give a little love, take a little pain | bosco leroy
wc + pairing: 4k, bosco leroy x stuntwoman! reader
synopsis: bosco patches you up after your show goes awry. he wants you to be more careful, but it’s hard to concentrate when you want him so badly.
warnings: pre NYSM3! blood, bruises, injury, mentions heavy painkillers etc, just 4k words of comfort and crazy sexual tension, this entire thing is essentially foreplay lol, making out, hickeys, bosco wants you BAD and is so protective it makes him stupid
“Ow, ow, ow, fuckity fuck,” you seethe. You’re sitting on your kitchen counter, gripping the edge so hard your knuckles go white. “Boscoo.”
“I know, I know,” he says, rummaging through your medical kit. His eyes are wide as saucers as he fumbles to unscrew a pill bottle. “How bad does it hurt?”
“I’m gonna say not that bad because I know I did this to myself and that you’re mad at me, but it’s kind of bad.”
You can see his frustration being pushed down in real time. The two of you are in the apartment you share in New York—Bosco had to rush you back here after your show because clearly, something went wrong with your last stunt. You’ve been doing stunt magic for so long that you’re used to at least one gnarly bruise after each set, but not usually one that permeates your ribcage. Charlie and June stayed behind to clean up your set because Bosco wouldn’t let up on taking you home. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t subscribe to the belief that you have an abnormally high pain tolerance; he was ushering you out of there like you’d been shot.
He looks at you for a second, deeply frantic, but seems to decide against his impulse and takes a deep breath. “Take these.” He holds his palm up to you, two painkillers glinting in the light. “This is just Advil, but do you need the stronger one?”
It’s hard to think straight with the pain shooting through your chest, the sweat that’s pooled on your temples. “No, no,” you grunt, “I’m fine.”
You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s frowning. “But do you need it,” he repeats. “I’m serious, be honest with me, do you need it.”
There’s a box of heavier painkillers you keep locked in a cabinet in the kitchen. Your roommates know where the key is and you don’t. It’s a precaution, to ensure you don’t have a chance of getting addicted to them. Bosco’s always the one that gets them for you. Sometimes you think he keeps the key on him whenever you have a show just in case.
“Bosco,” you say firmly, and slap one of your hands onto his shoulder. You do your best to focus on that maniacally concerned expression on his face. “I don’t need them. I swear. I will be fine.”
“Stop saying that! You are very clearly not fine!” He huffs, running a hand through his curly hair. “Open, please.”
He gently taps your chin, stepping a little closer to you. There’s a furious pink blooming on his cheeks and nose that distracts you. You can’t really look him in the eye. But still, you do as he says and he drops the pills in your mouth. He hands you a glass of water, watching you like a hawk. “Y’look creepy,” you quip, trying to wash down the warmth in your face.
He gives you his classic sardonic grin. “So charming, even when you’re injured.”
You squeeze your eyes shut again. This isn’t your first rodeo, so you return to your old tactics. You try to feel the cool counter beneath your hands, the lights seeping through your eyelids, Bosco’s warmth flitting around you. You feel his leg pressed against yours and the noise of him going through your med kit. It’s nice to have him this close to you; it always has been. You never let yourself read too closely into it. Sure, he patches you up after your shows, and sure, sometimes you’re disappointed when there’s nothing for him to patch up. You know he prefers it the second way—a clean show, no risks, good reward. Problem is you want a great reward. And you want to remember what he smells like when you fall asleep. And you’re worried you want more than that.
“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs after a while. “You should’ve called it.”
Your eyes open. Bosco gets this look sometimes that teeters between disappointment and tenderness. His brows deepen but the creases under his eyes are soft, his mouth pressed into a line. There’s something honest about it that makes your heart twist, makes you want him closer.
“That would’ve ruined the trick,” you shrug.
“Who cares about the trick?”
“I do!” You exclaim. “And so do you!”
He huffs, “Yeah, but I also care about my teammates being alive and like, functional. You should’ve called it. I could’ve helped you.” He’s getting fidgety now, fiddling with a roll of gauze. “That asshole guy in the audience was distracting you, I should’ve—we could’ve stopped and gotten him out.”
“Bosco, you punched him. You don’t think that would’ve distracted me maybe?”
“He was heckling you so I just pushed him a bit and told him to shut up! I didn’t punch him, I’m not a wrestler!”
