mj's masterlist
→ SQUID GAME
→ THE BEAR
→ GREASE
→ NOW YOU SEE ME
→ DHURANDHAR
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mj's masterlist
→ SQUID GAME
→ THE BEAR
→ GREASE
→ NOW YOU SEE ME
→ DHURANDHAR
update : i’ve watched dhurandhar 2 in the cinema for the SECOND time last night. the story ideas are flowing to me. please please please send requests tho!! man, it was such a good film, i’m obsessed!!! 🥹😭🙏🏽
i watched dhurandhar 2 a couple nights ago and it genuinely is not leaving my mind. it’s given me so many new ideas for stories though. anyone watched it yet??
Hey, are you still taking request for Rehman?
yes, of course!!
my requests are always open!! i’m working on a few requests right now, so things are a little slow but i’m getting there!!
ARMS AMRS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARMS ARSMSMSMSMMSMS
sahi hai 😫
DHURANDHAR MASTERLIST:
REHMAN BALOCH DAKAIT
sirf meri | rehman dakait.
sirf meri | rehman dakait.
wc: 2k
warnings: suggestive content, not fully nsfw. rushed writing.
#dhurandharpaglu. this is my first dhurandhar fanfic, and first ever fanfic i've written urdu dialogue in. read this with a grain of salt but i hope you enjoy it! if there's any mistakes, please let me know :)
the night is warm, thick with cigarette smoke and murmured conversations. you're sitting on the edge of the courtyard steps, legs pulled in, laughing quietly at something uzair just said. it's easy with him. always has been. you don't think before speaking, don't measure your words.
that's the problem.
rehman's been watching from the other side for a while now. not openly. he pretends to listen to someone else, nods at the right moments — but his eyes keep drifting back to you.
your laugh reaches him again. something tightens in his chest. he exhales slowly and finally walks over. he doesn't interrupt at first. just stands there, tall and solid, presence heavy enough uzair notices instantly. uzair clears his throat, gives you a quick look, and excuses himself. "jalta hoon bhabhi." ("i'll get going, sister-in-law.")
silence settles. rehman looks down at you. "aaj kal tum uske saath zyada hi khuli hui hoti ja rahi ho." ("lately you've been very open with him.")
you tilt your head, confused— or pretending to be. he crosses his arms, jaw flexing slightly. "meri baat ka matlab samajhti ho tum." ("you understand what i mean.")
you smile instead of answering. that smile makes things worse. he lets out a quiet scoff. "mujhe pasand nahi hai jab tum kisi aur ke saath itni befikri se baat karti ho." ("i don't like it when you talk so carelessly with someone else.")
you blink at him, then smile wider. "befikri?" ("carelessly?") you step a little closer, hands clasped behind your back. "main toh bas hans rahi thi." ("i was just laughing.")
rehman's eyes narrowed slightly. "tum aise nahi hasti sab ke saath." ("you don't laugh like that with everyone.")
you hum thoughtfully. "shayad kyunke uzair mujhe safe lagta hai." (maybe because uzair feels safe to me.") you watch his reaction carefully. his jaw tightens. "aur main? safe nahi hoon?" ("and me? i'm not safe?") you tilt your head innocently.
"tum toh mere shohar ho." ("you're my husband.") a beat. then, sweetly, "tumhein toh jealous hona hi chahiye." ("you should be jealous.")
that does it.
rehman exhales slowly through his name. "tum jaan ke mujhe chhed rahi ho." ("you're teasing me on purpose.") you shrug playfully. "agar tum react hi na karo toh maza kya?" ("if you don't react, then what's the fun?") his eyes darken just a fraction.
"tumhein meri reactions se khelna pasand hai?" ("you like playing with my reactions?") you grin widely. "bohat." ("a lot.")
rehman looks away for a second, then back at you. “mujhe pasand nahi hai jab tum mujhe aise test karti ho.” ("i don’t like it when you test me like this.") you step even closer now, looking up at him. “par tum phir bhi pass aa jaate ho.” (but you still come closer.)
his breath changes slightly. “kyunkay tum meri kamzori ho.” ("because you’re my weakness.") you smile, victorious. “aur phir bhi tum jealous ho rahe ho ek bhai jaisay insaan se.” ("and still you’re getting jealous over someone who’s like a brother.") rehman scoffs quietly. “main us se jealous nahi hoon.” ("i’m not jealous of him.") you raise an eyebrow.
