance classes. It was just a sliver of an education that was crammed into too little time, but it had been a joy to read the poetry, sweet words looping through her brain from the hand of a woman with so much to say. What was the line, again?

"Because I did not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me"?

She thinks it's a shame she can only recall it in fragments. She'd have to show Crona, though the book she once had with the poems in it was long gone. Just another piece of her past coming back to the surface of her mind, echoing out to her.

Death is welcoming, kind. He seems in good spirits though Spirit is nowhere to be found.

It is a serious conversation they are going to have, so she supposes it's for the best.

"Marie," her Lord begins, sounding kind, patient. "Have a seat, have some tea."

So, she does. Because though it is a suggestion, she is too used to following his orders not to. Sweet demands, gentle urgings, those are still commands, of sorts. It is too deeply ingrained in her not to do so.

She recalls each time she was in the room, prior. When she went on missions with Kami, when her partnership was broken, when she got the news she was going to Oceania, when she stood in front of Crona and told them she wasn't adult enough to forgive them until she got Stein back. That room had pieces of her in it, and when she looks around the walls, she can see the barest seam of where the reconstruction had to take place.

Everything leaves a scar then, it seems. She thinks she doesn't mind that, not really.

It is quiet as she sips her tea: ginger. She wonders if he is trying to tell her something or if it is just that he knows her stomach is sloshing around and she needs to be calmed from her nervous nausea.

"Would you like more tea?" he asks, and this time, it is a request instead of a push.

She supposes he knows her. Knows her like a father, like a mentor, like he who only wants her to be happy. She tilts her lips up into the barest smile and nods, cupping her hands around the mug and taking in how warm it became once Death poured her tea.

She taps her fingers against the table, indicating her thanks, before she takes a sip, closing her eyes to the steam. It makes her feel at peace, calmer, that he has done so.

When she sets her cup down, she can finally look him in the eyes. He'd been in pieces for a very long time, a massive chunk of him removed from the fight with the Kishin, and it was nice to look at his entire skull mask instead of just a fracture. It makes what she wants to say easier.

Slowly, she rifles through her bag and Death waits for her, patiently, until she pulls out a stack of papers and gently sets it upon the table. Her Lord moves his cup to the side and reaches out for a sheaf, skimming the contents. He hums in acknowledgement.

"So, an active weapon again, hm?" he asks, looking up from the document. Marie fidgets in her seat.

"I thought it was time to send in my application. . .again." Death only nods, picking through the papers.

"And I'll be sending these to Oceania?" Death muses, looking at her. Though she knows that all he has are two black holes, it feels as though he is drilling his gaze into her.

"No. . .I'm requesting active weapon status in Death City, Nevada."

"As a Death Scythe?"

"Yes."

"There are no positions available," he informs, not unkindly. Spirit has the only slot already filled and no city needs two Death Scythes in a time of peace, let alone when such incredible weapons like her students were up and coming, and ready to put in their own applications for jobs.

"There have been extra positions created, in the past," she argues, finding herself leaning over the table.

"There have been," Death agrees, looking at her with a curious tone. "But they were special cases."

"This is a special case."

"It isn't, Marie," Death informs her, gently. "You have no reason to remain in Death City as a Death Scythe. You have no child to care for, no injuries that would require you to remain. Oceania needs a Death Scythe."

She seems to deflate, falling back into her seat. It fulfilled her expectations, but she couldn't help but feel hopeful. "And if I submit a teaching application, instead?" she asks, chewing her inner cheek.

"All current openings are already filled, Marie. The only job available is the one you'd left," he tells her, but there is something almost amused in his voice. Her brows furrow, confused as to how casual he was being.

"Is there likely to be an opening in the near future?"

"Who can say?" he inquired, and she felt her eyelid twitch.

"You could," she mentions, meeting his gaze. Marie stares Death in the eye, not backing down, lifting her chin. Something seems to flash in the air, changing the feeling of the room, and she feels coiled too tightly before Death's voice breaks out in a proud chuckle.

