(Bob surprises you by playing your favorite song on the piano at The Hard Deck)
Cmere Lover Boy (Bob Floyd x Reader)
(Yea yea I know this isn’t my normal content but after watching Outer Range, I have fallen for Lewis Pullman)
(Warnings: Inaccuracies, bit of picking on men, mention of drinking)
———————————————————————————
Bob Floyd was utterly in love with you.
Except you didn’t know that.
You were a nurse on the base and he had seen you after he had sprained his wrist after landing awkwardly during a volleyball game.
“Now what happened here?” You had asked, opening the curtain to his room. Hangman and Coyote had been teasing him the entire time before you had came in, but they grew silent as soon as you stepped in.
That’s when Bob knew you were either going to be his biggest heart break or the love of his life.
“I-I hurt my wrist.” Bob explained as you ushered his buddies out of the room.
“You hurt your wrist?” You asked, sitting down at the desk with a computer, “How’d you manage that?”
“W-We were playing volleyball and I fell on it trying to save the ball from going out of bounds.” He explained.
God he hated how nervous he got around pretty girls.
“Well why don’t we take a look at it? But first I’m gonna get your blood pressure and pulse ox, okay?” You explained, putting the blood pressure cuff, then the pulse oximeter.
The rest was history.
Thankfully, all he had come out with was a sprained wrist and his damaged pride. He was determined to win you back after that incident. Through the grapevine, he had found out that your favorite movie was Dirty Dancing and your favorite song from it was "Love Is Strange."
And by the grapevine, he totally didn't mean overhearing you and your friend gossiping about ways a man could make you swoon.
"See if he acted out the scene from Dirty Dancing where they do the 'Oh, Sylvia.'. My panties? Gone. Evaporated some might say." You had joked, sipping your beer.
"Girl, you are so cheesy. You act like any of the guys here have even seen that movie." Your co-worker, Gracie, joked.
"This is true. I was talking to Hangman, and he said his favorite movie was Basic Instinct." You said, rolling your eyes.
"God, of course it was. What a pig. All men only think about one thing.: She started.
"Sex." You and Gracie said it at the same time, causing you both to laugh.
After that day, Bob convinced himself he would win your heart. Even if it meant letting Rooster teach him how to play piano.———————————————————————————
"So what am I teaching you to play?" Rooster asked, mindlessly drumming his fingers over a couple of keys.
The two of them were in The Hard Deck bar since Bob had sent him an 'I need your skills' text.
"Love is Strange from Dirty Dancing. I think by Mickey and Slyvia?" Bob said, "Anyway, I need to learn how to play."
"Need or want?" Rooster said, "Make sure you don't say the wrong thing."
"Don't fuck with me on this Rooster." Bob pleaded.
Rooster suddenly smirked, "Oh, you are trying to impress a girl. Bob, I didn't think you had it in you."
Bob blushed, "Shut up Rooster. You gonna help me or not?"
"Oh absolutely. Sit your ass down Baby on Board, I'm gonna teach you how to smooth talk a lady." Rooster said, patting next to him.
Bob sat down next to him, reaching to press down a key. Rooster smacked his hand away.
"Just watch. We'll get to learning soon." Rooster stated, "Do you have the sheet music?"
Bob pulled out the piano sheet and nervously put it on the stand, "Here."
"Alright, we are gonna sing it while I play." Rooster said as he started to play.
Soon, the two of them were sitting in an empty bar singing Love is Strange off-key, praying no one was around to record it.
———————————————————————————
Two months.
That's how long it had taken Bob to learn the lyrics and the song on the piano.
He had just finished a run-through while Rooster sang Sylvia's part. "Oh you got this in the bag!" Rooster said with a laugh.
"Really?" Bob asked, "Think I'm ready for tonight?"
"Oh, absolutely, shit, I feel bad for hangman tonight. He aint gonna be any sleep tonight with you two." Rooster said, patting him on the back.
"Nah, I don't want her in my bed. I want her to at least go on a date with me." Bob said, looking down at the keys, "One date, maybe more if I'm lucky."
"Oh believe me, you'll get lucky." Rooster said, "Come on, let's go catch up with the guys."
Bob nodded and followed Rooster out of the bar, nervous for his shot at winning you over tonight.
———————————————————————————
Thank god tomorrow was your day off, you needed it after the week you had so far.
