Thunderstruck (Eyeless Jack x Reader)
CW: angst with no comfort, yearning, explicit mentions of cannibalism, death. seriously, big tw for being cannibalized.
word count 3.6k
The storm rolled in like a sickness—low and humming, gravid with thunder, thick with the stench of ozone and rotting leaves. He felt it before it came, days before, like a pressure building behind his temples. The forest went still. Birds vanished. Even the wind held its breath. And when it hit, it hit all at once—sheets of rain so heavy it drowned the world, lightning splitting the sky like bone under blade, and the sound. God, the fucking sound.
To you, it was weather. A nuisance. Maybe something to watch from your porch, barefoot and alone, ash flicked from a cigarette with your mouth parted in thought.
To him, it was pain.
Eyeless Jack, they called him. A name like a warning. But in moments like this, when the storm screamed through the trees and every raindrop was a hammer on his skull, there was nothing monstrous in him—only a creature driven half-mad by sensation, caught between instinct and what was left of a man.
That night, he stumbled through the woods like an injured thing, soaked to the bone, shaking with a rage that wasn’t his. The noise—sharp and layered, the shriek of wind, the squelch of mud, the echo of thunder like teeth grinding—burrowed deep. He couldn’t outpace it. Couldn’t drown it. It clawed at his nerves until he was twitching, growling under his breath, digging claws into bark and wishing, for the thousandth time, that he could feel the peace of death instead of this.
He found your house the way animals find water. Not by sight, not even by smell—but by some pull. Something quiet and still nestled at the forest’s edge, distant enough that the trees thinned and the fields stretched out wide and yellow under a bruised sky. One window lit. The shape of you moving inside—soft, unaware.
He watched for a long time. Too long. Let the rain soak him, let the cold dig into what little patience he had left. You were nothing like the others—those he stalked, those he fed on. There was something wrong in your stillness. Something familiar.
So he knocked.
Once.
A soft rap. Not meant to scare. Just… be heard.
He saw you startle. Saw the way your eyes widened, hand jerking back from the curtain like it burned you. Fear. A healthy reaction. You didn’t open the door. Not at first. But you looked. You met him, through glass and shadow, and you didn’t run.
And when you finally cracked that door open, metal bat heavy in your arms and voice tight with suspicion, he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, rain dripping from his hood, tar diluted by the water trailing down the neck of his hoodie, and said nothing.
He didn’t need to. You let him in. You let him in.
The first time, it was survival.
The second time, you cursed under your breath but unlatched the door anyway.
The third, you asked if the thunder really bothered him that much. He didn’t answer, but he stayed a little longer.
By the fifth, you were already making tea when he knocked. Even if he always refused it.
It didn’t storm much after that.
Oh, the skies still wept now and then, sure—gentle drizzles that barely whispered against the windows, the kind of rain that came and went like a sigh—but the thunder stayed away. It was as if the sky had tired itself out, or maybe just lost interest. Maybe it was all a sign that once the clouds pulled back, Jack should have as well.
But he kept coming.
He never knocked loud. Never said a word. Just stood there, dripping and wordless, and waited. Sometimes you heard him before you saw him—boots slapping in puddles, the softest hum of breath muffled behind his mask. And every time, you opened the door without a word. It wasn’t ritual anymore. It was instinct.
He never touched you. Never got too close. But he’d sit in the same spots—crouched by the fireplace or half-curled in your beat down chairs like some feral dog with too much pride to rest easy—and he’d observe. Not in a hungry way. Not even curious. Just… present.
And you started talking.
Little things at first. Weather. Work. Whatever lonely scraps you could toss into the silence to fill it. He never replied. But you knew he was listening. You could feel it in the room, that sort of electric weight. The way he angled his head. The way he didn’t leave.
And maybe it was pathetic. Maybe it was reckless. But you started waiting for him.
The moment the sky turned gray, your breath caught. The moment wind picked up, your pulse tripped. You’d curse yourself, call yourself every brand of fool, but you still left the porch light on. Still left the kettle full. Still found yourself cleaning up before dusk, brushing your hair back like it mattered.
He wasn’t beautiful. He wasn’t even human. But he saw you. Without the gift of seeing, he knew you better than most. Better than any.
