TASK â Likes + Dislikes
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+ KITTY
@kittymâ | july 17th | stables, the manor
Under the guise of stretching her legs, Rita sets out for the stables to meet with Kitty. A discreet note had been slipped into the Virtueâs luggage with the time and place. Unlike others in the manor, this wasnât an attempt to hide a meeting with a friend or lover who should be labeled enemy. This was not the relationship between Rita and Kitty and the thought it could be is laughable. But both women had been able to temper gang hatred in favor of something similar to an alliance, though Rita liked to think of it as more of information sharing than a treasonous association.
She leans against a dusty stone wall while waiting for Kitty and a horse announces her arrival before she comes into view. âHey,â Rita greets simply. âI wondered whether youâd show up or not.â A careful study of the cameras recently installed had shown that if Rita stood over here and Kitty stood in the corner opposite corner that they wouldnât be seen. The distance gave her a small feeling of safety, but sheâd still tucked her favorite pistol into the pocket of her dress just in case.Â
Rita had given War a stern warning against sharing the information Mitzi had proven, but if Kitty had something of similar significance then the tactician would trade secrets. âWere you there when your uncle was taken?â It was hard to believe this could have happened if Kitty was, except Rita knew that sheâd be powerless against the chemicals that would have been in her clothes.
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If curiosity ( and a penchant for getting into situations she shouldnât be in ) hadnât gotten the better of her, she would have ignored the neatly-written note that smelt faintly of perfume and spent the time making the most of the nearby tennis court to vent various frustrations simmering beneath taught limbs. But Rita â for whatever reason, one that Kitty is yet to truly understand â seems convinced that, between them, they can do something. Form something, even. Loathe to sit around and wait, preferring action over planning, the rendezvous at least seems like a chance to make herself busy. Glancing lovelessly at the oversized heads of the animals within the building, their nervous twitching sending discomfort galloping down her spine, she evades the watchful all-seeing eyes of the newly installed cameras, disturbed brick dust still yet to be swept from the ground beneath them, and settles in her assigned corner with a long look at Rita. âI like to keep people guessing,â she responds, shrugging nonchalantly. âI meanâ Iâm still pretty surprised you want to discuss shit with me and not Marcus or Raf.â
The scent of straw and hay is sweet in the warm summer air. Kitty wrinkles her nose at it, still watching Rita attentively. âDoes Remus know what youâre up to?â A thoughtful pause follows, weighted. âOr Saint?â Secrecy was evident but War liked to play games with strategy. For all she knows, both War Seraphim could be listening in on this conversation. The question shot back at her receives a frown of distrust, uncertain as to where it was plucked from. âI didnât have anything to do with it, if thatâs what youâre fucking suggesting.â Flexing her jaw, she shakes her head. âNo. I wasnât there. They were in a vehicle travelling to Femenias Energyâs Headquarters. The other passengers donât know what happened other than that gas got pumped into the car. Is that what happened with Gabrielle?â
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+ MILO
Nothing could be easy. He should be well aware of it by now, but still he stupidly held onto a shred of hope that just one thing would go smooth and simple from start to finish. Milo pressed his lips together in a thin line and nodded. âYouâre probably not wrong. Between the rival distributors, the other major gangs, the minor gangs trying to get ahead, and Iâm sure a few in my own gang that are pissed, I got Seraphim and they didnât.â He ticked them off on his fingers, looking upwards as if reading the list from mind. âOh, then there was the entire cartel I helped wipe out with another cartel, the other being one of my clients of course. Iâm sure the remaining loved ones wouldnât mind seeing me dead.â The blonde finished unbuttoning his shirt and pulled it off along with the undershirt beneath. He traded them out for the sleeveless shirt heâd pulled out. While he folded the discarded articles, he continued his monotonous response to her thought. âHowever, for every ten or so that would raise a glass, thereâs one that would seek revenge. Loyalty is a fantastic thing. Either way, I wonât care a tick because Iâll be dead.â Milo shrugged and sat himself at the end of the bed, hands folded in front of him while he waited for her to finish.
