TASK #1: NOTHING HAUNTS US LIKE THE THINGS WE DON’T SAY. ( task )
18TH MAY 1888. DARKROOM, ANDY SHARMA’S FLAT, LONDON.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: body harm, body horror, gore, mutilation
( 🎵)
ANDY MADE IT home right before it began to rain. The moonlight that had followed him home was now completely gone, and it was by muscle memory alone that house key swiftly met door lock, letting him soundlessly make his way inside, leave his boots and coat by the side of the door, and double-lock it behind him.
Anand Sharma’s job for the Police used to be different. Scotland Yard had their own photographers, but after Emma Elizabeth Smith’s death in Whitechapel last month, they had been calling on him more and more. And while he appreciated that they liked how he worked, they tended to call him for murders—and people disappeared every week in the East End. People who the newspapers figured wouldn’t be missed. People who politicians believed wouldn’t be remembered.
And what he’d photographed earlier today on the outskirts of London, the last vestiges of fog dissipating in the morning gloom as he clutched his coat closer to him, and his camera bag even closer, still chilled him: on public property yet somehow untouched for months, a haphazard dumping ground for bodies. Some were already dug up from where they’d been buried under wet, packed soil, others still trapped underneath. And while the detective at the scene had excused him from photographing them in greater detail later, while capturing the scene, Andy had witnessed one thing that linked every dead body together: a thin knife-made line under each neck, creating unnatural smiles on bodies that had decomposed weeks before.
It had been terrible, and horrifying, and sad. And while the detectives at the scene had deduced fairly quickly that this dumping ground wasn’t the work of whoever had committed the last Whitechapel murder, it was disturbing, wasn’t it? That people could disappear for days and weeks and months and no one would be the wiser—until an unfortunate soul and their hound stumbled upon their bodies, hours and hours from home, weeks and weeks dead.
///
Andy had grown up thinking that photography was an art, but on dark and stormy nights like this one, it was a science. As the photographer worked on developing the final print of the night, the image slowly appearing in deepening grays beneath the crimson light dangling above it, he stood from his seat. Letting out a yawn, Andy stretched his limbs until they let out a single, satisfying crack, right before something caught his eye in one of the prints hanging from the wire to dry.
Eyebrows pulling together, Andy reached for the print, unclipping it from where it hung. And that was when he saw it: a slick-wet photograph of the crime scene he had witnessed earlier, pale body after body after body, clothes askew and tinted darker where blood had dripped down long ago—and at the very edge of the photo, a blurred shape.
While it could have been a person, having the height of one, it had no face. The space where eyes and nose could have been was smudged as if by a determined thumb; but below, stark at the bottom of its face, was black and black and black. A horrible gaping maw.
A chill ran down his spine, and Andy nearly dropped the photograph, only his reflexes keeping him from losing his hold. “What the—?” Breath escaped him in a shaky gust, and he set the print aside, reclipping the photograph further down the wire, then reached for the next. And the next.
The shape wasn’t there in every photograph. Not in the close-up photos he’d taken. But look, there it was again, closer to him somehow. And again. A smudged shape never appearing directly in the light, nor treading on the ground. A strange, indefinable, indecipherable something in the corners of his vision, just out of sight.
///
Growing up, Andy’s mother had told him ghost stories to warn him to stay on well-lit roads at night and not stray too far from home, but his family did believe in them—not as a curiosity or a sideshow attraction the way that others often did nowadays, but as an ordinary, yet sad, part of life and death. Bhoots were souls tethered to earth, having lost their way on the road to their next life. Souls that shouldn’t be forced to leave, because everyone deserved a chance, living or dead. Even those torn violently from life had to be treated with caution and wariness, but also respect.
But as the last photograph finally hung from the wire, Andy’s hand resting on the doorknob as he readied himself to leave the now warmly lit darkroom, he couldn’t help feeling a chill run down his spine.
Because he had felt something that morning: a presence deep in the copse of trees behind him and the police officers, where the sun hadn’t reached—something eerie and inhuman, watching him. He had felt it through his scarf and his coat, the way every hair on his body had stood on end—but turning around, staring out into the darkness before him, he’d seen nothing.