You were dressed down in just a white shirt and jean shorts, nursing a beer while listening to whatever song was playing on the stereo; you thought it was Take Me Home Tonight by Eddie Money, but you couldn't tell. That's when someone unplugged the stereo, and the music cut off.
Everyone booed until Rooster held up his hands. "Hey Hey! I have someone who wants to show off their new skill!" Rooster called out.
"Oh I didn't know this was music class!" Hangman laughed, "Well, who is it?"
Bob cleared his throat and headed to the piano, sitting down at it.
"Oh shit, I didn't know this was Baby Einstein!" Hangman laughed, and soon almost the entire bar joined him.
"Don't let them get to you." Rooster whispered, "Just keep your eyes on her and focus on what we learned."
Bob nodded and flew into the song, playing the keys perfectly.
Meanwhile, his eyes found yours as he played the beginning notes.
"Love... Love is Strange," He started to sing, "Lot of People Take it for a game."
Everyone got quiet as he continued to sing through the song, his eyes locked on yours.
You just watched him as he continued to play.
Was this for you?
Was all of this for you?
"Sweet kisses I miss." He sang, getting to the part you loved.
"Sing with me baby!" He called out, "Oh Slyvia!" He sang.
"Yes Mickey?" You called out, handing your beer bottle to Gracie.
"How do you call your lover boy?" He asked, continuing to play.
"Come here, lover boy!" You said, using your index finger to motion him as you walked over.
"And if he doesn't answer?" He asked, his fingers still moving effortlessly over the keys.
"Oh lover boy!" You called, making it over to the piano, leaning on it.
"And if he still doesn't answer?" He asked, moving so you could sit next to him.
"Well, I simply say," You started to sing, sitting next to him, "Baby, oh baby My sweet baby, you're the one."
He opened his arm, playing with one hand, and you slid onto his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck to steady yourself.
Soon, everyone joined in on the final lyrics, singing along as Bob played.
Except you didn't focus on anyone else but Bob, the two of you singing together.
He moved his eyes back to the keys as he finished the song.
Everyone cheered for him, but he kept his eyes on you.
"Did you like it? You mentioned liking the movie and-" He couldn't finish his sentence as you kissed him.
He froze, his fingers hovering over the keys before finally snapping out of it. He ran his fingers through your hair and leaned you back so he could kiss you deeper.
Everyone started chanting his name, and he broke away from the kiss. The two of you laughed, pressing your foreheads together.
"So does this mean I get a date with you?" He asked, his eyes finding yours.
"Absolutely, if this is how you ask me out on a date, I can't wait to see how you ask me to be your girlfriend." You said with a laugh.
"Oh, dont worry I got a plan." He said with a smile.
The two of you kissed again, letting the love bloom between you.
GUYS, can we stop normalizing the dadcest…like nooo, makes me so uncomfortable and it keeps popping out everywhere, like why you wanna act like a kid and get fucked by “dad”? like it’s not even daddy kink it’s straight up just wanting to fuck your dad, HELLO. don’t even get me started in the “pet play” shit, like why you wanna be a dog or cat..i don’t get it.
“Auntie Lottie,” you remember saying when you were eight years old, in the careful, tentative way children use when they fear the world may tilt beneath their feet, “I think there’s something strange about me.”
Your aunt—Queen of England, Empress of Composure, and, at that precise moment, your sole audience—turned to you with an expression that balanced concern and curiosity in perfect measure.
“Yes, dear,” she said gently. “What is it?”
You shuffled closer and placed your small hands upon her skirts, urging her to bend down. When she did, you leaned in and whispered, as though the walls themselves might be listening.
“I think I like girls,” you confessed. “Just like Reynolds and Brimsley likes eachother.”
You drew back at once, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, your breath coming far too quickly for such a small declaration.
“Is that… all right?”
Queen Charlotte did not hesitate. She bent fully, lifted you onto her lap, and wrapped her arms around you with regal certainty.
“I’ll make sure it is,” she said.
---
Looking back now, it almost feels as though royal blood does not truly run in your veins—
even if you are, technically speaking, a princess, the daughter of Queen Charlotte’s brother.
When you were still quite young, he made the decision to leave you in London, under the watchful care of his sister, so that you might receive the very best education a young lady could hope for.
You found the arrangement entirely agreeable, as you were mostly freed from 'princess expectations'.
