Someone asked me if Lane only fell in love with MC because she slapped him, and if she hadn't, would he have never fallen for her?

I've actually thought about why Lane fell in love with MC a lot. The biggest problem is that we don't really know what happened before the current timeline or what MC was exactly like back then.

Personally, I like to assume her personality hasn't changed that much. Besides her fear of blood, Lane never really comments on her acting differently. It's possible he noticed some changes, but Lane also doesn't strike me as the type to ask unless he thinks it's his business. Unless they're having a genuinely personal conversation like the stockroom date or the bathroom scene, I doubt he'd pry into her past.

ME↓

BB

BB is a guy that craves efficiency for himself. Since he lives a simple life, most of his daily needs can be met by bulk purchasing toiletries and supplies. Your needs are treated no differently. If you like a particular snack in a store, BB will take notice and he will buy a whole box full of them just for your consumption.

When you are placed under his protection and love, you are his priority first and foremost. He enters through doors first, prefers sitting where he can see exits and windows, and would prefer to have you close not only because he craves you and the proximity, but the security of being able to pull you close if anything happens

Unbelievably dry texter, typing in short and succinct sentences is the best he'll offer you. What he's more likely to do is send you random images of things throughout the day. Pictures of his workstation, the garage, and his workers are just some of the things you might see.

He might leave short voice memos later on as technology progresses. Naturally, he'd work to cultivate an acceptable back and forth between the two of you, just so he can keep tabs on you throughout your respective days.

If you ever move in together he shifts and shrinks down his space to accommodate you. In many ways, it's his way of showing you how much you matter, in other ways it's just a deep-seeded belief that because you're a woman you need the extra space. BB strips down the moment he comes home from work, not wanting to track any grease or oil into the house- especially after the work you'd both put into making the place truly yours.

Doesn't trust anyone else to take care of your vehicles than him. Why would you bother going to another garage anyway? He has the technical ability and the knowledge to repair and perform maintenance on any bike or car you might own. Besides, BB knows his own standards better than anyone else, there's not a single mechanic that would test every part and function in your ride the same way BB would.

Lane

Is a stage 5 clinger in the most endearing and annoying way possible. Have you ever owned a dog that loves sticking their little muzzle in your business? Maybe a cat that likes to move room to room just to annoy you and paw things of every flat surface? That's Lane. He takes immense joy in pushing you around and testing to see if you really, really love him or not

He'll use his height and build to his advantage, snatching things away until you pay a toll (The price: a kiss... or more, depends on you). If you're out and about, Lane would definitely drape himself over your shoulders and lean his weight down just to get a good look at what you're doing.

Don't bring him out in public. Lane Fostman is a menace to society and a pain in your ass.

He will definitely try and tease/embarrass you by being inappropriate at the most inopportune times. Smack his arm and he'll let out a moan loud enough to draw passing eyes to you. He'll whine and complain in your ear as the two of you go about your day and even make jabs some random passerby just to earn a sharp look or reaction. Either way, he's hoping to hear a laugh or two from his girlfriend.

Lane would use your products in the bathroom so long as the scent is to his taste. That $60 body wash you got at the mall a few weeks ago? It's empty now because Lane thought to use it up scrubbing his face in the shower. Don't worry, he'll replace it for you... probably.

notes: kind of a slow burn, unsafe sex, taking of virginity, cunnilingus, dirty talk, mentions of breeding and pregnancy, premature ejaculation 😋, reader is on birth control, no use of y/n, reader is a bit of a late bloomer and a loner. lane might be a little ooc in this please don't kill meeee i tried but some of his behavior is based off this ask <3

It was your mistake to think you’d have a peaceful shift after the debacle that ended the last one, but sometimes you’re more naïve than you care to admit—and a dash too hopeful considering the lowness of your circumstances.

Case in point, Lane.

Of whom is sitting leisurely at the register, looking annoyingly casual as he sucks on a lollipop that he no doubt stole. As usual, you give him another one of your haughty looks as you stride in, but what gives you a little pause is when you realize he’s actually early. He, who is only early when he’s excited to be annoying (specifically to you, the only human being obligated to be stuck with him for the rest of the night). He, who is now giving you a fox-like smile, sly and knowing.

"Hey, virgin.”

Immediately your back snaps straight and your lips curl into a sneer, already defensive.

“Oh my god, I knew you wouldn’t let that shit go,” you huff out, and spin on your heel to go to the stockroom to put your things down. You hear the sound of the metal chair he’s sitting in scrape its legs against the floor as he stands up to follow after you—quick to hold open the door to the stockroom that you let swing in his face. Damn his e-sports loser reflexes.

“Well, how could anyone when a hot girl is claiming to be a virgin? I know you just said that because you were dodging me,” Lane snickers, hovering over you as you stuff your bag into the cleaning cabinet, too paranoid to leave it out on the open and have a hooligan like Lane sift through your stuff (though you’re also pretending to busy yourself so you don’t have to look at him and potentially show the embarrassment on your face).

Maybe you said that because you did want to dodge another one of his biweekly (a generous adjective) propositions—maybe you said that because you actually are a virgin loser.

Your nose wrinkles, “Why would anyone claim to be a virgin?”

You already know what he’s going to say but you still roll your eyes when he predictably answers, “Cause some girls like to act innocent and pure. Guys like that, duh.”

“Ok then, why would I say that when I’m obviously not trying to impress you?” you wave your hands at him, shooing him away so you have space to tie your apron on.

“So you admit you’re a virgin loser?” He raises his brows at you, taking an appreciative glance down your body that has you scowling. For a moment, though, you want to refute him and say you’re not. You should tell him that you’ve had plenty of offers and opportunities. But you remember he’s not someone you’re trying to impress—you guys are on the same level of societal servitude anyway (though in general Lane is some levels lower than you considering…his personality).

“Yes! I am. That’s why even if I wanted to—which would never happen—it just wouldn’t be good for you. I don’t know what I’m doing,” you shrug, slightly proud at yourself for your answer since Lane finally stops spouting words for a few moments.

