#0fbabylon.

[likeorpheus]

Francis winces at that, the words landing strangely in a way that they hadn’t braced for. “Feeling like a woman after all.” It scrapes against something raw inside them, a quiet, persistent ache they rarely let surface. Their jaw tightens, but they don’t respond right away. What could they even say to that? The words twist into their ribs like a blade, pulling out a mess of shame, confusion, and resentment they’ve carried for too long.

They glance down at their hands, studying them as if they might find answers in the lines of their palms. But all they see is inadequacy—a body that doesn’t belong, that never felt whole or coherent. But maybe they just simply understood Madonna's perspective in those ways. That feeling of having a body but it feeling like the wrong one. A body that doesn’t know where it fits in the world, that shifts between too much and not enough. Intersex. Strange. Damned.

Not a full person, their thoughts are unbidden and cruel. Francis straightens up, arms crossing tightly over their chest to shield themselves from their own deafening emotions.

"I know what you mean," They say, their voice quiet. They can’t meet her eyes. Instead, they look past her, momentarily disillusioned. The mere mention of her "cruelty" doesn't mark them much. In a lot of ways, Francis was jaded by other's actions put upon them. For a long time, they felt nothing but spiraling bitterness. Crazed over the ways in which the cult had shaped them, created them. And even more than that, the ways in which they were no longer human but instead an object in the face of it. “My mother wanted me to be a boy, I think. To name me like a boy, to gesture to me like a boy. To have sons and not have daughters might have been a blessing to her. Considering what you've been through it would make sense. Considering what she had been through, the damned woman, it makes sense..." They didn't have any love thinking about their mother. She was a horrible memory.

"I don't know what I am, though." And that was the truth. They were genetically different. They were born to be different.

"I don't think I can have children."

What's to say it wasn't your magic?

Chord struck. Madonna's dark head tilts against the armchair, their words striking a peculiar sense of both unease and bitterness that she had not anticipated.

Maybe she had potential, but no magic. You discovered yourself to be a witch, didn't you? If things were so cut and dry, if things were so simple — maybe she would not have found herself in such circumstances to begin with. Maybe she wouldn't be condemned to lose the very baby that she wanted with such ferocity. Maybe things would be different, if the magic traced back anywhere else but the Highmores.

"... I discovered that I used to be a Witch." Madonna murmurs without looking at Francis. Her eyes set on the window, the endless stream of traffic that could be seen from just outside the apartment window.

She doesn't say anything else. No sense in elaborating — in some sense of the word, they must have known they were deflecting. Something weak and ineffectual like Madonna could have no real power to create miracles. Not like Francis did, anyway.

No. This was creationism. This was making something out of nothing. That was what Highmore magic did to her.

At their words, a small laugh catches in Madonna's throat. They were too good, weren't they? Able to ignore the fact that she had been cruel, first — that she did, ultimately, deserve whatever fate befell her now.

"No more than what I've given you." Madonna's head turns, black eyes lock onto Francis's. She doesn't want to hear that she doesn't deserve it. In this existence, there was nothing but earning what one deserved.

She holds their gaze. Bitterness, unmistakable bitterness burning in the backs of her eyes. She loved them once. Unfathomable now — she'd like to assert, she'd like to sincerely believe.

"... It was nice, for a moment. Feeling like a woman after all."

[punkzombie]

A note left on the countertop of Kerry's apartment, but no Donna to be found. The running bathwater in the restroom is a likely explanation: she was depression soaking. The note — written in loping script on a torn out strip of cardboard from a nearby box of Cookie Crisp cereal — reads:

Good morning bitch

You left your shoes in the sink (???) I brushed my teeth on them before realizing that I was getting toothpaste foam all over your sneakers (sorry). Please go to the liquor store for another box of wine. Be my hero.

Donna

Kerry squints at the note, his head pounding with the rhythm of a metal drumline. The fluorescent kitchen light feels like it’s boring holes through his skull. He blinks a few times, trying to piece together the chain of events that landed him here—on the floor, sprawled out like roadkill next to his lumpy and useless couch. His mouth tastes like stale beer and regret.

The note, scrawled in Donna's unmistakable chaotic hand, lays crooked on the counter. It takes a few attempts to focus his vision enough to read it fully. Shoes. Sink. Toothpaste. Wine. Bloody Jesus, she was gonna kill him. His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile despite the way his stomach flips.