You try to grab his wrist but pain flares in your side. “Bosco—”
“Look, I know this is your area and that you do risky things all the time, but a solo show in a shitty warehouse isn’t the time to put it all out on the line and break a rib or whatever the hell you did to yourself,” he proclaims. The colour on his cheeks has ripened, but he keeps inahling like he’s trying to bury something. “You need to be safe. A good show is when you’re safe, that’s what matters. Not if it looks good or if it makes us a ton of money. Magic is supposed to look easy, so part of it has to feel easy for us too. If you’re doubled over the second you’re offstage there’s no trick in the world that’s worth it.”
“Bosco.” You finally seize his forearm, pulling him close. He stops his pacing and his flying hands. You think it’s written all over your face now that the pain isn’t going away. “I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry I wasn’t careful. But I knew the risks. I knew it was gonna hurt me and I did it anyway because it was worth it. I’m a stuntwoman, I know my limits.” A fog of nausea clouds your head, and your eyes are watering. “The pain will go away, but only if you stop freaking out so I don’t freak out. I’ll be fine. I just need you.”
Everything comes out strained. Your eyes are wet and your teeth are gritted, a state you’ve subsided to many times. Bosco’s arm had landed on your shoulder when you grabbed him, and his thumb is ghosting behind your ear. All his contempt has been electrocuted out of him. “Okay, shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, cupping the back of your neck and meeting you in a half-lidded hug. He’s warm and he smells like leather. “I got you, I’m an idiot.” He’s so close that his nose is against your hairline and you feel his breath on you.
For pain to pass, you need to indulge in it first. You let your face press into the sleeve of his t-shirt, close enough that he only needs to whisper. He lifts his face away but keeps his hand where it is, cradling the back of your head. “I’m gonna go over your cuts, okay?” You can smell the alcohol doused onto the cotton pad. There’s a brush of his hand against your shirt. “Can I… um…”
You nod. He watches you carefully, and then drops his gaze to where his fingers hitch at the seam of your shirt. He lifts it just enough to reveal the brunt of the damage: the scrapes on your torso and the giant bruise purpling your ribs. From the way Bosco’s eyes widen you can tell it doesn’t look great. “It’ll be fine,” you say softly. “I’ve had worse.”
He looks back up at you with such guilt that it makes you regret saying it. “This is gonna hurt, yeah?” He says, staring intently at the damage you’ve done.
“Yeah. But it won’t be too bad. Just a sting.”
He laughs shortly, “Feels like we should be switching lines.”
Before he does anything else he laces his free hand through yours. “Bite my shoulder if you have to,” he says, deadly serious. In response you lean forward again to rest your chin on his shoulder. You give his hand a preliminary squeeze, and he chuckles quietly so of course you want to do it again.
“Don’t wanna break your fingers,” you point out.
“They’re bendy, I’ll be fine. Ready?”
You lodge your nose in the crook of his neck. If you tried, you’d probably be able to feel his heartbeat. “Yep.” Your mouth accidentally grazes his skin and he swallows.
“Okay, deep breath.”
You inhale sharply and scrunch your face. Bosco presses the pad to your skin. First comes the chill and then comes the burning. “Ah,” you suck air through your teeth. “Shit.”
It’s like tiny pricks of glass are seeping from the gashes in your body. All the muscles in your face are bunched together. You really are abusing the privileges Bosco gave you, squeezing his hand so hard you’re pretty sure your nails will give him cuts of his own. “You’re doin’ great,” he soothes, “just a few more.”
The intensity floods back as he disinfects somewhere else. You wish you could be immune to the sharpness of the pain by now, but no luck. “Ow, fuck, fuck me, Jesus, fuck me,” you seethe.
“Please stop saying that,” Bosco mutters.
After a few more seconds of swearing and sweating, the prickliness eases. A shiver wracks you when Bosco takes the cotton pad off. “All done,” he says. His thumb runs over your knuckles, a gentle respite for you. “You okay?”
Your mouth feels dry, like half your water weight has evaporated. “Yes,” you mumble into the crook of his neck. He strokes the back of your hair and lets you stay there a moment, as warm and comfortable as you could be when your left side feels like it’s been hit by a battering ram. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” he replies. You can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline or the pain or something else that’s making your heart skip a few beats.
“Could you get an ice pack?” You ask him quietly, sniffling.
He pulls back and nods, softening when he sees the look on your face. You think your pulse stills in your throat when he brushes at the tear tracks gathered beneath your waterline. “Anything else?”
You’ve realized there actually is something you want from him, very, very badly. But it hurts every time you breathe too hard and he’s still probably upset at you so now is definitely not the time. “Do we still have that ice cream in the fridge?” You ask instead.
He grins a little, like he knew you were going to say that. “Yeah. Do you maybe want, like, real food?”
“Fuck no.”