That is until he blurts, “Well, since you’ve been saving yourself for me, I could teach you.”

Your eyes go wide, “W-what?”

For a second you think you see a hint of a blush dust across his cheeks before he schools himself back into his usual sleaziness, “Yeah, consider it charity, babe. Besides, it could finally put to rest this sexual tension between us once I find out how bad you are in bed.”

The grin he gives you is toothy. You eye him in suspicion. One reason why you regret even blurting out that you’re a virgin to him was seeing his reaction; he’d been weirdly spluttery and shocked, coughing on his spit because of how surprised he was. It seemed to have done the trick—after all, you thought guys like him didn’t like girls who were virgins, too much pressure for them and whatnot.

That’s how you know he’s not being serious right now.

“Dude, I haven’t even kissed anyone before,” you look away from him, walking out of the stockroom and hoping to finally put an end to this ridiculous conversation with your admission but Lane, the cockroach, keeps following you.

“So? I could teach you that right now? Easier teaching you that then everything else,” he mutters, as if actually considering it.

“Ew, what if you have herpes?” you retort as the two of you make your way to the register.

“Ah, so you’re considering it now? Thought you said it’d never happen,” the pest leans in further into your periphery as you try your damnest not to look at him and focus on the checklist.

“Die,” you smack his chest, hoping to expel him until he catches your wrist. Your head snaps to him sharply, shocked.

“But then you’ll die a virgin loser,” Lane winks, intertwining his hand with yours, “this is called handholding by the way.” He states in a honied, schoolteacher sort of way. Your cheeks sting with heat despite yourself. Ugh, you can tell he thought this conversation through somehow. Your fingers unclench and clench in his hold, but you don’t attempt to move away.

Maybe a part of you is always ashamed that you’ve never even had a kiss before. Maybe you’re a little desperate now too, unfortunately. Sometimes you’re a little lonely in your bed, and your mind is a little too imaginative.

“Why haven’t you ever had sex? Or kissed anyone before?” his voice cuts through your thoughts, somewhat serious, and your eyes flit to him for a second again before you turn your head.

Your throat works as you try to cut out the shame and loneliness in your voice, “It just…never happened. Nobody ever…I don’t know. Liked me like that.”

To throw some levity in there though (and before Lane can do it for you), you add, “And my parents told me not to date until I was 18.”

He laughs, squeezing your hand for a second before letting it go. It falls at your side, and you quickly hide it behind you.

“So you’ve always been a goody two-shoes, huh?”

You nod, looking down at your shoes, “Just don’t like being in trouble. Or being yelled at.”

Lane is actually silent at that, but then he nudges his foot with yours, prompting your attention again. “Well, you’re not eighteen anymore and it’s no one else’s business anyways. I’ve got mints and condoms I stole—when you’re ready, sweetie.”

His words are slightly crass, but he does leave you to it surprisingly. You stare at him as he returns to his hovel, formerly the stockroom, and consider his words. He is right, you’re not a child anymore and your parents aren’t around to scorn you for being bad. There’s nobody to impress around here anyway. You’re getting older, and as far as you can see into your future, you don’t see your career prospects changing. So you might just be stuck being a loser until you keel over. A little kiss and some physical education won’t have the cops coming after you, right?

You can’t believe you’re actually considering this. Damn it. Lane is like a brainworm sometimes.

—

Why you are the one to bring it up at the end of the shift and not him is beyond you, but you’re drawing anxiously in the register notebook when you call out to him as he’s about to leave. You make a point not to look at him when he acknowledges you.

“We can…you can teach me, if you’re actually not joking about it. I’m not joking,” you tack that end on quickly, scratching at your cheek as you try desperately to be normal and casual about this.

“Woah? Huh? Like—like right now?” he asks, voice lilting high.

“No!” you shake your head furiously, “I don’t want my first time to be here,” you cringe just thinking about the two of you doing it on the dirty stockroom floor. “We can—I don’t know, figure it out at my place.”

He walks up to you, taking out his earbud, “Are you serious?” his eyes are bright as they search your face and you cover yourself instinctively with your hand. “Well, of course you’re serious, look at me,” he sweeps his hand through his hair as if remembering himself, “all the ladies always want me.”

“Right, right,” you wave him off.

“…You wanna do it tomorrow, babe?” Lane chirps, a little too eager sounding for how he’s nonchalantly leaning against the counter. Your eyes bulge out.

“What? Tomorrow? That’s too quick!”

“Eh? You got something going on? Thought you had no friends.”

You flush, “Ugh, no. I just wanna be-“ your voice lowers, “prepared.”

“Aw, baby, you’re gonna prepare for—“

“I meant mentally prepared!” you shout, glancing furtively at the convenience store in case there are actually hidden customers in the aisles even though Lane had already locked the front up. “Just…let’s schedule for the day after tomorrow, okay? You better fuckin’ wash yourself.”

“Jeez, you make it sound like I’m an escort,” he huffs, adjusting his collar.

“Oh, aren’t you?” you sneer, turning your head away and your nose up at him. “Bye, Lane.”

“Maybe I should teach you some words of affection while we’re at it,” he tuts in your ear.

"Kill yourself," is your sweet parting words to him as you swat at him like a gnat. He dodges, of course. The bastard gives you another proud and unaffected smile as he pulls away and pops his earbud back in, whistling merrily all the way out. Fucking hell.

—

You're glad that you at least pushed your...appointment to today when you weren’t working. You finally mustered the strength to de-corpseify yourself (though you do hope Lane doesn't look too closely at your eyebags) and clean your apartment. But you do feel a bit ridiculous as you stare at yourself in the mirror. What is meeting your gaze looks like what you used to be—a little more put together, energized, and honestly a little hopeful. Why you look hopeful is something you don't want to acknowledge considering you're supposed to not be too excited about this, but you know yourself, and something about Lane makes bearing the harder things easier. Even if he's a roach.