“toh phir yeh kya hai?” ("then what is this?") he steps closer, voice dropping. “yeh haq hai.” ("this is a right.") your smile turns mischievous.
“achha… toh agar main phir se hans doon?” ("oh… so if i laugh again?") you fake a small laugh on purpose. rehman clenches his jaw.
“tum bohat shararti ho.” ("you’re very naughty.")
“tumne hi shaadi ki hai mujhse.” ("you’re the one who married me.")
a pause. then, quieter—
“aur tumne mujhe aadat laga di hai apni hansi ki.” ("and you’ve made your laughter a habit for me.") you soften for half a second. then—
“isliye jab main kisi aur ke saath hasti hoon toh tum jal jaate ho?” ("that’s why you burn when i laugh with someone else?")
he looks straight at you. “haan.” ("yes.") no hesitation. your smile slows, becomes warm. “tum bohat pyare ho jab sach bolte ho.” ("you’re very cute when you tell the truth.") he groans softly. “phir se pyare mat kaho.” ("don’t call me cute again.") you laugh.
“phir jealous mat ho.” ("then don’t be jealous.") he shakes his head, defeated. “tum jeet jaati ho har dafa.” ("you win every time.") you smile up at him, clearly enjoying the victory a little too much.
"tum hamesha itni jaldi haar maan lete ho." ("you always give up so easily.") rehman lets out a short laugh— more disbelief than humor. "rehman dakait kabhi haar nahi maanta." ("rehman dakait never gives up.") he steps closer again, invading your space without touching you.
"bas tumse larna mushkil ho jaata hai." ("it just becomes hard to argue with you.")
before you can respond, his hand settles firmly at your waist— not rough, not gentle either. possessive. familiar. like he knows exactly where you belong.
you inhale sharply. you smile.
"phir larte kyun ho?" (then why do you argue?")
his jaw tightens. "kyunkay tum mujhe jaan ke provoke karti ho." (because you provoke me on purpose.") his other hand lifts, fingers sliding into your hair slowly, deliberately— tilting your head back just enough to make you look up at him.
your breath stutters.
you don't pull away.
"aur tum phir bhi mujhe chhor dete ho?" ("and you still let me go?") his thumb brushes along your jaw. "har dafa nahi." ("not every time.")
his fingers trail down— slow, controlled— from your hair to your throat. he doesn't squeeze hard, just enough pressure to make your pulse jump under his touch.
his voice drops. "tumhein pata hai yahan haath rakh kar main kya kar raha hoon?" ("do you know what i'm doing by keeping my hand here?")
you swallow. your smile turns dangerous. "mujhe darane ki koshish?" (trying to scare me?")
his lips twitch. "nahi." ("no.")
his thumb presses just slightly more. "tumhein yaad dila raha hoon ke tum kis ki ho." (i'm reminding you who you belong to.")
you breath is shallow now but you're enjoying it. you lean in just a fraction. "aur tumhein kya lagta hai... mujhe yeh pasand nahi?" ("and what makes you think i don't like this?")
that's when he exhales— slow, controlled, barely holding back.
his hand leaves your throat, sliding back to your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left. "tum bohat khatarnaak ho." ("you're very dangerous.")
"tumhein pasand hai." ("you like it.")
his grip tightens at your waist, thumb pressing in like he's grounding himself. "pasand aur control mein bohat patla se farq hota hai." ("there's a very thin line between liking it and control.")
your fingers slide up his chest slowly, deliberately. "aur tum kaunsa side pe ho abhi?" ("and which side are you on right now?")
he leans in— so close his breath brushes your lips— but doesn't kiss you.
