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@kittym
✧ ⸻ Kitty Mallick. She/Her. Cis Woman. 13th April 1990. Famine Virtue.
QUICK LINKS.
About
Bio
Connections ( wanted & taken )
Headcanons ➜ Cat + Mouse ➜ Favourites ➜ Home ➜ Second (secret) home ➜ Parents ➜ Vehicles ➜ Wardrobe
SIGNIFICANT EVENTS.
TASK ➜ Likes + Dislikes
+ KITTY
@kittym | 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 Virtue’s luggage with the time and place. Unlike others in the manor, this wasn’t 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. “Hey,” Rita greets simply. “I wondered whether you’d show up or not.” 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 wouldn’t be seen. The distance gave her a small feeling of safety, but she’d still tucked her favorite pistol into the pocket of her dress just in case.
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. “Were you there when your uncle was taken?” It was hard to believe this could have happened if Kitty was, except Rita knew that she’d be powerless against the chemicals that would have been in her clothes.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
If curiosity ( and a penchant for getting into situations she shouldn’t be in ) hadn’t 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 — for whatever reason, one that Kitty is yet to truly understand — 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. “I like to keep people guessing,” she responds, shrugging nonchalantly. “I mean— I’m still pretty surprised you want to discuss shit with me and not Marcus or Raf.”
The scent of straw and hay is sweet in the warm summer air. Kitty wrinkles her nose at it, still watching Rita attentively. “Does Remus know what you’re up to?” A thoughtful pause follows, weighted. “Or Saint?” 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. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re fucking suggesting.” Flexing her jaw, she shakes her head. “No. I wasn’t there. They were in a vehicle travelling to Femenias Energy’s Headquarters. The other passengers don’t know what happened other than that gas got pumped into the car. Is that what happened with Gabrielle?”
+ 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. “You’re probably not wrong. Between the rival distributors, the other major gangs, the minor gangs trying to get ahead, and I’m sure a few in my own gang that are pissed, I got Seraphim and they didn’t.” He ticked them off on his fingers, looking upwards as if reading the list from mind. “Oh, then there was the entire cartel I helped wipe out with another cartel, the other being one of my clients of course. I’m sure the remaining loved ones wouldn’t mind seeing me dead.” The blonde finished unbuttoning his shirt and pulled it off along with the undershirt beneath. He traded them out for the sleeveless shirt he’d pulled out. While he folded the discarded articles, he continued his monotonous response to her thought. “However, for every ten or so that would raise a glass, there’s one that would seek revenge. Loyalty is a fantastic thing. Either way, I won’t care a tick because I’ll be dead.” Milo shrugged and sat himself at the end of the bed, hands folded in front of him while he waited for her to finish.
“You like games, don’t you, Ms. Mallick?” 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 wasn’t aiming to set him up for something and this was her twisted way of making the best out of their situation. “You do know there are other bathrooms in the manor, right? Or that I’m 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 wasn’t impressive out of spite.” She did seem the spiteful type. “Besides, no weapons were allowed so of course I’d have to find another method, if I had any want or need to dispose of you. Which, I do not.” He sighed. “I 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.” As if on cue, he yawned after his words.
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 uncle’s case ). A small pang ricochets through her ribs at the thought of Rafael Senior, worried for the son who seeks to step into his father’s footsteps. “You’re so sure that people would seek revenge for you?” 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 wasn’t just a bathroom, it was a statement: she won’t share nicely with him, rank be damned. One corner of her mouth pulls into a smirk at his question — although it’s far more an observation than any sort of query. “Show me someone in this manor who doesn’t like games,” she counters. “You like them too or you wouldn’t have made it all the way up the ladder to Seraphim.”