And somewhere between the fifth visit and the tenth, he started sitting a little closer.
He still never spoke. But he stayed longer. Sometimes past dawn, tucked in the far corner like he didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to see the sky turn. And sometimes, when you slept, he watched you with something close to reverence. Not lust. Not appetite. Just an eerie, aching kind of silence that only the damned know. A silence shaped like want.
He hadn’t known comfort in years. Hadn’t known softness. You were neither safe nor foolish, but you were kind, and that was worse. That was a knife to the ribs.
Because you didn’t know what he was. Not really.
You hadn’t seen him feed. Hadn’t smelled blood baked into his claws, hadn’t heard the sounds he made in the dark when the hunger clawed up his throat. You saw him as a man—not the monster, not the rot under the mask. And that illusion was dangerous. Dangerous for you.
So one night, he didn’t come.
No knock. No shadow at the tree line. No rain, even.
You waited, pacing. Told yourself you weren’t, but you did. Told yourself you didn’t care, but you did. Every creak outside made your heart punch the back of your teeth. Every gust of wind made you hope.
But he never came back.
And the ache started slow. Like a bruise. Like something you could ignore if you stayed busy enough, kept the lights on, didn’t let yourself think. But it bloomed, as all wounds do. Grew teeth. You caught yourself setting two mugs out anyway. You flinched every time a shadow passed your window. You slept with the porch light on. For months.
And worst of all—you missed him.
Not just the shape of him, the physical presence. You missed the weight of him in your house. The comfort in that silence. The strange, awful calm that came from knowing someone else saw you and didn’t flinch.
And you hated yourself for it.
He was never yours. He was never anything. Just a feral thing seeking shelter. A ghost with a body. You were stupid to believe otherwise. Stupid to feel something.
But it didn’t stop you from aching. From longing in the quiet. From waking up in the middle of the night, sure that you’d heard a knock that never came.
You told yourself it was better this way.
Jack told himself the same.
He was in the woods again. Alone. Claws bloodied from something he didn’t want to think too hard of, crouched under blackened trees with wind howling like a dirge through dead leaves. He’d left because he had to. Because you didn’t deserve the kind of ruin he brought with him. He was not a man. He was hunger in a mask. A myth with meat. He was wrong.
And he’d stayed too long. Let the silence get too comfortable. Let you matter.
And now, it burned.
He'd curl in on himself as the sky turned again—gray, bloated, distant thunder pressing against the far horizon— and he wouldn't move.
Wouldn't knock. For years.
It had been years.
The ache dulled over time—not gone, just buried under new weight, packed down like wet soil. It was easier now. You didn’t check the window anymore. Didn’t linger by the door when the clouds rolled in. Your mind stopped rolling back like a broken record to the thought of the warmth a creature so cold could exude without even trying.
And maybe that was healing. Maybe that was love.
They were good to you, the one who came after. Soft where the last had been silent, warm where the other had been hollow. They laughed. They touched. They made space in their life for you, and you took it without guilt. Without shame. Because that chapter had ended, hadn’t it?
It rained that night, when your partner had kept you company for the hundredth time; but you didn’t flinch at the sound of it. You just watched them pull on their coat, kiss your temple, and slip out the door with a joke about driving safe in the wet. You shut the door behind them. Locked it.
The storm had muscle to it—fat thunderheads rolling in from the horizon like bruises, a downpour that hit the roof in rhythmic sheets. You lit a candle. Sat down. Let your mind drift.
Knock.
Your spine went rigid.
Not a bang. Not a pounding. Just a soft, deliberate knock. Three taps. Measured. Familiar.
Your heart stopped, then restarted in a panic.
You didn’t want to move. Every part of you screamed no. But your body knew better. Knew the rhythm. Knew the echo of it in your marrow. So you stood. One step. Another. Closer to the window with every breath tightening in your throat.
And there he was.
Shadowed by the rain, taller than you remember, broader, ruined. Not monstrous, no—still eerily still, still masked, but broken in a way you’d never seen before. He was hunched. Shaking. Bloodied at the edges like he’d been peeled open and barely stitched back together.
And it felt like the sky caved in. Like something ancient in you split. Not fresh pain—no, older, deeper. A scar ripped back open to reveal a wound that never really healed. Like time folded in on itself and all the years you spent forgetting never happened at all.