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter and you scramble to answer.

"He—" you cough, clearing your throat, "Hello?"

Jeez, way to sound unaffected.

"Yo," he answers. You hear the sound of a car door closing, "I'm here. Still wanna let me up?"

Huh. He's giving you an inch of an out, but you appreciate it weirdly enough. Though, you're already at the door and toeing on your shoes to meet him downstairs. You're glad Amelia is working today (it would be an utter nightmare if she ever found out), but you still want to be as discrete as possible and get him into your apartment quickly. You never know who's watching, and some of your neighbors are a little nosy though well-intentioned.

"Yeah, I'll meet you down there, gimme a sec," he gives you an eloquent grunt of acknowledgement, and the call drops off as you make your way downstairs. You're nervous. You took a shower earlier after cleaning your apartment, but you can already feel yourself sweating even though the apartment building is frigid. Mentally, you will yourself to be calm as you open the door wide. Lane is standing there on the steps, dressed in one of his bright zip-ups and bundled up in a scarf and thick jeans. The cold air lets in onto your skin, and you shudder as you look at him. Damnit, he could look less pretty. You like the splotches of red on his cheeks from the cold—it makes him look...boyish. Makes his eyes look even brighter. Whatever.

"Woah, fuck me. You actually cleaned yourself up, huh?" he starts, the corner of his mouth tilting up as he gives you a onceover (then another).

Immediately you scowl, "Shut up. Come in," you wave him in, stepping to the side and shutting the door behind him as you clutch your arms around yourself. Lane looks around the lobby, sniffling. You pinch some fabric of his zip-up and pull him toward the elevator, "Hurry up. It's freezing down here." He glances down at you.

"Oh? Physical affection?" Lane simpers, letting you drag him into the elevator as you punch the button for your apartment floor a little harder than you need to. Your teeth chatter as you throw him another glare and let go of his sleeve stubbornly. He snickers and then offers in a sing-songy voice, "I could make you warm if you want me to, baby."

"No," you lie, staring up at the number on the elevator that's taking forever to go up, "just don't know if you actually cleaned yourself for today. Can't touch you more than necessary."

"Oh, really? Can't touch you with these grimy hands?" he reaches out and pokes at your arm and you let out a little 'ew,' performatively brushing yourself off with a grimace of a smile. "Wow," he says in awe, "guess I should've bought the body condoms if we're not going to touch skin."

"Should have," you chirp, tapping your foot against the floor impatiently. God, sometimes the stairs is easier than waiting for this elevator to make it up to your floor.

"Come here, pretty," Lane opens his arms out wide, feigning innocence on his face, "you can't be actually serious about not touching me. That's like—not possible." He states, nodding to himself. You stare at him, nose scrunched up for a bit. You take another look at the elevator number. Well, maybe. It won't be for long.

Stubbornly and slowly, you trudge to his waiting arms, the heat already in your cheeks swirling to a boil. "Hah! See? I knew you loved me," he harrumphs as his arms close around your waist, holding you tight to him as you lift your hand up to pinch his side. "Ow! Jesus. But you didn't deny it," he giggles. You smile, hiding your face against him. Seems like he did wash something, he smells less like cigarettes and a middle school boy's attempt at parfum and actually like something clean and pleasant. Hopefully that goes for the rest of him and not just his zip-up.

"You're just having another one of your delusional episodes," you mumble against his shoulder. Damn him, he's warm and you don't actually hate this hug.

"Your tits feel nice," Lane muses, and you push against him with a disgusted scoff until he squeezes you tight again, shushing you as you squirm a little in his hold, "Shush, shush. Listen and learn, baby. This is called hugging, hm?"

"I know what hugging is, idiot," you wrangle yourself out of his hold as the elevator doors ring open after the eleventh hour. God, you should have taken the stairs. You can really feel yourself sweating now. You speedwalk to your door and don't wait for Lane to follow you until you realize he's taking his sweet time moseying down the hallway, pretending to be interested even though there is literally nothing else to look at but doors in this hallway. You stare daggers at him from your doorway, arm shooting out from your side once he's finally close enough for you to grab.

You haul him in and slam the door behind you, taking your outside shoes off and slipping your feet into your house slippers.

"I don't get slippers?" Lane asks, crossing his arms as he glances pointedly at your feet. You shrug.

"Suffer. You have socks on don't you? Just use that," you toss over your shoulder, stepping into your living room with your last bit of confidence until you realize, oh shit. You're actually doing this. He's here in your apartment. You cleaned up for him!

Your eyes are fixated on the window outside as Lane walks in after you, whistling a little, "Nice and clean, huh. Remember when I said you should clean my apartment?"

"Ew, no. That place is a biohazard. Call poison control," you retort automatically, even though you're starting to get really nervous. Lane bumps your shoulder with his as he walks past you, making himself comfortable on the couch and tugging off his scarf. He pats the spot next to him with a smile dimpling his cheek.

"Come here. You have a movie recorded we can put on?"

Your lips twist, you do have a few.

"I mean, I do," you trail off, fumbling with your hands as you hesitate to sit beside him and look helplessly at the turned off TV screen, "they're all old movies though." You can't really afford the more popular channel packages so when you do want to watch TV they're all reruns from the last century.

His lip curls, "What? You grandma. I meant movies like...fuckin' Transformers or Madagascar."

You roll your eyes, "Whatever. Why you wanna watch something anyway?" you finally sit beside him and fish the remote from the crevices of the seat cushions. The TV screen flips on, and you go to your page of recordings.

His hand reaches around to your hip, pulling the two of you thigh-to-thigh. You huff, reaching out to brace yourself on the seat cushion that Lane is sitting against. You turn to glare at him and realize the two of you are very close. You scowl, pulling away a little. You haven't gotten to pop a mint for this hour yet (you've been popping them for the last day and a half).

"Background noise," he shrugs, glancing to the side. He obviously just wants to prolong the time you two have together, but you do admit that having background noise would be nice. You can't imagine the two of you just...doing all that and it just be silence. It'd be even more awkward.