Indignation flashes across her expression like the guiding beam of a lighthouse; continue with caution. “Pick me up and our little hypothetical murder scenarios will suddenly feel very fucking real for you.” 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 doesn’t tell him that his idea is unimpressive. It isn’t. Annoyingly. “Right, so you’re just going to kill me and not take credit? Turn this whole sleepover thing into a murder mystery?” She nods, her own option contrasting. “See, I don’t give a fuck about stringing this shit out. The quicker I kill you, the better. So I’d break one of the bulbs in your bedside lamp and slit your throat while you sleep. Easy. No fighting back. Everyone will know I’ve done it. It’s a win, win, win. Plus it’d be kind of funny that the thing that finally ended Milo Pierce was a lightbulb.”
+ MARCUS
drugs cw.
this is not the explanation he was bracing himself for, but it’s 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. he’s silent, inhaling and exhaling cloud after cloud of smoke, and his eyes don’t 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, that’s 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 warden’s eyes lingererd. he laughs now, light and accompanied by a gentle head shake. “you two are putting on quite the show,” 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 it’s 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. “if you’re in love, i’m not going to be the one that destroys it.” a chilled hand finds the place where kitty’s neck meets her shoulder as his gaze fuses to hers. “it’ll die with me if that’s what you want.” he drops his hand from her shoulder, taking a step closer as he fishes out a second cigarette to keep his hands busy. “believe it or not, i want you to be happy.” 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 kitty’s position, he wouldn’t risk anything that would turn the love ravi gives him sour.
“so what is he?” marcus nods at the ring, “that’s from him, right? it’s why that beautiful ring is on a chain in your bag instead of on your finger?” 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. “and no one else knows?”
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 — 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 doesn’t ease the tension turning her limbs taught but it does ignite a small flicker of hope that glimmers across wide, pupil-blow, dark eyes. “We have to,” Kitty insists, wanting him to understand that hiding their relationship wasn’t simply to bask in the glory of pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes and disguising love as loathing. “If 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.”
Her furrowed brow starts to ache, the frown of concern slowly lifting as her cousin offers reassurance. For once, his hand near her neck doesn’t make her flinch, too caught up in the alternative fear of having said too much ( however desperate she is to believe him ). “Nobody else can know. I wish it was different.” Tears gather song her lashline, stubbornly blinked away. “And I’m sorry for telling you because it’s a really fucking hard secret to carry.” 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. “Maybe if you get even more fucked up on whatever shit we can find you’ll forget.” 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 she’s been hiding him. “He’s my fiance.” Kitty answers quietly, yet each syllable sings with pride. “He proposed on his birthday and, well— I’ve never really cared about marriage, you know? My mum never accepted my dad’s proposals but that didn’t 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 we’re each other’s even if we have to act as though we’re not most of the time.” Like a child with a treasured item they’d found, she holds the ring up for Marcus to see. Diamonds glint in whatever light they can find. “How did you know when you wanted to marry Ravi?” Her love-soaked tone drains at the question of others made aware of the relationship, reluctantly acknowledging the one other soul. “Saint told Remus. It still feels like a fucking bad idea that he knows but I didn’t want to stop him, not when he insists that they’re both getting along now.”
+ RAFAEL
It’s with fond, somber eyes that he stares back at Kitty’s trademark petulance. A color of mirth on his pink cheeks, that contrasts the otherwise dour mood. Historically, it’s 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, there’s something dour that keeps him stead. A son’s intuition, perhaps. What if he digs further, and finds a reality he isn’t prepared to accept? “Why do I bother trying to stop you?” He asks, a color of mirth in his eyes. Nothing but fondness, for the person that redirects Rafael’s worse ideas. “You have a point.” Rafael considers, though there’s 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. “You know what egotistical, pompous shit-bags Seraphim’s can be.” Present company included. “If they did this, they would have made a bloody announcement of it.” Literally and figuratively. In a lengthy pause, he cannot escape the demons that prompt a next question. “If it’s Death - there’s a chance. It took them weeks after kidnapping to…” He doesn’t say the word kill, he doesn’t have to.