“Okay then,” he laughs, pulling himself away from you. The ache in your ribs returns tenfold without his warmth. “You sure you’re not concussed?” He asks quizzically, thumbing over your temple.
“I’m fine, Bosco, really,” you give your most assuring smile.
“Yeah? What card am I holding right now?” He steps a few paces away from you and a playing card is between his fingers like it’s always been there.
“Eight of Spades,” you read.
“Ooh, maybe you are concussed,” he winces conspiratorially, glancing at the card in his hand. “This is clearly a Six of Hearts, ma’am.”
When you look at the card again you realize it is, in fact, a Six of Hearts. He has a shit-eating grin on his face and you roll your eyes. “Fuck you, Magician.”
The ice cream has been emptied and the movie is halfway done. You’re still holding the ice pack to your ribs, feeling the dull ache every time you inhale. Bosco is watching beside you, his arm draped over the back of the couch. The two of you are sharing a blanket, but you’re still missing how close you were before he helped you off the counter. He looks really good like this, you think, when you’re drowsy and on painkillers. His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth and his hair is all mussed up, eyes glued to the screen. Sometimes you hear his fingers tapping to the movie score behind you. Bosco can get very dedicated to movie watching. But right now, you’re horribly distracted.
Both your phones buzz on the coffee table. Bosco glances at you before going to pick it up, breaking the warm bubble you’ve found yourselves in. “It’s Charlie and June,” he says, flipping the screen to you so you can see.
You take it as an invitation to scoot closer. He lets you, putting his arm back along the couch so you can cozy up to his side. He opens the text and it’s a picture of the empty theatre, your set entirely dismantled, followed by them asking if you’re okay and saying that if you are, you should all go out to celebrate. One last picture pops up of the two of them with wide smiles and a thumbs-up.
“They look so drunk,” you snort.
“They are.”
“You should go with them,” you manage to say through a yawn.
Bosco looks at you like you’re crazy. “What?”
“Go with them, celebrate! ‘m all good, don’t worry. Just need to … sleep it off.” You interrupt yourself with a yawn several times, and it’s apparent the stronger painkiller Bosco urged you to take is rearing its ugly, sedative head. “The night is young, Leroy.”
His face scrunches even further. “You do realize that if we were normal people you’d be in a hospital right now, right? Please tell me you realize that,” he implores, angling himself to face you. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“Y’need to stop worrying about me,” you murmur, “I’ve done this a million times.”
He sighs deeply. “I also need you to realize that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
You manage to keep your eyes open so you can look at him properly, his contemplative, wanting face. “Come here,” he says gently, and you do, melting into his side as he adjusts the blankets around you and holds you by the shoulders. “I’m allowed to be worried about you,” he speaks into the crown of your head, “I’m allowed to want to take care of you.”
“I know, but you don’t have to,” you slur, relishing in how warm his chest is when you rest your face on it.
“But I’m going to. I’m not going out when you’re hopped up on painkillers with a fucked-up rib, no matter how durable you think you are,” he states. And as an afterthought, he adds, “Besides, this movie’s really good.”
That makes you laugh, and everything else he says makes you feel fuzzy. You nuzzle your face into the fabric of his shirt, stretched out on the couch. His arms drape around you, careful to avoid the ice pack on your side.
“Can you hold my pack?” You mumble to him, yawning again, as your eyelids get heavier and heavier.
“Course.” His hand slips under the blanket and replaces yours, holding the ice against your bruise. “Get some rest,” he whispers, one of his hands carding through your hair.
He might’ve said something else, but you can’t remember. You breathe him in and you’re asleep by the time you exhale.
When you wake up, your side hurts. “Mmph,” you grog, your eyes pushing open. “Bosco?”
“Yeah?” You hear his voice resonating in his chest. When you look around, you realize you haven’t moved much since you were last conscious. You’re still lying against Bosco, his hand still threaded through your hair. Your cheek has been smushed into his chest. When you lift it off, you feel that it’s red from all the pressure against his shirt.
“Where’s my ice pack?” You ask blearily, clinging to him like a sloth.
He chuckles, “It melted. Want me to grab you another one?”
“Yes please,” you nod, and you catch him looking down at you with a lopsided smile. He touches your cheek where his t-shirt pattern is imprinted. Your stomach warms.
As he gets up to head to the freezer, the fog in your mind starts to clear. You wrap the blanket further around yourself. The movie playing on the TV is profoundly different from the one you were watching earlier. “How long have I been asleep?” You blink profusely, trying to wake yourself up. The apartment is still dark and the sky is black beyond your windows. Your body still hurts, but there’s a sanity that’s returned to you on account of your little nap. Everything seems more bearable, just like you knew it would be.