"Fine," you huff, turning your head back to the TV as you look down your list of recordings. Well, you like Roman Holiday a lot. Looking at Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck is always a feast for your eyes. You choose that one and let yourself settle against the couch, awkwardly holding the remote in your lap as the TV flips into shades of black and white.

"Grandma," Lane huffs, squeezing your hip as he situates himself more comfortably, face set in that usual disinterested look of his. If this were an actual date, you'd be more offended by his lack of motivation to pretend to be interested, but you don't have those kind of expectations when it comes to Lane. Besides, he's warm against you, and you don't feel like going to your room to retrieve your blanket, so you'll deal.

"Oh, this girl," he points at the TV, "my sister likes her a lot. She used to have posters of her when we were little in her room," he muses. "My mom made her dress up as her once for Halloween when we were little, it was annoying."

"Is she a princess in this one?" he asks, even though the scene is obviously showing her as a princess. You should have known he'd be the type to talk during movies. When you're not quick enough to answer, he continues, "You kinda remind me of her."

For a moment you're briefly flattered.

That is until he says, "Since you're all uptight and snooty, ya know?" You turn to tsk at him, and he flashes a grin at you.

"...But you are pretty like her," Lane mutters in a quieter voice. You gulp. You don't really think you are but your heart speeds up anyway at his words.

"I like him," you pipe up all of a sudden when Gregory Peck finally appears on screen—tall and handsome, with a nice deep voice that you're more than partial to.

"Ugh, him?" Lane refutes lamely, "I'm way better looking than him."

You turn to look at him incredulously, "What? You two aren't even comparable. He's like, a man."

"Huh?" he exclaims loudly, throwing his hands up in the air, "and I'm not?"

You laugh, "Oh my god, be quiet, I have neighbors. I meant, that you're like...I don't know, boyish in comparison to him. Not in a bad way, just like he seems...mature."

He narrows his eyes at you, "And I'm not mature?"

You simply stare at him.

"Ok, whatever," Lane rolls his eyes, throwing his arm over your shoulders to comfort himself, "thought you'd throw me a compliment back but whatever. Don't care. Haven't you ever heard of a compliment sandwich before?"

"That's not what that means, genius. And anyway, you just wanna fish for compliments," you lay back against the couch again, sniffling. Your pride is waning as you think about your next words, but you're a nice girl at the end of the day: "You are...handsome, though. You're not ugly."

You hear him chuckling and turn to look at him sharply, "What?"

He covers his face with his hand, "Nothing. Nothing." You glance at the tips of his ears and they're red. You can't tell if he's making fun of you though or actually blushing, so you resign yourself to turning your attention back to the movie, a little hot yourself. He's annoying.

For all his talking though, he doesn't seem eager to actually get down to it. The two of you are pressed up together, you're tucked up in the crook of his shoulder with your cheek pressed against him and his hand is wound around your waist, thumb slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, hot against your bare skin. This feels decidedly coupley. You're warm and comfortable, but you are chewing on your bottom lip, slightly anxious. Okay, so you weren't joking about actually kissing and all that. You didn't even really think you were serious, but now you're scared he doesn't even want to kiss you. Did you sweat off your deodorant? Do you not look as nice as you thought you did?

You clear your throat, wondering where in your room you put your breath mints, “Um…so when are we gonna…” you trail off, ashamed at yourself.

Lane looks surprised for a moment until he gives a little huff of a laugh, moving to take his arm off of you which has you frowning, “Are you that hot and bothered?”

“Ugh, no—”

“Relax, relax. We can start if you really want to so badly.”

His words sting a little. You sit up and fumble with the edge of your sleeve, “…Do you want to?”  

That gives him pause.

“Huh?”

Your throat feels thick as you speak, “I mean, it’s kind of a lot to ask for. It was inconsiderate of me to ask you since I know it’s a bit of a big deal. So I’m sorry. Maybe I should have just asked someone else—”

“Someone else? Who—who the fuck else would you even ask? Don’t be ridiculous,” he shakes his head at you, capturing your nervous hand in his, “Baby, of course I want to. I’m not some fragile little boy who can’t handle taking someone’s virginity. I’m a grown man.”

You give him a small smile, amused at his words, “Like Gregory Peck?”

His eyes crinkle, “Yeah, like that dude. But like, better, obviously. And taller.  Come here, sit on my lap.”

You giggle as you climb into his lap, “Gregory Peck was like 6’3, Lane,” his arms once again wind around your waist and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m 6’3,” he lies, looking proud of himself despite.

“No, you’re not,” you laugh, suddenly feeling the disgusting urge to wrap your arms around him and squeeze yourself against him.

“Okay, maybe I’m not, but I’m still bigger than you,” he nods, hand crawling up your back to hold the nape of your neck gently. Your breath catches a little. The tips of your noses brush against each other and the feeling tickles somewhat.

“Yeah? In what way?” you retort quietly, eyes flitting upwards to his. His pupils are blown out and wide. Sometimes you hate the way men look at you—eager and hungry, waiting. Lane’s look is a similar one, but something about it is softer despite every disgusting thing he says; you actually feel admired instead of caught.

“You’ll find out,” he murmurs, warm breath fanning against your lips. The surface of your skin tingles with want and anticipation. You tilt your head just a little, grasping his shoulder to brush your lips against his, chaste yet teasing. You pull back, eager to see the red deepen in his pale cheeks.

He already looks spellbound.

You’re about to say something stupid, but then he pulls you back down, pressing your lips against his. Your blood pumps loud in your ears as you get used to the rhythm of kissing, hands holding onto his cheeks as you try and want to keep up with him.

Something about this is making you feel relieved. Like you’re not lying anymore.

After all, his lips are soft against yours, and his hand on your neck is grounding as he rubs his thumb into the side of your throat, never pressing too hard but enough to keep you down to earth. The other is bunching up your sweater at the bottom of your spine, knuckles brushing up against your bare skin, making you shudder. You feel him smile against your lips, pleased with himself.