He falls into the comfort of Kitty’s 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 it’s not from the blasted lung, still wary on its recovery since the coma. It’s 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. “You already promised him that. Many, many times…” He mumbles with certainty. Would Rafael Senior really let his son rise, without Kitty to catch him when he falls? “And if I can’t? Look at what’s come of us. We’re fucking falling behind, and it’s not just because of what’s out there. But what’s within our own ranks.” It’s a confession meant for someone like Marcus, his fellow Seraphim. And yet, he cannot say it, without speaking to Marcus’ own missteps. “If they aren’t putting the knife in our fucking backs, they are talking shit to our faces. Or, they are failing us.” 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. “Maybe there’s something good in Marcus stepping up…”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Perhaps she ought to have done more to entertain her cousin’s attempt at a distraction, the various slices of cake occupying the table between them turning the air sweet — 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 Senior’s disappearance like bloodhounds after their quarry? To sit and do nothing but taste various flavours of buttercream felt like a waste if valuable time. “I’m sorry, I know you wanted to ignore what was happening for a bit— but I’m of more use to you out there than here. It’s just a cake, Raf. The day itself and how you feel about the person you’re marrying is surely the most important thing?” She’s 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. “It’s 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.” 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. “It feels cheap, though, for Death to do the exact same fucking thing again.” But even as she says it, she feels the scales tip in their favour. It would make sense — people loved patterns. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll see if I can find anything out. It’d be worth asking Marcus to do the same given that he’s apparently still pretty fucking close with Gwendolyn Goldsmith.” Whether or not Rafael knew made no difference to her: when it comes to Famine, what she knows he knows.
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. “The ranks just need to be reminded who’s boss. We’ve given them all so much— they think they can be a part of our family without putting in the fucking work.” The pair of them have dedicated their lives; expecting others to do the same came naturally. “I’m thinking of using Cat and Mouse to find new recruits. These are people who already know how to fight, plus they’re 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 who’s getting lazy.” Leaning back a fraction, dark eyes seek out Rafael’s own. “Why?” 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 it’ll take time for him to prove his intentions are truly good. “What’s Marcus planning?”
Summer Bishil
+ MILO
It had been a long night and as he made his way to his room, he wasn’t sure it was going to be over just yet. Exhaustion didn’t even begin to describe Milo’s state. All he wanted to do was get out of the day’s 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 wasn’t even sure who to expect when he unlatched the door to his temporary sleeping quarters. There were several people he didn’t 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. “Great. I’m allergic to cats.” He deadpanned and moved past her to the bag he’d packed for his stay.
Milo worked his jaw, and ignored his overly friendly roommate’s 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. “Be my guest, Ms. Mallick.” He responded, finally, while he removed a pair of basketball shorts and a well worn sleeveless shirt from his bag. “Wouldn’t call it the smartest idea in terms of your longevity, but if your ire runs that deep.” A beat of a pause for him to shrug and turn towards her. “Who am I to argue?” He shot the Famine Virtue a wink and turned back to his bag to take out the small black toiletry bag with gold ‘M. P.’ 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 didn’t have, others held off for more pressing matters. The work couldn’t be allowed to pile up for long, however. Michaela wouldn’t want that, he was sure of it. “You almost done in there?” 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.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
He acts as though he won’t rise to her bait, but this isn’t Kitty’s 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 she’ll feast on them all the same. “You know,” she drawls, long and low and slow, glancing up into the pristine reflection of the mirror, dark eyes fixed on her roommate, “I have a funny feeling there are more people who would raise a fucking glass to your murder than there are people who would mourn.” 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 she’s enjoying herself. “Maybe I’d be praised for bringing down the great Milo Pierce. Then again, I think your reputation is overhyped— I mean, I thought you were meant to be one of the real nasty guys. Yet you’re letting me run my mouth without even so much as a threat. It’s interesting.” 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.