"jo tum chaho." ("whichever you want.) that answer alone makes your stomach flip. you laugh softly, teasing, and shift just enough to test him. “phir mujhe yahin chhedna band karo.” ("then stop teasing me right here.")
his hand slides up your back—slow, claiming—fingers splaying like he’s memorizing you. “tumhein lagta hai yeh chhedna hai?” ("you think this is teasing?) his forehead drops to yours. “yeh sabr hai.” ("this is restraint.")
you swallow, breath shallow now/
“rehman…” your voice alone does it. his thumb traces along your waist again, dipping just enough to make your breath hitch. “bolo, meri jaan.” (say it, my love.)
you glance around—just once. “koi dekh lega.” ("someone will see.") he smiles then—not sweet, not gentle. dangerous. confident. “agar tum chaho toh aankhen nikal denge hum.” ("if you want, i’ll take their eyes out.")
then, softer—just for you: “tumhari hukum, begum.” (your command, my wife.) your heart is pounding now. you grip his collar, pulling him closer—but still not kissing him.
“tum bohat baatein karte ho.” ("you talk a lot.") he chuckles lowly.
“aur tum sunna pasand karti ho.” ("and you like listening.") his hand slides up into your hair again, tugging just enough to tilt your head back—eyes locked on yours.
“tumhein pata hai tum kya kar rahi ho?” (do you know what you’re doing?) you nod slowly.
“haan.” ("yes.")
“tumhein aur kharab kar rahi hoon.” ("i’m making you worse.")
his breath stutters this time. “tum meri maut ka shauk rakhti ho.” ("you have a hobby of killing me.") you smile—soft, lethal. “par tum zinda rehna chahte ho… mere saath.” ("but you want to stay alive… with me.") a soft silence. then—
“sirf tumhare saath.” ("only with you.")
he pulls you in again, chest to chest, voice low and dangerous.
“aur agar tum aaj ruki nahi na…” ("and if you don’t stop today…")
a pause. a breath.
“…toh phir mujhe bhi mat roko.” ("then don’t stop me either.")
you don't answer him. you don't need to. your fingers curl into his collar and pull. hard. rehman doesn't hesitate this time.
he kisses you like he's been holding back all night—mouth firm, demanding, no softness left. not rushed either. controlled hunger. the kind that makes your knees weaken instantly.
his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you flush against him, leaving no space between your bodies.
you gasp into his mouth.
he swallows the sound.
the kiss deepens— slower now, heavier— like he's tasting you properly, like he's waited too long for this. his lips move against yours with intention, claiming, reminding.
you tilt your head instinctively, giving him better access.
that's all the permission he needs.
his other hand slides up your back, fingers spreading wife, pressing you closer until your chest rises and falls against his. heat pools low in your stomach, sharp and sudden.
your legs feel weak.
you grip him harder.
he groans softly against your mouth— low, restrained, dangerous— and kisses you again, deeper, rougher, like he's done pretending. your body reacts before your mind does. you press into him. the contact makes him suck in a sharp breath.
he breaks the kiss just barely— forehead resting against yours, lips brushing yours with every breath. "tum mujhe pagal kar rahi ho." ("you're driving me insane.")
you smile, breathless, barely holding yourself up. "tum khud hi aaye ho." ("you came on your own.")
that earns you another kiss— harder this time.
he backs you up instinctively, guiding you without force, until your back meets the wall. his body cages you in completely, solid and warm and overwhelming.
no escape.
not that you want one.
his thigh shifts between yours just enough to make your breath hitch. the pressure sends a slow, dizzying heat through you.
you whimper quietly.
he feels it.
his hand slides into your hair again, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back, lips trailing along your jaw. not rushed. not gentle. intentional.
"aise awaaz mat nikalo." ("don't make sounds like that.")
he presses closer. "mera control aur mushkil ho jaata hai." ("it makes my control harder.")
you laugh softly, breathless, your hands roaming his chest.
"toh control chhor do." ("then let go of control.")
that's when he kisses you again— slow, devastating, unrelenting.
your knees buckle slightly. he notices immediately and tightens his hold, lifting you just enough to keep you steady, body never leaving yours.
"dekha?" ("see?")
his lips brush yours again.
"tum khud bhi sambal nahi paa rahi." ("you can't even hold yourself up.")
you grind into him without thinking— just a small movement, instinctive— but it's enough.
he groans against your neck, grip tightening, breath uneven now. the restraint is cracking. his forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.
