Bloody Love (Eyeless Jack X Reader)

Chapter One: Snacks

 A soft lullaby echoed through the room past your closed lips, your hands methodically wiping along the blade in your hand. The damp rag swiped up and down in time with the tune while your head cocked to the side as you listened in on the lulling conversation from the main opening of the shop. You heard your jovial father picking up another topic for his continuous conversation. Of course, you had tried to sway your father to close up the shop, but he'd always respond with the same thing. A hearty chuckle and, "Y/n, you impatient little girl, you, give me a few more minutes." And thus, you dipped the knife back into the soapy water and placed it on the towel beside the sink.

You were a kind young woman, – sixteen, seventeen this coming June. – although you were quick with your tongue and held a sarcastic attitude on a difficult day, learned that the best course of action to deal with your dawdling father was to allow him to do what he felt was best. Either way, you would end up at your home in no time at all. The only issue you had was, on this particular night, there was a raging thunderstorm blowing in. You hated – you did not use that word very often – rain with every ounce of your petite body and every inch of your warm soul.

Every time a strike of lighting would flash ominously through the window, you would tense your shoulders, and even though you braced yourself, you would nearly jump out of your skin at the thunder to follow.

Once the bell in the front let off a ding signaling that the – you hoped last – customer had left, you walked out to the front of the butchery to see your father staring at the door in farewell.

"Is it time to go now?" Your soft, wistful voice called from the doorway in which you stood, your arms crossed and face set in a mock-sarcastic look.

"Y/n," your father sounded like he was about to scold you again, before he smiled brightly, "We actually have one more customer to attend to before we can go home. They called in their order an hour back, I believe."

During the explanation, you had walked to stand beside your father, where you noticed an oddly wrapped and bloody looking package standing out against the steel counter top. The sight of blood made you uneasy – even working in a butcher shop, you could not get used to it – and you wondered who would want something like that.

"Who is it for?" You vocalized your inquiry, deliberately looking anywhere but the order; you could not imagine anyone coming to a butchery after 11 p.m., certainly not wanting to buy anything.

"Anonymity is most people's friend, my dear," your father grinned and tapped his temple, as if it was something he said often.

The reason you had asked was that – knowing your father – in a first conversation, he would easily get this person's social. It was a shock he did not even know his name.

"They must've forgotten," you rested a hand on his shoulder, trying to softly coax him into the idea of getting home for rest. You both had work tomorrow, too, "I doubt anyone would come to the shop at this ho-"

Ironically, you were cut off by the sound of the small bell tolling, signaling someone had definitely come into the shop at this hour. Your father grabbed the specially wrapped bag, sliding it to the other end of the counter as the person walked up. And you, slightly irate by the ironic interruption (and slightly from being wrong), turned and leaned on the counter to face the person.

"Hi there," your voice sang out, an irritated undertone laced delicately in the timbre.

"Hello," the strange man said, his voice deep and rich, the baritone reverberating from his chest and welcoming itself into your senses, it almost made you forget your cross attitude. Almost.

"You sure are here late, any particular reason for that?" You leaned over the counter more, allowing yourself to appear relaxed in front of the stranger.