“No, I’m not,” 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 won’t make this easy for him — not when Pestilence have played no small part in the past half a year’s strife and chaos. Her form of revenge may be petty but it was still very much sweet. “Would you like to know how I’d kill you in your sleep? Actually, wait, no— 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 I’ll let you use the bathroom undisturbed.”
+ MONICA ( @monicainpink )
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 doesn’t realise that Pestilence have marked this territory with their grubby little hands until it’s a fraction too late, Monica appearing abruptly in the Virtue’s 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. “I should have known you and your rats make homes in places like this. Scurrying around underground.”
She doesn’t play well with her family’s ex-lovers. Femenias hearts, for all their burning passion, were tender things prone to being ripped at and chewed on. She isn’t certain if Marcus amd Monica were ever serious — or who was at fault for them parting ways — but she’ll 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 ). “Whatcha doing down here Mon-mon? Trying to scrape up people to sell to?” An eyebrow twitches upwards, curious. “What have you got on you?”
+ MARCUS
drugs cw.
a hearty, high pitched laugh shakes his chest, leaving an extra twinkle in his eyes. “now that would be something,” 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 kitty’s heartstrings until something war can use against them is exposed. but there panic in her eyes. that’s not the face of someone being harassed by an ex, this is the face of someone hiding something. “who? how many french cunts called saint do you know, kitty? ‘cause i only know one—” the more she deflects, the more marcus’ head spins with possibility.
he reaches for her but she’s 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. “kitty.” this time when he says her name, it’s an order. he closes the distance between them, lowering the volume of his voice. “here, your bag. now, walk with me.”
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. “this is where you tell me what the hell you’re so prang about, and what it has to do with him, so i don’t jump to the wrong conclusion.” he’s said saint’s 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 they’re ten years younger and she’s 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 can’t 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 — uncompromised and unintoxicated and unafraid that she might have just ruined the love of her life’s very existence — she’d 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.
Defiance is hard to muster when she knows where his rage can lead him — until he opens a closed fist, revealing a familiar piece of jewellry. It’s 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. “You already know what this is about. Deep down. I can see it on your face.” Marcus isn’t an idiot. Far from it. She’d 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. “I hate keeping shit from you and the others, I really fucking do. But this wasn’t about you guys. It wasn’t about me, either. It was about him and what his family would do if they found out.”
Despite everything, she exhales a laugh. Relief clings to the sound. She wasn’t 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 she’d glad — despite the risk of conseuqneuces — to finally tell the truth. “We got back together in March. He only hurt me to push me away. To keep me off War’s radar.” 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 hadn’t slipped down her throat? “I’m not even sure if I can really explain how I feel about him, not in a way that properly sums it up. I just— I really fucking love him.” 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. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
Phoebe Bridgers - Iris ft. Maggie Rogers
+ MARCUS
his heart might be beating too fast, nostrils and gums numb thanks to fletcher’s never ending pockets, but at least everything feels right. she does not fight him, she doesn’t even watch him too closely, trying to dodge having her heart broken by family. again. “i said,” he drawls, grinning from ear to ear, “what the hell is so interesting?” but she’s 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. it’s 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. “well, now i’ve tried it, i’ll give you my review in the morning.”
“what, you think jess really wasn’t gonna invite all her pest buddies now that we’re all playing nice again? honestly, i’m just fuckin’ glad i haven’t seen monica,” he laughs, but it’s a very real concern. a flash catches marcus’ eyes, and he looks down at kitty’s phone laying between them. he doesn’t make the conscious decision to read it, but it’s 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? “kit—” confusion is what is most prominent now, tugging his brows into a frown. “‘what are you wearing?’ why the fuck is saint warden asking you what you’re wearing?” it’s not yet a possibility that this could be wanted, that she still wants him. kitty isn’t the kind of person to crawl back to someone who’s 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 Marcus’ mouth, devoured by Famine as all things should be. Kitty leans back, satisfied, bright eyes flitting over the cacophony of colour that is Jessica’s party. Feathers and glitter. Fur and flames. The scent of popcorn and gasoline and earth hanging in the sky-high conservatory’s warm air. Alive and alert, she soaks it all in, drumming her fingers gently against her cousin’s 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? “I’ll fight Monica for you,” she declares, resting her head against the top of the sofa back, gazing up at the intricate pipework and lights above them. “I will. Jess will understand because, like, she knows, deep down. You can’t invite people from other gangs and not expect a fight, right? And technically, technically, I don’t think it can even count as truce-breaking if it’s not to do with all that shit and is just a few punches thrown at a birthday party.” With a grin, she turns her head to see if Marcus is agreeing with her — instead, she’s met with an expression and a question that makes the heat of her body flush cold.