âYou like games, donât you, Ms. Mallick?â It seemed obvious with her prompt to play a hypothetical over lavatory time. He ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, debating whether to humor her proposition. It could very well be a trick for her to run off and tell Rafael or Marcus that the Pestilence Seraphim threatened her. Though he was highly positive he could talk his way out of that one but there was a small percentage of a chance given the current climate that it would cause another headache for him. There was also a chance she wasnât aiming to set him up for something and this was her twisted way of making the best out of their situation. âYou do know there are other bathrooms in the manor, right? Or that Iâm very capable of simply picking you up and removing you from the room so I can do my business. I have a strong feeling that regardless of what hypothetical murder scenario I came up with, you would tell me it wasnât impressive out of spite.â She did seem the spiteful type. âBesides, no weapons were allowed so of course Iâd have to find another method, if I had any want or need to dispose of you. Which, I do not.â He sighed. âI would probably just inject you with a full syringe of air and set the course for an air embolism. Less traceable, takes awhile to set in which leaves plenty of deniability and I would get to watch it unfold. Killing someone in their sleep is incredibly boring.â As if on cue, he yawned after his words.Â
An upward twitch of her brow is the only response the great Milo Pierce will receive for his bragging. She watches him in the mirror, uninclined to take her eyes off him for too long when Pestilence has always been the most likely to stab their rival gangs in the back ( or the front, in her uncleâs case ). A small pang ricochets through her ribs at the thought of Rafael Senior, worried for the son who seeks to step into his fatherâs footsteps. âYouâre so sure that people would seek revenge for you?â Embedded amongst Pinketts, she wonders how much loyalty is extended to the Seraphim who shares no blood with his Horseman beyond that which is shed in her name. She turns the tap off, plucking a towel from the handrail to dry her fingers on with purposefully slow, purposefully unhurried movements. Territory exists in even the most mundane spaces. This wasnât just a bathroom, it was a statement: she wonât share nicely with him, rank be damned. One corner of her mouth pulls into a smirk at his question â although itâs far more an observation than any sort of query. âShow me someone in this manor who doesnât like games,â she counters. âYou like them too or you wouldnât have made it all the way up the ladder to Seraphim.â
Indignation flashes across her expression like the guiding beam of a lighthouse; continue with caution. âPick me up and our little hypothetical murder scenarios will suddenly feel very fucking real for you.â Prickling, she tosses the towel in her grasp aside and folds her arms across her chest, yet to make any attempt to cross the threshold into the shared bedroom. Despite his taunting, she doesnât tell him that his idea is unimpressive. It isnât. Annoyingly. âRight, so youâre just going to kill me and not take credit? Turn this whole sleepover thing into a murder mystery?â She nods, her own option contrasting. âSee, I donât give a fuck about stringing this shit out. The quicker I kill you, the better. So Iâd break one of the bulbs in your bedside lamp and slit your throat while you sleep. Easy. No fighting back. Everyone will know Iâve done it. Itâs a win, win, win. Plus itâd be kind of funny that the thing that finally ended Milo Pierce was a lightbulb.â
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+ MARCUS
drugs cw.
this is not the explanation he was bracing himself for, but itâs the story that makes the most sense. in an instant, marcus sobers up, gathering up every functional neuron in his brain left to give her his undivided attention. heâs silent, inhaling and exhaling cloud after cloud of smoke, and his eyes donât quite meet hers as more details unfold, piecing together her story and how it fits into how they live their lives. kitty has never been a liar, thatâs where she and him differ the most. that in itself is a striking declaration of love, to love someone all on her own, without even a whisper to family. marcus looks out at the city below them, recalling his last conversation with saint and how the wardenâs eyes lingererd. he laughs now, light and accompanied by a gentle head shake. âyou two are putting on quite the show,â he huffs with thoughtful amusement, inhaling the last few drags left of his cigarette before flicking the butt into the night sky.
he meets her eyes now. his smile is hardily beaming, but itâs warm. she speaks of how anyone knowing could ruin saint, and marcus finds himself apathetic to the notion. what makes this decision so easy, is her. he hears her panic, he hears her love and her devotion. who is he to take that from her? maybe this is exactly what he needed, a chance at knowing the things that could ruin her, and protecting it, instead of exploiting. âif youâre in love, iâm not going to be the one that destroys it.â a chilled hand finds the place where kittyâs neck meets her shoulder as his gaze fuses to hers. âitâll die with me if thatâs what you want.â he drops his hand from her shoulder, taking a step closer as he fishes out a second cigarette to keep his hands busy. âbelieve it or not, i want you to be happy.â saint warden is shone under a completely different light now, and the absence in his eyes is the result of a mind spinning with new thoughts and perspectives. perhaps the youngest warden is the better option to take over war. marcus knows, if it was him, if it was ravi in kittyâs position, he wouldnât risk anything that would turn the love ravi gives him sour.
âso what is he?â marcus nods at the ring, âthatâs from him, right? itâs why that beautiful ring is on a chain in your bag instead of on your finger?â did they even marry in secret? the thought leaves him deflated, to think of a chapel with only the two of them, of kitty celebrating without family around her. âand no one else knows?â
drugs cw
As she spills the secrets of her heart into the nicotine-smoke-infused space between them, Marcus is eerily silent. She wishes she could tell what he was thinking â climb inside his head and know whether she should continue to free the truth from behind her teeth or clamp her jaw shut before any more gets loose. Something anxious pulls at her insides, twisting her into knots, waiting for him to respond. The soft laugh he expells doesnât ease the tension turning her limbs taught but it does ignite a small flicker of hope that glimmers across wide, pupil-blow, dark eyes. âWe have to,â Kitty insists, wanting him to understand that hiding their relationship wasnât simply to bask in the glory of pulling the wool over everyoneâs eyes and disguising love as loathing. âIf the wrong person finds out about us, Saint could lose everything for lying to his family. Including me, if Gabrielle fucking Warden has her way and puts a bullet in my head for messing with her golden boy again.â
Her furrowed brow starts to ache, the frown of concern slowly lifting as her cousin offers reassurance. For once, his hand near her neck doesnât make her flinch, too caught up in the alternative fear of having said too much ( however desperate she is to believe him ). âNobody else can know. I wish it was different.â Tears gather song her lashline, stubbornly blinked away. âAnd Iâm sorry for telling you because itâs a really fucking hard secret to carry.â A tentative half-step is taken forwards, hesitant before fully committing to wrapping her arms around him, unable to voice her gratitude in a meaningful way and much preferring to show him. She hugs him tight, the ring in her hand pressing shapes like memories into the tender skin of her palm. âMaybe if you get even more fucked up on whatever shit we can find youâll forget.â She coughs out a small, watery laugh.