"tumhein andaza nahi hai tum kya kar rahi ho." ("you have no idea what you're doing to me.")
you smile against his ear. "mujhe andaza hai." ("i know.")
that smile is his undoing. his happy place.
he kisses you again. hands everywhere they're allowed to be, memorizing, claiming, pulling you impossibly closer. there is no space left.
only heat. breath. want.
and the undeniable truth sitting heavy between you both... neither of you is stopping anytime soon.
allah ka shukar hai that rehman dakait is a jealous, passionate lover.
heyy!! can u make a rehman dakait x reader where the main plot is just him being insanely jealous because she's always talking with uzair baloch, (she speaks more freely with uzair, only cuz she sees him as brother)
i just finished writing this! posting NOWWW! i hope you enjoy it <3
OMG I saw you’re taking Dhurandhar requests!! I NEED more Uzair fics. How about reader from a wealthier part of Karachi, so far from the lives of Lyari. One night, while driving home she finds Uzair half-unconscious with a gunshot wound after an altercation with another gang or police. Despite the danger, she stops and helps him into her car; he leans on her, barely aware, but registers that she chose to save him. She takes him to the hospital, then leaves immediately after handing him over, having recognized him but manz is infatuated with the stranger that saved his life. Of course you can change it up or take it in whatever direction, but this was just a thought.
I LOVE THIS IDEA OMG, thank you for sending your request!! at your service. i'm gonna start writing right now!! 🫡🫡
my requests are OPEN for dhurandhar fanfics!! i write for rehman dakait, hamza ali mazari / jaskirat singh rangi, and uzair baloch.
might fuck around and write some dhurandhar fanfic 😫😫 im obsessed
can't remember to forget you | jack wilder
wc: 1.9k
nysm 3 has brought my raging jack wilder obsession back! i wrote this will listening to "can't remember to forget you" on repeat. a little jack angst moment, but 😝. i might write a pt.2 happy ending to this, maybe... if that's what you guys ask for, or i'll just leave it the way it is. anyways, i hope you enjoy!! :)
you tell yourself you're done with him every time.
every time he pulls one of his stupid stunts, every time his smile gets him out of trouble, every time he kisses you like you’re the only thing in the room and then walks away before morning, you swear you’re finished.
but you’ve never been a good liar —
especially to yourself.
and especially not when it comes to jack wilder.
the safehouse is finally quiet. everyone else is asleep, exhausted from the failed dry run earlier. there’s a soft hum from the old fridge in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the floor when the wind shifts. it’s peaceful in every way your head isn’t.
you pace. then stop. then stand outside his door like you’re waiting for your heartbeat to make a decision for you.
it does.
you raise your hand — maybe to knock, maybe to turn around — you don’t even get the chance to find out.
the door opens.
jack stands there, hair messy, t-shirt hanging loose, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t sleeping either. or like he knew you’d show up. maybe both.
his voice is soft, warm in that way that makes your knees stupid. “i figured you’d be out here.”
you try to be annoyed, but your pulse gives you away. “how?”
he leans against the doorframe, mouth curling. “you’re predictable when you’re trying not to be.”
you hate that he’s right. you hate that he knows you this well — hates, but loves, but hates again because that’s how this always goes. he’s the fire you keep walking into. the habit you swear off and always relapse back to.
“come inside,” he says quietly. not a command. an invitation that feels like a memory.
you step in. like you always do.
the room smells like him — spearmint gum, cologne he overuses, card tricks scattered across the desk, a half-finished plan scribbled on the wall. it hits you like nostalgia for something you never should’ve loved this much.
you stay near the door. safety distance. jack notices. of course he notices.
he closes the gap between you with slow, careful steps like he’s approaching something fragile. or something he wants badly enough not to ruin.
“you don’t sleep when you’re mad,” he says. “or when something’s bothering you.”
you blink. “i’m not mad.”
his eyes soften. “then what’s wrong?”
you shake your head, because saying the truth feels pathetic: you. you’re what’s wrong. you’re what i want and what i can’t want at the same time. you’re the best and worst thing that ever happened to my self-control.
but jack steps closer anyway. his fingers brush your arm — light, testing. your breath stutters like your body recognizes him faster than your brain can protest.