She glances at the phone in his hand, the notification still on screen. Her stomach lurches, panic fluttering through her chest. “What?” she blinks, laughing shakily. Every thought feels scattered, unable to conjure up an adequate lie quick enough. A terrible one leaves her lips instead. “Who?” Fuck. “I— He—” 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 it’s 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 wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t. “My mouth’s fucking dry, is your mouth dry?” 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. “I’ll get us a drink.Tequila? Vodka? Glass of water? You know what, I’ll just guess when I get to the bar.” And make a run for it with the hope that he’ll forget any of this happened by the morning.
+ RAFAEL
“Trust me - none of this is okay.” 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? “But he’ll be back, and when he returns? He’s going to be pissed that I didn’t pre-order the wedding cake.” It’s the last vestige of his father’s plans that he can control. Famine’s operations carry on, business as usual. Femenias Energy’s daily operations are manned by Ikki, anyways. “There’s nothing we can do, Kitty. We don’t have any jaws to break. No leads to follow. We’ve got nothing.” He sighs, scratching his fork along the porcelain glass. “But we can do this for him.”
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. It’s her tell, a revelation of where her own heart and mind resides. If Rafael distracts, Kitty digs her heels like an unmovable object. “An angel would know fuck all.” He mumbles, unhelpfully. It’s not as if they bequeathed their largest secrets to the likes of Wren or Omer. “Wanna hear something awful?” He knows the answer before it comes. Kitty’s seen and heard the worst of him, to change her mind now. “I preferred it when he got stabbed.” It’s a dark revelation, shared only with his secret keeper. “Because he was here. We had some control over whether he lived or died. We had him.” He turns in his chair, facing Kitty head-on. “He could be dead by now - and we never even got a chance to say goodbye.”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
There’s the slightest hint of bite in Rafael’s 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 he’ll blind himself to what sees in him: a golden leader capable of turning love into action and action into victory. “There are things we can do,” she insists, uncomfortable with a game plan of simply waiting. Hoping. “Beyond choosing a wedding cake, which I know is important to you because it’s important to him, but— you could literally order one of every fucking flavour if you wanted to.” 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. “If an Angel doesn’t work, I’ll find someone higher up the ranks. I’ll even make a Seraphim talk, you know I will. I’ll do whatever you need me to do until we find something useful.”
His question doesn’t 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. It’ll find a worthy home in her own — and it does, settling in amongst every other word he’s ever uttered to her in confidence. “I get it,” Kitty responds, sympathy twitching at the corners of her lips only to turn into something more serious as Rafael’s mind twists towards hopelessness. He’s 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. “Then— 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 won’t be mad about it.” 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. “You know, the best goodbye I could give him is to promise to take care of you.” Leaning back, she meets his gaze. “And the best goodbye you could give him is to promise to take care of Famine.”