His tongue licks against your bottom lip and you pull back, surprised.

“What? You didn’t like that?” he asks, cupping your cheek as he stares up at you with wide eyes.

“No, I mean—I liked it…it just tickles,” you swallow, leaning toward him again, “you can do it again, if you want.”

“‘Kay,” he breathes out, pulling you in even closer to slip his tongue into your mouth. You can’t help but gasp a little at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours. Your mouth feels sensitive all of a sudden, especially when he licks against the roof of it. You shudder again, legs spreading wider in his lap.

“Sensitive, sensitive,” he whispers, using his hand to tilt your chin so he can open your mouth a little wider. He sucks on the tip of your tongue, and you stop a whine from spilling out from the back of your throat. Small mercies though; he turns his attention from your mouth to trailing kisses down your jaw to your neck.

Your toes curl in your socks, knees squeezing around Lane’s waist as you instinctively rock your hips a little, heat already pooling in your belly and between your thighs.

“Agh, fuck,” Lane curses against your neck, letting out a sharp breath. You rock your hips again, a little curious. He grunts. His jeans feel…hard.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” you ask, voice hoarse.

He shakes his head and you feel him lick at the skin of your neck, teeth skimming gently at the surface.

“Oh,” you breathe out, clutching at the sleeve of his shirt, heart tripping in your chest at the feeling. He does it again, lips nipping at your neck and sucking almost gently if it didn’t make you feel like your head is spinning. His hands trail down to your sides, pulling up your sweater a little to play underneath. You freeze when his hands brush against the underside of your breasts.

He pulls back, lips pink and swollen as he blinks lazily up at you, “This okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, unable to look at him directly as you think of what to do, “um. Lemme—lemme take my shirt off.” He holds you by the waist to support you as you slip the sweater off, chewing on your bottom lip as you throw it to the side. God, it’d be a relief since you’re sweating so much and the cold air feels nice; but you feel exposed without it on. Now you’re just wearing your ratty bra.

He stares down at your chest, throat working, “Jeez,” is all he can say for a few moments. Then his hands make their way back up slowly. He cups the underside of your breasts gently, squeezing just a little. Your face feels like it’s burning. “Nice—nice and pretty,” he stutters out, voice not as cocksure as it usually is.

You chuckle in embarrassment, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, “Thanks…”

“You’re welcome, baby,” Lane smiles dazedly, squeezing you again before his thumbs come up to rub through your bra at your nipples. You huff, you knew you were sensitive there but it’s different when it’s another person’s hands.

“Nice sports bra,” he says, sounding a little more like himself, pinching you just a little through the fabric. Heat shoots between your thighs at the feeling.

“Don’t have money for Victoria’s Secret,” you mutter defensively. Not that you ever had money for it, but definitely not now.

“S’okay. Can I take it off?”

You stare at him, feeling hesitant again.

“You can…you can pull it up?”

And so he does, letting the fabric rest over your chest. You kind of regret not just telling him to take it off since it’s kind of tight and you almost tell him just to do so but then he says—

“Damn. This is even more erotic than just taking it off,” he hums, grasping his chin as if contemplating some huge scientific discovery or theory. He doesn’t give you the chance to say anything though considering he leans forward to lick at your nipple. You squeak, squirming a little before his arm becomes an iron band around your waist, pulling you forward.

Your hands rest on his shoulders as you try your best to bear with the feeling of his tongue licking you like this, but hell. You didn’t know it’d feel this good. His other hand teases and twists with the other, not letting you rest as you try your best to stifle your moans and whimpers.

“Wanna hear you,” he groans against your chest, nail just slightly brushing against your nipple. You shake your head, hand tight against your mouth.  

“It’s embarrassing,” you whine, already mortified at the way his hands and mouth is making you feel.

“Don’t care,” he laves his tongue against you again, breath hot and panting, “let me hear you. Wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

Even though you’re shy, you let more little tortured moans and mewls slip past your lips, just a tiny bit louder over the sound of the movie playing. Your hips move of their own accord again, grinding against that hard spot in his jeans just to hear him keen. You already feel open and aching. His teeth tug slightly at your nipple, and you groan, doubling over.

“Too much,” you breathe out, squeezing his shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,”  he apologizes, pulling back from you to look up at you, “little kiss, baby?”

You nod, leaning down to wrap your arms around his neck as the two of you kiss, your fingers digging into his scalp as he squeezes your waist. You’re gasping against his lips, licking your tongue against his and tugging on his bottom lip with your teeth. His hand slides down your waist to your ass, squeezing through your pants.

Suddenly, the world spins and you’re on your back against the couch, looking up at him with your hands against your chest, eyes wide like moons.

“Uh—shit, wait. You sure you wanna do this?” he asks, shaking his head as if dispelling a haze. He looks down at you, hands on either side of you as he examines your expression for any hesitance or rejection.

You nod adamantly, a bit offended that he would ask considering you feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest. You spread your legs a little, lifting your knees up to expose yourself with an edge of impatience. Your face is aflame, but gosh if he just rubbed you there just a bit even through your pants—

“Oh my god, I’m gonna die,” Lane mutters to himself. He tugs off his zip-up roughly and his shirt, throwing it to the side before he’s upon you again, mouth capturing yours as he slots his hips against yours. The two of you don’t really fit on the couch like this, but he doesn’t seem to care and props himself up with one arm while the other holds your waist up in an arch. His hips grind against you and you whimper with want, brows furrowing.

“Fuck, baby. You like that? Feeling me against you?” he groans, “feel good?”

“Yes,” you breathe out, nails scratching against his back, trying your best to move your hips against his. You’ve had dreams like this, of him over you—stupid ones that you’ve tried to forget ever having, but they come up vivid now, like déjà vu. The feeling is the same, the same panting, the same overwhelming heat—the same feeling of his hips in rhythm against your ass.