Perhaps the horror of the dumping ground was still clinging to him. Photographing crime scenes always took a little something out of Andy; it always made him miss his family more, wishing that he could take the fastest carriage home and pull his mother into his arms for the longest goddamn hug. Then Nisha, and Priti, and Sunny, and Papa, too, even if he grumbled about how much taller their Anand was every single time.
But as Andy gazed out at the darkroom he had mapped out over years and years of working there, it felt like the edges of the room were darker somehow—as if the shadows he knew as well as he knew his own, were nebulously creeping towards him, inch by inch.
The photographer exhaled a shaky chuckle, his hand still on the door knob, lips cracked and dry. “Well, I suppose Daya’s right—I do need to get that camera checked, don’t I,” he said aloud. But his laugh was breathless in the nearly empty room, and when he turned off the light, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him, it wasn’t only his hands that shook, but his courage, too.
GIFT: BULGARI SERPENTI VIPER RING. FOR FAZAL KHAN. FT. @darkromeo.
Late at night on the ninth of April, Jessica slips free of her security detail to visit Fazal’s penthouse, where he makes dinner and she gives him a gift she’d bought for him a few days earlier: a Bulgari Serpenti Viper ring in 18kt white gold. Meant to be a discreet gift, the serpent-inspired ring is subtle and sophisticated, with Fazal’s initials, FK, and the date they met in Monte Carlo delicately engraved on the inside of the snake’s coils. She also bought a matching one, set with demi pavé diamonds, for herself.
------
APRIL 9TH, FRIDAY, LATE EVENING. FAZAL’S KNIGHTSBRIDGE PENTHOUSE.
TRIGGER WARNING: age gap relationship
FAZAL’S FACE IS UNREADABLE, AS ALWAYS. He’s always been the quieter of the two of them, but there’s something nerve-wracking about his silence as he looks down at the gift box in his hands. The gift box in which a slim white gold ring is nestled.
She doesn’t know what she was thinking, giving this to Fazal as her first gift to him. But when she saw the ring in the store earlier that week, its serpentine form striking yet discreet, she’d thought of him immediately. Sure, perhaps she should have given him a watch instead, or cuff links, but she knew what he liked wearing. His ring size. The designs he preferred. The problem with rings was, well...
The obvious.
She sees Fazal’s gaze dart up to her face, dark eyes meeting hers for a moment. Then he looks down to see the matching ring on her finger, the glint of diamonds, and something about that settles it; he slips the ring onto his finger, white gold on brown skin, and says, simply, “I’m sure I can get you something with more diamonds in due time.”
When he puts the ring on, Jessica lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding, and it comes out as a laugh, light, relieved. “I want to give you diamonds,” she teases; she has so many, and he doesn’t wear enough. She reaches across the table to take his hand in hers, lips widening into a smile as she gazes down at their entwined hands. “Do you like it?”
Fazal’s thumb brushes over her ring as he takes closer note. “I like it.” Brief, simple, rough. He takes her same hand and guides it onto the nape of his neck so she can wrap her arms around him, then says, his voice low, “Is this your way of telling me you want to be my wife, Miss Jessica Reyes?”
Jessica glances up at him, startled—but then she sees the smirk breaking the cold expression he usually has on, the playful but mild tone in his voice, and she laughs. “Alright, hold your horses, I just wanted to give my boyfriend something nice,” she teases, reaching up to kiss him, still smiling when she pulls away. “But if you wouldn’t mind being Mr. Fazal Reyes,” she adds, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, “we can talk about it sometime.”
That gets a reaction. “Mr. Fazal Reyes?” He kisses her again, not allowing her loose. Breath ghosting over her lips, “What about Jessica Khan?”
Jessica Khan does sound hot—it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it before—but she’s enjoying the banter too much to stop. “How about a compromise? Fazal Khan Reyes?” She’s grinning now. “You need to take the Reyes surname if you’re marrying into the family, it’s the law.”
He can definitely tell she's teasing, so he continues musing, enabling her all the more. “That goes both ways: How about a compromise—” He takes her chin, eyes skipping down to her lips when he talks, “Jessica Reyes Khan?”