It takes a handful of heartbeats to pull what Saint is to her up from the place in her chest where sheâs been hiding him. âHeâs my fiance.â Kitty answers quietly, yet each syllable sings with pride. âHe proposed on his birthday and, wellâ Iâve never really cared about marriage, you know? My mum never accepted my dadâs proposals but that didnât stop them from loving each other. But I want to make Saint happy and it means so much to him. It feels right, too, in a way. A promise that weâre each otherâs even if we have to act as though weâre not most of the time.â Like a child with a treasured item theyâd found, she holds the ring up for Marcus to see. Diamonds glint in whatever light they can find. âHow did you know when you wanted to marry Ravi?â Her love-soaked tone drains at the question of others made aware of the relationship, reluctantly acknowledging the one other soul. âSaint told Remus. It still feels like a fucking bad idea that he knows but I didnât want to stop him, not when he insists that theyâre both getting along now.â
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+ RAFAEL
Itâs with fond, somber eyes that he stares back at Kittyâs trademark petulance. A color of mirth on his pink cheeks, that contrasts the otherwise dour mood. Historically, itâs what they both have in common; thinking fast, acting even faster. A distinct opposition from the likes of Marcus and Jessica, who were far more methodical than the fiery pair. Except this time, thereâs something dour that keeps him stead. A sonâs intuition, perhaps. What if he digs further, and finds a reality he isnât prepared to accept? âWhy do I bother trying to stop you?â He asks, a color of mirth in his eyes. Nothing but fondness, for the person that redirects Rafaelâs worse ideas. âYou have a point.â Rafael considers, though thereâs an after thought to the other impacts of it. No cake selection, would make the coordination of the other pastries harder. Whatever, he resolves, lowering the fork against the fine China. With a patient chuckle, he forces himself to tune in. Even if the desire to mill around mindlessly fights to prevail. âYou know what egotistical, pompous shit-bags Seraphimâs can be.â Present company included. âIf they did this, they would have made a bloody announcement of it.â Literally and figuratively. In a lengthy pause, he cannot escape the demons that prompt a next question. âIf itâs Death - thereâs a chance. It took them weeks after kidnapping toâŚâ He doesnât say the word kill, he doesnât have to.
He falls into the comfort of Kittyâs arms, inhaling that childhood scent that never quite leaves her. The hurt in his heart is too painful to conquer. A breathlessness is there - but itâs not from the blasted lung, still wary on its recovery since the coma. Itâs from the pragmatic truth Kitty shares with him, holding him closely in her arms. He rests his head on her shoulder, as he has many times over. An opening and prompt closing of his mouth, the struggle for words without tears ever-present. He coughs, attempting to stifle it. Not for her sake, but for his. âYou already promised him that. Many, many timesâŚâ He mumbles with certainty. Would Rafael Senior really let his son rise, without Kitty to catch him when he falls? âAnd if I canât? Look at whatâs come of us. Weâre fucking falling behind, and itâs not just because of whatâs out there. But whatâs within our own ranks.â Itâs a confession meant for someone like Marcus, his fellow Seraphim. And yet, he cannot say it, without speaking to Marcusâ own missteps. âIf they arenât putting the knife in our fucking backs, they are talking shit to our faces. Or, they are failing us.â His thoughts drift to Omer, Wren, and Nana. A endless cycle, it seems. He pulls up his chin, sighing against Kitty with a bout of uncertainty. âMaybe thereâs something good in Marcus stepping upâŚâ
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Perhaps she ought to have done more to entertain her cousinâs attempt at a distraction, the various slices of cake occupying the table between them turning the air sweet â but where Kitty is concerned, wedding planning could wait. Was it not better to act while the trail might still be hot, chasing down information on Rafael Seniorâs disappearance like bloodhounds after their quarry? To sit and do nothing but taste various flavours of buttercream felt like a waste if valuable time. âIâm sorry, I know you wanted to ignore what was happening for a bitâ but Iâm of more use to you out there than here. Itâs just a cake, Raf. The day itself and how you feel about the person youâre marrying is surely the most important thing?â Sheâs been thinking about that a lot lately, unable to give Saint the sort of wedding he may have wanted but at least capable of understanding the value of marriage in his eyes. âItâs proof of wanting to bind yourself to someone and promising to be there for them. Nobody is going to care what sort of cake you have.â Unable to offer him anything less than honesty, she punctuates her opinion with a gentle shrug. Her focus soon sharpens, however, at the admittedly sound suggestion that Seraphim would parade a successful kidnapping around like a war trophy. âIt feels cheap, though, for Death to do the exact same fucking thing again.â But even as she says it, she feels the scales tip in their favour. It would make sense â people loved patterns. âMaybe youâre right. Iâll see if I can find anything out. Itâd be worth asking Marcus to do the same given that heâs apparently still pretty fucking close with Gwendolyn Goldsmith.â Whether or not Rafael knew made no difference to her: when it comes to Famine, what she knows he knows.Â
Raking her fingers through the soft hair at the back of his head, Kitty tries to soothe her cousin and chase away the dark thoughts clouding his mind with a vicious bark and the snapping of sharp teeth. He is hers to take care of, always, and a small, terrible, secret part of her is somewhat glad that this has led him back into her arms. âThe ranks just need to be reminded whoâs boss. Weâve given them all so muchâ they think they can be a part of our family without putting in the fucking work.â The pair of them have dedicated their lives; expecting others to do the same came naturally. âIâm thinking of using Cat and Mouse to find new recruits. These are people who already know how to fight, plus theyâre hungry for victory and the reward. If we get some fresh blood in, we might be able to use them to scare some sense into anyone whoâs getting lazy.â Leaning back a fraction, dark eyes seek out Rafaelâs own. âWhy?â she asks tentatively, the eldest of their brood now holding a secret between his jaws like a knife. She wants to trust him not to cut her with it but itâll take time for him to prove his intentions are truly good. âWhatâs Marcus planning?âÂ