“Like, an hour and a half, I think,” Bosco says from the kitchen, but he’s already making his way back to you. “You feel better?”
“Much,” you nod. “Are Charlie and June still out?”
He sits back down beside you. The couch sinks under his weight. “Yep.”
You notice he has a bag of frozen peas wrapped in paper towels in his hand. When your eyebrows raise, he just sighs, “We really should invest in more than one ice pack.”
Something about his expression is different. Maybe he’s also tired, but it seems like he’s really taking his time when he looks at you. He shifts towards you and gestures, “Come.” You scootch towards him again, but this time, it seems like he wants you in front of him. He taps on one of your thighs so you lift yourself to the point where you’re effectively sitting on his lap. You’re not sure if this is what he means, but he wraps an arm around the small of your waist to settle you in, which is the equivalent of lighting ten thousand fireworks under your sternum.
You’re starting to feel something you really should not be feeling, and it gets worse when he lifts the hem of your shirt again to look at your damage. You whip your head around to the TV and ask, “What’s this about?” and hope that you sound normal and not maybe, entirely coincidentally, a little turned on.
“Christmas,” Bosco says. His eyes are still laser focused on your ribs so you’re trying to breathe as normally as possible.
“I mean the plot, Bosco.”
He shrugs. “School.”
“Very informative, aren’t you.”
You’ve mustered up the strength to turn around, but when you do you understand it’s a terrible, rotten mistake. He’s staring at the sliver of skin you massacred today with fixation, an obvious lump in his throat. “Bosco?” You say quietly.
He snaps his eyes back to you, flushing scarlet. “Yeah, I—does it—is it … does it still hurt?” He asks with a heavy tongue.
“Um,” you give a breathy, self-conscious laugh. “I mean, a little. But it’s manageable. Way better than before.”
“Yeah, right, yeah,” he swallows. He holds your gaze for another second like he’s waiting for something, and then darts back down to your ribs. Feather-light, his thumb rests on the outer ring of your bruise; you almost shiver. “Here?” He asks, and around ten billion noises get caught in your throat.
You wonder if he feels how stunted your breathing is. “No, little closer in,” you croak.
He ghosts over the curve of your rib to where your skin is the most tender. It’s hardly any pressure at all, but you inhale sharply almost immediately. “Yeah, there,” you wince out. Bosco mumbles an apology before replacing his thumb with the makeshift ice pack. The coolness sinks into your skin, tamped by the paper towel, but you’re glad that your scrapes don’t feel like they’re burning anymore.
Bosco is back to watching you. “Better?” His voice is soft and scratchy but it cuts through the noise of the TV and could probably cut through much more. It’s hard to pretend like you’re not aware of how close you are, how you can feel the shift of his thighs and the splay of his hand against your back. You could lean down and count his eyelashes. See how red his face is in the scarce light. His eyes are so dark you almost think he’s hiding something in there, inviting you to take a look.
“Yeah,” you breathe.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. You can’t be bothered to think or move when this is the best possible place you could be. You really should be in immense physical pain right now. It’s unclear if the painkiller is still doing its work or if it’s just Bosco. If he’s a magician, who says he can’t be a miracle worker, too?
You keep breathing, waiting, feeling your ribs push against your skin. Bosco’s lip is pulled between his teeth again. He always looks so sure of himself but you catch him in a rare falter, where his eyes skirt away from you and then come back even stronger, and you know then that you’d do anything he told you to.
“Let me make you feel better,” he says lowly. “Please.”
Your heart warms down your insides as you follow, your arms folding against his chest as he cups the back of your neck. He guides your forehead to his, then your noses brush. He’s still watching tentatively, always watching. His breath is warm but your body is cold, and his mouth is soft when he nudges forward to kiss you.
It’s rare for your mind to go blank—you’re a stuntwoman, for Christ’s sake, it’s your job to be ready and on alert. But right now, you feel absolutely melted. Bosco kisses you slowly, generously. His hand slides down to your back, an urge for you to drop your weight even further until you’re chest to chest. He’s sinking into the couch but you have a suspicion he’s right where he wants to be, too, considering how he kisses you again, cupping your cheek and running a thumb under your jaw. You keep waiting for him to break away, for some sort of fog to clear so he comes to his senses. But Bosco is not impulsive. These are his senses, and they’re very much yours too, and you want more.