Jessica knows that they’re both just having fun, that this is all just a joke, a moment of lightness amidst everything around them—but when he looks at her like that, she almost believes it. Her gaze is playful but warm, too. “Jessica Reyes Khan,” she muses, a laugh caught in her throat. “Y’know what? I think I can live with that.” And she pulls him down to kiss him again.
END.
NOTE: This was supposed to be a HC’ed conversation to be referenced in this graphic post, but I had so much fun reading it again that I edited it into a one-shot of sorts! This doesn’t count as a thread; everything you need to know is in the blurb above the read more. ty ❤️
Perfect by nature, icons of self indulgence. Just what we all need; more lies about a world that never was and never will be.
ONE. her fingers are fumbling with the her cardigan, each button in the shape of a tiny diamond. he tells her that she is his diamond and she is going to light up the night sky, he puts her in the centrefold of the family photograph and tells mother to tie ribbons in her hair. she is to be the next great competitor in the world of violin and when he places it in her hands she almost smiles because she doesn’t understand this feeling inside when her fingers press against the carvings admiring it.
“you will be amazing,” he tells her each day and before every show, every practice, every long evening. every time that he wants her to win. winning is all that matters.
he doesn’t see the end of these practices though, he doesn’t see her when she practices alone late at night and her fingers bleed, when that blood runs down her arms but she does not stop and no pain registers on her face. the water runs red when she washes her hands at night and pacifico comes with his bandages and stares at the wounds with a pale look on his face but he does not tell the man, he simply says, “you poor little bird.”
Look here she comes now, bow down and stare in wonder. Oh how we love you, no flaws when you’re pretending.
TWO. he parades his children into town as if they are the best thing that have ever graced gods green earth and she stands at the front with that smile pasted across her face that she has admired on television stars. the things she is allowed to see she copies and pastes right over herself in order to make sense of the world around her. she has never had an experience with the world before he took her and her twin brother from the specialist centre. she could be this girl, she could be anything he wanted to. she could be anything and anyone that she’d observed once or twice if that would work out.
at the latest press conference he introduces his children by skill first and not by name, he thrusts her into the limelight and pushes the others to the shadow, “this is my daughter, she’s a violin prodigy.”
Without the mask where will you hide, can’t find yourself lost in the lie. I know the truth, I know who you are and I don’t love you anymore.
THREE. she has won the trophy, she has done all he has asked. he has built her into the competitor and the winner and that night she sits in her room and her hands bleed and when the door opens it is not pacifico, it is her father and behind him pacifico hovers and he is pale. she does not know what this means. she doesn’t really care. she looks at vidal and she smiles, her eyes wide and honest, “i won, daddy.”
he doesn’t cry. it is a long time before she will see that look of despair on his face, many years will pass. he gently grabs her by the wrist and tells her, “we are going to get you a special doctor and he is going to help you feel better, you trust me, don’t you em?” she nods, although... she feels fine.
hours later she sits outside a room of the vidal athanas foundation with a red lollipop in her hand, bandages around both palms. she sucks on the lollipop and does not wonder why she needs a special doctor. she has seen hundreds of doctors before she came to the house on the hill.
when she gets home she slides a spare lollipop under siblings door, even though she knows he will never be able to eat it. not while mom and dad are around.
It never was and never will be, you’re not real and you can’t save me and somehow now you’re everybody’s fool.
FOUR. it feels like she has slept for years, there is something so strange about that morning. her hair is curly and unruly and the violin is gone, when she walks downstairs she stares emptily at her trophy in the cabinet. her hands have healed very fast; as if it never happened at all. something inside of her has shifted and she doesn’t know why and that means she will never be satisfied.