“this is a bad idea,” you whisper.
his smile is heartbreakingly gentle. “everything with us is a bad idea.”
and you hate that he’s right. because he is. he absolutely is. the two of you are chaos waiting to spill over — the mix of adrenaline and heat, laughter and arguments, stolen kisses between missions and stolen glances during them. a loop you can’t untangle yourself from.
he lifts your chin, thumb ghosting across your jaw. you close your eyes for half a second — one second too long — and he sees it. he always sees it.
“tell me no,” he murmurs, voice lower now, careful, dangerous. “and i’ll stop.”
you try. god, you try.
the reasons flash through your head — the complications, the risks, the hurt, the fact that every time you leave him, it feels like tearing something vital out of yourself. every reason to forget him rises up like a wall.
and then he strokes his thumb along your cheekbone.
and the wall shatters.
you don’t say no. you don’t say anything.
he leans in, forehead against yours. the moment freezes — suspended, breathless, inevitable.
“thought so,” he whispers.
the kiss is slow at first. careful. like he’s reminding himself of the shape of your mouth. like he wants to savor every second of you coming undone. then you grab his shirt — not to pull him closer, but because your knees go weak — and the kiss deepens, hungry and aching, like confession and relapse and regret already blooming in the back of your mind.
you kiss him like you’re trying to memorize him. you kiss him like you’re trying to forget him. you kiss him like you’re failing at both.
his hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you in the exact place you shouldn’t be. the exact place you crave.
“you always do this,” you breathe when he pulls back just enough to look at you.
his voice is hoarse. “do what?”
“make me forget why i shouldn’t.”
jack presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, slow and reverent. “maybe because you don’t actually want to forget.”
you don’t answer. you can’t. your fingers are already in his hair, the room spinning around the two of you like he’s the center of gravity.
he kisses you again, deeper this time, and you melt — against your better judgment, your better intentions, your better everything.
“you always come back to me,” he murmurs against your lips.
and you do. god, you do.
you hate it. you love it. you hate how much you love it.
“that’s the problem,” you whisper.
he smiles — soft, almost sad, the kind of smile that tells you he’s just as ruined by this as you are.
“maybe,” he says, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, “or maybe it’s the answer.”
you rest your forehead against his chest, breathing him in, knowing this won’t last, knowing morning will bring clarity you don’t want.
but for now — wrapped in his arms, drowning in him — forgetting feels easier than remembering.
and loving him feels impossible to stop.
you can’t remember to forget him. and you don’t think you ever will.
morning comes too quickly.
it always does after nights like this — nights you swear won’t happen again, nights that leave your heartbeat in the wrong place and his breath still ghosting your collarbone.
you wake up before he does.
of course you do. you’ve always been the one to feel the weight of reality first.
jack lies half-asleep beside you, one arm slung over your waist, face buried against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin like he belongs there. like this is normal. like this is allowed.
the worst part is how natural it feels.
you blink at the ceiling, your chest tight in that familiar, awful, beautiful way. sunlight spills through the blinds, warm stripes crossing your bare legs, the sheet tangled around both of you like it’s trying to keep you here.
you know better.
you always know better.
slowly — carefully — you lift his arm from around you, easing yourself out of the bed. the mattress shifts, but he doesn’t wake. jack sleeps like someone who trusts that the world will still be good when he opens his eyes.
you envy that.
you find your shirt on the floor, pull it over your head, breathe in slow.
you should leave the room. you should not look back.
you look back.
jack is sprawled on his stomach now, hair a mess of curls, cheek pressed into the pillow, the sheet low on his hips. he looks peaceful. younger. like he’s never broken your heart, never confused you, never made you forget every promise you’ve ever made to yourself.
you let out a breath that feels like surrender.
and that’s when he stirs.
he blinks slowly, lashes fluttering before his eyes finally open, brown and soft and still half-dreaming. he sees you standing there — shirt crooked, hair messy, guilt sitting on your shoulders like another layer of clothing.
a sleepy smile curls his lips.
“morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and warm and dangerous.
you look away. “don’t call me that.”
he shifts to sit up, rubbing his eyes. “why not? you didn’t seem to mind last night.”
heat rushes to your cheeks — anger, embarrassment, want. you pick up your jeans from the chair, avoiding his eyes.
“last night shouldn’t have happened.”
silence.
not sharp. not angry.
just… quiet. the kind that makes your throat tighten.
you hear the bed dip behind you as he stands. you don’t turn around, but he comes up behind you anyway, stopping a breath away as if he knows he shouldn’t touch you. as if he’s trying to be respectful when the damage’s already done.
“you say that every time,” jack says softly.
you swallow hard. “because i mean it every time.”
a moment passes — raw, stretched thin.
“so why do you always come back?” he asks.
you close your eyes. because you don’t have an answer that won’t break you.
his hand lifts, like he’s going to touch your arm — then hesitates.
you’ve never seen him hesitate.
“look at me,” he whispers.
you don’t.
so he steps in front of you instead, gently tilting your chin up. his eyes search yours, and you hate how much affection sits there. how much warmth. how much you want to believe in it.
“if last night was a mistake…” he says, voice almost breaking, “don’t treat it like something you regret.”
your breath catches. “i don’t— it’s not— jack, it’s complicated.”
he shakes his head. “you make it complicated. i don’t.”
you laugh once — sad, soft. “you make everything complicated.”
“only because you overthink everything,” he fires back, but there’s no bite. no anger. only hurt.
you step back. the space between you fills with everything unsaid.
“this can’t keep happening,” you whisper.
jack’s jaw tightens the way it does when he’s trying not to show he’s upset. “yeah,” he says quietly. “i know.”
but he doesn’t move. neither do you.
the tension hangs thick — a string pulled so tight it’s one breath away from snapping.
then—
a knock on the door.
you both freeze.
“jack? you awake? atlas wants to go over the new layout—” merritt’s voice filters through the wood.
your heart leaps into your throat.
jack shoots you a look — panic mixed with something else: protectiveness, guilt, the instinct to shield you even though this is both your mess.
“uh— yeah!” jack calls, voice cracking just a little. “gimme a sec!”
you scramble to finish dressing. he hands you your jacket without a word. when your fingers brush, something inside you twists painfully.
you head for the door.
his voice stops you.
“hey.”
you turn. he looks at you like he’s memorizing you. like he’s storing this moment in the same place he keeps all the other moments you pretend didn’t matter.
jack steps forward, just one step — enough to lower his voice to something only you can hear.
“if this is the last time,” he whispers, “at least tell me the truth.”
your breath shakes. “about what?”
he searches your face, desperate, hopeful, terrified.
“did you really not want last night?”
you open your mouth. the truth sits on your tongue — hot, heavy, dangerous.
you should lie. it’d be cleaner. easier. safer.
instead, you whisper:
“i wanted every second of it.”
jack inhales sharply. like the confession hits him straight in the chest.
you turn before he can say anything — before you can fall back into him like a habit you can’t quit — and you slip out the door, past merritt, past the risk, past the temptation to stay.
but down the hallway, with your heart pounding and his warmth still clinging to your skin, you know:
you’re never going to forget him. and you’re never really going to stop coming back.
NOW YOU SEE ME MASTERLIST:
BOSCO LEROY
scared. | bosco leroy
JACK WILDER
can't remember to forget you | jack wilder
GREASE MASTERLIST:
KENICKIE MURDOCH
off-limits | kenickie murdoch
THE BEAR MASTERLIST:
RICHIE JERIMOVICH
so kiss me | richie jerimovich
MIKEY BERZATTO
my mikey. | mikey berzatto
CARMEN BERZATTO
the chosen one. | carmen berzatto
the chosen one pt.2 | carmen berzatto / richie jerimovich.