He groans, dragging himself to sit upright. A dull ache blooms in his lower back—probably from the position he passed out in. He vaguely remembers stumbling home from the Star Sign, his pockets a little lighter than they should be and his liver a little heavier. The night had been a blur of poorly mixed drinks, cheap beer, and the bassline of some pop remix rattling his chest. Typical Saturday after a night at work.

The running water in the bathroom breaks through his hungover haze. Right—Donna. Depression soaking. He pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly as his vision narrows. He grabs the note, rubbing his thumb over the cardboard as he rereads it, then, without much pause, he shuffles to the bathroom sink where he makes sure to not look at her. He doesn't say anything. Sure enough, his sneakers are wedged inside, wet with a minty residue. He stares at them, then lets out a soft, exasperated noise before it turns into a wheezy cough.

“ Well, I'll go bloody barefoot then. ” He drags his hands down his face. "I've got ya covered."

[0fbabylon]

The   depths   of   her   eyes   flicker,   sharp for a moment      —   before they yield, warming into something close to humor.   He  was  hitting  on  her,   and Madonna doesn't particularly mind. In fact — she's partial to the attention.

    Regardless,   she  lifts  her  left  hand  and  gives  it  a  wave.    ❛   Unlucky for you. I'm spoken for.   ❛   She  muses  with  a  draw  of  her  full  mouth. Her eyes remain steady on the other.

    ❛     — Guess that means you can do whatever you'd like with your winnings. ❛

❛ wow.. normally my blackjack game is hit or miss at best ..  ❜ — him being surprised for a moment, seeing the dealer awarding him the prize. ❛ calling me honey ? didn’t know you were gunning for my heart ..  ❜

his smile was soft, collecting the prize chips. knowing that he would cash them in for a cash prize, rather than lose their winnings. ❛ any plans for the winnings? and don’t say you won me as a prize ..  ❜

[likeorpheus]

who I owe in thread replies / @t-errifier @luminarot @nocityfolk @brokemaw @0fbabylon @sifonie @sunmad @lonelybleds @morb1dg1rl @roznrot @soulmissed

If I am missing anyone please let me know! But big shout out: you are all such amazing writers and I appreciate you all so much for your patience, grace, and general kindness. I'm fast some days, slow others. But I get to write with such talented people <3

[0fbabylon]

like this for me to go through your ask prompt tag n send you stuff from dee 😇

[punkzombie]

Kerry stiffens, alarm flashing through his now swimming gaze. For a moment, he’s not sure if it’s the drugs playing tricks on him or the weight of her words hitting too hard. Her voice, so small and raw, wedges itself under his skin, threading through all of his nerve endings. He felt a chill roll down his back. In truth, he only wanted to do more. More and more. Depression was a cyclical disaster. He'd rather felt too high or too much. He'd rather feel like God instead of a god's plaything.

“It… hurts?” He repeats her, his voice soft, the words themselves tasting strangely in his mouth. The first time Kerry recognized his agony was when he crawled out of that fiery crash, alone. He was brought back from the dead? But he was alone. Francis got scared and ran away or something. He didn't remember any of the details. He just remembered that his hands were fucked up and full of glass. His chest felt cramped and full of blood. His molars were loose, cracked, or missing and his legs ate the gravel and he was missing so much flesh. And that was agony. That was real, mortal agony. But humans stayed dead after things like that. Bones twisted, mutilated? They stayed dead. Kerry didn't know what it was like to not feel blasted with physical anguish. So what was it like then? To have a heart be dead for so long and then suddenly come back like that? It was like being a reanimated corpse. It felt probably like too bloody much.

His gaze drops to her hand, pale fingers pressing against her chest, and something inside him twists. He swallows hard, throat dry, words thick in his mouth. He feels compelled to touch her hand there, to see if he can feel her heart too. His eyes retain their battiness. He looks away.

“Shit.” He lets out a laugh—quiet, hollow, and just a little bit unhinged. It spills out like a reflex, cutting through the air between them. “Y’know, hearts—they’re... the worst.” He shakes his head, eyes darting toward the cracked ceiling as if searching for an answer that won’t come. “They always hurt. Especially when you don’t want ’em to.”