“you should go back to bed,” her father tells her from the doorway, his voice stern and stranger than it has been in the past. he never talked to her like that before.
she turns and she looks at him, “where are you taking my violin?”
no answer comes at first. he looks at the box of things and then he clears his throat, “it’s just not the right thing for you anymore, emilio.”
for some reason this turns her world upside down although she never liked the violin. it makes her scream at the top of her lungs as if some great piece of her is missing that used to be there before and she smashes her head into the glass of the trophy cabinet over and over again, the reinforcements prevent it from shattering but blood spills from the dent she is creating openly.
they are grabbing her by the arms, they are throwing her to the floor. one of her siblings stands in the hallway with widened eyes but says nothing, he is pretending that he is counting seconds on his wrist watch to avoid seeing this event.
she is looking her father in the eye, she is so full of hate. she does’t know where it comes from but she knows it exists, “i’ll be your little star forever daddy, i’ll burn and i’ll burn until i set your world on fire,” she spits, “i’ll light up the sky just like you wanted.”
when she is hauled upstairs she doesn’t even take note of the open door at the end of the hallway that mom is making into her sitting room, a red lollipop still beneath the doorway, forgotten just like the boy who was inside.
( continuation of this drabble / @willemdriscoll )
Denna remained seated, frozen in place, for more than five minutes after Lem left. Hands clenched, jaw stiff, eyes burning with tears that refused to spill; she couldn’t exactly pinpoint what she was feeling. There was frustration, on one hand. She couldn’t believe she had just stood there, letting him lash out at her, without being able to say a word in response. There was sadness, of course, at the realisation that he truly didn’t like her at all and that maybe there was no turning back on that. But most of all there was anger, a dark fury that threatened to consume her and blind her to rationality. She was angry with him, obviously, because of everything he had said, everything he had just assumed; and she was also angry with herself - because she knew deep down that he was right. She had confronted Heath, demanding honesty like the entitled little brat she was while keeping her biggest secret to herself.
That was who she was, truth be told. She was a keeper of secrets, she guarded everyone’s truths so she wouldn’t have to confront hers; she was indeed a hypocrite.
By the time she was actually able to leave the diner and walk home, the tears had already long started to fall. Her mom asked her immediately what had happened when she opened the door, looking like a mess; but she couldn’t say. What was she supposed to explain? That she had been lying all this time? Keeping things from her? That she was falling for someone like never before but everything around them being together was way too complicated? That she was starting to believe she wasn’t sure she was going to be capable of handling it? Or maybe she could come clean and tell her about the illegal business she had set up all on her own, that was going to make her proud. No, the only thing she could say was “It’s nothing mom, don’t worry, just a stupid thing that happened today at college.” before nearly storming out of the house to take her dog for an evening walk.
Once at the lighthouse, with McCree laying by her side, she felt like she could truly breath again. She screamed, she cried; she wanted to find a way to leave her own body, at least for a moment. She wanted to break, to destroy Willem as much as she wanted to destroy her self doubt and the voices that haunted her, the judgement, every single word he had spat her way. Was she proud of those feelings? Absolutely not. They were there, all the same.
The screams, the tears, and the anger subdued, like everything in life, that too went by; but Denna still felt like she needed to say something; anything to at least try to save what had happened somehow. Perhaps it was too late, perhaps the moment had passed, but she had the urgency to get it out of her chest. She picked up her phone and searched for his contact. A voice note.
“I should have said something before, you took me by surprise. I didn’t think you were going to show up, and even less with those things to say to me. You called me a hypocrite, you insulted me in every way possible, and all I need to say to you is that you’re right. I am a hypocrite, but I was never fake with you. I never claimed to be anything else. Whatever pristine innocent flower you thought I was before you saw me there, I never was it. I’m not a fantasy silly girl that just appears in someone’s life to brighten their brooding existence. That’s not real, and I’m real. I’m a person, Lem, I’m just as fucked up as every other person in the world. I’m capable of doing great things, and terrible things to people, I know that. But whatever you think of me, I also need you to know that I would never- ever do something to hurt Heath. I care about them so much, probably way more than you imagine. I agree, they deserve the truth, and I am going to tell them in my own time, and whatever happens after that, I will face the consequences. You can do whatever you want with what you know. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your involvement in Cerberus, because believe it or not, I don’t want to hurt you either. And it’s not because you’re Heath’s friend, or Zac’s friend, it’s because I genuinely like you, even though you don’t feel the same way about me. So that’s all.”