SQUID GAME MASTERLIST:
THANOS | CHOI SU-BONG
it's too late | thanos (choi su-bong)
fine line | thanos (choi su-bong)
fine line pt.2 | thanos (choi su-bong)
KANG DAE-HO | PLAYER 388
mrs. marine's trouble. | kang dae-ho (player 388)
NAM-GYU (PLAYER 124)
kiyowo | nam-gyu (player 124)
scared. | bosco leroy
wc : 1.6k
i watched nysm3 a couple days ago, and i can't stop thinking about bosco leroy. i know it just came out, but i'm deprived of bosco fanfics, so i thought i would write one myself. very rushed piece of work, so don't expect much — i hope you guys enjoy it though!!
NOT proof-read! :)
you don't notice how fast you're moving until you're already halfway down the dim service corridor, the echo of your footsteps chasing you like guilt. everything backstage was a blur — the shouting, the misfires, the look bosco gave you right before he turned away.
you call his name once.
he doesn't stop.
you call it again, louder, voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve been holding in.
“bosco!”
this time his shoulders react — just a tiny twitch. but he keeps walking, hands trembling at his sides, fingers curling into fists like he’s trying to hold himself together cell by cell. his posture is wrong. too stiff, too guarded. not like him. not like the man who can walk onstage and make an entire room believe he’s untouchable.
when you finally reach him, you’re out of breath, vision swimming a little. “can you just— please. stop.”
he does. it’s immediate, like his body obeys you even when the rest of him refuses to look back. he stands perfectly still, back rising and falling too quickly, like he’d been swallowing panic for the last ten minutes.
for a long moment he doesn’t turn.
he lets you catch up, lets the silence stretch, lets you feel every ounce of distance he’s put between you.
and then, slowly, he glances over his shoulder.
just his eyes.
dark. raw. disappointed in a way that smarts worse than anger ever could.
“i’m fine,” he says.
you laugh — a short, shaky sound that doesn’t feel like humor at all. “you’re not.”
bosco moves then, turning fully to face you. seeing him up close makes something in your chest cave in. his hair is a mess from the stunt. his cheek is flushed. he looks like someone trying very, very hard not to break.
“you didn’t trust me,” he says. not an accusation. just a fact he’s laid between you like a cracked piece of glass.
you freeze. “that’s not what happened.”
“you cut the wire,” he says, voice quieter now but sharper. “early.”
you step forward without meaning to. “bosco, i panicked. the timing—"
“i know the timing,” he snaps, and you flinch because he never snaps at you. “i felt the second slip. i adjusted. i had it.”
his breath hitches. he looks away for a moment, jaw flexing.
“i had it,” he repeats, softer. “but you didn’t give me the chance.”
you swallow the burn in your throat. “i thought you’d fall. i thought—”
“you thought i needed saving.”
and there it is.
the real wound.
the reason he walked away with his hands shaking and his chest heaving and his eyes refusing to meet yours.
“i don’t need saving from you,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to the floor. “i need you to trust me. the way i—”
he cuts himself off, biting down on the word, like letting it slip would reveal too much.
your heart lurches. “the way you what?”
silence. thick. vibrating with all the things he won’t say.
“bosco,” you whisper, stepping closer. “i wasn’t trying to control you. i was scared. i saw you dangling there an extra second and my stomach just— i couldn’t breathe. i thought something was wrong. i didn’t think, i just… protected you.”
he finally looks at you. really looks.
and what you see nearly knocks your knees out.
hurt, yes. but underneath… something unbearably vulnerable.
“why?” he asks. “why does me falling scare you that much?”
you open your mouth.
nothing comes out.
then quietly: “because losing you would… destroy me.”
his breath stutters.
something flickers in his eyes — hope, disbelief, relief, longing, all tangled up messily.
he takes a step toward you.
then another.
now you’re close enough to feel the warmth of his body, to smell the faint scent of smoke and adrenaline clinging to his shirt. he’s breathing shallowly, like he’s afraid moving too fast will shatter the fragile truth hanging between you.
“you should’ve told me,” he murmurs. “instead of trying to fix everything yourself.”
you shake your head, voice barely above a whisper. “i didn’t want you to think i doubted you.”
“but you do,” he says, and it comes out more broken than angry.
you reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his wrist. he flinches — not away, just like the touch startles him. then he softens under it slowly, shoulders dropping, breath easing out of him like a long, exhausted surrender.