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Summer Bishil
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+ MILO
It had been a long night and as he made his way to his room, he wasnât sure it was going to be over just yet. Exhaustion didnât even begin to describe Miloâs state. All he wanted to do was get out of the dayâs clothes, wash his face, and sleep for at least a few hours. if that was even possible in a house full of people willing to kill each other without second thought. He wasnât even sure who to expect when he unlatched the door to his temporary sleeping quarters. There were several people he didnât want to see: Charlotte Pinkett, Jack Tanner, Rita Zhang-Warden, Genie Gray - to name a few. He would find himself storing his belongings elsewhere and sleeping on a spare couch or chair somewhere. Maybe a vehicle. So it was a somewhat pleasant surprise to see Kitty Malick brushing her teeth. That is, until she spoke. âGreat. Iâm allergic to cats.â He deadpanned and moved past her to the bag heâd packed for his stay.Â
Milo worked his jaw, and ignored his overly friendly roommateâs comments for the moment. Instead, he moved to his bag, which surprisingly looked untouched. Not that he stored anything important in it besides clothes, toiletries, and the current book he was reading. It seemed idiotic to put trust in Angels and unknown roommate to not touch his things. Everything important was on him or locked in his vehicle where it would stay until it was needed. âBe my guest, Ms. Mallick.â He responded, finally, while he removed a pair of basketball shorts and a well worn sleeveless shirt from his bag. âWouldnât call it the smartest idea in terms of your longevity, but if your ire runs that deep.â A beat of a pause for him to shrug and turn towards her. âWho am I to argue?â He shot the Famine Virtue a wink and turned back to his bag to take out the small black toiletry bag with gold âM. P.â embellished on the side. Milo zipped the overnight bag and set it neatly at the foot of his bed. A list of what needed to be done still ran through his head. Too many things reliant on information he didnât have, others held off for more pressing matters. The work couldnât be allowed to pile up for long, however. Michaela wouldnât want that, he was sure of it. âYou almost done in there?â His attention turned back to the other occupant, motioning to the bathroom. He started the process of changing over his clothes by unbuttoning his shirt.
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He acts as though he wonât rise to her bait, but this isnât Kittyâs first rodeo. She likes to toy with people. Likes to see how far she can push them. Likes to tempt anger. Or fear. Or frustration. And who better to poke and prod at than a Pestilence Seraphim? They might very well be made of chemicals and poison but sheâll feast on them all the same. âYou know,â she drawls, long and low and slow, glancing up into the pristine reflection of the mirror, dark eyes fixed on her roommate, âI have a funny feeling there are more people who would raise a fucking glass to your murder than there are people who would mourn.â The observation is punctuated with an upward twitch that catches alight in one corner of her mouth, forced to tame the smirk into submission before she gives away that sheâs enjoying herself. âMaybe Iâd be praised for bringing down the great Milo Pierce. Then again, I think your reputation is overhypedâ I mean, I thought you were meant to be one of the real nasty guys. Yet youâre letting me run my mouth without even so much as a threat. Itâs interesting.â As was the neat, orderly way in which he unpacks, setting out what he needs for the night, vastly different to the tornado path of mess strewn out from her own bag.
âNo, Iâm not,â she chirps, despite having no further need for the bathroom, taking up the space for the sake of claiming territory. Kitty turns on the cold water tap and idly rinses her fingertips, leaning against the porcelain basin with no desire to move. She wonât make this easy for him â not when Pestilence have played no small part in the past half a yearâs strife and chaos. Her form of revenge may be petty but it was still very much sweet. âWould you like to know how Iâd kill you in your sleep? Actually, wait, noâ you tell me first. And no cheating with weapons. Gun is too loud, silencer is too boring, and knife is too easy. Impress me and Iâll let you use the bathroom undisturbed.â
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+ MONICAÂ ( @monicainpinkâââ )
MONDAY 12TH JULY. UNDERGROUND GARAGES IN NORTH LONDON. The subterranean garage block is dark and dank, the air stale with petrol fumes and damp. Time barely exists down here, untouched by the sun, the only light coming from the fluorescent strips that occasionally flicker temperemntally, sending stop-motion-like shadows leaping over cracked concrete floor. Only a handful of vehicles are present, the private lock-ups that line one wall shielding more expensive cars from the greedy eyes of thieves. Her footfall met by a slight echo, Kitty whistles idly and listens to the sound drag out through the dull space. She doesnât realise that Pestilence have marked this territory with their grubby little hands until itâs a fraction too late, Monica appearing abruptly in the Virtueâs line of sight. Limbs turn tense, stopping in her tracks, greeting the hitch of excitement that quickens her pulse as she would an old friend. Kitty wets her lips before they cut into a slow grin. âI should have known you and your rats make homes in places like this. Scurrying around underground.âÂ
She doesnât play well with her familyâs ex-lovers. Femenias hearts, for all their burning passion, were tender things prone to being ripped at and chewed on. She isnât certain if Marcus amd Monica were ever serious â or who was at fault for them parting ways â but sheâll point the finger of blame at the Pinkett spawn all the same. Taking a handful of steps closer, Kitty flicks her gaze over the other woman and searches for signs of trouble ( more inclined to want to find them than not, admittedly ). âWhatcha doing down here Mon-mon? Trying to scrape up people to sell to?â An eyebrow twitches upwards, curious. âWhat have you got on you?â
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+ MARCUS
drugs cw.