MARCH 30TH, TUESDAY, BEFORE MIDNIGHT. MORTEM. SELF-PARA.
TRIGGER WARNING(S): fire, gore, death, murder
Lacrimosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
( ♬ )
Of course Jessica has smelled gasoline before. Its scent is absent from the Camden warehouse they stand in, but she can smell it all the same. Thick, sweet, cloying, the memory of it clings to her clothes, her skin; beneath her nails, in her blood, is oil spill black-purple-green, iridescent. Goosebumps rise as stray raindrops fall to the ground from the broken-open ceiling, her chest heaving with breaths she can’t contain. But she can’t feel the cold, the wet, the absolute darkness of the night before them, because onscreen, Leon Wiley is being burned alive.
Jessica’s hands reach for her brother before he enfolds her in his embrace, letting her bury her face in his chest. Muffles her strangled breathing into his jacket as she feels Ravi’s arms go around her. As Kitty’s cold hand reaches for her free one. And she cries.
Famine doesn’t play games they can’t win. But the game was lost before they even set foot in this godforsaken warehouse—and as the fire blazes bright on flailing limbs on a crackling screen, Leon is gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
------
It isn’t that she doesn’t notice the rest of the performance—this attempt at a statement that is overshadowed by the shock factor, horrifying and harrowing in equal measure. There is a face she thought she’d never see again; another that shocks her as the question Where’s your high ground now? runs through her mind. But there are more members of Death than Jack Tanner and May Nguyễn, and her gaze catches on skull after skull; black, lots of it; the flash of emeralds in the harsh light. The man who calls himself Uriel, dark-haired and arrogant, at the center of it all, a pretender to a throne he doesn’t deserve.
There is death at each other’s hands, fair in the world they chose, and then there’s what counts for it to this new gang: underhanded, drawn-out, tasteless. And as the television screens return to static and coffins rise from the floor, Jessica recoils at the sight of the one in the middle, and the body that would be too burnt and destroyed to identify if she were to open it.
Jessica’s cheeks are still slick with tears as she leaves Marcus’ embrace for Ravi’s; as Kitty pulls her to her side, her grip tight as if letting go would mean letting her cousin drown. She looks at Ikki, lips drawn into a thin line; then at Rafael and her uncle, Seraphim and Horseman, unable to do anything about deaths that occurred twenty-four hours ago. Powerless. Helpless.
They prepared for a massacre.
What they got was an execution.
------
Jessica will be a Power when she is tasked to be, but now she is a Femenias. She doesn’t step towards the coffin when Famine’s Angels and Powers do, quickly wiping away trails of tears that sting where the cold hits them. Instead, she turns to scan the crowd for her friends.
For Wren, lost in his grief.
Astrid, who has lost the love of her life.
The Wardens, Jessica’s heart breaking for brothers who aren’t her own.
Zach’s face, pale and drawn, blue eyes bright in the moonlight.
Fletcher, Charlotte, and Amara, more distant than she’s ever felt them.
And Fazal, whose gaze never left the screen where Ricardo died minutes before—whose dark eyes now meet hers from where he’s standing near Michaela Pinkett, holding her gaze for one still moment, before he looks away.
------
Earlier, Jessica told Rafael that she loved him. Earlier, she laughed the words out loud to her parents, as if smiling through her fear would make the tension in her chest go away.
But now is not the time to say I love you. Not now, with Ricardo and Leon and Juno dead, deprived of their own goodbyes. Instead, when she steps close to her uncle, she swallows the lump in her throat, looks straight ahead—chin up, eyes bright with unshed tears—and says, voice quiet yet resolute, “Dime qué hacer.”
date: november 16, 2025
summary: silas fights for his life in a coma.
trigger warnings: blood mention, eating disorder mention, ocd, death mention, hospitals
song: home - dotan (x)
Bright white lights. That’s what Silas remembered after everything went black on the side of the road as he bled out. Then he was here, waking up in his childhood bed in his mothers’ house. Weird. He looked down at himself, seeing no mark of that night. Was it all a bad nightmare? He should be dead, yet here he was. Then he thought of Astrid, his sister hurt. He threw the covers off and stood, getting up and running to her bedroom a few doors down. It was pristine, nothing showing that she had been there. “Astrid?” he asked. It felt like there was no one here, not even a sign of them, yet this was unmistakably his home... (read more here).