You knit your hand into the curls at the nape of his neck. He sighs softly, and you steal the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Your heart is beating so wildly against your ribcage it could form a bruise of its own. Bosco is always one to up the ante, though, so he meets you in stride. His tongue slips into your mouth like he’s been betting on it, and you think you can feel him smiling. It’s a little more urgent, a little more fun, as his hand travels the length of your spine to the back of your shirt and sneaks under. You hum a little when he traces back up, his palm burning a hole in your back as the ice is still nestled on your front. The room is getting warmer and the kisses are greedier, but Bosco is still careful with your ribs getting in the way of anything else.
“This would be a lot better if we didn’t have a bag of peas between us right now,” he says breathlessly, pulling away just enough. His lips are bitten red and his nose is wonderfully pink.
“Get rid of them,” you blurt. “They’re getting mushy anyways.”
Bosco smiles peculiarly, but to your surprise, he listens to you. “You know, I’m supposed to be minimizing your injuries,” he says after tossing the peas onto the coffee table. You shiver and he pulls your shirt back down, as you adjust gently so you can feel all of him, even where those stupid goddamn peas were keeping you away.
“You are,” you respond, breathing shallowly against him. It hurts, but not nearly enough to warrant less of this. Your forehead drops back to his and he takes your face in his hands. “As long as you distract me well enough.”
He raises his brows “Oh, is this not enough for you, my lady?” He muses, stroking a path down your neck. “Wanna hear some Shakespeare?”
“Think that would make it worse, actually.” You push some stray curls out of his face. “Look at us. A failed stuntwoman and a failed actor. We make quite a pair.”
“See, that doesn’t sound so bad when you say it,” Bosco murmurs. He presses his mouth to the underside of your jaw, so soft and surprising your pulse almost leaps out of your skin. “Still need a distraction?”
You find purchase in his hair again. “Mmhm.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he mouths against your throat, leaving tender kisses along your pulse points. It’s working wonders, really. You hardly care about how bothered your injuries are when you’re getting increasingly bothered in other places.
He gets a little more daring, teeth scraping against your neck. It draws a noise from the back of your throat that makes you shudder. “More a’ that, please,” Bosco drawls, determined to coax it out of you. And he does, mixing languid kisses with bites along your neck and collarbone. “That okay?” He asks after leaving a mark somewhere on your clavicle.
“‘m already bruised, Bosco. You've got a unique opportunity here,” you tease, running your hand through his hair.
He takes the hint and sucks a hickey into the base of your neck, making you whine. “Seems counterintuitive,” he whispers, “adding to your tally.”
“You’re just evening out the score.” You’re so desperate to keep his mouth on you that you practically drag him there. “Bosco one, drunk audience member several.”
That does the trick. He leaves a mark right under your ear, a place that feels so good it’s making you loopy. “Better start counting,” he murmurs as you squirm in his arms. He kisses the spot gently afterwards, moving back down to leave a few more, savouring every noise you make. He reaches your jaw and then your mouth, where he catches you again. “Now you’re even,” he grins.
You kiss him again, sore and exhausted, but you don’t really mind either. You think he can tell you’re getting spent by the way he cradles you into him, taking his sweet time again, rubbing circles into the small of your back. “I’ve got you,” he says against your lips. “We should get you to bed.”
Right on cue, you yawn. “What about my distraction?” You ask, settling your face into the crook of his neck.
“I’ll give you more in the morning,” he promises, kissing the top of your head. “I mean, I’m kind of hoping I could for… you know, for the foreseeable future.”
You peek back up at him and his cheeks are still rosy, his smug smile diluted with an earnestness. “I’d like that,” you say, and kiss his neck.
He’s beaming. “Cool.”
When June and Charlie get home about an hour later, half-drunk and wholly high, Bosco can hear them stumbling around the house through the crack in his door. You’re knocked out cold beside him. It’s an extremely lucky sight. You’re gonna kill him, he thinks, with your reckless abandon and your stubbornness. He knows you’re right—that you’re fine, that you’ll likely always be fine, but that won’t stop him from being there in case you’re not.
He kisses the tops of your ribs before he falls asleep. It’s a real shame, because he just misses when Charlie and June find the two of you in bed and take dozens of pictures to tease you about in the morning. You sleep so well that there’s no doubt in your mind that the show was worth it. If magic is supposed to feel easy, this is as good as it gets.
Oh, my God, it's the Free Eden girls. It's impossible to get a job there. They're like mall royalty. Here comes mother. The Fruits are so hot. Isn't there a fourth one? I heard she went crazy. Wait, don't they pay? We don't charge the Fruits. Apple's a bitch. She's so much more than that. She waved at me once. Oh, my God, I want to be her. Her fits are pristine. God, I wish I was named after a fruit. I want them to spit in my mouth. God, they are so hot.
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