You throw your head back when fingers play over your clit, just slightly and curiously. But at your reaction, he curses and presses them over the spot, fingernails digging just a little into the fabric of your pants. It’s rough, but it’s what you want.

“Lane,” you suddenly beg, the sound of your voice almost foreign to you now, “Want your fingers.”

“Where?” he pants, nose nudging against your cheek as he presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth.

“Inside,” you sniffle, frustrated.

“Gonna fucking die,” he mutters again to himself, but obliges you, tugging down the waistband of your pants down your thighs. This time, you’re not so embarrassed at your choice of underwear—although it’s not any better than your ratty sports bra—especially since Lane stares down at the space between your thighs with awe.

“Oh my god,” he breathes out, fingers coming down to touch at your puffy folds through your underwear, paying no mind to the way you shudder at his touch, “you’re so wet. All for me.” His eyes are a little crazed with the way he runs a knuckle up your slit, but you watch him with bated breath through glassy eyes, insides already pulsing around nothing.

“Can I?” he asks, looking up at you as he hooks his finger around the waistband of your underwear. You nod, chewing on your knuckles.

Slowly, he takes them down your legs, one hand carefully pushing your knee up toward your chest to see better. You shudder as his fingers softly nudge at your inner thighs, sensitive even there.

“Can—can I eat you out? I just, I really fucking need to. You look so sweet and gorgeous, I need to try, wanna know what you taste like, princess,” he blabbers, running a hand through his black hair as he stares down between your legs. You’re a little mortified at the way he’s examining you, but you’re not exactly unexcited by the idea. Besides, you’re a little more than sure he has an oral fixation, but that’s just your personal theory.

Hoarsely, you consent.

That’s all he needs.

He leans down, spreading your thighs apart with squeezing hands and takes a little less than subtle whiff of you. Instantly, you cover your face with your hands and squeak out, “Oh my god! Are you sniffing me?”

“What? No,” he lies blatantly, parting your folds with his fingers to get a better look at you, “just wanna get acquainted with your pretty pussy here. Say hello. It’s called manners.”

You laugh a little hysterically behind your fingers; you should probably be turned off with the way he’s talking to your pussy like he’s fucking Steve Irwin, but he gives a little kitten lick to your clit that has you seizing up before you can think about it.

“Ah,” you grunt, fingers instantly finding their place against Lane’s scalp. He groans.

“Like that,” he says, breath fanning hot, “like when I feel your nails, pretty.”

“You’re such a freak,” you scowl, but comply and scrape your nails a little harder. His hips jolt against the couch, and his tongue slips out to lick at you again. You feel like you’re going crazy. Like you’re in some parallel world where you finally let yourself be honest with Lane, but it can’t be, right? It must be a dream, somehow, with the way his nose is digging into your pelvis as he finally sucks at your clit, fingers finally inching their way inside you, threatening to curl.

You let out a little sob, throwing your head back against the couch, tears stinging at the edges of your eyes.

“Too much for you, sweetheart?” he coos mockingly against you, lifting his head a little to stare up at you with those piercing eyes of his. You give him a wobbly frown and resign yourself to laying your head flat against the couch again, staring up at the ceiling, bereft of your pride.

All the while, his fingers scissor you open, making use of your wetness to glide in and out. His jaw works as he continues sucking and licking at you, using his lips to nip your clit out from its hood.

He says he’s going to die, but you feel like you’ll go first if he continues this way. Your hips keep bucking and twisting, and eventually he clamps one of his free hands down against your belly, pinning you against the couch. Where he gets his strength from, you don’t know, but you feel woozy.

Suddenly, he replaces his fingers with his tongue inside you, and you whimper, fingers holding onto his hair like rope as you try your hardest not to let that coil inside your belly snap, but he’s adamant. He switches his mouth back to your clit, tongue lapping at you like you’re something to drink, and his fingers thrust in and out of you, finally curling against a spot that has you going a little cross-eyed.

“Oh, god,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes and crushing your thighs against his head. He doesn’t really seem to care if he’ll suffocate but he only gets faster, muttering and cursing to himself.

“You close, baby? You gonna cum? Want to feel you on my tongue, let me swallow you down my throat,” he prattles off, voice almost unintelligible as he moans and groans against your clit, letting the sound vibrate and stimulate you. You can’t hold it any longer.

“Gonna—I can’t, I can’t,” you shake your head, burying your face a little into the couch as you give out sobbing and stuttering moans, hips shaking against Lane’s face as you try your best not to be too loud. But it’s so hard, you feel your orgasm crashing against you in brutal waves, pushing you under as you fight to get over top. Even as you feel able to bear it, Lane keeps going, thick fingers pressing against that delicious spot inside you in a way that has you a little scared.

“You can, you can. Just a little bit more,” he pants, “let me hear you, baby.”

“Lane,” you bleat, feeling tears slide down your temples as he gives you an answering groan, your belly aching with the force of your orgasm as you finally let out a little desperate wail, something wet flooding between your thighs as you tug Lane off you. You squeeze your thighs together as you clamp your lips shut, only letting slip past pants and huffs, heart going a mile a minute.

You clutch at the couch, trying to get ahold of your bearings as you pry your eyes open, blinking past the tears on your eyelashes.

“You okay, princess?” Lane asks, voice hoarse and thick as he lays a hand on your thigh. You flinch and he pulls back.

“Sorry,” you sniffle, “sensitive.”

Slowly, your eyes trail down his form. His jeans are unbuttoned, but you can see the fabric of his boxers distorted by the shape of his…oh shit. You swallow dryly. He looks big like this even through his boxers. Already, your innards ache at the idea of him nudging inside you, and you tug your bottom lip into your mouth—maybe you’ve got a second wind inside you.

“Did you…cum?” you question with wide eyes, looking up at his face. He almost instinctively moves to hide himself but then he seems to think better of it, licking at his lips.

“What? Only like…a little,” he concedes. You don’t think it was a little though. You squint at him, but push yourself to sit up, tugging your sports bra over your head, throwing it to the floor.