At Madeline’s suggestion, Kyla turns to music/lyrics to determine her feelings about her father’s accident.
TL;DR: She wonders whether his accident is a tragedy she should feel horrible about or if it was just karma that was a long time coming. Feat lyrics from Gravity and Broken Angel.
Kyla went to the auditorium, checking about a hundred times to make sure she was alone. She hooked up her phone to the sound system and let it play quietly, warming up her voice to whatever songs came on shuffle from her chosen playlist.
Madeline had asked Kyla to create something to help her try to figure out or communicate her feelings about her father. Because Kyla’s brain didn’t think in a very linear way, she thought maybe it could actually happen. She’d tried making a craft, but it had been ugly. So she’d covered in glitter, and then it was so ugly she had to throw it away. So now she was on to music.
Her feelings on her father were always complicated, but lately they’d been even messier. Ever since the Colonel had gotten injured and ended up paralyzed in a wheelchair, her feelings had been everywhere. Part of her felt like what happened was a tragedy, and that she should do all she could for her parents. She should go home to Texas, help take care of her father, and marry whatever military guy he currently had picked out for her. Leave her brothers, leave her friends, leave Gwen, leave her dreams and just do what she was supposed to do.
But luckily, the other part of her said that wasn’t going to happen on her watch. She had a decent life going on, and her dad didn’t really deserve her. But was it really about ‘deserve’ with family, or was it about doing what’s right? And what was right here anyway? Getting sucked back into her parents’ circle? Or deciding her dad had shit coming to him anyway? Was there a middle ground to be found? She had no idea.
So now here she was, ready to get some feelings out without using her own words to talk about them: her preferred coping method aside from doing nothing. She’d gone looking for a song to fit her situation. She hadn’t found a song about whether or not a bad person deserves pain. But she did find three songs that kind of captured some of her feelings about her dad in general. She was determined to not even poke at her issues with her mother right now.
She went back to her phone and pulled up a new song, one she’d never heard before searching the internet for songs about complicated father relationships. She’d never heard of Boyce Avenue, and it wasn’t something she’d usually bother trying to learn and sing. But the words worked, so she did her best.
🎵You showed him all the best of you
But I'm afraid your best
Wasn't good enough
And know he never wanted you
At least not the way
You wanted yourself to be loved
And you feel like you were a mistake
He’s not worth all those tears that won't go away🎵
🎵I wish you could see that
Still you try to impress him
But he never will listen🎵
🎵Oh broken angel
Were you sad when he crushed all your dreams
Oh broken angel
Inside you’re dying cause you cant believe🎵
🎵And now you've grown up with this notion That you were to blame
And you seem so strong sometimes
But I know that you still feel the same
As that little girl who shined like an angel
Even after his lazy heart
Put you through hell🎵
Kyla finished the song strong as stone, and though she had tears on her face, she didn’t much notice them. She went to play Gravity, singing along to the end of the song with Sara Bareilles. She usually would dance to it, but decided this time to let all of her feelings just live, instead of rushing to physically get them out. Kyla took a deep breath, knowing this would somehow be harder, as this wasn’t the first time she’d seen a relationship of hers in this particular song.
🎵 Set me free, leave me be
I don't want to fall another moment
Into your gravity
Here I am, and I stand
So tall, just the way l'm supposed to be
But you're on to me and all over me🎵
🎵I live here on my knees
As I try to make you see
That you're everything I think
I need here on the ground
But you're neither friend nor foe
Though I can't seem to let you go
The one thing that I still know
Is that you're keeping me down🎵
🎵You're keeping me down
You're on to me, on to me, and all over🎵
🎵Something always brings me back to you
It never takes too long🎵
She was fine. She was fine singing. She was fine singing until the end. The end of the song, with its stupid fragility, was what got her. She disconnected her phone and fled to the dance studio, choreographing a group dance to Gravity so that the pain wouldn’t go to waste.