a hearty, high pitched laugh shakes his chest, leaving an extra twinkle in his eyes. ânow that would be something,â he drawls with a cheshire cat grin. but her next words do not meet his ears, swooping right past him as eyes bore into the phone screen, tapping it with his thumb when it threatens to go dark. at first, marcus thought maybe this was a move from the wardens against famine, hoping to pull on kittyâs heartstrings until something war can use against them is exposed. but there panic in her eyes. thatâs not the face of someone being harassed by an ex, this is the face of someone hiding something. âwho? how many french cunts called saint do you know, kitty? âcause i only know oneââ the more she deflects, the more marcusâ head spins with possibility.
he reaches for her but sheâs already left her seat, leaving behind her phone, and knocking her clutch to the floor. marcus huffs, grabbing the phone and sweeping her belongings back into her bag. his finger catches on a chain, and when his eyes trace the delicate line, he finds a ring. the black gem swallows the light while two smaller, clear ones reflect it, and marcus wonders, why is something so beautiful here and not on her finger? marcus looks up at the back of her as he gets to his feet, ring and clutch in hand. âkitty.â this time when he says her name, itâs an order. he closes the distance between them, lowering the volume of his voice. âhere, your bag. now, walk with me.â
he leads her with a hand on her arm through the crowd to a quiet corner of the balcony as he fishes out a cigarette, filling his lungs to the brim before he meets her eyes. as he exhales, he holds out the bunched up chain and ring in his palm for her to take back. âthis is where you tell me what the hell youâre so prang about, and what it has to do with him, so i donât jump to the wrong conclusion.â heâs said saintâs name one too many times for one night.
drugs cw
Her name on his lips slices sharply and efficiently through the noise, even amongst the clamour and celebration of the party. It makes her feel like theyâre ten years younger and sheâs drunk on youth, pushing an argument too far, letting her anger spread like an oil slick. Only Marcus had been capable of reigning her in at that age, and he succeeds even now, the weight of his tone enough to slow her down. She canât quite meet his line of sight though, accepting her abandoned clutch wordlessly as his fingers curl around her arm and ignite a simmering feeling of dread that lurks restlessly in the pit of her stomach. There was no escaping this. Even on a good day â uncompromised and unintoxicated and unafraid that she might have just ruined the love of her lifeâs very existence â sheâd struggle to slip her way out of this one. Silence reigns and she shivers despite the warm night air, ensnared by the unblinking gaze he sets on her, irises so dark they look black in the low light.Â
Defiance is hard to muster when she knows where his rage can lead him â until he opens a closed fist, revealing a familiar piece of jewellry. Itâs enough to remind Kitty of what she needs to fight for. Of who she needs to fight for. Quick to snatch the chain from his grasp, she cradles the ring to her chest protectively. Adoringly. âYou already know what this is about. Deep down. I can see it on your face.â Marcus isnât an idiot. Far from it. Sheâd be defending herself valiantly if the message and the ring were anything less than what they are, typically keen to put on a show of just how much she supposedly loathes the youngest Warden. Raising her chin, she stares at her cousin through tendrils of cigarette smoke. âI hate keeping shit from you and the others, I really fucking do. But this wasnât about you guys. It wasnât about me, either. It was about him and what his family would do if they found out.âÂ
Despite everything, she exhales a laugh. Relief clings to the sound. She wasnât made to hide her feelings, not when they burned so spectatculalry for someone. Honesty has always come naturally to her, speaking her mind regardless of consequences, so sheâd glad â despite the risk of conseuqneuces â to finally tell the truth. âWe got back together in March. He only hurt me to push me away. To keep me off Warâs radar.â Kitty leans against the balcony edge, smiling softly to herself, but in the back of her mind a question will later linger: would she have told Marcus all this if that tiny red cupid hadnât slipped down her throat? âIâm not even sure if I can really explain how I feel about him, not in a way that properly sums it up. I justâ I really fucking love him.â She glances at the man beside her who had entered the world first and made a promise to himself to carve a safe path for his family to follow, begging him to let her venture out and choose her own. âPlease donât tell anyone.âÂ
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Phoebe Bridgers - Iris ft. Maggie Rogers
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+ MARCUS
his heart might be beating too fast, nostrils and gums numb thanks to fletcherâs never ending pockets, but at least everything feels right. she does not fight him, she doesnât even watch him too closely, trying to dodge having her heart broken by family. again. âi said,â he drawls, grinning from ear to ear, âwhat the hell is so interesting?â but sheâs fucked, and so is he, so he hardily notices when his question is left unanswered and a hand meets his cheek. marcus raises his brows when she declines, never knowing her to turn down a little fun, or any fun. itâs one of the many things he loves so dearly about her, how freely she lives her life. but of course she counters him, and a chuckle vibrates in his throat as she searches through her bag. she holds out the baggie, and marcus scoots a little closer to look before snatching it from between her fingers. nimble fingers dip inside and marcus presses the small pill onto his tongue. âwell, now iâve tried it, iâll give you my review in the morning.â
âwhat, you think jess really wasnât gonna invite all her pest buddies now that weâre all playing nice again? honestly, iâm just fuckinâ glad i havenât seen monica,â he laughs, but itâs a very real concern. a flash catches marcusâ eyes, and he looks down at kittyâs phone laying between them. he doesnât make the conscious decision to read it, but itâs in his nature to stick his nose in every dark corner.