Your days were filled with books read cover to cover in long afternoons, languages learned with diligence, and subjects explored that polite society insisted were unsuitable for women. Charlotte, naturally, disagreed.
She cared for you deeply, granting you the greatest freedom she believed possible—while remaining unwavering in her expectations of excellence.
And whenever she allowed it, you sought out the company of your dearest friend: Francesca Bridgerton.
At the mere mention of her name, the Queen had smiled knowingly and declared,
“A Bridgerton? How delightful.”
Society, of course, had its own opinions. Francesca was said to be too quiet, too reserved—odd, even. But you knew better. The girl with the angelic face and remarkable talent for the fortepiano observed the world with a sharpness that bordered on ruthless, though she delivered her judgments entirely in silence.
Over the years, you learned to read her expressions with precision, discovering the precise moments when a foolish remark would earn you a reluctant smile—or, on particularly fortunate days, a laugh.
And after so many years of friendship, so many visits to the Bridgerton home, it became increasingly difficult to keep secrets from the person who knew you best.
---
You had rehearsed the conversation endlessly during afternoon tea, imagining every possible response. In reality, it unfolded quite differently—though, given Francesca’s nature, perhaps it should not have surprised you.
“I like girls,” you said at last.
“Hm.”
She did not look up from her sheet music.
“I fancy your sister.”
That earned a pause. Francesca’s gaze dropped to the keys as though the answer might be written there.
“Which one?” she asked calmly. “Daphne or Eloise?”
You sank deeper into the sofa and shoved a biscuit into your mouth, mumbling an “Eloise” that emerged with all the elegance of a sighing grunt.
“Oh,” Francesca said lightly.
“How wonderful.”
And that was that.
Months of worry.
Months of fear—of scandal, of rejection, of losing the most important friendship of your life.
Dismissed in a single sentence.
---
You—foolishly, as it turned out—believed that such a simple moment in the tea room would not have any lasting repercussions on your daily life among the Bridgertons.
You were mistaken.
Francesca, it seemed, possessed an unparalleled talent for surprise.
Every time you passed Eloise in the corridor or crossed paths in the drawing room, Francesca would stifle a giggle, her shoulders shaking just enough to be noticed—and just little enough to be infuriating.
After a few weeks, you began to notice something worse.
Francesca and Penelope—Eloise’s ever-present best friend—were exchanging knowing smiles whenever the three of you shared a space. Smiles that lingered far too long. Smiles that suggested far too much.
With every passing day, your unease grew. Eloise Bridgerton was not a woman who allowed gossip to pass unchallenged. Nor was she one to abandon a mystery once she had caught its scent.
So, naturally, the fateful day arrived.
You were strolling through the park when you encountered Eloise and Penelope approaching from the opposite direction. And, as if rehearsed, Francesca and Penelope immediately began to giggle—softly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, their amusement swelling with every step closer.
Eloise halted abruptly.
“Why,” she demanded, folding her arms, “do you two insist on laughing every time we meet? Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?”
At that precise moment, you developed an intense and profound interest in a duck floating upon the lake. A truly fascinating creature. You focused on it with great determination, doing everything in your power to avoid the scene unfolding beside you.
“No, Eloise,” Penelope said sweetly. “It’s just that the other day Francesca told me something that amused me greatly. And every time I see her, I am reminded of it.”
Francesca nodded at once.
“Yes, sister. That is all,” she added, very clearly fighting laughter.
“Oh, really?” Eloise stepped closer—and before you could protest, she reached out and grasped your arm. “Why don’t you tell us, then? We should like to know as well, should we not?”
She turned those bright, inquisitive eyes on you.
You took an embarrassingly long moment to respond, far too distracted by her proximity and the warmth of her hand at your arm.
“Yes,” you managed at last. “Of course.”
Francesca raised an eyebrow, unmistakably challenged by your hesitation, but Penelope—bless her—leapt into action, inventing a joke on the spot. It was not a particularly good one, but it served its purpose.
Eloise, apparently satisfied, released your arm, bade you goodbye, and continued her walk with Penelope.
The moment they were out of earshot, Francesca turned to you with a grin.
“I wager you enjoyed her being quite that close.”
“Shut up, Fran.”
---
When you asked your aunt for permission to spend a week at the Bridgertons’ country house, she insisted—quite firmly—on first speaking with Lady Bridgerton. This was, she said, to ensure not only your safety, but also the continuity of your studies, a phrase that somehow managed to sound both caring and vaguely threatening.