You opened the door.
Of course you did.
You were older now, smarter, not lonely in the way you were, but none of that fucking mattered. Because his name was still carved under your ribs in places love hadn’t touched.
He stepped inside like he didn’t want to. Like he hoped the rain would swallow him whole before you answered. He didn’t look at you at first. Just stood in the entryway with his head bowed, dripping, trembling, barely upright.
Then, “I didn’t want to come here.”
His voice was gravel, like it had been dragged over a road. Like it hadn’t been used in years. It cracked in the middle, low and foreign and heartbreakingly familiar.
“I hoped you wouldn’t open the door.”
You didn’t ask why. Not yet. You just stood there, watching him fall apart at the edges.
“I can’t... hunt right now. I—”
His breath hitched. Not dramatic. Not for show. Just a quiet little fracture.
“I’m starving.”
You swallowed. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just... I didn’t know where else to go.”
Your chest ached. Burned. Because this was so much worse than silence. Worse than the years of wondering, of aching, of trying to patch yourself up with someone else’s love. Because here he was—back, broken, bleeding, and you were still soft for him in places you thought were dead, in spots where the placeholder couldn't reach.
He was still hunger. Still horror. Still a thing that should’ve never had a place in your life. But he came back because he had no one else. And you let him in. You let him in. Because you never stopped being the fool who would.
He stood in your doorway, trembling, and you couldn’t tell if he was going to collapse or kill.
And outside, the rain came harder. The wind howled. The storm had found its teeth again.
And you... You stood still in its center, with a monster at your threshold and love cooling like ash in your hands, when you should’ve screamed.
When you should’ve fought. Should’ve begged. Should’ve called someone, anyone. But your phone stayed facedown on the counter. The front door stayed locked. And your mouth stayed shut.
You just turned, and started walking where your gut carried you.
Each step down the hallway felt like a toll. Your legs were rubber. Chest tight. Breaths shallow, high in your throat. It felt like you were floating outside yourself—watching someone else shuffle toward the end of the world, watched a body you used to call yours surrender without a word.
You didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. You could feel him behind you.
Not looming, no. Not hunting. He followed like a shadow that ached to detach itself. You heard the weight of his steps. The pause when you hesitated. The sick hush in the house, where even the storm seemed to stutter. He was shaking. Barely held together.
And still—still—it hurt more knowing he was here because he had no other choice, than it did to know he was going to kill you.
Your bedroom door creaked open like it knew what was coming.
You walked in. Climbed onto the mattress like it was a pyre. The sheets still warm from earlier, from love that tasted clean. And still, you laid back and opened yourself to death like a prayer.
You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You turned your face into the pillow, tucked it close like a secret, like a shield, and let your body go slack.
And he didn’t move.
He stood at the foot of your bed like he was staring at a crime scene. Like he was watching the shape of something holy unmake itself. You didn’t say take me. You didn’t have to.
He shook. Not with hunger. Not with desperation. With something deeper, something worse. Like grief. Like fury. Like he wanted to rip the meat off his own bones before he touched yours.
And still, he climbed onto the bed, pulled by his own instincts, his own curse.
Cautious. Slow. As if you’d vanish if he moved too fast.
He hovered over you—not touching. Breathing hard, a tremor in every exhale. He was shaking so violently now you could feel it in the mattress. Could feel the war he waged inside himself as he knelt at your altar. Famished. Dying. Mourning.
“I didn’t think—” he rasped, voice ruined, wet and breaking. “I didn’t think you’d just...”
He trailed off, because what was there to say?
He didn’t think you’d let him. Didn’t think you’d give your last breath to his lungs. Didn’t think you’d protect him even now—face buried, muffling the sounds he knew would come, sounds he knew would alert anyone in a 5 mile radius. The screams. The sobs. The end.
He reached out with hands that had carved countless bodies. Stained things. Steady, usually. Surgical. But they shook when they hovered over your spine. When he placed them, finally, onto your back—barely a touch. Barely there at all.
You flinched.
A breath caught in his throat. Not hunger. Not lust. Not instinct.
Grief. Rage. Self-hatred deep enough to drown in.