instagram message from saint warden: what are you wearing?
it takes a second too long for it to click, and when it does, marcus snaps his gaze from the room back to the phone, picking it up to read the message letter by letter. what the fuck? âkitââ confusion is what is most prominent now, tugging his brows into a frown. ââwhat are you wearing?â why the fuck is saint warden asking you what youâre wearing?â itâs not yet a possibility that this could be wanted, that she still wants him. kitty isnât the kind of person to crawl back to someone whoâs hurt her. or is she? marcus searches her expression for something, anything, that will help him piece this together.
drugs cw
All is well as the tiny cupid silhouette printed onto a pill by one of their rivals vanishes into Marcusâ mouth, devoured by Famine as all things should be. Kitty leans back, satisfied, bright eyes flitting over the cacophony of colour that is Jessicaâs party. Feathers and glitter. Fur and flames. The scent of popcorn and gasoline and earth hanging in the sky-high conservatoryâs warm air. Alive and alert, she soaks it all in, drumming her fingers gently against her cousinâs shoulder to keep some form of connection with him. She wants him close. Needs to cling on to the bond between them, however frayed, because who is she without her family? âIâll fight Monica for you,â she declares, resting her head against the top of the sofa back, gazing up at the intricate pipework and lights above them. âI will. Jess will understand because, like, she knows, deep down. You canât invite people from other gangs and not expect a fight, right? And technically, technically, I donât think it can even count as truce-breaking if itâs not to do with all that shit and is just a few punches thrown at a birthday party.â With a grin, she turns her head to see if Marcus is agreeing with her â instead, sheâs met with an expression and a question that makes the heat of her body flush cold.Â
She glances at the phone in his hand, the notification still on screen. Her stomach lurches, panic fluttering through her chest. âWhat?â she blinks, laughing shakily. Every thought feels scattered, unable to conjure up an adequate lie quick enough. A terrible one leaves her lips instead. âWho?â Fuck. âIâ Heââ Her own heartbeat drums in her ears, nervously bouncing her knee as she searches for something to say that will turn his attention elsewhere. Anywhere. So long as itâs away from Saint, whose life Marcus could destroy with a simple sentence to Gabrielle Warden if he were to learn the truth. Hers too, should Saint find himself unable to forgive her for being the spark to ignite that flaming inferno of a shitshow. She wouldnât blame him if he couldnât. âMy mouthâs fucking dry, is your mouth dry?â she asks abruptly, standing up, already attempting to move away from the sofa and this conversation, abandoning both phone and clutch for the sake of an exit. âIâll get us a drink.Tequila? Vodka? Glass of water? You know what, Iâll just guess when I get to the bar.â And make a run for it with the hope that heâll forget any of this happened by the morning.
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+ RAFAEL
âTrust me - none of this is okay.â A sharp intonation in his otherwise flat demeanor. The only sliver of liveliness, in what has otherwise been an eerily silent lunch. How common silence has become, as of late. The years prior, every arrival was a reverberating sound. Femenias Estate knew nothing of cold silence and vacant gazes. The constant ebb and flow is jarring, and even Kitty begins to show signs of her ferocity wavering. After all, how consistent can rage become when turmoil becomes normalized? âBut heâll be back, and when he returns? Heâs going to be pissed that I didnât pre-order the wedding cake.â Itâs the last vestige of his fatherâs plans that he can control. Famineâs operations carry on, business as usual. Femenias Energyâs daily operations are manned by Ikki, anyways. âThereâs nothing we can do, Kitty. We donât have any jaws to break. No leads to follow. Weâve got nothing.â He sighs, scratching his fork along the porcelain glass. âBut we can do this for him.â
He leans back against his seat, an instinctive reaction to her approach. What did he fear more? Being far away from her, or the reality that one knowing look could undo his barely-contained composure? Ultimately, it seems to not matter. She is present and willing, clinging onto her own version of control - rage. Itâs her tell, a revelation of where her own heart and mind resides. If Rafael distracts, Kitty digs her heels like an unmovable object. âAn angel would know fuck all.â He mumbles, unhelpfully. Itâs not as if they bequeathed their largest secrets to the likes of Wren or Omer. âWanna hear something awful?â He knows the answer before it comes. Kittyâs seen and heard the worst of him, to change her mind now. âI preferred it when he got stabbed.â Itâs a dark revelation, shared only with his secret keeper. âBecause he was here. We had some control over whether he lived or died. We had him.â He turns in his chair, facing Kitty head-on. âHe could be dead by now - and we never even got a chance to say goodbye.â
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Thereâs the slightest hint of bite in Rafaelâs tone, disgust curling at the edges towards the situation they find themselves in, and Kitty is almost relieved. At his best, her cousin is bright and playful and loving. He lights up every room he walks into, whether he means to or not, faces turning towards him like flowers in the sunlight. But as the weight of duty continues to pile higher, as clouds gather across azure skies, she worries that heâll blind himself to what sees in him: a golden leader capable of turning love into action and action into victory. âThere are things we can do,â she insists, uncomfortable with a game plan of simply waiting. Hoping. âBeyond choosing a wedding cake, which I know is important to you because itâs important to him, butâ you could literally order one of every fucking flavour if you wanted to.â All but itching for something to do, needing to sink her teeth in and taste progress rather than vanilla or chocolate or strawberry, she tries desperately hard not to counter his desire to focus on buttercream icing and sugar decorations yet cannot keep her earnest persistence trapped behind her teeth. âIf an Angel doesnât work, Iâll find someone higher up the ranks. Iâll even make a Seraphim talk, you know I will. Iâll do whatever you need me to do until we find something useful.âÂ
