Discover Top Posts Tagged with #c. astrid

LOUD. a playlist to piss off your housemates [ @sxint and @hunterastrid ] ▷ P L A Y

#blood cw #▷.#h.#c. saint #c. astrid #[ theyre gonna be so relieved when she eventually moves out #every day kitty wakes up and chooses violence ]

+ ASTRID ( @hunterastrid )

LATE MORNING, THURSDAY 6TH MAY. SAINT & ASTRID’S HOME. Kitty is chosen ( unwillingly ). Kitty is not chosen. and Kitty is chosen ( willingly ). It’s a confusing cluster of days formed from the weathered frame of a rollercoaster that sets her emotions rolling down its twisting, turning, tumbling track and leaves her, by the end of it, somewhere between determined and proud and wary and exhausted. Kitty is chosen ( unwillingly ) by Death, their mark all but smeared across her forehead in sacrificial blood. She thinks it funny, really, in an entirely humourless way, that they pick her to tie phantom marionette strings to and force her to dance. Like they don’t know that her Horseman’s hunger is her own and that she was born to Famine just as much as she was born to her mother.

Kitty is then not chosen — and this one stings a little, although she won’t admit that. It seems as though every time she turns her head lately, when she looks back at Rafael he has someone else stood devoutly at his side — on this occasion Ravi, a glinting new title pinned to him. And she’s pleased, she supposes, because the more people her cousin has around him the stronger he will be when he takes up his father’s seat at the pinnacle of their empire. Only she can’t help but chew over how long she spent beside him, and how little space there is, increasingly, for her to stand there now.

And lastly, Kitty is chosen ( willingly ) to venture into enemy-turned-ally territory, black like oil into War’s blood-red world. She can’t quite tell if it’s a privilege yet, particularly when she finds herself chaperoned by Astrid into Saint’s house where a hundred-and-one-memories, one set of dark forest-deep brown eyes and one set of winter-bright-evergreen eyes, and two particularly unnerving looking dogs, lie in wait. So far, every member of War she’s come across in the past twenty-four hours has felt like a steel trap ready in waiting for her to make a false move ( Saint included, even in charade ).

When Kitty awakes, the first morning in the belly of Gabrielle Warden’s war-torn mechanical beast, she finds the kitchen empty and sniffing hounds absent and sets about, with some small hint of impish delight, at making her mark. To everyone but herself and the person who holds her heart, this is her ex-lovers home — and anyone who knows Kitty would anticipate chaos, despite her promise to work alongside War for the sake of Famine. Digging through the cupboards, she pours coffee grounds out of their jar and replaces them with gravy granules. Tips sugar away and finds salt to take its place.

Pouring away wine, though, undoubtedly sacred, is when she feels the prickle of someone’s gaze at the back of her neck. The scent of fermented grape rises from the sink, refusing to slow her action, red liquid glugging away. “Hello,” she says with a smooth mock-innocent smile, studying Astrid briefly. “I’m just making myself at home.” A now-empty bottle is set down and she licks the tart residue of wine from her fingers. “I wouldn’t make a coffee if I was you. How about a tea?” She flicks the kettle on, refusing to be made to feel like a guest by the woman assigned to ( in Kitty’s mind ) babysit her. “I haven’t fucked with the milk yet, I promise.”

#[ this got so long pls dont match ]#t.#c. astrid #d. 06 05 21

+ ASTRID ( @astridhunter )

SATURDAY 23RD JANUARY. THE ANNIVERSARY DRINKS RECEPTION. For someone so unashamedly bold, amongst a room of chattering people with sanguine smiles and gleaming eyes, Kitty finds the quiet respite of the bathroom a welcome low-lit ornately-tiled haven. She takes longer than she needs to in washing her hands, watching the warm water play over her knuckles and fall into the stone basin below, accompanied by the faint classical music of some no-doubt famous composer she’ll never remember the name of. Expensive soap sends up a bloom of orange-blossom-scent and for a moment she forgets she’s meant to be elsewhere, in no rush to return to the drinks reception. Small talk strains her and she hasn’t been drinking glasses of water between her flutes of champagne which have settled in the pit of an empty stomach.

The door opening catches her attention, gaze lifting to glance at the reflection in the polished mirror ( streak-free, unlike the one in her bedroom decorated with mascara-splashes and other various smudges ). Kitty sets her sight on Astrid, silently tracking the other woman’s movements with a newfound tension coiling through her body at being in such close proximity to Juno’s partner. The last Warden WAG standing. It’s a humoured thought that tremors through the back of her mind with an aftershock of bitterness at the Warden’s evidently-shitty ability to take care of their lovers.

“I like your earrings,” she muses with an effortless sort of casual nonchalance, the exact sort that tactfully hides her reason for the subsequent question that follows. “Did Juno buy them for you?”

#t.#c. astrid #d. 23 01 21

@leonlioness

Part of the testament, on top of a set of knives he’d gained in his collection over the past years, and an ancient scimitar, which may or may not have been stolen, she is now free to pick up a small box, wrapped up in blue and gold wrapping paper and an issue of the newspaper from 2013. A small card attached says nothing more than ‘Merry Christmas asshole’.