"Ah, perhaps?" he says, seemingly to himself. "Perhaps."

And she watches as her God hums, gently setting her application back onto the table.


She breaks like a promise

If there is one thing that the lab always does, it is take her mind off things. Walking back from the Death Room, with nothing but a vague "perhaps" is unnerving, and she feels like she needs to unwind. She doesn't know why she's holding so tightly to Death City.

But that is a lie. She knows. She has always known. As she walks into the lab, home, closing the door behind her, she follows the sound of clacking until she is leaning against the doorframe, watching Stein type. In the past, seemingly so long ago, he would only ever do so in the dark.

Everything was illuminated, now, and she was silent as she observed him, the way his shoulders were relaxed under his shirt, his lab-coat draped across the back of their couch due to the heat. When he chuckled, she wasn't surprised. He knew who she was down to the soul, it was expected for him to just feel when she was around.

And, of course, he could feel her tension.

It started as it always did, with him asking if they were going to watch the Discovery Channel, again. And she'd replied with a yes, the same as usual, though she did take note how he seemed more understanding than usual in the exchange. He didn't ask about how her meeting with Death went. He could just tell it wasn't exactly how she wanted it to happen.

So while she made popcorn, ready to ease her stress away with too much butter, he turned the television on, fighting with the transmission. It was a shame it was such an old thing, something he would only ever use to watch his recorded dissections on, prior. After the Kishin business was finished with, he'd surprised her with the knowledge that he had a TV, asking if she wanted to watch a documentary with him when he spotted how bored she'd been.

Since then, he'd wheeled the thing in and didn't bother to get it out of the room in order to transferit back to the dusty storage where it was once residing. A change in the furniture was in order, as well, and the loveseat ended up being moved, facing the screen for convenience.

When she walked in, the bowl massive in her hands, she saw that he had both arms draped across the back of the couch. She rolled her eye good naturedly. It figured he was always taking up so much space. She walked around so she could plop down, careful not to fall against his arm, and set the bowl on the table in front of them, since there wasn't much room in between them on the loveseat. Especially not when the bowl was far too large, considering three bags of popcorn were easy to inhale when she was going to eat her feelings away.

The documentary was boring as it always is, mind numbing, science jargon she finds herself blinking at, no interest flashing on her face. It all blurred together into one monotonous tone of mountain lions and whichever location they most thrived in. She yawned, blinking lazily as she settled against the back of the couch.

When she felt his arm slide down from its perch and onto her shoulders, she didn't think anything of it for a single second. But when he didn't move away, she blinked in surprise. Instead of instantly taking his touch away, if anything, he shifted, and she felt the heat of his side melt against her.

She does not mean to laugh, nervously. She does not mean to feel the blush come over her shoulders, where one of his hands has settled, his palm warm and tender against her arm. She does not mean to break the monotone of Mountain Lions with her ridiculous teasing of "Wow, maybe Spirit was right. It almost feels like we're really dating."

Her cringe is immediate, and she cannot even find it in her to move, to look at him. A ridiculous babble has joined her involuntary giggles. "Not that we're-"

"I was under the impression that we were," he tells her, and the confusion in his voice is enough to make her head whip around fast enough to give her whiplash. Her eye is wide, blinking incredulously the instant the words penetrate her skull, and when she spots the way his brows had come together, crinkled in concern, his arm coming off her shoulders as though unsure, she can only drop her mouth open.

"What?" she asks.

"I was under the impression that this was a date," he clarified, shifting around.

Fidgeting, she realized, his hands coming up to adjust his already perfectly in-place glasses.

Franken Stein was fidgeting. In front of her. Because of her.

"But. . .but you didn't ask me," she blurted out, lower lip still dropped in astonishment.

"I asked if you wanted to watch a movie-"

"But you didn't ask me on a date!" Marie said, her voice pitching up higher. But that was almost a lie. If she remembered back, asking someone else to watch a movie was a date almost always. How had she not realized? Had she only brushed it off under the assumption that Stein would never do something like that? That he could never be interested in someone like her?