His question doesnât require an answer. She watches him, dark eyes fixed on his own, sitting up a fraction straighter as if to prove she can take whatever ugliness he wants to pour out from his chest. Itâll find a worthy home in her own â and it does, settling in amongst every other word heâs ever uttered to her in confidence. âI get it,â Kitty responds, sympathy twitching at the corners of her lips only to turn into something more serious as Rafaelâs mind twists towards hopelessness. Heâs not dead, she would have insisted, once. Not even that long ago, in fact. But times have changed and her stubborn desire to ignore the worst of their fates has worn thin. She thinks of Saint, suspended in time while waiting for news of his sister, only to have his heart shattered by the truth. âThenâ I think we should plan to carry on as if he is. And when he walks through that front door, smoking one of his disgusting smelling cigars, we can be proved fucking wrong and for once we wonât be mad about it.â She moves to perch on the very edge of his chair, quick to wrap her arms around him, fingers digging into the material of his shirt. Quiet, it takes a moment of consulting her heart to figure out a way to try and soothe his. âYou know, the best goodbye I could give him is to promise to take care of you.â Leaning back, she meets his gaze. âAnd the best goodbye you could give him is to promise to take care of Famine.âÂ
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+ MARCUS
â Â JULY 1ST, Â JESSICAâS BIRTHDAY PARTY, Â WITH KITTY MALLICK. Â ( @kittymâââ )
family birthdays have always been (and he hopes will always be) a life saver. the north star to marcusâ stress laden days. parties hosted by a femenias have a deafening warmth about them that forces marcus to set down his armour and all the things that keep him up at night, allowing himself to have fun. except this time, there are fucking tigers. the dancers and flames left him with enough unease to begin with, knowing full well who heâs partying with and the feats that can be achieved by an intoxicated femenias. one of them living right beneath his skin, having long lost track of how many shots and lines saturate his blood. a bet begins to form on the tip of his tongue, rafael will find a way to set himself on fire at least once tonight, but thereâs no one at his side to hear it.
when he settles at kittyâs side, he greets her with a huff heâs certain will be returned. âdid she tell you about the god damn tigers?â marcusâ eyes narrow on one of the wild animals before a passing waiter catches his attention, dropping off his empty glass with a smile on their tray as they pass. perhaps this is exactly why jess mentioned no such thing, knowing fully well the eldest of the cousins would have too many protests. âsit with me? my knee is playing up.â thereâs almost no use for his cane now, but his knee is still easy to aggravate, especially when cocaine makes him feel invincible, moving around the sky garden like a man who isnât in recovery. marcus falls back into a sofa with a groan, stretching his left leg absently as he turns to face her. she is not quite with him, it seems, more interested in the sight of her phone screen. curiosity tingles under his skull, gently tapping for answers, drawing his brows into a light frown as he watches her smile be illuminated by the cold blue light of her phone, a stark contrast to the warmth of the party. âhey, what the hell is so interesting about that thing, hm? you are at a party,â he says with an authority only an older brother would dare wear, âyou want a bump?â
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Between tension with Marcus over Gwen and the click of an empty barrel aimed at Saintâs temple, the past few days have left her yearning for tonight. The freedom of a party and the chance to forget, for a few hours, about the world around them has always been something of a siren call to the Femenias family. Love lies at the heart of celebrations like this, free to feast on gluttonously until theyâre full with it. Vices are easier to indulge in too, alcohol and narcotics flowing. Itâs warm here, high above the city skyline, a garden paradise hidden from the gaze of mere mortals. The tulle of her tutu sticks to her thighs, skin glowing in the heat. Kittyâs attention fixed to her phone, she feels a presence arrive beside her. She knows itâs Marcus before sheâs glanced up, pupils dark and wide, and when she does itâs to greet him with a flash of a smile. Without thought, she leans against him affectionately, Gwen forgotten for now under the haze of her own intoxication. A single bark of laughter is expelled at his question, tearing her attention away from her phone. âShe didnât tell me about the tigers. If one of those things comes near me Iâll turn it into a fucking coat.â A long, wary stare is shot in the direction of the nearest big cat but the Pestilence-produced pill currently steeping through her bloodstream is enough to keep fear at bay.Â
His request is responded to both willingly and obediently, feeling herself walk with him towards the sofa and sit down while her wired focus plunges into the pixels of her phone screen. Deep down, she knows she shouldnât be messaging Saint from this phone â but a few Instagram DMs werenât going to hurt, unable to shake the hollow feeling of wanting him here. With her. âWhat?â Kitty lifts her chin swiftly, Marcusâ question unanswered but the firm authority in his tone enough to snap her presence back to the current. The look of interest on his expression is met with the same on her own, temptation lingering towards his offer. She reaches to pat him affectionately on the cheek. âI doâ I do but I shouldnât. So no. But, butâ I have something, hold onââ She sets her phone down on the sofa cushion between them, retrieving the clutch purse tucked under her arm. The metal clasp is pulled open and she plucks a baggie with a single solitary pill within from the silk-lined interior. âCupid. Itâs Pestilenceâs new shit. Have you tried it? Itâs like, fuck, Marcy, itâs good. This might be the only fucking benefit of having some of those fuckers here tonight. Did you know it wasnât going to be just us?â