Once every detail had been arranged—and Lady Bridgerton had even guaranteed riding lessons—you thanked your aunt profusely and packed your bags with more enthusiasm than dignity.
After the carriage ride, you arrived at the familiar country house and entered in high spirits, nearly colliding with several Bridgertons who were running past for reasons known only to themselves.
It was then that you caught sight of Francesca’s face.
She had the expression of someone who had done something.
You became instantly alert.
The truth revealed itself moments later, when Lady Bridgerton briskly announced the room arrangements.
Anthony and Kate would, of course, have their own room, as would Daphne and Simon. Lady Bridgerton would take her usual chamber.
“And,” she continued pleasantly, “as the east wing is currently under renovation, some rooms will need to be shared.”
Your stomach sank.
“Girls, you may share the two rooms on the left,” she said, turning to you, Francesca, Eloise, Hyacinth, and Penelope. “Boys, you will take the rooms on the right.” She gestured toward Benedict, Colin, and Gregory.
Hyacinth reacted immediately.
“Mother! That is entirely unfair. There are three of them and five of us. We ought to have an extra room.”
Lady Bridgerton smiled serenely.
“My dear, I cannot even begin to imagine what would become of a room forced to house the three of them together.”
You glanced at the brothers, who were already arguing over who deserved the single room most.
As the rest of the family dispersed, leaving the five of you to sort matters out, you considered—purely in theory—the most practical way to strangle Francesca.
---
Later, you sat on the edge of the lawn, watching another heated game of Pall Mall unfold. You yourself had been banned for two rounds after striking a ball with such alarming force that it had nearly taken Benedict’s head off. Group safety, apparently.
You turned to Penelope.
“How did you manage that?”
Earlier, she and Francesca had been loudly disputing the best room assignments, talking over one another in a chaos of half-sentences and misplaced logic. The argument had ended when Eloise lost her patience entirely, seized your arm, dragged you toward one of the rooms, and declared, “I’ve decided.”
Penelope stirred her tea, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.
“We knew Eloise would lose her patience,” she admitted. “We merely wagered she would pull you, not Hyacinth.”
“All right. Fair,” you said, perfectly content to pretend the conversation was finished and return your attention to Daphne threatening to strike Colin with her mallet.
Penelope, however, had other plans.
She continued to look at you expectantly. When you failed to speak, she did.
“You know… we are rather similar.”
You turned to her, puzzled.
“Well,” she continued, “we both like a Bridgerton.” She pointed to herself. “Colin.” Then, barely containing a giggle, she pointed to you. “Eloise.”
Francesca is the worst friend in existence, you decided.
“I never asked you about that, Pen,” you said quietly. “You truly don’t mind?”
“Oh, dear,” she replied gently, “it is impossible to live with the Bridgertons and not learn that love is the most beautiful force in existence—regardless of the form it takes.”
She met your gaze, her eyes kind.
“And it is equally impossible not to find Eloise’s obsession with avoiding marriage peculiar, especially given how difficult she finds it to take her eyes off you—or to tolerate jokes made at your expense.”
You exhaled slowly.
“Pen,” you said sincerely, “you truly are the greatest Featherington.”
---
“I can sleep on the floor, if you would prefer,” you offered the moment Eloise entered the room, her hair still damp from her bath.
She stopped short, stared at you for a moment, and then snorted.
“Do stop being ridiculous,” she said briskly, crossing the room and throwing herself onto the bed. She shifted decisively to one side, leaving more than enough space. “The bed is perfectly large. We shall share it.”
“Truly, it would not trouble me,” you insisted, though the idea of lying beside the very source of your sleepless nights and wandering thoughts made your heart beat entirely too fast.
Eloise propped herself up on one elbow and regarded you with a crooked smile.
“And what sort of host would I be if I allowed my guest—who also happens to be royalty—to sleep on the floor?”
You sighed, defeated.
Carefully, you lay down on the very edge of the mattress, positioning yourself as far from her as possible without risking a fall. The room fell quiet, the darkness settling gently around you.
As you stared up at the ceiling, you thought—not for the first time—of a childhood promise.
I hope you keep your word, Lottie.
---
Sometime during the night—perhaps because of the cold, perhaps because sleeping bodies are inclined toward betrayal—you and Eloise became entangled.
Not scandalously so.