He was just a man. Even he had trouble asking someone for intimacy. And he had asked her as best he could.

Because he was interested.

Dear Death, he was interested in her. He had asked her on a date.

Why had she tried to convince herself otherwise?

When the realization dawned on her, that they had been on the same couch in the same situation, watching a film together multiple times in the past, she only chewed her lip. "How. . .how many dates have we been on?"

". . .a rather high number, if I had to estimate."

"We're. . .we're dating?

"I thought so," he said, and she saw something change on his face as his lips twitched. When the nature of the situation dawned on her, she couldn't stop the giddy chortle that she let out, slapping a hand over her mouth.

But before she even knew it, she was giggling, her soul shimmering in excitement and she felt so bubbly, all of a sudden, when his chuckles joined her.

When she looked at him, a grin on her face, it felt too comfortable to be anything other than relief. "I suppose it's a good thing I only kiss after the third date," she informed, teasing but not biting, nothing but a sweet wit, bringing her hand from her mouth and allowing her expression to be fully seen by him.

"Oh?" he asked, teeth showing with how wide his grin was getting to be.

"Oh," she replied.

"I thought I never asked you on a date?" he teased in response, his laughter finally dying away in favor of a softer tone. She looked away for a second, humming in agreement before she looked back at him.

"Alright then. Ask me."

His eyes were soft behind his glasses, glinting. And her own was crinkled in amusement, in how happy she felt. But her eyebrows went up when he didn't follow the script she expected him to.

"Then, can I kiss you?" he asked, not moving forward in the slightest. She found that she took in a deep breath, looking over his entire face for any hint of teasing, any sign of him being something other than genuine.

There was nothing she could find but honesty, and she wasn't surprised that she had already started to lean in, one of her hands coming over his own and slowly dragging up his arm as she twisted on the sofa. And yet, even with that, he did not move.

"Please?" she requests, and at that, only at that, he finally smiles, tilting his face toward her own. Her voice had been so low when she spoke, and they had already gravitated so close to one another, it was practically a whisper.

She knew Stein hadn't known how to be gentle, never had a reason to be, didn't think he could be, but she found herself leaning into each touch as he made it. His hands were calloused when he cupped her face, the palm warm across her jaw, his thumb absentmindedly, awkwardly, stroking over her cheekbone and it was the barest brush. He was so overwhelmingly tender, holding her like that.

The last time his hand had been on her face, it was crackling with electricity but she felt charged in a different way, like every piece of her was tingling, down to the very fingertips. He was a man who knew nothing of sentimentality, could never have known, and yet when he leaned in, his mouth finding her own, it felt like it was what he was created to do: to kiss her. They slotted so perfectly against one another, she couldn't help but press in. And he was sweeping his tongue over her lip, though they were chapped, and she couldn't help but be thankful that she hadn't bothered with chapstick or lipgloss. Her body melted to him as she breathed in through her nose as best she could, wanting to be connected to him forever.

Death, he kissed her like she mattered to him, like she mattered, and she brought her arm around him, tugging him down more, opening her mouth to him. Her hair was in the spaces of his fingers as he stroked the nape of her neck, making her shiver. Slowly, he dragged that touch down her back, his fingers smoothing over her spine through her shirt until he settled on her lower back. She arched into the motions, and when he pulled away from her lips, tasting like popcorn and smoke, she immediately went in for another, kissing the corner of his mouth and trailing down to his jaw.

It was heady to listen to him breathing so hard, and when the hand on her face moved her back so she could look at him, she was glad to see that the warmth on her face had a match on his.

She bumped her nose against his, the smile curving over her face.

"So," she started, breathy, every piece of her feeling electric and alive. "We're dating?"

She was so close to him that his breath fanned over her face, mingling with her own and she felt his chest rumble under her palm before she heard his chuckle.

When he tilted his face, moving forward and pressing their mouths back together, she took it as a "yes".