“You’re crazy,” you mutter, shaking your head before giving a great big heave of a sigh as you try to muster the strength to stand but your legs are a little wobbly like a newborn colt and you fall back down onto the couch with an embarrassed huff.

Lane reaches out to you, tugging an arm around your waist to maneuver you into a princess carry with a proud smirk. “Aw, look at you,” he tuts mockingly, “haven’t even fucked you yet and your legs aren’t working already.” You smack his chest, heat coursing through your body (yep you could do it again) at his crassness, but you scowl at him outwardly.

 “Die—”

“Yeah, yeah, but I gotta do you first, silly,” he dismisses you, and throws you onto your bed. You let out a little screech and scramble to sit up.

“Lane!”

“What?” he grins, tugging off his jeans and crawling onto the bed with you, already crowding your space. You lean back with a pout, glaring at him before he inevitably pulls you into his lap. You gasp when you feel him in his boxers against your thighs, but he just continues smiling, that blush of his crawling up his cheeks. He leans in to peck at both sides of your cheeks affectionately as you sit there stiffly, embarrassed and bashful at his behavior. What kind of new beast did you unleash inside him now?

“So cute,” he mutters, nipping at your ear innocently for a moment before he licks at it.

“Ugh,” you shudder, trying to appear disgusted even though honestly you’re not at all impartial to the feeling of it.

“Liar,” he catches your chin, giving you another chaste kiss that has you again feeling like you’re in a parallel world. He’s affectionate—in a manner of speaking, but this is different. This feels like…

“Do you have a condom?” he asks innocently, smile stretching his lips.

Your eyes go wide, “Oh. Well. I thought you’d bring them,” you say; you didn’t want to have to go to a store to buy them, nor did you want to be added to the crowd of people that already steal condoms from Mad Dog (of which Lane belongs to). Plus, he did say that he had mints and condoms when you two needed them? Or did you take that too literally?

He gives a little groan, “Well, they’re in my zip-up,” he’s about to take you off your lap but for whatever reason that you can’t comprehend, you stop him.

“Well—I mean,” you stutter and scratch at your cheek, “we could…like…I don’t know. Do it—do it like…without it,” your attempts at trying to be less crass only make you come off more like a desperate fuckboy, but you anxiously crack your fingers in between the two of you, trying not to look at him.

“Woah, for real?” he asks, leaning into your view, “I thought you’d be like all serious about not wanting to get pregnant and my boy germs,” he wiggles his fingers at those last words on your waist, giving you a narrow-eyed look.

You scowl and try to take the irritation out of your voice that sounds like you’re stamping your foot on the ground to no avail, “I’m on the pill.”

“Ah,” he nods, pupils going wider as he glances to the left, “what about the germs—”

“Ok, you just had—sorry, have—your dirty fingers and your nasty mouth on me, so I think I’m already properly infected with whatever parasite you have anyway,” you cross your arms and promptly uncross them, “but it doesn’t matter. We can use a condom,” you make to get off him so he can leave but he grips your shoulders.

“Wait wait wait,” he stops you, “well, we don’t have to use it,” he purses his lips and shrugs, “I think you’d look good pregnant anyway.”

“Ugh, the pill has a 99% efficacy rate,” you roll your eyes, “I don’t wanna get pregnant. I just like…” your face floods with heat and you mutter quietly, “I like…seeing the—stuff.”

Lane’s fangs flash as he grins at you, hand squeezing your ass, “Oh ho ho? I thought you said you were a virgin? Why are you such a pervert, huh?”

“I’m not!” you reply defensively, “and well I am a virgin. Just makes me curious. I’ve watched—I’ve obviously watched porn before. I have…preferences. Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t have preferences!”

You can feel something growing between the two of you in his lap as he replies, “Yeah? So your preference is seeing my cum leak out of you, is that it?”

Well, that makes something strike at you.

“…Maybe not in so many words,” you stubbornly retort, “but yes.”

“Why don’t I oblige you then since you want my cum in you so badly?” he lays you back down against the mattress, spreading your legs open as he crawls over you, that red flush making its way down his neck and chest. It’d be adorable if it wasn’t for the look he’s giving you now. You can see the head of his cock peeking out from the waistband of his boxers, ruddy and leaking with something pearly. You gulp as he slowly tugs his boxers down his thighs, and you’re a little mesmerized as you watch his cock slap against his stomach. Maybe he’s right. You are a pervert. And maybe you like his stupid dick piercing. God, what is wrong with you?

“Aren’t you so so gorgeous?” he mutters, leaning down to slip his tongue into your mouth and give you a bit of a sloppy kiss that has your head spinning, hand reaching down to tug at your breasts and nipples, rolling them through his fingers. He licks down your neck again, seemingly not minding the taste of your sweat as he nips at you, pulling back only to push your knees further back.

Suddenly, he spits on his hand, sitting back on his haunches to work his hand up and down his cock, bottom lip tugging into his mouth as he gets himself wet with spit and precum.

Your head is spinning as he finally leans forward, bright blue eyes flitting between your face and your open thighs as he nudges his cockhead at your entrance, before teasing you with a slap on your clit and a smirk on his stupid face.

“Aw, still wet, baby? Let me help you.”

You gasp as he drags pre-cum all the way down to your slit, unable to let the prideful act go because you don’t want him to see the way he affects you. You shudder and scowl when he smiles at you.

“Just hurry up—oh, fuck,” you curse as he finally squeezes past your entrance with a pop, the two of you letting out twin groans.

You feel weirdly full and you spread your knees wider, trying to get rid of the pressure that you feel in your guts even though he’s not even all the way inside.

“Hah—oh my god, you feel…” Lane breathes out above you, thumbs digging tight into your skin as he ruts you against him, spearing you further on his length. The pressure doesn’t go away, it just gets worse, and you feel like you’re not sure that he can get anymore inside you—you’re so tight you can feel his piercing scrape against your walls—and you grasp at his arm beseechingly, wet eyelashes sullying your vision.