“i don’t doubt you,” you say. “i’m terrified of how much i care.”
your thumb grazes the inside of his wrist, feeling the wild little jump of his pulse.
his breath catches.
“you make me reckless,” you admit. “and i didn’t know how to handle that.”
bosco studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s memorizing the shape of the truth for the first time. then he lifts his hand, hesitates, and cups your cheek so gently it almost hurts.
“don’t run from me,” he whispers. “not when you’re scared.”
you lean into his touch, exhaling shakily.
“i’m not running now.”
his forehead drops to yours. the tension in him finally breaks — you feel it, like his whole body exhales at once. your name leaves his lips in a breath, almost a confession.
slowly, he wraps his arms around you.
and you fold into him, letting the heat of him soak into your trembling bones.
his grip is firm, desperate in the quiet way only bosco can be — like he’s been waiting weeks, maybe months, for you to admit what today finally cracked open.
you stay there like that, holding and being held, hidden in a hallway where the world can’t see two people learning how to trust each other again.
you pull back just enough to see his face — the way his lashes are still trembling, the way he’s staring at you like he’s trying to memorize what you look like when you’re this close, this honest, this unguarded.
bosco’s hand is still on your cheek, thumb sweeping over your skin in a slow, almost absent-minded circle, like he’s grounding himself with the touch. his other hand is gripping the back of your jacket, fingers curled in the fabric like he’s afraid that letting go might undo everything you just said.
“you scared me too, you know?” he whispers again, softer this time. not an accusation. a confession.
your breath catches. “why?”
he lets out a shaky exhale, eyes flicking from your eyes to your mouth, then back again. “because every time i think i’ve got you figured out, you do something that makes me realize i’ve been… completely wrong.”
you feel your pulse leap into your throat.
he steps even closer — barely an inch, but you feel it everywhere, like gravity tightening around the two of you. the hallway suddenly seems too small, too warm, too charged.
“and because,” he says, voice dropping, “i care more than i should.”
your heart stumbles.
and then his forehead presses gently against yours again, but this time there’s something different in the way he holds you — something more deliberate, more certain.
your fingers curl lightly around the fabric of his shirt.
“bosco…” you whisper, not even sure what you’re about to say.
“don’t say anything,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over your lips. “please. just… stay right here.”
you do.
you don’t move.
you can’t.
your noses brush — the softest, most fleeting touch — and bosco’s breath hitches like he wasn’t prepared for how intimate that tiny contact would feel.
his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, warm and steady and trembling all at once.
“tell me if you don’t want this,” he says, voice barely intact.
you don’t answer with words — you close the last inch between you.
and he breaks.
bosco kisses you like he’s been holding back for months — slow at first, painfully slow, like he’s savoring the moment his lips meet yours. his mouth is soft, hesitant, almost reverent. his hand tightens in your hair, drawing you closer, and you melt against him instantly, your hands fisting his shirt as the kiss deepens.
it’s not rushed. it’s not frantic. it’s everything he’s tried not to say, poured into the way he kisses you like you’re something fragile, something rare, something he’s terrified to lose.
and then something in him gives — a quiet, trembling sound leaves his throat as he pulls you even closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, mouth moving against yours with a hunger he’s never shown before. his other hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that feels like a vow.
he kisses you like he’s discovering something he’s been scared to admit he needs.
you kiss him back like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.
when you finally pull apart, it’s only because you both need air. your breaths mingle between you, warm and uneven, his forehead pressed to yours again.
bosco smiles — small, breathless, disbelieving. “okay,” he whispers. “that… that was not supposed to happen.”
you laugh softly, breath shaky. “do you regret it?”
his fingers tighten at your waist instantly. “no. god, no. i just…” he trails off, eyes flicking to your lips again. “i’m scared of what it means.”
you smile, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “me too.”
he exhales a laugh — relieved, nervous, so painfully fond.
then, with a voice that sounds like he’s already falling for you all over again, he murmurs:
“can i kiss you again?”
and this time, you don’t even answer.
you just pull him back in.