Eyes of the Divine (Yandere!Eyeless Jack X GN!Reader)

Laughter In The Tombs

The forest was darker then Jack remembered.

Ever since you had gone home in the early hours of the morning a few days before, he had grown more and more restless. Despite the long conversations you had had with him over messages, he hadn't been given the opportunity to ask if you had broken up with Socks yet.

It would be a lie if he said he wasn't getting desperate, and that's exactly why he borrowed Greg's car and drove out to the forest to check on his shrine.

As he strayed away from the path to your house, in the direction he hoped was the right one, he remembered how easy it had been when he had been a Proxy—not that he wanted to return to that life, of course. He had had night vision, increased stealth (which he had kept), and the ability to run faster then the average human. Now, all he had was his wits and words to keep him out of suspicion.

There were lots of people who would disapprove of what he did. They would label him a 'freak' and demand that he be imprisoned or killed, yet none of them knew why he did what he did. And why should they? His motivation wasn't one born from ill-intentions or perverse fantasies; all he wanted to do was make you happy and give you the love and affection that you deserved.

Is that wrong? 

The pathetic light emanating from the small torch on his phone illuminated the familiar shack. The corners of Jack's lips curled upwards in a gleefully surprised grin, and he murmured, 'Still empty. As it should be.'

Slipping into the small space, he was relieved to see that the cupboard that housed his shrine was still there. Unlocking it with the key that had remained around his neck, a twinge of surprise (and, if he was honest, panic) spiked in his heart when he noticed an addition to the top half that he didn't remember making.

A piece of paper was draped over the photo frame that made up the centrepiece, and Jack gingerly picked it up and turned it the right way round. It was covered in your handwriting and, after closer reading, he realised with a start that it was the letter you had left him before the ritual.

Who put this here, I wonder?

As far as he knew, no one was aware of the shack's existence, not even you. Jack had only found it by chance, and the previous occupant (that had oh so graciously vacated the premises) never mentioned anything about relatives or friends who visited; who would want to visit someone living in a derelict shed in the middle of a forest? His common sense said, 'No one.'

Was the sudden appearance of the note a sign from one of the other Proxies, or perhaps from Chernabog himself? Was it a great big fuck you placed in the shrine as a way to tease or torment him, silently preying on his insecurities and fears?

Whatever the reason, Jack wasn't going to throw the letter out. How could he? You had written it to him while preparing to sacrifice yourself for him. You had been so selfless, so benevolent, and so altruistic, that merely remembering your kind acts made Jack's soul sing. 

You had always been generous to him. Even when you didn't know him, you had still been kind. Four years ago, not long after the ritual had ripped his humanity away from him, he had been a mess—a scared and confused mess. In his fear and confusion, he had ran away from his university campus and, thanks to his newfound speed, ended up hiding in yours. You had walked past him one night, when it was so dark that his already masked face was obscured by the thick darkness.

At first, he had been scared of you. He could tell that you could see him by the way your eyes scoped up and down his shadowy outline. Then, thinking he was a fellow student, you had asked: 'Hey, are you going into the library?'

He had stupidly stammered, 'Yes.'

'They changed the door code to 3867Y this morning. By the way, you okay? You sound cold.'