She breaks like a law

Nothing truly changes between them. That's the best of it, that they are the same people they had been, just that, suddenly, they make out like teenagers on their own couch and laugh about how ridiculous they are when they have all the time in the world.

Peace is a concept that should not come so easily after the war they were a part of, but it is there. It feels like everything has settled, somehow, that the lack of balance, the teetering she has felt for days upon weeks upon months has finally stopped rocking haphazardly in favor for a smooth, solid ground.

That breaks open when she gets the news from Stein because she is not yet privy to the information from her Lord, and it feels like her heart drops to her knees. Her mouth goes dry, her hands shake.

A trial. Crona. Back on trial.

They were just a child. Didn't they give enough blood, already? Hadn't they proved themselves enough?

And, yet, she knows there were people who wanted to try them for the crimes, people who wanted a scapegoat, a decoy, to latch onto and scream for bones.

She has no pull at the DWMA, anymore. The only Death Scythe left in Nevada is Spirit, but one person pleading for the child's case isn't enough. Can't be enough. When she finds Stein's formal pardon on his screen, him asleep in front of it, she has the overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him and never let go. Yet, she knew that wouldn't be the end of it, either. Crona's crimes against Stein weren't the only ones, and when Spirit comes, a grimace on his face, asking if she was interested in pressing charges as the two police officers behind him stare straight ahead, she nearly threw the door closed. But she knew Spirit didn't want to be there, didn't want to ask.

How could she ever press charges?

She had told Crona that she couldn't forgive them, all that time ago and suddenly, she finds it even more terrible of her. What other choice did that child have? What else could they have known? If Stein fell to Medusa, a man who had experience in resisting and grounding himself, how could Crona turn a blind eye when Medusa was all they'd known?

The paperwork makes her stressed. It makes her feel sick and tired, having to take turns on Stein's computer in order to complete all of it, all the pleas, the messages, constant emails, reassurances. Weeks pass like a haze, like a bolt of lightning. And when the day of the trial comes, the reckoning, Marie shows up at the DWMA, arriving like a storm. She is a hurricane of a woman, frazzled and angry. She is a cloud of frizzed, electric, blonde hair and so much rage coming off her skin it could choke someone. She is livid. Her usually gentle wavelength is amplified and harsh, all jagged edges and teeth. Only Stein, setting his hand upon her shoulder, is enough to calm her, and only slightly.

It does not prevent her from walking right up to Crona and setting a jacket atop their shoulders, looking everyone in the eye who so much as opened their mouths to argue with her. The lawyers say nothing, only glance at each other, and Death sits where the judge would be.

It feels like he is urging her on, cheering for her.

When she turns, walking to the bench where Stein has already reserved a seat, it is not so much waiting that she does so much as shaking. She bounces her leg up and down, itching to give the room a piece of her mind. Her students, finally healed, come before the jury, before Death, one by one to testify, to make their case, to answer questions.

They do not even have to call her to the podium. She does not have to swear upon any book, does not have to make her way to the seat in front of everyone else.

Her formal pardon is enough, but beyond that, she can see the case is won.

The verdict sounds like a safety precaution, something that would appeal the masses, a stricter, tight rein on the child who bounced sides. But it is not. It is, instead, a blessing. There is no punishment in what Death says, that Crona would have to be with someone from the DWMA at all times. Her grasp on Stein's hand, a hold she didn't even realize she had before the relief coursed through her, slackens before it tightens as a means of reassurance. He squeezes her fingers between his own, his expression placid and thankful.

But it is only days later, as negotiations are being made, that she realizes what the plan was from the start. What Death's plan was.

It is only after multiple calls, multiple debates. Her job application is still pending, the status unknown, dangling in the air. And yet, when Lord Death calls, it is not in regards to that.

She realizes after he tells her that Crona's place of residency was being debated upon. Maka had offered to take multiple classes with Crona so that she could have more ground for suggesting that they live with her, but it had been decided that they needed something more stable.

Something with a stronger healing presence.

She could only look into the mirror owlishly, as though amazed, the pieces all falling into place in front of her. Before she knew it, Death cut the call, giving her a cheerful reminder about her job application, and acting as though he were being discrete.