“Hurts?” Lane asks, voice thick and hoarse. You shake your head. It doesn’t, but—

“I just, ah—I’ve never had more than my fingers inside me, you feel really big,” you keen in a trembling voice, trying not to freak out when you feel him get bigger inside you, what the fuck?

“Shit. I’m gonna—gonna,” Lane’s voice strains as his hips thrust brokenly against you, hand tight around your thigh as he suddenly lets out a string of curses and moans that has you looking up at him in surprise. His head is thrown back, and you watch the column of his throat work as he grits out a long groan, looking pained as he thrusts shallowly into you.

“Lane?” you pant as you feel your walls pulse around him, slightly concerned, “Did you just cum—”

“Hold on,” he says through his teeth and promptly flips you on your belly, slipping out to adjust his position behind you before he pushes back in with a gasp that has you shuddering, hips finally flush against your ass, bottoming out within you with a curse. You let out a whimper, fingers grasping the sheets as you feel him finally begin to make a rhythm against you, his hips already drilling into you as you gasp and shake beneath him, tears beading at your eyelashes.

The stretch is almost too much, and your thighs are shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, but you can’t hold back your moans into the sheets as he grinds against you with tugging hands that pull you back onto him to meet his hips, determined and eager to press you into the mattress.

“So needy, huh?” Lane pants, “squeezing me so tight and so impatient. You need me that bad, pretty?”

Fat tears slide down your cheeks as you sniffle in between moans and sobs, squeaking when his hand swats against your ass, “Look at you, so cute, need you—” he leans down to bite at your shoulder, teeth digging a little sharper than before to the point that you push at him, whining.

“Shit. Sorry, sorry, baby,” he laps at the mark he left, tongue hot and wet against your sweaty skin, “lemme make it up to you.”

You hear him spit again, and with a flinch you feel him jiggle with your clit again with two wet fingers. You mewl, back arching like a cat as he teases you, your euphoria just at his fingertips as he threatens to end this early with your premature orgasm.

“Feel good? Kiss,” he’s on your back again, pulling you up to crane your chin back to kiss him properly. You don’t feel like you’re doing that good of a job though, you simply have your mouth open and weakly meet his kisses with your tongue, but he keeps grunting and groaning like you’re doing something special. Are you?

Maybe you should have expected that Lane would have this much stamina as a 24-year-old, but you didn’t expect him of all people to be this voracious since he’s not like that with anything else!

“Ah, ah, ah,” you can only gasp into his mouth, bearing your hands on his forearms as he bounces you up and down on his cock, bracing you with strong hands on your waist. You feel dizzy, your skull racking around in your head at the force of his thrusts. Why is he so strong?

“Take it so well,” Lane breathes against your ear, “must have been waiting for me,” he babbles even though it’s nonsense, “must have. We fit so well together after all, right?”

In your pleasure-addled daze (and also under the influence of the parasite that Lane infected you with), you nod in assent, squeezing him for all he’s worth as you listen to the sound of the lewd squelches the two of you are making. A bit of a symphony in it’s own right, you think.

You want to believe him, because you thought you’d have to bear the common pain of having a bad first time like everyone else—awkward and sweaty, with someone who doesn’t really care about you. But this is different. You knew it anyway; you knew it’d be different with Lane. That’s why you asked him—

“Lane,” you whimper in a broken voice, “gonna cum. Cum with me, please, please. Please—please cum inside me, need it so bad. Need you,” you ramble, resigned to the craze that’s infected you two because god, the feeling of him pistoning inside you is a little crazy itself, and the way he’s got his thumb circling your clit makes you a little jealous of all the other girls he’s had before. You should’ve had him first—should have, maybe this would have happened faster—

“Fuck,” your name spills out from his mouth, sweet and daunting all at once, “you want it? Want me to fill you up? Hah—won’t be too full, sweetheart?”

You shake your head adamantly, already feeling your orgasm begin to crash into you, “No, no, no. Won’t be too much. I can take it, shit, I can take it, so please—” Your moans are swallowed by his mouth as he works into you from behind, never ceasing so that your orgasm isn’t something easy to take. Your insides seize up, tightening like a vice around him as starlight bursts behind your eyelids. You feel a little scared again; it feels way too good, and you feel like your belly can’t bear it all. Your brain certainly can’t.

But he needs you to remember this. Needs you to remember that he’s your first; needs you to remember that it was good.

So he holds you tighter, grounding you with just a little press of his nails to your skin so that you don’t float off the earth.

You feel him pulse inside you with a loud groan, repeating with every thrust, “Good fucking girl. Take it, take it,” cum painting your walls and filling you with another load, stuffing you full.

The two of you flop onto your bed, sweaty and tired as you pant against the blanket on top of your bed.

You can feel his cum spilling out of you even though he hasn’t pulled out yet. You hold his forearm subconsciously—maybe you don’t want him to yet. His chest rises and falls against you, and he tucks his chin on top of your head, arm still tight against your waist.

If you were normal you right now, you would insist on talking about this and trying to be reasonable so neither of you make a big deal about it—but again, his cock is still inside you and you said some things that you’re not sure you can take back just yet. Maybe later (maybe never).

What you do feel like doing right now is falling asleep. Your eyes are puffy from crying and the weight of keeping them open is more than you can take right now. You had a long day. Your eyes drag close as you lose the fight to stay awake. You need to wash the sheets. You need another shower. Lane should wash you. Serves him right.

Lane’s leg curls over yours, an affectionate way of keeping you pinned to the bed, so you resign yourself to staying. What else can you do? Cold air drifts across your naked skin, and he’s a furnace. His big hand on your belly feels nice too.

You can hear his heartbeat against you, beating steadily—if a little fast—in your ear.

“Was that good?” he asks, voice beaten and bruised yet he still tries to inject a bit of his old confidence though you’re both not convinced by it. You squeeze his forearm again, smiling a little.

“It was good, don’t worry,” you yawn, already dozing off, “…was really good…”