#* jack

Are you surprised? It’s like bubblegum pop

Because I broke all the rules

Because I’m going to show you the real me

Really really me

I’m a cherry on top yeah 🍒

Jack Taylor - Ozdemir Halloween Bloc Party

The thick scent of blood clung to her, a vapid mess of her own and god knows how many others. Such a shift in the air hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed by Jack, the sinking feeling at the mere blink it took for the effigy to disappear was more than enough, but not even she could outrun the wrath such a Goddess. It’d struck deep, and before the bodies that barely satisfied such a vicious hunger even hit the ground, all thought and distinct care she might have otherwise taken, was gone. White hot, the pain shot up through her side, burning against the bloodlust that had yet to stave itself off. Everything turned, twisted and ached and even the short flutter of her eyelids couldn’t dim the blur in her vision as she stumbled through the small break of trees, the glow of the lighthouse casting a near eerie fog across the ground. 

“Listen,” She voiced, almost entirely out of nowhere, older he may have been, by a handful of years at most, but Jack had long since mastered the art of stealth, in both this form and her last. The head that rolled across the water logged ground in the rain still awash with blood splatter that didn’t yet have time to stain the skin. “Had you and Dima given me a bit more of a heads up that you were coming home, maybe I’d have had more time to work on your welcome home present.” Soon, she came to rest, her chin almost resting against his shoulder as her muddy boot pressed down on the decapitated head at his feet, “He reminded me of you.” Thunder clapped and the next strike of lighting lit up the sky, “Whiny and two dimensional,” her giggle was something otherworldly, an eerie sound to break the noise of the chaos above, flames dances brightly across the street, casting an eerie glow across the pair as she then draped what might have been a small intestine - she was no doctor - across his shoulder, “I bet he was prettier on the inside than you are though.”

Compulsion hadn’t at all been necessary, the lucid blonde male that toed the line behind her, fingers entwined all too willing to abide by the ideas of what she knew he assumed to be a vibrant, promiscuous woman. The sweet nothings she’d whispered in his ear the only conviction she’d needed to sway him into the dark shadows of the museum, and further again, into the dim light of the courtyard. A quieter concealment for what she’d intended than simply leaving him slumped and bleeding in the hallway somewhere - a monumental sentiment to the depth of her compassion as she chose not to simply kill him. His hands found her waist and turned her with the clear intent of finding a place among the decorated architecture to place her when she caught his chin between her fingers. Onyx hues stilled - against the familiar silhouette of another, the undead twist within her chest something she hadn’t expected - how could one without said living organ in the first place. “Go back inside, forget you ever met me.” Her tone low, swift in it’s absolution as she slipped easily from his hold and instead, moved - entirely thoughtless in her action - towards Brandon.  The last she’d seen, he’d sat uncomfortably in a hospital bed and the desire to leave had been far greater for the woman than lingering long enough that she could no longer swallow back what clung to the tip of her tongue. Now, however, her amiable curiosity won out. “I thought for sure you’d have given up on these swanky events, you know....considering...” 

It came to her in flashes. A street light, the sound of a passing car, a guttural growl that she now knew to be Lincoln. The ethereal sounds of panic and mayhem that coated the streets in a lacquer that she knew all too well now barely breeched the surface of all that corralled through her mind. The stasis hits her like a tonne of bricks as he stops, her form curled tightly against him as she continues to writhe in pain against the sound of Lincolns fist against solid wood. He cannot enter and she feels as much in the tepid distaste he growls out but there’s something there - something that Lincoln trusts in handing her over now. It doesn’t pass as relief, better yet, a mere acceptance before one familiarity shifts to the next, and she knows, somehow - she’s crossed from the past to the present in a little time as it’s taken for the door to slam behind them. She can barely open her eyes, the light, though dull, feels like a thousand years of guilt upon her shoulders and she cannot feel beyond the uncomfortable and agonizing shift of her frame at the touch of another. Her stomach turns again, the sticky black ooze that spills from her lips is the worst thing she’s ever known as her hand shifts to wipe it from her mouth. Beyond it all, she knows his scent - the sound of his heartbeat, rapid and uneven, “Bran..--”