Just enough to make one’s cheeks warm at the mere realization.
When you woke to find your fingers nearly intertwined with hers, you could not bring yourself to pull away.
So you did not.
You lay there, acutely aware of every sensation: the warmth of her hand, the faint brush of her fingers against yours, the steady presence of her leg close enough to be felt without truly touching. You committed each detail to memory, as though you might be required to live on the recollection alone.
Then you felt it—the subtle shift that signaled wakefulness.
Panic seized you at once. You stilled your breathing, forced your body into stillness, and pretended to sleep, willing your unruly heart to calm itself.
You waited.
You waited for Eloise to notice.
For her to pull away.
For the moment to end.
It did not.
Instead, Eloise stirred, became aware of your intertwined hands, of the closeness of your bodies—and moved closer still.
Her fingers tightened gently around yours, lacing fully this time, deliberate and unmistakable. She lifted your joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.
The gesture was brief. Unremarkable, one might say.
It was also devastating.
After a few moments of quiet, you heard her sigh. Then the bed shifted as Eloise rose, moving about the room before slipping out and closing the door behind her.
You remained where you were, staring at the ceiling, heart racing, mind spiraling.
Four more nights, you thought.
And no idea at all how you were meant to endure them.
---
That same afternoon, you attended your riding lesson. Which, if one were being entirely honest, amounted to nothing more than a mandatory hour-long excursion on horseback. Even more so when paired with the remarkably docile animal Lady Bridgerton had selected for you—an excellent creature, but hardly inclined toward adventure.
Still, it proved a pleasant enough ride.
You encountered Kate along the path, and the two of you spoke of agreeable, inconsequential matters: the weather, the family, small observations about the Bridgertons that required no particular investment of the heart. And yet, despite the lightness of the conversation, you could not help but sense that Kate knew more than she was saying.
As you neared the stables, you came upon the youngest of the Bridgertons, who was waiting with unmistakable purpose.
You had not even dismounted before Hyacinth spoke.
“Can you take me for a ride?” she asked promptly. “Penelope and Francesca have expelled me from the room, and I have no desire whatsoever to play Pall Mall again.”
You swung down from the saddle.
“Of course,” you said easily. “Come along.”
You helped her onto the horse, taking care not to disturb her impeccably arranged dress, and set off once more. You made the ride lively—quickening the pace at unexpected moments, weaving between trees, reaching for fruit along the way—until Hyacinth’s laughter rang freely.
Then she said something that was neither laughter nor thanks.
“You know,” she remarked casually, biting into an apple, “if you wished to court Eloise, I believe everyone would be in favor.”
She glanced at you sideways.
“I certainly would.”
You did not react at once. Instead, you led the horse a few more steps, allowing yourself the luxury of thought.
“Who else knows?” you asked at last. “About my… affection for Eloise?”
Hyacinth reached out to pluck a leaf from a low-hanging branch, clearly far more interested in the scenery than the weight of her words.
“I think everyone,” she said lightly. “Except Eloise, of course. She would not recognize admiration even if it shouted directly at her.”
“Oh.” You hesitated, then asked quietly, “Any advice? On how to… encourage reciprocation?”
Hyacinth turned to look at you properly this time.
“Oh, no,” she said with utter confidence. “The feeling is mutual. She simply has not realized it yet.”
You waited—surely she would elaborate.
She did not.
“You must help her see it,” Hyacinth added at last, as though that explained everything.
And then she smiled.
---
The first part of the plan was, naturally, to inform your aunt.
Accordingly, you wrote her a letter—carefully worded, respectful, and unmistakably honest—laying out your feelings for Eloise Bridgerton and inquiring whether there might be any hope of success in pursuing what could, perhaps, be called a courtship.
You sealed it.
Then, before sending it, you made the questionable decision to visit the tea room, where Lady Bridgerton was known to be waiting.
You hurried down the stairs, letter in hand, only to lose your nerve entirely just before the door. You stopped short, suddenly reconsidering how one properly explained such matters to the mother of the sharp-tongued girl who occupied your thoughts even in your dreams.
You were still lost in this dilemma when the door opened.
Francesca emerged first, followed closely by Daphne and Kate.
Daphne blinked in surprise upon seeing you lingering there.
“Oh! Hello,” she said warmly. “Were you hoping to speak with Mama?”