+ MARCUS
— JULY 1ST, JESSICA’S BIRTHDAY PARTY, WITH KITTY MALLICK. ( @kittym )
family birthdays have always been (and he hopes will always be) a life saver. the north star to marcus’ 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 he’s 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 there’s no one at his side to hear it.
when he settles at kitty’s side, he greets her with a huff he’s certain will be returned. “did she tell you about the god damn tigers?” marcus’ 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. “sit with me? my knee is playing up.” there’s 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 isn’t 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. “hey, what the hell is so interesting about that thing, hm? you are at a party,” he says with an authority only an older brother would dare wear, “you want a bump?”
drugs cw
Between tension with Marcus over Gwen and the click of an empty barrel aimed at Saint’s 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 they’re full with it. Vices are easier to indulge in too, alcohol and narcotics flowing. It’s 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. Kitty’s attention fixed to her phone, she feels a presence arrive beside her. She knows it’s Marcus before she’s glanced up, pupils dark and wide, and when she does it’s 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. “She didn’t tell me about the tigers. If one of those things comes near me I’ll turn it into a fucking coat.” 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.
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 shouldn’t be messaging Saint from this phone — but a few Instagram DMs weren’t going to hurt, unable to shake the hollow feeling of wanting him here. With her. “What?” Kitty lifts her chin swiftly, Marcus’ 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. “I do— I do but I shouldn’t. So no. But, but— I have something, hold on—” 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. “Cupid. It’s Pestilence’s new shit. Have you tried it? It’s like, fuck, Marcy, it’s good. This might be the only fucking benefit of having some of those fuckers here tonight. Did you know it wasn’t going to be just us?”
+ MILO ( @milo-pierce )
NIGHT, SATURDAY 17TH JULY. THE MANOR. Kitty prides herself on being able to sleep just about anywhere. Handy, really, given the number of locations she’s 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 there’s a vacant mattress and an unnamed overnight bag that she’s ( 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 she’s waiting for something bad to happen rather than something good, she’s quick to make herself at home. Her belongings already strewn over her side of the room, today’s 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.
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 July’s heat. The door latch draws back and Kitty pauses, stepping into the room in time to watch a Pestilence Seraphim step over the threshold. There’s a momentary pause, tension sparking electric through her limbs. Dangerous meets dangerous. Dark lashes narrow. “I could kill you in your sleep, you know,” 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, “It’s the easiest time to do it. You wouldn’t even have time to realise what was happening.” 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 Pestilence’s ranks to good use.
+ RAFAEL
@kittym | 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 Senior’s choosing. Fatherzilla of the Groom, Rafael would often lament. The Horseman’s 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?
“Sorry - did you say something?” 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 father’s 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 can’t do this alone. But few words are exchanged between them, near lifeless as they move about slices of cake. “Which one do you think he’d like?” He questions quietly, scratching the back of his ear. “The lemon raspberry is too tart, right?”
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It’s 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 it’s sweet and soft and she’s sure it would be delicious if worry wasn’t 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 — after his father is stabbed; after Marcus lays his hands on him; after he is comatosed — that it’s almost beginning to feel a normal state of affairs, which she hates. Because they shouldn’t have to live like this, especially now that a new truce has been conjured into existence. “Such bullshit,” she murmurs, setting her cutlery down with a clatter. The spike in anger is swiftly followed by guilt, Rafael stirring from his own stupor. “No, not really. Nothing important.” Her answer is accompanied by a small shake of her head, apologetic yet dismissive. And then he’s talking about flavours, clinging on to mundanity and duty. “I don’t know, Raf.” She’s frustrated but not with him. She searches the dark depths of his eyes from across the table. “What are we doing? I get it if you need a distraction, I just— are we pretending everything is ok?”
There’s too much distance between them, Rafael Senior’s vacant seat looming in her periphery. An uncle and father first, a Horseman second. Kitty stands, moving around the table to her cousin’s side — forever her preferred place. She pulls up a seat, close enough to knock her knee against his in a silent reminder that she’s there. Always. “I can go out and catch an Angel, if you want? Death, Pestilence, War. I’ll make them talk. Someone must fucking know something.” She’d even use violence, if he asked. Wouldn’t 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. “Do you know what cake he had at his wedding?”
LOOKBOOK ➜ The Riddle Pt I.