His mask was inches from your shoulder. The tar from its sockets dripped to your shirt like black blood, spreading like a plague into the cotton, tainting. He shook so hard it looked like seizures. Like his own body was rejecting the choice he was trying to make.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”
But still, no explanation. No why, because he knew it wouldn’t change a thing.
You sobbed. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a sound like a child makes when no one’s there to hear. And he almost—almost—pulled away.
But he didn’t. He was starving. He's been starving. And the thing he hated most was that you were still warm beneath his hands, and that he was too fucking weak to stop.
You were already crying—quiet, gutted, shaking into the pillow like it could hide your shame, your grief, your fear—but the second his hands met your skin, something broke open deep and wide. Your shirt had ridden up on your back when you lay in your coffin like it wanted to give him room, like your body was betraying you too, baring the spine like an offering. A silent go on then.
And you shook. Not just because of the fear—not just because you knew what came next. Not just because you were preparing to die.
But because this—this—was the first time he had ever touched you.
The first time.
After all the nights. After all the storms. After all the quiet, after all the longing—he had never laid a hand on you.
Not until he came back to kill you.
The sob that dragged from your lungs sounded like something feral. Like a thing birthed in a place too old and deep to name. Like your soul cracked along the middle.
And still, he didn’t stop.
He took his mask off with trembling hands.
You didn’t see it—couldn't even if you wanted to, eyes blurred with tears soaking into the pillows—but you heard the shuffle of plastic being set down next to you, the breath he sucked in like a man about to drown.
And then, claws. A promise veiled by regret. They found your spine slow, reverent, wracked by tremors. Like he was still hoping the storm would reach through the windows and drag him out, or that maybe—maybe—you would change your mind. Tell him to stop. Tell him to go fuck himself.
You didn’t.
You stayed still.
And so he began.
The first puncture made you convulse—every nerve in your back lighting up with fire, with horror, with the kind of pain that doesn’t even feel real at first. The claws sank in, slow, hesitant, dragging heat and pressure and punishment down through your muscles, through fascia, through tissue that spasmed helplessly under his hands.
Then, he ripped. All of him, through you.
The scream that tore out of you was not a sound meant for the living. It was a godless thing. A wail fit for war. Fit for birth or death or something between. It didn’t sound human—it sounded like metal screaming. Like the sky splitting open. Like Hell remembering you by name.
Pain poured through your body like liquid metal. Fire licking your ribs, lightning clawing up your spine, agony blooming like red poppies behind your eyes. You bit the pillow, choked on it, muffled yourself because you still, still couldn’t bear to give him away. Still tried to protect him.
But your screams came anyway. Ripping your throat raw, because he had hit bone. And still he kept going.
Tearing muscle from sinew. Peeling you open like a fruit. You were ribbons. Strings. Wet sound and raw breath. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore—it was so much more than that. It was everything. It was teeth and nails and molten grief and centuries of guilt all poured into your back as he pulled you apart.
And all the while, he fucking sobbed.
Above you, over you, shaking so hard the flaps of flesh opening you up to death were recoiling. Retching around the meat he stuffed into his mouth like he couldn't survive this one last betrayal. Like he tasted you—like he tasted every storm, every silence, every stupid, aching kindness you ever showed him in every fiber he devoured.
He cried harder than you did.
Tearless howls of torment, breath a mess of spit and blood and sorrow. He gagged. He growled. He choked and chewed and begged some invisible thing to stop this. He hated it. Hated you for letting him. Hated himself for needing you. For coming back. For feeling.
You were dying. Your body was light. Gone. Pain turning to fog at the edges. Your limbs went numb. Your breath thinned. Your wails became groans. Croaks. Soft, pathetic little animal sounds.
The thunder mourned with you.
It roared like God had died too. Like the sky had slit its own throat in grief. Outside, the rain sobbed down the windows as if it could cover the wet squelch of meat and teeth, the slow suck of blood in sheets, the snap of ribs peeling away. The storm swallowed everything.
And still he fed.
Not fast. Not wild. But slow. Controlled. Sick. Like a priest taking communion he didn’t believe in anymore.
And in the end...
You died not knowing why he ever returned, time and time again.
Not knowing why he ever left.
Not knowing why, after all that time, he came back just to end you.
You died still not knowing if he ever felt anything at all.