Kate raised her eyebrows at Francesca in a manner that strongly suggested your name had already featured in the preceding conversation.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “I shall go in now. Thank you.”
There was no retreating now. Hyacinth would never permit it—and besides, you were already inside the room.
Lady Bridgerton looked up at once and set down her teacup.
“Hello, dear,” she said cheerfully. “We were just speaking about you.”
She gestured to the armchair opposite her, and you sat, your posture considerably less composed than usual.
“Only good things, I hope,” you ventured.
She poured you a cup of tea, and you briefly considered abandoning your purpose entirely in favor of discussing the beverage’s ideal temperature.
“Of course,” she said lightly. “Now—what is it you wished to speak with me about?”
You drew in a deep breath.
“Well,” you began, “Hyacinth spoke to me earlier today about something she believes everyone in the family knows… except one person.”
Lady Bridgerton froze mid-lift of her teacup.
“Oh!” she exclaimed brightly. “You and Eloise, I assume!” She clasped her hands together. “Really, how can she be so dense? It is so obvious!”
You stared.
How was this family taking it so calmly? It had been astonishing enough that your aunt had accepted the truth with such ease—but all the Bridgertons?
“Um—yes,” you said carefully. “I wished to ask what you would think of me… beginning to court her.”
Lady Bridgerton leaned back against the sofa, hands folded with satisfaction.
“That is wonderful! I am so very happy for you both.”
She reached for her teacup again and continued speaking, quite conversationally, as though she were alone.
“I suspected this moment would arrive—particularly after the Queen spoke with me about arranging matters.”
You looked at her in complete disbelief.
“Oh yes,” she continued pleasantly. “Sending you and your future beloved—whom she always imagined would be a Bridgerton, after the beginning of your friendship with Francesca—away to live in a house slightly removed from the rest of the family, all under the pretense of attending to affairs of the Crown.”
She smiled serenely.
“Quite brilliant, really.”
Somehow, you managed to bid her farewell and retreat to your quarters. You sent the letter at once, then sat upon your bed, absorbing the revelation that not only had your feelings been noticed—
So I’m halfway through Young Sherlock (which is 100% becoming my new hyperfixation) and I really, really need some x reader fics that revolve around these three. Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft… I’ll take all of them to be honest
Summary: y/n is Struggling™ and in hospital, can her best friend and doctor heal her?
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings: mentions of self harm, suicide attempt, sexual and physical abuse, blood and bruises, semi smut. If any of this gets to you, please don't read, it is a STRONG theme. Stay safe <3
Author's Note: ... I got issues, m'kay? Anyway this fic is a little old but I'm finally publishing it. As always if you like it, please reblog, and if you want to be tagged in my fics please click here!! Thank you <3
Jack had never been so terrified in his life. It was just another Thursday night, when the blond man walked up to Y/N's door and knocked, grateful to have a moment free for his best friend. But instead of her bright face opening the door, Jack was greeted by an eerie silence. After waiting for a few minutes and eternity, dread filled his chest. He knew that Y/N was going to be home, the plan was for Jack to come over so you could get his opinion on your latest poem. Y/N doesn't back out of plans.
Jack called out, and for a moment he calmed down, tried to rationalize. Maybe Y/N had lost track of the days again, as often happens when she's writing. But instead of silence, this time he heard a small voice through the walls, calling his name like a question. Without hesitation, Jack broke through the door and ran to Y/N's room.
He'd never been scared of blood before.
The carriage jostled as the horses sped towards the hospital, and a groan escaped your lips at the movement. You kept hearing Jack whispering to you.
“Eyes open, Y/N, do you hear me? Keep your eyes open, please. Please.” His voice broke on the last word. You wanted to answer, to keep your eyes open, but you were so tired, and sleep was so welcoming. You wanted to slip into that abyss, the nothingness of the black ink behind your eyes. Maybe, if you just let the pain go, you could sleep forever. That was the latest plan. But the carriage jostled and bruises collided with floor and you whimpered. There was no rest. But by the time you got to the hospital, you were unconscious.
You woke up with a headache. Such was expected, after the night you had had. The night before came crashing back into your mind, five times worse than the headache. Tom. The fight. Hiding in your bedroom. Tears streaming down your face and a hollow ache of numbness settling over you.
You raised a hand to rub your head when you noticed the bandages. Shame settled deep into your bones and tears sprang to your eyes. What had you done? You took a bad situation and made it so much worse. You shouldn't have fought back. No, you shouldn't blame yourself. Both thoughts spun around in equal measure, making you feel dizzy. What would your family think? What will happen when Tom finds out? Who found you?
Jack.
Oh no, not Jack, you thought. The tears came harder, dehydration be damned, you couldn't stop. The nastiness of your mind started up again. He hates you now, he feels sorry for you, he's going to leave you, you've disappointed him, he doesn't care about you like that and you know it, and he never will now. You started to gasp for air when you heard the door creak open just enough to see Jack's eyes peer through, not wanting to disturb you if you were asleep. You couldn't fake it fast enough.
The door opened wider as Jack walked inside. In just a few strides, he was at your bedside, and for a second you thought you saw him hesitate to come closer.
“How are you this morning?” Jack voice was steel as he clenched his jaw and looked to the ceiling, playing the clinical doctor, not the terrified friend.
“Jack. I'm so sorry.” You said, softly, scarcely concealing the hurt in your heart. You didn't want the voices inside to be true.
Jack nodded once. Twice. And then he kept nodding, as if the more he nodded, the more sense it would make. The nodding turned into a shake and he looked at you with fierce eyes.
“Why?” he asked, anger covering fear as well as a band-aid covers a bullet hole. “Dear God, why?! What happened?” Hesitation gone as he sat down on your bed, taking one hand in his. “Y/N, please, tell me what's going on. You haven't been yourself for months now and I didn't know what to think, and now this?” He took a breath, and shamed still prevented you from looking at his face. “Please, tell me what brought you such pain that you thought death would be better. I'll take care of it, please, just-” You'd never heard the self proclaimed artful dodger's voice break before. “Just don't leave me.” He pressed your knuckled to his forehead, and for a second, the pain of the night before didn't seem to hurt.
You didn't see a way around it. You had to tell someone the truth or you'd burst, and you trusted Jack more than you trusted yourself. After a moment, you took a breath and began to speak.
“Tom. He-” Jack's face hardened immediately at the name of your fiance. He'd never liked the man, half because his gut told him he couldn't be trusted, and half because he was betrothed to the woman he loved. “He attacked me. When I told him the wedding was off. He- he pushed me against the wall, said that I had just been leading him on, that he could make me his wife one way or another, a- a- and and then-” your breathing was coming fast and you could feel a panic attack coming on.
It took Jack a moment to realize what was going on, as he was lost in his confusion. Since when was the wedding off? Who would be dumb enough to attack high nobility such as yourself? What did he mean- oh hell no. The rage came quickly and diminished just as fast when he saw you gasping for breath.
“Y/N/N, breath, everything is alright, calm down. Breath with me. You are safe, you are here with me.” You had told Jack once about the panic attacks, the way it felt like you where drowning in air, anxiety rising over and killing you. You'd explained what helped you through them, even though medically speaking, you sounded crazy. But Jack trusted you, would never think you crazy and would do anything to see you smile.
Jack repositioned himself to hold you against his chest, too scared to squeeze hard, even if that's what you'd previously instructed him to do. The sound of his heartbeat and movement of his chest under you calmed you down a bit, and the hysterical crying and panic dulled to simple tears. You continued talking.
“I was so scared. So I ran into my bedroom, and locked the door. But I could hear him screaming and feel him slamming against the door against my back. And it occurred to me that I can't run from him, Jack. He was right, I'm going to be his one way or another. I just couldn't do it, I couldn't take it. He repulses me, I just...” you stopped talking for a moment in the hopes the tremble in your voice would calm. It didn't. “I just feel like the only way to be free of him is...” you trailed off, leaving Jack to fill in the blank.
Jack pulled back and looked you in the eye.
“No. No, your death is not the answer. Tom, on the other hand...” Jack trailed off. You wanted to be scared but couldn't find the sympathy within you, drained of emotions from the panic attack. “There'll be a way. We will find one. Just don't leave. I cannot fathom a life without you.”
The tears in Jack's eyes only furthered those in yours, until the pair of you were holding each other and sobbing. Jack held you tighter, and for a moment it was comforting, until you breathed in and the pressure hurt the bruises on your waist and hip, making you gasp.
“What's wrong?” Jack asked, immediately springing to his feet and checking both your bandages, but no blood seeped through.