Exceptions had been made in the past. Death Scythes were known to stay in Death City, even when not necessarily needed, due to having a sudden reason to stay.

All it takes is a meeting of the eyes. Stein knows her and she knows him, and it is only a flicker of gold meeting green, a nod, a touch on the back of her hand, and she is already whirling to his computer with his blessing, finding applications of a different sort.

A healing presence, she thinks.

It was a strange way to call her "mom".


She Brakes

It feels more familiar than anyone could have ever expected, than she had ever expected. She knew it was what she had always wanted, a family, a place to call home, but finally having that, it came more naturally than she'd ever dared to hope.

Her smile covered nearly her entire face, stretched so wide, so tenderly. Her singular eye squinted in affection and she leaned against the wall, one of the large metal stitches feeling comfortably cool over her long-healed skin. She is looking into what was, only a few days prior, the room where she had her things. Sure, she'd been spending more time in Stein's bedroom, but she still had her own, regardless of how cold the made bed was.

Not anymore. And, really, she hadn't ever been happier to share.

Death, she'd spent an entire day cleaning what was left in the glorified storage closet, bringing her things fully into Stein's room, so that Crona could have a place to sleep, a place to stay. And through the crack in the door, she could see the barest hints of personalized touches: the picture frames, the desk already covered in papers, the piles of clothes Marie'd insisted they buy the poor child.

They never had a thing to call their own, before. She wanted them to be happy, to feel safe.

To know this was not temporary. The adoption had finally gotten through, albeit with more than a few nudges due to Stein's less savory reputation in Death City, but none of that mattered. Crona had their own room, one she'd put dark curtains in so they felt comfortable, one she'd bought new sheets for.

The constellations on the ceiling, though, that was all Stein. Stein and Crona and smudges of glow-in-the-dark paint he spent three days creating. Her partner, Death, he was a natural at all of it, and she'd taken multiple peeks into the room, watching how. . .fatherly he was with Crona. It made something in her chest swell, a giddy feeling following her every time she happened to glance in.

She is brought out of her musings by a touch brushing her shoulder, barely a whisper. Stein flared his soul up to let her know it was him and she felt her grin get stronger when he did. Her Meister. Her partner.

Really, she didn't know what title they would really have, what she would tell her mother. She'd ask what they were, but there were too many answers to that. They were kissing. They were parents. They were partners. They were together.

Yes, definitely together. And that was enough for her no matter what. Had always been enough for her.

As she turned to him, she leaned in, her own soul pressing to his while she tucked herself under his arm, the two of them looking through the crack in the door for a second and taking in the domesticity.

It felt nice, to have that stability. It felt comfortable. It felt like being happy.

Marie turned and kissed Stein's neck, fluttering her eye shut and knowing her eyelashes were tickling against his stubble. She felt his chuckle against her palm, realizing that she had set her hand on his chest as she nuzzled at him.

His wrapped his arm around her, curling and taking her in closer, and when she pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, again, he had tilted his face down, stooping slightly.

In the moment before she went on tip toes, one of her hands coming to cup his cheek so that she could brush their lips together, she can almost feel him memorizing her face, smiling at what he saw.

Taking in the fact that she was warm. And pink. And downright golden.


Well, this is it! It's the very end of my Resbang career for 2015! Massive thanks go out to my main betas, Crimson-Lia and Jcrycolr3wradcse, who put up with my constant whining, my ridiculous amount of "I can't do it!" and all my writing. I sort of bombarded them, and this fic, as well as the others, wouldn't have happened without them.

Thanks also go out to my excellent arts who I was lucky to have, ShowKnight, found at showknight (dot tumblr dot com) and L0chn3ss, found at l0chn3ss (dot tumblr dot com). Links to their art specifically will be posted up as soon as I get them!

Thank you for reading and for staying with me through this RIDICULOUSLY long Resbang Journey. I clocked in over 117K words this year, and I'm already looking forward to next year. 3 3 3