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+ MILOÂ ( @milo-pierceâââ )
NIGHT, SATURDAY 17TH JULY. THE MANOR. Kitty prides herself on being able to sleep just about anywhere. Handy, really, given the number of locations sheâs had to spend nights at over the past couple of months, her own bed beginning to feel severely neglected. And although the room smells of wood polish and lavender; although thereâs a vacant mattress and an unnamed overnight bag that sheâs ( so far ) managed to curb her curiosity towards and not look inside for clues as to who owns it; although being here makes her feel as though sheâs waiting for something bad to happen rather than something good, sheâs quick to make herself at home. Her belongings already strewn over her side of the room, todayâs clothes abandoned on the floor with her Balenciaga sneakers, she dons a t-shirt and shorts and stands under the artificial glare of the en-suite bathroom light while brushing her teeth.Â
Nighttime air scented with jasmine and honeysuckle wafts occasionally through the open windows, catching drawn curtains which sway in response, the old manor not made for keeping out Julyâs heat. The door latch draws back and Kitty pauses, stepping into the room in time to watch a Pestilence Seraphim step over the threshold. Thereâs a momentary pause, tension sparking electric through her limbs. Dangerous meets dangerous. Dark lashes narrow. âI could kill you in your sleep, you know,â she says matter-of-factly around a mouthful of spearmint, because it feels right to be the one to fire the first warning shot. Plastic bristles return to her incisors only to hesitate and add, âItâs the easiest time to do it. You wouldnât even have time to realise what was happening.â Satisfied, she turns and slinks back into the bathroom, spitting toothpaste into the sink. Perhaps it was foolish, but a part of her hopes Milo will retaliate if only to give herself an excuse to lash out and put her loathing of Pestilenceâs ranks to good use. Â
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+ RAFAEL
@kittymâ | Afternoon of July 9th at the Femenias Estate Dining Room
The towers of pastel-hued wedding cakes surround the pair, entrenched at the center of the all-too familiar mahogany table. Every color and flavor imaginable, delivered by the coveted French pastry chef of Rafael Seniorâs choosing. Fatherzilla of the Groom, Rafael would often lament. The Horsemanâs over-involvement in the upcoming nuptials is a running joke at this point. One that is brushed away by the patriarch, who insisted weeks ago that he be involved in the wedding cake tasting. At the time, Rafael met the insistence with an eye roll and a begrudging yes. Now, as he and Kitty sit listlessly at the table, with the head vacant? Oh, how he condemns himself for thinking so out of turn. What would he give, to have Rafael Senior dissecting the wedding cakes and insisting on a proper church for the wedding?
âSorry - did you say something?â He blinks, peering up from the lavender and vanilla slice that remains untouched on his plate. Only his fork moves, dragging along the porcelain plate and crumbling the finely made cake. Most of the sample slices remain untouched, save for a few begrudging bites. Really - they ought to have cancelled altogether. Yet Rafael keeps the appointment - for his fatherâs sake. He would return, and he would expect a full report. He peers up at Kitty, that same wan uncertainty coloring her face. He asks her to come - I canât do this alone. But few words are exchanged between them, near lifeless as they move about slices of cake. âWhich one do you think heâd like?â He questions quietly, scratching the back of his ear. âThe lemon raspberry is too tart, right?â
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Itâs quiet in the dining room. Kitty drags her fork through a field of icing, prongs tilling up the sugarscape like a plow through fresh earth. She chews on a mouthful of cake and itâs sweet and soft and sheâs sure it would be delicious if worry wasnât gnawing at her insides, gaze fixed on Rafael who has barely had more than a few bites of the tasters lined up in front of him. So much of her time has been devoted to worrying about him lately â after his father is stabbed; after Marcus lays his hands on him; after he is comatosed â that itâs almost beginning to feel a normal state of affairs, which she hates. Because they shouldnât have to live like this, especially now that a new truce has been conjured into existence. âSuch bullshit,â she murmurs, setting her cutlery down with a clatter. The spike in anger is swiftly followed by guilt, Rafael stirring from his own stupor. âNo, not really. Nothing important.â Her answer is accompanied by a small shake of her head, apologetic yet dismissive. And then heâs talking about flavours, clinging on to mundanity and duty. âI donât know, Raf.â Sheâs frustrated but not with him. She searches the dark depths of his eyes from across the table. âWhat are we doing? I get it if you need a distraction, I justâ are we pretending everything is ok?â
Thereâs too much distance between them, Rafael Seniorâs vacant seat looming in her periphery. An uncle and father first, a Horseman second. Kitty stands, moving around the table to her cousinâs side â forever her preferred place. She pulls up a seat, close enough to knock her knee against his in a silent reminder that sheâs there. Always. âI can go out and catch an Angel, if you want? Death, Pestilence, War. Iâll make them talk. Someone must fucking know something.â Sheâd even use violence, if he asked. Wouldnât think twice about breaking the truce rules for him, consequences be damned. Her attention returning to the unsampled slice on his plate, offering a tender smile. âDo you know what cake he had at his wedding?â Â
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LOOKBOOK â The Riddle Pt I.
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CHICAGO FIRE | 1.04 One Minute
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