“Nothing, just a bruise, I think.” You said. Only it wasn't just a bruise, it was the mother of all bruises, and you were scared to think of how bad the damage would have been had you not been wearing a full skirt and corset.
“Where.” Jack's question was more of a statement, doctor mode activated.
“My waist and hip.”
You weren't expecting a small blush to appear on Jack's cheeks, but the sight made your heart leap. How could the smallest flush of colour be so adorable and attractive in equal measure?
“Is it alright if I take a look?”
You hated the thought of anyone seeing your body, let alone the person you loved seeing the markings of the man who hurt you, but you also knew you were in hospital and this was your doctor concerned for your health. You pushed down the blankets, and Jack gave you the slightest nod to double check if it was OK. When you nodded back, Jack took the edges of your nightie and slowly and gently pulled it up, fingers softly grazing your skin.
Jack sharply gasped when he saw the bruises, a deep blue and black spreading from your just below your waistline across most of your right hip, and a smaller purple bruise on your lower ribcage. He lightly touched the skin around the bruising on your hip.
“Y/N/N,” Jack said softly, looking up at you with pleading eyes.
You took that the wrong way.
“I know. Alright? I know, it's ugly, I'm ugly, and I'm scarred, I'm damaged.” Jack looked up at you with those big eyes that you loved, care and concern brimming his eyes as the words you'd been keeping flowed out. “I hate this all so much. I hate the bruises, the scars, I hate how I feel unsafe in my own mind, that I am unsafe in my own home. I hate how one minute we're all children, safe and adored, and bruises can be solved with a quick kiss better, and the next we're adults, the bruises last and kisses complicate.” You sniffled. “I wish all this could be healed so simply as a kiss better.” You went to wipe your eyes, but Jack beat you too it, quick as a flash, drying your tears and looking into your eyes with a playful smirk. Though he was too scared to let it show, his heart was nearly beating out of his chest as he spoke.
“I'm not magic, but as your doctor, I'd like to give it a shot.”
“What?” you asked, heart caught in your throat, assuming he was kidding or just about to kiss your cheek.
“A kiss.” You looked at each other for a moment. “To stop the pain.” Jack clarified, backtracking with fear. You merely nodded.
The hand that was cupping your cheeks after drying your tears softly trailed down your arm, turning it over so the bandage covering the cut was facing him. Jack raised your arm to his lips, and though you couldn't feel it past the bandage, you fought yourself to maintain composure. Jack turned your arm back and held your hand, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. He looked into your eyes as he brushed his lips against your knuckles. His lips were soft as they touched your fingers, and you were speechless. A small shiver worked it's way down your spine.
You mistakenly thought Jack would stop there, but Dodger was nothing if not bold as he shimmed back to kiss around your bruised waist. Feather-light fingers gently touched you before settling on your waist, as he lowered his mouth to the top of your bruise, just under your ribs. Small pecks peppered all around your bruise, inching lower, until the kisses became more. More sure, more of a kiss than a peck, but light enough to leaving you longing. By the time Jack had gotten to the base of your bruise, you were breathing hard and suppressing a moan by biting your lip as one of his hands was on your inner knee, the other near your bruise, partly on your hip, partly on your ass. He slowed down slightly, looking up at you with what could only be described as hunger and desperation, as though he'd been wanting you for so long that he could barely contain himself.
“Jack-” you whispered.
There was a knock on the front door and Jack barely had time to pull your nightgown back over your legs and sit up when Hetty came in.
“Sir, we've got-” Hetty faltered for only a moment upon seeing your flushed cheeks and Jack's red lips and ruffled shirt. “Ah, we've got three new patients for you to see before midday, if you're free soon?”
You were mad at Hetty for interrupting, but grateful for her grace and tact.
“Yes, yes of course, I was almost on my way out, just give me one moment with Miss Y/L/N, please.”
Hetty lowered her head and closed the door behind her.
For a minute, neither of you could look each other in the eye, too scared of what you'd show and what you would or wouldn't see back. Jack broke the silence.
“So,” he cleared his throat. “Er, if you need anything, at anytime, call the nurses and ask for me, alright? Even if you start to feel distressed for only a moment, even from your own mind, call for me. I don't want you to be alone right now. I-I can't let you get hurt, Y/N. You're-” he stopped himself before he could say 'my world', adding instead “you mean too much to me.”
And with that, Jack slipped out of the room, leaving you to analyze the kisses. You already felt better.
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