The laugh dies in his throat, and he turns his gaze back to her, the jittery energy in his limbs suddenly stilled by something heavier. He leans forward slightly, his free hand resting against his thigh, fingers tapping out a restless rhythm.

“I don’t think it’s supposed to feel like that, though,” He admits, quieter now, almost to himself.

"You’re sure it’s... real? Not just the shit we just took?” He pauses, running a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to make sense of the surrealness of it all. And then, without much restraint he goes and does another line. He preps the powder, makes it stare back at him and then with the recesses he coats his gums with the stuff.

"They cracked my skull open. Kan and his friends. Pretty fucked up of them if you ask me."

A joke so sick should have no leg to stand on, in theory. The brunt reality of her circumstance beat into her like a weighted bat or severed limb. Her heart was beating for the first time in her pale existence. Blood flowed as it had not before, coloring her waxy cheekbones — the tip of her upturned nose.

She was alive after spending too many days closer to corpse than woman. That had to have been true. Her heart was beating, after all.

But that was her second miracle. After the loss of her first, she could no longer find any elation in this recent development. She almost resented it. The staggering beat of her heart — strange, throbbing in her wrists — behind her black eyes, the grip of her tight throat.

The storm of her high thunders in her head. The ends of her fingers, cold-tipped, tingle and burn as if exposed to dry ice. She could use a drink, but Kerry draws her attention — talks of rotting, rotting every day, rotting without fail. What a horrible existence he led. Damned, cursed.

Feels like we evolve more than we get better.

She could relate.

"... It's the same for me."

She stays leaning against Kerry. He's the only thing keeping her in place right now. The rest of her is buzzing, floating and sinking all at once. Madonna lifts a heavy hand. She grips at her chest — the strange beating. It was so constant and demanding. Weak. She was sure of it, even as it flutters — desperate wings — against her hand.

How's it feel, though?

Quiet, for a beat. Before a response. "... I wish it would stop." She admits in a small voice. A rare moment of transparency that doesn't split her right down the fucking middle. She had a speedball to thank. "It hurts."

[0fbabylon]

you wanna plot with my girl sooooo bad

[0fbabylon]

donna really likes art. not the kind of art micah would hang up in their old house though ( weird perversions of art, she might say. disconcerting images burned into her retinas ). she loves museums, though. she could sit in front of a kandinsky for hours. walk up and down the span of a hockney mural 40 times. she's certainly the creature that prowls too close to paintings, though security guards often hesitate to tell her to step back. she gets lost in the art — which makes sense for a woman held hostage. she takes such pleasure in envisioning herself anywhere else than where she is at the current moment.

[0fbabylon]

if you're wondering where i went tonight, i've been hard at work crafting a carrd worthy of a queen. be a shame if you didn't at least click through it

[0fbabylon]

@teethearted sent ❛ because it don’t matter in the end why you did any of it. I don’t fucking care why you did it. ❛

She's   stirred,   moved   —   to  look  up  from  her  glass  of  watered  down  brandy  and  toward  the  creature  that  addresses  her  now  with  blazing  eyes  and  a  cat's  tongue.    Donna's head tilts in brief attention,   and such spit-fire words draw the subtlest of responses from the creature   —   a vague flutter of her lashes,   her  lovely  head  tilting  to  rest  against  her  palm.   The hotel bar was turning out to be the last place she should have been spending her Tuesday night at.

   ❛   Oh?  ❛   Wine-red  mouth  purses  at  the  corners.   For a moment, something close to remorse might breathe life into her black eyes.   It's difficult to tell.  In another beat,   it's already gone.

She  takes  out  a  pack  of  cigarettes.  Marlboro reds.  She  offers  one  casually.   ❛   ...  You're one of Abra's friends.  I take it?   ❛

[0fbabylon]

donna’s new year resolution is to get more attention

[0fbabylon]

madonna really would make an unwanted houseguest leave out the window though. she doesn’t care what story they’re on. the door is a privilege

( she’s an ill-tempered marvel. a terror. she’s my horrible woman )

[0fbabylon]

donna 🤝 monsterfucking

[0fbabylon]

madonna loves to yap during intimate moments. she taunts, she praises, she plays. she likes to be pushed to a point where she can’t get a word out — but oh, she tries.

[0fbabylon]

threw my whole ass & some of donna's into that pinned post

[0fbabylon]

somebody: can you list of your weaknesses or flaws? donna: