âËęŠď˝Ą summary . Lane has a new favorite hobby. Unfortunately, it's you. (and you donât mind this as much as you should)
๨ৠwc . + 1.5k!
âË⥠tags . mature â mdni, reader-insert, second person pov, gn!reader, no explicit content, workplace romance, he's annoying on purpose and that's the whole plot, flirting disguised as antagonizing, idiots to lovers, soft ending, big bad dogs fanfic, + lane meme at the end because why not
âËâšâĄ cw . mature â mdni, lane, lane, lane again, lane being an insufferable menace (affectionate), mild sexism (called out!!), workplace setting, mild sexual tension, no explicit content, light physical contact, he's down bad and refuses to admit it, some french sprinkled in because iâm french, lane est un emmerdeur de première mais câest pour ça quâon lâaime <33
â§ a/n! . aaand here it is! a fic based on Lane, a character from the visual novel Big Bad Dogs made by the very talented @where-spar0w-barks ! go check her stuff out, she does an amazing job on her VN and she deserves all the support in the world! posted this in honor of the release date of Shift 3 at the end of June, which means GO PLAY THE VN RIGHT NOW >:)))
OMG AND ALSO i have another bbd fic in my drafts ;))) ONE DAY IâLL GIVE IT TO YOU GUYS DONâT WORRY! (and yes I absolutely have other cod fics for you dww)
happy reading and hope you enjoy âĄ
Lane loves riling you up.
Started as an obsession, became an addiction.
Not that it hadn't been before. But now? Now Lane threw himself into antagonizing you with the kind of methodical dedication he usually reserved for doing absolutely nothing productive during his shift.
Because he'd seen behind the curtain. He'd made you laugh during the shitty date heâd pulled in the stock room, the two of you bantering and flirting. You'd called him out on every bit of the sexist bullshit he'd said, you'd reciprocated the banter, matched him blow for blow. Which meant that somewhere, buried under all the irritation and exhaustion, you didn't actually hate this.
Didn't hate him.
And for Lane, that was dangerous knowledge. So, it became a routine. An absolutely ridiculous routine, and he knew how stupid it was, but really, he couldnât help it.
Not when the way you reacted was so endearing to him.
Monday night, he decided heâd grant you the effort of working the cash register, the only one in the store, with the busted scanner that you had to angle just right, and he spent twenty minutes pretending he couldn't figure it out, asking you for help with that infuriating smirk.
Youâd given him the most judgmental side-eye heâd ever received in his entire life before shoving him aside and scanning the items for the poor customer whoâd been standing at the counter for God knows how long.
Perfect.
Tuesday, he critiqued your stock rotation while following you around the store and through the aisles with his hands in his pockets, just enough to be annoying. Pointed out a "shelving inconsistency" that wasn't actually inconsistent at all, just a different approach than his. And when youâd finally decided to snap back at him, he slipped into the stock room and blocked the door from inside with his full weight for five solid minutes, just so you couldnât enter.
Youâd told him he was a âterritorial manchild with the emotional intelligence of a rockâ.
Lane had been grinning for hours afterward.
Wednesday, he got to that damn stock room first. Drank one Redbull, then two, then three, just enough to increase his chances of having a heart attack. Or at least question his cardiovascular future. Then he'd stood there, and instead of throwing the empty cans in the trash like a normal human being, he'd stacked them into a neat little tower right in front of the door, dead center, perfectly positioned for you to walk straight into them. Which you did, and the crash was magnificent.
You glared daggers at him from across the room.
"Problem?" he'd asked innocently.
"You're a menace," youâd hissed back.
God, yes.
By Thursday, you were staring at him, deadpan, as he reorganized all the facing youâd done by yourself. Because of course that idiot, whoâd never once dragged his ass over to help you during a shift, had decided to suddenly, very diligently, do his part of the job, with the sole purpose of doing it wrong and watching you twitch.
"That's the third time today," you muttered, watching Lane deliberately rearrange the chocolate shelf in a way that was already pissing you off. "You moved that stuff three times in one shift."
"You keep putting it back wrong, babe," Lane said, completely shameless.
"There is no wrong. You're just being an asshole."
"You wound my heart."
Your jaw tightened, and you werenât sure if it was because he was actually getting to you, or because you were trying very hard to hide the amused smile pulling at the corner of your lips. "You know what's gonna happen, right? Iâm gonna snap. Like, actually snap. Worse than last time. Remember the slap?"
Lane paused, considering this. You? Slapping him?
"Looking forward to it," he said finally.
"You're sick."
"Probably."
Friday night, Lane found you at the counter, meticulously refilling the display rack closest to the register, the one with the small packets of candy and chewing gums. He grabbed the stool right next to you, even though there were plenty of other places to be, and started "helping" restock the shelf beside you.
Close enough that your arms occasionally bumped.
Close enough to be annoying.
"You're in my space, Lane," you said without looking up.
"Plenty of room for both of us here, doll," he replied easily.
"There is an entire store."
"I like it here. Better company."
You finally looked at him, and there it wasâthat fire starting to blaze in your eyes. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" Pure innocence.
"This." You gestured between Lane and yourself. "All of it. The register, the empty cans, and nowâ" You waved again, this time at the minimal space between you two. "âthis."
Lane set down the packet he was holding, turning to face you fully. That familiar smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"You could always make me stop," he said, voice dropping just slightly lower. "Tell me to back off. Complain to RJ. Hell, slap me again if you want."
Please slap him again. Heâd beg on all fours. Hell, heâd bark. Heâd bark like a dog.
You stared at him for a long moment, jaw working like you were physically restraining yourself from saying something, before you finally muttered: "You're impossible," and turned back to the display rack.
But you didn't move away, and Lane counted that as a win.
â... Youâre gonna invite me?â
âYeah.â
âOn a date?â
âYeah.â
You paused in your movements, mop stilling on the tiles, and slowly looked up to stare at Lane, scanning every inch of his face, looking for the tell. A smirk, a glint, some sign that he was messing with you. His expression was unreadable. Arms crossed, leaning against the counter, watching you with half-lidded eyes.
It was around 5 a.m., both of you were tired, bored, and youâd been busy mopping the sticky floor when Lane had decided to open his mouth and hit you with his plan. Well, you didnât believe him. Or maybe you didnât want to acknowledge the warm feeling that had settled in your fluttery stomach the moment heâd said âI wanna take you out on a date.â
Especially when the last date heâd pulled had been the one in the stock room, playing truth or dare while drinking cheap energy drinks and flirting like teenagers. Plus, you hadn't admitted to yourself yet that you'd loved that night. That it had followed you home, replayed in the dark behind your eyes every morning since when you were too tired to keep your guard up.
âWith what money?â you finally asked.
âThe money that I make while working.â
âYou donât work, Lane. Iâm the one doing the damn job here.â
âI still get paid for it. Probably a few more bucks than you do. Yâknow, wage gap and all that.â
There it was. Again. Clearly, that man didnât listen to you. His words landed small and sharp, and your expression flattened. Not into anger, exactly, but into the particular kind of tired disappointment that came from someone almost being better, and then choosing not to be.
Your fingers loosened around the mop handle, and it dropped, the wood cracking against the counter, sound echoing in the empty store. You turned on your heels to walk away from himâonly for Laneâs hand to close around your wrist.
âCâmon, sweetheart.â His voice dropped, tone now low and intimate. âLet me make it up to you.â
You didnât turn around.
He tugged, gently, just enough to angle you back towards him, and you opposed no resistance, although you were still pouting. His thumb found the inside of your wrist and started moving in slow circles against your skin. Pleasant and soft.
âPlease, baby?â
He was infuriating. You looked away, out at the empty aisles, the hum of the fridges, the buzz of the fluorescent lights. And still, you could feel the smile you were trying to hold back.
âIf you wanna make it up to me so bad,â you finally said quietly, âyou can start working on that shitty sexist attitude of yours.â
âI am working on it.â
âHardly.â
âSo itâs a yes on the date?â
Il est exaspĂŠrant.
But this time, you didnât hold back the amused smile on your lipsâslow, reluctant. You looked down at where his thumb was, still tracing patient circles against your pulse point, and it made something flutter in your lower belly. The knot in your throat loosened.
It was nice, you thought, despite everything. To be wanted like this. Not quietly, not a secret. To be wanted loudly, badly, and with all the subtlety of a man whoâd spent the entire week teasing you and antagonizing you on purpose.
It was nice to know that someone was eager.
Even if that someone was Lane.
And to be honest, you wouldnât have it any other way.
â... Promise youâll behave from now on?â
His thumb never stopped the slow circles against your skin, and this time, he completely tugged you against him. Cradled the back of your head with his free hand, letting your forehead rest against him as he propped his chin at the top of your head.
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if you like shy bikers, mean (maybe sexist) coworkers who might be soft on the inside, dating sims, the ambiance of the 2009 era, and a story full of mystery and jumps into the past to connect the pieces...
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DĂŠcouvre la communautĂŠ Big Bad Dogs (VN) Official Discord (18+) sur Discord - discute avec 48Â autres membres et profite du chat vocal et tex
Obedient. Wild. Possessive. What kind of dog are you feeding ?
Thank you so much everyone for your support, je vous aime fort!!!đđđ
Summary: Youâre a southern girl, but just because youâre from the south doesnât mean youâre some sweet little belle.
Warning(s): MINORS DNI THIS IS AN +18 GAME â threats of violence, sexism (for context: itâs 2009), mentions of rape and death, perverted men, sexual harassment, fem!reader, southern/country reader, blackcoded reader but anyone can read.
A/N: Wow didnât think Iâd be posting this since going on hiatus. Anyways, Big Bad Dogs by @where-spar0w-barks is a pretty cool visual novel so far and Iâm excited for the next update. Also the reader is based off my oc Kiriko. Idk if Iâll do another part or not, Iâm taking things slow.
The fact that Mad Dog Convince was somehow still standing and not bare and closed is beyond you. But you know this place wonât stand forever, not if no real change happens. Youâre not worried though. Youâll return back to the farm you grew up at and resume your life there.
Youâre only here because your grandmother wanted you to get out more. Out of the countryside and try to thrive in the wild city. City life didnât really interest you, maybe it did for a brief time when you were a kid, but as you got older you lost the appeal in it, more content with the peace of your home. But it was your grandmotherâs dying wish, and youâd do anything for her.
The city was overwhelming and noisy. You really didnât like it, and part of it definitely was because you were terribly homesick and missing your trusty stead. You ended up living in the poorer side of the city in a decrepit little apartment that had roaches, and needless to say you opted out within a month. You werenât interested in college, nor did you want to be in that much debt for it either. You got a taste of the city and knew you wouldnât dwell in it for long.
Mad Dog was nestled just slightly outside the city and only a 30 minute walk to the motel you stayed at. Again, youâre not sure why youâre working in this decaying store, Ronnie Joe certainly didnât deserve you, and you definitely donât go outta your way to try and save it. Itâs not your store to care about.
But perhaps itâs because you know once this store inevitably closes itâll be the end of the âcity chapterâ in your life. Youâll take your truck and head right back on home, going about your life and duties, and being a content hermit. Your grandmaâs last wish would be fulfilled.
You didnât bother forming strong attachments either, because youâre conditioned to the solitude. Your one real friend was back at your place keeping an eye on everything for you. Malcolm was enough for you. But you managed to befriend your lousy coworkerâs sister. You liked her spunk and she was definitely easy on the eyes, and she took a liking to your no nonsense attitude and your fire. Amelia is her name, very fitting.
âYo, pretty girl, you got a charger?â Lane asks, his head poking out from the storage room, his ice blue eyes standing out first before his noir hair does.
You give him a dismissive look, returning to country the drawer. âAnd if I did, why would I give it to ya?â
Footsteps shuffle closer, the storage room door closing with a soft thump. Then comes Laneâs voice. âAww, I thought we were friends. Weâve practically been hanging out for a month.â
âWe have different meaninâs for friends, Lane. Cause you definitely ainât my friend. Yer a lousy coworker I put up with,â you reply, your voice calm and straight to the point.
But of course Lane outwardly doesnât express hurt, heâs only amused like a dog engaged in tug of war.
âPlaying hard to get still I see,â he sighs, smirking gleefully. âBut Iâm not completely lousy. I clean sometimes and man the register.â
âAfter I nag you like a miserable wife,â you reply back, the ink pen singing as you write down the amount in the register.
âIâd love for you to be my wife. Iâd be well taken care of for sure,â Lane agreed, leaning against the counter.
âSo you admit Iâd be miserable being married to you?â your smirk.
âYou wouldnât be miserable in bed with me~,â he winks.
âDirty dog.â
âOnly yours, Babe.â
Although heâs a bum of a coworker, at least heâs amusing sometimes. His nice face keeps him from getting beaten black and blue.
âAlright get outta my face, boy. Go scrub them toilets. Itâs yer turn. And if ya donât Iâll call yer sister up here to have her come embarrass ya.â
At that Lane groans like a whiny brat, dragging his feet to the bathrooms after getting the supplies, you smirking with triumphant.
With nothing else to do you man the front, idle until a customer comes. You only managed to find 4 words in your crossword puzzle when the sliding doors come to life, footsteps walking inside.
âEveninâ,â you greet, not looking up.
âWell arenât you a pretty little lady~.â
His voice was like nails on a chalkboard and full of no good things. You let out a sigh, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt.
âThank you. I know.â
The customer makes a sound and mumbles to himself, shuffling down an aisle. You continue on with your puzzle until he returns, setting down some canned goods.
He starts talking again. âHey, pretty girl, have you heard about the disappearances around here? Itâs pretty dangerous working at this time.â
âI heard about âem,â you responded nonchalantly.
âArenât you scared? Do you have anyone thatâll protect you?â he asks, leaning in slightly, looking a little to eager.
âAnd why do you need to know that?â you throw back, a pointed brown raised as you look at him with an unimpressed gaze.
âNo need to act like that, sweetheart. Iâm just a good guy that wants to protect girls like you. Hey, whataya say to giving me your number?â
âHmm, no.â You put the last item into the plastic bag, muttering out his total and waiting expectantly.
The creep frowns, offended at your blatant rejection. âListen here you bitch,â he spits. âIâm doing you a favor in trying to protect you! You wanna end up raped and dead in a ditch somewhere!?â
âI suggest you lower yer voice before you regret it,â your threaten, glaring at him with crossed arms, your heartbeat beginning to rise from the tension.
âIâll teach you some manners you ungratefulâ,â he grits, beginning to reach towards you until he feels cold metal kiss his Adamâs apple.
The tip of your revolver digs in just a little more as he swallows,. âW-What..? Y-You..!?â
âNow, either you pay for yer shit and get out, or Iâll put a bullet in ya,â you hiss lowly.
âAre you crazy?!â
âNaw, I just know how to deal with pest like you. Now, you gonna pay or not?â
âWhat the hell is going on outâ?â
The creep is suddenly jerked backwards by the collar of his hood, in the grasp of a looming man in all black, faceless behind a helmet. The biker promptly shoves the creep toward the doors, the man tripping over his own pants and crashing to the floor with a harsh thud. The creep whips his head towards the biker and looks like a trembling chihuahua about seconds away from pissing itself.
âH-Hey man..! Didnât mean to upset your girl..!â
The biker just stares like a predator, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as his chest rises and falls with barely contained rage.
You scoff at the creepâs change of tone now that a man twice his size has humiliated him. âGet the fuck outta here before I make due with my promise. Be lucky Iâm beinâ real generous and havenât put lead in yer knee.â
âDoesnât mean I wonât,â Lane mutters, drinking in the sight before him.
The creep runs out, his pants nearly falling off him in his haste. You huff and tuck your revolver into your jeans, putting your shirt over it. You gather the goods and prepare to put them back on the shelves.
ââPreciate it, Biker Boy,â you say with a tip of your hat before passing him. Lane, like a puppy, follows at your heels, casting a suspicious, icy glare towards the biker.
âI leave for a few minutes and you nearly shot a guy?â he chuckles.
âThe night breeds weirdos,â you shrug, getting a chuckle from Lane.
âYeah, like that helmet boy.â
âNow why are you talkinâ shit when you canât even scrub a toilet? Ya really ainât worth a damn yerself, Lane,â you throw back with a barely there bite, but it was full of unrestrained truth. âBesides, you be sayinâ some questionable shit too.â
Lane rubs his neck, smirking as if saying âyou arenât wrongâ with a slight blush on his fair skin.
Meanwhile the Biker stands there, his heart hammering away in his chest, his face hot behind the visor. But those softer feelings disappear when he heard Laneâs repulsive voice.
Lane continues yammering away and you just let him, haphazardly listening, but your gaze finally focuses on Biker Boyâs figure justâŚ. Standing there, taking up space.
âSomethinâ we can help ya with or are you just gonna keep standinâ there like some serial killer?â you ask, your voice cutting through Laneâs ramble and shocking Biker Boy.
âI-Iâm not a serial killer!â Biker Boy insists. âSorry I⌠I just⌠T-The vending machineâŚâ
âOh,â you reply. âYeah, my apologies for that. Works when it wants tooâŚâ
âYou canât be serious?â Lane scoffs at you, growing more fussy when you donât answer him, so he barks loudly. âHello?? Sunshine, are you being for real right now?â
One dog stands proud, drunk on the prospect of having won what he deems as his. While the other dog bristles with anxiety and anger as his prized possession was stolen from him.
ó ó ó ó ó ó đŕžŕ˝˛ó ó ó ó ó ó ó â¨decor credits to: @/sisterlucifergraphicsâ¨đŕžŕ˝˛
Lane BBD Oneshots - Chapter 4 - Convo with Smoker!MC
Although, all the other chapters can be found on AO3 under the same name, I wanted to post this update on Tumblr as well. This is my first time uploading the story in over a month on AO3 and hardly anyoneâs going back to check on it (I donât blame them, though , Iâm SO SLOW to update đ).
Without any further ado, hope you enjoy!!!
Word count: 5194
Warnings: mentions of murder, blood, bruising, sexism, possessiveness, implied stalking, general male hubris đ, smoking, addiction, relapse, swearing, panic attacks, angst, slapping, Lane being a masochist
Note: MC is 23 here (thereâs a reference to at later on)
Click.
The sound of your lighter pierces the dense air and you take a long, fresh drag of smoke. Today, something - or someone - fills the atmosphere with an invisible pressure on your skin, a watchful eye.
Youâre standing outside Mad Dog Convenience, right in front of the dilapidated, run-down back door which seems to be in its worst state itâs ever been and clearly needs to be replaced by RJ. Despite the fact that numerous teenage road rebels have trashed the place with chip packets everywhere, broken signs and pipes and topped the destruction off with now-faded graffiti, he wonât bother, of course, because he hasnât got the money to finance anything.
Neither do you.
This is the first cigarette youâve had in a while - at least in what had felt like one, anyway. Ever since bills and grocery costs have been slowly snowballing, youâve been desperately searching for ways to cut costs down at home. Taking out a notepad and jotting down your daily spending, the one pesky cash-grab you tried to get rid of was your smoking habit.
In the beginning, it felt like a real breather (literally) to not infuse your fragile lung tissue with tar and nicotine twice a day. The first few days flew by, just like a leaf caught in the breeze, and you were instilled with a hope that maybe the economic state of the world could finally put you off your persistent habit.
Until, the real and raw spiral took its course: withdrawal. Skull-splitting headaches every morning, frequent and recurring panic attacks and intense sugar cravings that made you salivate at the sight of chocolate, to name a few.
You thought you were strong enough. You thought you were capable. You naĂŻve little girl, you really believed you could tough out the symptoms for so long, didnât you? So silly of you to think that you could ever indulge in anything beyond your reliance on a stick of cancer and carbon monoxide.
And look where this has led you; smoking dejectedly outside your job, staring at the weakly-lit lampposts and the darkness beyond for whatever vehicle may drive past.
Still leaning against the locked staff door, you relish the first smoke after being starved of your addiction. The warm, comfortable haze of grey and black spewing from your mouth blurs reality as you see it and blocks the stream of thoughts in your brain, like a muzzle to a barking dog. Soon enough, though, the shame of returning to your weakness again unplugs your negative feedback loop and the pleasure dwindles to nothing.
Thereâs no spark or high when you smoke anymore. Now, you only do it to feel normal, escape the night terrors while you sleep, reward yourself for tolerating Laneâs antics, get you through the next shift at Mad Dog. Either way, you feel terrible once your mind drifts to smoking.
Light a cigarette? Ruminate and dwell constantly on past regrets you can never change. Chuck it in a trash can? Reality hits you like a truck and youâre stressing over your heating bills for the month.
Youâre hopeless.
And so, you turn back to the same old, familiar habit youâve always known: you, your pack of cigs and the blanket of calm that envelops you.
âMind giving me a puff, pretty?â
That gives you a start. Snapped from escapism, your body involuntarily jolts and the precious cigarette almost slips between your fingers.
The last thing I needed was company.
âGo away, Lane. Iâll open up in just a sec.â, you mutter bitterly, watching the thin tendrils of smoke as they unfurl and dissolve in the cool, night air.
Thanks to your newly rekindled addiction, youâre always especially infuriated whenever someone interrupts your downtime. Lane is no exception, even if this is his first time seeing you like this.
âDidnât take you for a smokinâ hot lady, hm? Well, Iâve been happily proven wrong.â, he smirks and leans against the wall opposite you and the staff door.
âThatâs because I was trying to quit before I started working here. And thenâŚâ, guilty flashbacks to the first day of quitting flood your thoughts, before you can finish.
Lane notices your drooping posture and pieces the rest together.
âYou came crawling back?â
You donât admit it aloud; just your meek, timid reaction says it all. The man in front of you - yet out of your sight and mind - stands there awkwardly, watching as your eyes roam across the floor in remorse, unsure of how to respond or support you. Itâs as if a secretly guilty office worker watches an injured cat limp across the street from a 10-storey building. Itâs impossible for him to stoop down to your emotional dumpster from way up there on his jokester, donât-give-a-shit cloud in the sky. After all, Laneâs entire bravado is built on a flimsy foundation with âJUST KIDDINGâ plastered all over it. How on Earth will he go about comforting a girl whoâs just recently relapsed?
âWell, smokingâs always been a manâs best friend. Youâll be fine, youâll see. In a few cigs, youâll be back to being my typical co-worker! Besides, we can both die coughing together. Itâll be just like in Romeo and Juliet. Two star-crossed lovers dying and staying in Hell for eternity. Together.â, for a brief second, his eyes smile fondly at the edges. His poker face slips. So does his fictitious indifference.
âYou still remember Romeo and Juliet from middle school?â, you ask, laughing at yourself for asking such a question âon the jobâ.
âI studied it in high school, which may explain why I remember it better. Still got a shit grade. But, woe is me; Iâve always been a fan of the theatrics.â, another plume of smoke bubbles and broths from his lips, as he looks into the distance.
âDamn. Lane being fond of emotional depth? I thought that belonged in the old millennium.â, you scoff heartlessly and send a salty grin his way.
A gasp rips through the air. Lane makes a pathetic attempt at fainting like a frail, Victorian woman. Instead of gracefully gliding down the wall in a melodrama, tragically (for you it was downright hilarious), it only leads him to skid loudly all the way down, planting his bum on the damp ground with a low thud.
He awkwardly clears his throat. You, on the other hand, begin cackling louder than youâve ever known, so much that you unconsciously clutch your stomach with both hands. The cigarette drops from your fingers but you don't bother to register it; your brainâs too distracted with the sound of laughter flooding your skull with that bubbly, warm, familiar feeling.
It mustâve been a pretty long laughing session because, once you finish wiping the tears from your eyes, you find Lane already standing up in front of you, grinning at you in partial surprise and partial disbelief.
He runs a hand through his locks, âShit. Way to embarrass myself,â he chuckles lightly, âBy the way, you dropped your cig.â
I did?
Looking at your feet, you see the discarded stick glued to the floor. However, somehow, you donât feel like you lost something. If anything - now that the rush of joyâs fading away - you start feeling the tiniest inkling of empowerment in yourself. That outburst of giggles and laughter is worth so much more than the constant stream of nicotine just to maintain your daily functioning. To feel ânormalâ.
For the first time since youâve started this job, you saw a brief flicker of colour, a fleeting smidge of something beyond black, white and grey; a speck of vibrant, moving, living colour, so alive that you could taste the rainbow on the tip of your tongue. That perfectly healthy dose of sugary laughter sweetened your day, at the cost of nothing.
This gets you thinking. Maybe you can feel ânormalâ without the morning cigarette for breakfast. Maybe you can return home without the guilt of your parentsâ worries and hospital bills scalding your face and tearing your stomach. And then you realise -
Buzzt, buzzt.
A pulsating sound derails your train of optimistic thought, while Lane shoves a hand in his pocket.
âSorry, set an alarm on my phone whenever our shift begins. That way I know how to arrive 20 minutes late every time.â
You roll your eyes and grind the butt under the sole of your shoe. The typical clown never strays too far for long.
âClassic. Now, come on and help me open up the store for tonight.â
You both walk out of the alleyway towards the entrance sticking out amongst the dark emptiness, the lifeless road and stern, senior lampposts like a sore thumb, with your co-worker in tow. Spinning on your heel in front of the opening automatic doors, you raise an inquisitive brow and ask :
âWho forgot to lock up after last Friday?â
He lifts both arms in the air.
âWhat?! It wasnât me. My dog ate the key!â
2 HOURS LATER
Itâs practically impossible to stifle a yawn when all of Mondayâs Mad Dog checklist consists of stocking condom packets in aisle 2. A woman doing a manâs job - how ironic. No matter how useful Lane may be in the dopamine department, he completely lacks any capacity to merely lend a hand at the workplace.
As a result, the next-best pastime to occupy your mind with more marginally enthralling things besides your crippling debt becomes scrolling through various insults to call Lane. Youâre certainly starting off strong.
Hm, whatâs a list of things heâs like? Stupid? Or, does that make him more slow? What about⌠useless? No, then, heâd claim that heâs the only source of morale here at Mad Dog, which isnât wrong (though his teasing only motivates me out of spite). Actually, I know a cuter word for it-
The whoosh of the automatic doors startles you, almost losing your grip on the condom package in the process. Then, large, deep, rapid footfalls pace manically towards the cash register.
From experience, youâve become accustomed to just waiting idly for whatever, lethargic, sleep-deprived weirdo to zombie-walk their way around each aisle, dump the goods in front of the till and get on with their other midnight shenanigans. But, such rushed, pedantic steps from a man of a decent size are more than unusual.
Theyâre nerve-wracking.
That ruthless pacing comes sprinting past the fridges in aisle 3 and bends swiftly around the corner. Although youâre only on the next one over, the broad frame brushes past your peripheral vision and into the other shelf-maze behind yours.
It doesnât matter, though.
The continuous thrum of heavy, rhythmic steps strikes some sort of primal fear in your heart. If itâs another creep, you think, thereâll still be a pretend-boyfriend sitting in the vicinity to pry him off.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Still, those same steps reverberate throughout the entire store, making the products on the shelves tremble in anticipation too. Youâre at the mercy of how nicely the male population chooses to treat you tonight. Just like good cop, bad cop, except itâs with creeps and ânice guysâ.
Your eyes flit between the keys in your pocket, your trembling hands and the corners of aisle 2. They reach closer, closer and closer and the gnawing fear of being preyed on swells uncontrollably in your chest, like a balloon.
I canât just be paranoid. Right?
Your hands seize the keys. A lump in your throat forms. Mentally, you strap in for the seemingly difficult night ahead. Behind the candy shelf, a black boot materialises, followed by a familiar figure and a breath you completely forgot you were holding.
A well-built 6â2 ft hunk of a man gives you an awkward wave, conscious not to startle you. Heâs not only well-clad in muscle, biceps and ink (judging from his gloveless hands), but in tight, black clothing that makes it too easy for your eyes to stray away from his face.
âŚWhich doubles nicely as a distraction from how his presence instantly sucks the oxygen out of the air and makes everything a bajillion times hotter. Who knows? Maybe heâs the reason you stutter around him or why youâre so suddenly looking forward to your shifts nowadays.
The same, enigmatic man hardly wears any biker-gear, though, only settling for the helmet to cover his face. Youâre not sure why; you havenât had the heart to ask him yet.
Maybe you could change that tonight.
âBB!,â you clutch your racing heart so hard you almost tear your shirt off your torso, âYou scared me!â
Immediately, he recoils his hand behind his back, as if his adorable greeting was as lethal as poison. Seconds later, his hand drifts back to his front where he keeps it occupied by meekly twisting the joints in his fingers. His helmet and shoulders visibly droop, apologising with shameful fervour.
âS-sorry. I thought youâd be⌠But, usually⌠Last time, you were-â he stammers endearingly.
What a cutie.
You politely cut him off with the flick of your hand.
âDonât break a sweat over it. The lack of social interaction and constant darkness gets to you. Besides, watching my bills pile up on my kitchen counter is way scarier than any old jumpscare.â, you add, chuckling dryly at the sad truth.
âHaha. Yeah, especially insurance.â
âWhat?â
The same unassuming frown etched into his mind and doe-like eyes crosses your features once more. A dreadful ache gnaws viciously in his stomach. He really canât afford to reveal his⌠tendencies to you.
âI meant especially with, erm, the recession and⌠the collapsing house market.â, he prays itâll suffice.
âOh yeah, definitely.â, you resume stocking the condom packets on the shelves again, your pretty back facing him.
This again.
Again, your eyes are taken off him.
Again, heâll lose more precious fractions of time with you, as he scrambles pathetically for ways to continue the conversation.
Again, that oh-so-poetic little shit who thinks he can win your heart with shits, gigs, drugs and soap operas has to stand in the way of you both.
Whenever the mere thought of him talking to you, complimenting you, touching you, laughing with you, texting you, calling you, handing you a mop, wasting your time, or breathing near you, the hairs on his neck stand erect.
How dare that little shit play with you like that? Like a toy?
Every second you spend near that goddamn dumb-fuck makes the urge to spray his blood across the Mad Dogâs restroom walls swell and fester; a violent virus tactically infecting the rest of his brain and psyche.
BB clenches his fists behind your back.
His new mission: getting his undeserving name out of your mouth and his face miles away from your priceless eyes. Even if it means punching Lane, catapulting him into New Year's, claiming those pure lips of yours or fucking him out of you, then so be it.
For you, heâd do anything.
For you, heâs your loyal hound.
Snapping him out of his macabre musings, he tries (and fails) to change the topic.
âSoâŚâ he begins, fiddling increasingly more with his fingers once you pause to gaze at him, awaiting his response.
Thing is, if it werenât for the heavenly light you exude being so dazzling, it would be much easier for him to maintain eye contact. Thanks to you, the same hands that gripped firearms and broke skin with daggers quake even more than they used to when he was running off of sheer adrenaline on the battlefield.
What an angel you are. Perfect in every way
â⌠what job did your co-worker dump on you this time?â
With that, you let out a hearty laugh.
âNothing special, just this usual. Stocking supplies, cleaning the restrooms, mopping the floor.â
Awkward silence. You keep shuffling products around, then, he continues the conversation.
âHow long have you been smoking for?â
Yet again. The second time in a row you've been questioned about your smoking habits.
âOh⌠that.â
After another incongruous pause, you finally gain the courage to speak up.
âI donât usually talk about this much,â you pinch some of the cheap polyester bunched up on your sleeve and rub it between your fingers, âbut, Iâll go ahead.â
BB looks at you thoughtfully, nodding his head like an eager child.
âTo answer your question, my smoking habit started when I was 19. It wasnât always as bad as it is now. Although it began as a random treat for myself every other weekend or just going off othersâ puffs at parties, it quickly spiralled. It got so bad to a point where I couldnât handle listening to my parents' arguments downstairs anymore. Money, jobs, moving house. I just couldnât manage it. My only escape from it all was my bedroom window on the top floor and a pack of cigs. I was still living with my parents at the time,â you sigh, exasperated already at your depressing monologue, âLast year especiallyâŚâ
As your voice trails off, you look up once more, expecting him to have found the detergents on the opposite shelf far more interesting than your god-awful soliloquy, but youâre proven wrong. His helmetâs still facing you, your pitiful expression spanning across his visor.
Then, you come to a realisation: unlike Lane, BB doesnât zone out midway through. He doesnât call the conversation âtoo serious for this clownâ, then resume scrolling on his phone. He doesnât call you emotional or assume youâre on your period. He doesnât even offer surface-level sympathy.
He just listens.
And man, you canât even begin to articulate how much youâve been needing that for the past few weeks
So much so, that your hand suddenly lets a product fall from your fingers accompanied by a light, unassuming thud that startles the two of you. BBâs eyes trail in the direction of your vision and the sight in front of him makes his heart beat the tiniest bit quicker.
You. Picking up a condom packet off the floor, in the most awkward, yet adorable way. He drinks all of you in, watching the way your knees bend and buckle at awkward angles to lean over, how you tuck your hair behind your ear when strands of it get in the way of your face and how your innocuous giggles and guilty smiles echo endlessly in the walls of his skull.
Youâre so heavenly, he could worship you all day. He could let you have it all nice and slow at the start by kissing the base of your neck, then moving on to -
âAnother creep? Seriously? For the second time this week? MC, now Iâm thinking I really should make the pretend-boyfriend a full-time thing. These fuckers just keep hoarding around you like flies.â
Says the same man who orbits around you like an invasive species of Asian wasp. Like it means nothing to you.
âIf you werenât busy being so useless by occupying yourself with that phone, then maybe they wouldâve backed off already. Last time I checked, I was the one who protected MC from another creep a few nights ago. Not you.â
Bewildered by the unexpected entrance, you stop whatever youâre doing and turn around to witness one guy, to your right, brutally clenching his fists at his sides and another, to your left, with a redbull in hand and a cheap smirk for bravado.
Before, BB was a shy, muddled mess in front of you; a simple-minded kid, unsure of how to even form longer sentences aloud. Now, the childish stutters have completely dissipated, replaced by cold, coarse knives that hack through Laneâs bullshit, one morsel at a time.
Where on Earth did he get the confidence to rapid-fire comebacks at the enemy?
Lane shoves his phone into his pants and scoffs.
âWell, if you really want to get technical, I was here first before you, doing my own thing. You know, keeping morale high, cracking a joke, boosting our sales. Things were just fine over here before the Evil Queen came along to steal my Snow White.â
Upon calling you his âSnow Whiteâ, he swoops into your personal space and slithers a hand around your waist.
This again?
âLane, hands off. Itâs been a long day.â, you pry them away instantly, missing a tiny, yet relieved sigh from BB.
Behind your sharp eye, however, is Laneâs eyes briefly widening in surprise and rejection. In that same split second of vulnerability, BBâs birdâs-eye view catches his slip-up; a weak spot he can use and abuse. The extreme interrogation techniques he was taught as a soldier have proven to be exceptionally useful. This way, heâs able (and willing) to plot a swift, calculated way to expose Lane, a sad, ear-drooping little puppy, in front of all the security cameras
Without the torture devices he keeps in his basement anyway - heâll have to save those for another time. After all, what better way to get him back for stealing all your time, than spending the rest of his days covered in his own blood?
You hear a slow drip.
âI donât trust this faceless rando, MC.â, his hand coils tighter around your flesh again, his nail beds lightly digging into the skin, âNot when he follows you like a shadow around the store, waiting for some bullshit excuse to kidnap you on his motorcycle. Iâve checked the CCTV cameras and the only thing he does, before growing a pair, is practice his silent pick-up lines on the instant noodle packets. He comes in just because the setup means there's just the two of you. He targets you, the second youâre alone and defenceless without me. I know a creep, when I see one.â his voice drops an octave at his final words.
Then another.
Slowly but surely, you start to feel your pulse flutter harder, stronger, at a more worrying rate than before. You look in front of you and witness BB clenching both his fists by his side, quivering from his sheer force.
Beside you, Lane simply clicks his tongue, as if heâs only been mildly perturbed by a closed road on the way to work, unknowing of the fact that he just provoked a military machine with the strength of a Juggernaut.
âWhat now, rip-off Batman? Huh? You gonna get the fuck out of here and leave me and MC alone or-â
âGet her name out of your fucking mouth.â, he sputters. His teeth are mashed so hard together, you could feel him chew his words through the helmet.
âOr what?â, Lane finally releases you and saunters with long strides towards the black tank before him, puffing his chest, squaring his shoulders and proudly sizing him up
And another.
Your stomach dips at the thought of the nightâs events that have yet to unfold. Despite his vice grip having left your waist, a new, tighter force constricts your rib cage and lungs. Youâre unsure where all the oxygen in the air has gone. And itâs not because youâre flustered.
âYouâre planning to beat me up in the restroom?â
Something cold and red is running down the walls of your memory
The air in the room violently fizzles and cracks with static electricity.
Now. At this point, this officially marks the calm before the storm, the deadly silence before opening fire, the ultimate stare-down between two men, beckoning the moment when they tear each other to shreds.
You canât handle the constant back and forth anymore. You canât beat witnessing the tension any further. Your lungs are constricted so tightly you think theyâll burst and your hands and legs start to feel strangely weak and shaky
The smell of blood, smoke and vodka.
âShe doesnât deserve you feeding off her precious time like a leech.â A deep voice echoes aimlessly in your brain.
âShe doesnât need you breathing down her neck when sheâs not looking.â
One takes a step forward. The other does too, up until the two tall figures morph into shapeless, hazy blobs, blurring and melting into each other like a camera struggling to focus.
A woman weeping, a man yelling.
Sweat lubricates your clammy palms. In desperation to crawl out of this dreadful hole of panic, you try and flex your twitching hands, but to no avail. Standing here in front of two fighters, and the rope of your remaining sanity thatâs bound to give in and snap, an impending sense of doom gnaws at your organs. Your gaze lands on the floor, but itâs not the white tilesâ simple purity that greets you.
Itâs ĹÄð. Crimson red stains smeared across the white. Black and blue blotches bruise the corners of your vision. A viscerally clear image takes form - the brutal kind where you witness every dimension in detail, like the shine of the overhead light beaming off the warm, wet, sticky aftermath of a loved oneâs beating. The heavy thud of a pale hand that seals off all hope and cements your worst fears: the end of her life
âItâs for protection.â
âYeah?! From what, dipshit?â the man barks in the distance
âFrom people like you who think theyâre entitled to treat a woman like their slave.â
If only you could break away from the screaming and shouting. If only you could escape from the swelling heat thatâs scalding your insides hotter than a furnace. Why canât the world stop for just one second? Why? Why?
âI knew I shouldâve pounded you into the sidewalk when I had the chance.â
âBut you havenât yet. That says a lot about how much balls youâve got under that spandex.â
Air. I need air. God, let me breathe!
Theyâre so engrossed in their machismo one-up that they only notice you wheezing for help at the loudest squeak your twisted throat can muster.
âMC!â, the dogs howl in perfect synchronisation, devolving into a messy mass of thrashing limbs in front of you.
Despite their efforts, theyâre far too slow to help your deteriorating state; your knees buckle feebly beneath you and your frail body crumples to the floor. Now, all that remains is the oxygen-deprived heap of limbs slumped on the floor.
Whateverâs left of Laneâs favourite co-worker and BBâs only riding partner.
LATER
After what feels like aeons later, you feel something caressing your hands. Focusing on it, you realise itâs a pair of calloused hands tracing slow, meticulous circles in the centre of your palms.
For once, your eyelids arenât as heavy as boulders so, you finally find the strength in you to open them.
âBlack helmetâŚ?â
You hear the man you just described let out a strangled gasp. Upon blinking further, you see that heâs kneeling in front of you, face level with yours, eyes boring deep into your soul under the veil of his visor.
âWhat the fuck was that for? Pretty, you almost scared me!â, Laneâs voice arises from behind the biker. Itâs the first time in all your days working at Mad Dog that youâve heard him sound so deeply shaken.
Before you can even register his face, though, his black apron is thrust in front of your eyes. He swiftly wipes your hair back from your forehead and plants a long, tender kiss on the uncovered flesh.
âAt least youâre not burning up anymore.â
Now that youâre not eating a mouthful of work uniform, the effect of your unexpected collapse is written abundantly clear on his face. While BBâs appearance hasnât changed in the slightest, Lane certainly doesnât seem to have left the altercation unscathed: a busted lip, weary blue eyes and a black right eye showing the beginnings of a yellow hue attempting to blend his skin and bruise together.
âHow do you feel?â Lane asks, like a mother tending to her son following a slip-up on the playground.
You feel your face lit aflame again.
ââŚFine.â
Realising what heâd just done, his cheeks also take on a subtle pink and he unconsciously scratches at his nape, an awkward smirk splaying across his features.
âSorry. Itâs how my mom used to check my temperature.â, he chuckles at himself, mindless of BBâs intense, almost tangible stare.m
You canât let them fight again tonight. Not on your watch.
âBB?â
âHm?â, immediately, his helmet swivels around to face you, awaiting orders from his master.
âLane?â
âHuh?â, the hand scratching at his nape falls to his side and he looks at you patiently.
âDonât get into another fight again.â
âOf course⌠mon amour,â BB purrs, cupping your right cheek with one hand and massaging your palm with the other, âIâll make sure it never happens again.â
âHey, hey! Stop getting all touchy-feely, youâll get motor oil on her face!â
He goes to grab at BBâs hand, but your words stop him before he can try.
âLane. What did I say just now?â
He furrows his brows furiously, giving the biker his ugliest side-eye, before retorting.
âHmph. Youâre lucky Iâm following a womanâs orders. But, as we all know, if I hadnât swooped in, you and Darth Vader wouldâve already had a family together by now.â
You roll your eyes and turn to face your biker boy.
âBB, could you move so that I can get up, please?â
Without any further ado, he silently gets up, gently clasping your hand to lift you, like the impeccable gentleman he is. You look behind you; in the end, you were placed on a random plastic chair Lane somehow managed to find in the stockroom.
Tthough somehow, as youâre standing up, you still manage to trip over your feet again. But this time, you donât crash land into a huge, black-clad chest. Another pair of hands roughly grips your waist - the same ones that latched onto you earlier that night.
Then, you look up and realise exactly what sort of position youâve gotten yourself into: sandwiched between the two largest, strongest guys you know, who were both fighting over you just some time ago. If any one of them had taken one step closer by now, youâd all be sharing each otherâs body heat through intimate skin-to-skin contact.
The silence that envelopes the three of you is unbearable. So thick, so tangible, yet you canât find the words to describe it.
Therefore, you turn back to what you do best: making things as awkward as possible.
âUmâŚâ, you begin, patting aimlessly at BBâs shoulder, âthanks for the assist, guys.â
Thank God they get the message and shuffle away from your personal space.
ââŚCan you get home safe by yourself?â the biker asks.
âNot with that âcAn I TaKE yOu HOmE wiTh My MoToRCycLe?â bullshit! See, pretty, I told you -â
A fearful slap ripples through the room.
âLearn to shut your mouth for ONCE, Lane!â
With wide, bloodshot eyes and another mark saved to his face and memory, he cups the cheek you just annihilated and grins deviously from ear to ear, like he just won a one-way ticket straight to Hell.
In the wake of your sunshine, I've never felt so glum.
Hihiii, I'm back, no drawings for today (I'm out of town and left my damn sketchbook at home đ), but instead a short BBD fanfic I wrote based on a song by Hayley Williams :]
I wrote this all in two days, and it's really short, more me dipping my toes back in writing after a pretty lenghty break, as well as trying to figure out how I want to write my OC and Lane.
Note: This fanfic takes place after the MC and Lane's date in the stockroom, but before Lane and BB get into their little fight.
Word count: 2733. No warnings apply, only swearing and minor mentions of sexual stuff.
The yellow bits are lyrics and they connect. I hope you enjoy! <3
Do you ever feel so alone?
Crisp and cold November air feels wonderful on the face of somebody who has spent the last few hours exercising their muscles in ways that probably werenât ergonomic. Sure it helped with losing weight, but Mai didnât exactly have anything else to lose, and her bones have not hurt like this since⌠Actually, ever. Or maybe she was just getting old.
Probably the latter. But it pained her to think about.
The smell of rain still lingered in the air, with the promise of more to come, however the downpour had stalled for now and allowed for this highly needed break of hers, and perhaps if she was lucky, it would wait until she got back inside to continue its concert.
Away from the overwhelming white surfaces, the migraine inducing smell of chlorine based cleaner and the haunting buzzing of overhead lights that could never become just ambiance to her as any other sound would, she was just a woman without responsibility. Okay, one that stood alone in a creepy alleyway at night, just waiting for somebody to decide she was an easy target, but this was better. This was a way for her to finally catch a breath.Â
And so the smell of chlorine was replaced with rain. And the rain replaced with cigarette smoke. It was like trading away your puppy for a tapeworm.Â
Those fifteen minutes or so of her break were becoming Maiâs favorite time of her day. Cause the thing is, thereâs always something. A shelf to clean, a stain to wipe, or at home, a bedsheet corner to fix or a pot of water to boil. Back here? Just her and the trash. The dream duo. It was starting to feel like home.
Nowadays, the brunette finds it difficult to make her brain calm down. Itâs kind of funny actually. When something hurts, that woundâs all you focus on. When youâre surrounded by the miniscule sounds of every day life, you suddenly remember them all. It becomes impossible to stay in the ânowâ. But when those sensations disappear, and all that is left is menthol in her lungs, a chill on her skin and moisture in her torn shoes, thatâs when everything goes away for her.
She has no idea how Lane finds it easy to relax in that prison of a stockroom. For her, itâd be like a date with her worst overthinking.
Whatâs with the stockroom and dates? Mai thought. Hey, maybe RJ should expand the business and turn it into a love hotel. She chuckled internally. Wait no, then on top of vomit Iâd also have to wipe random peopleâs cum. Itâs not worth the extra.
Truthfully, when Lane first texted her about a date, she immediately thought it was a gamble. Was he going to just forget? Bring her to some shitty place that she wouldn't enter herself if somebody paid her, or was he actually going to make an effort?
What he came up with, she suspected, was something between number one and two. And though she'd felt disappointed at first, when it came to it, it was convenient, better than being taken somewhere grandeour where she'd feel out of place, and worst of all? Kind of fun. But she wasn't going to let him know that, lest she inflate his ego even more.
Now the burning question that remained was, is he actually into her? Or is she just entertainment to him?
Mai didn't have a great track record of predicting what potential partners sought of her.
She'd leave it alone for now.
The girl exhaled and watched the white smoke disintegrate into the humid air. No thoughts. No sounds but the gentle drip of water falling from the awning to the pavement below. She could feel her muscles start to unclench.
That you could implode and no one would know?
The back door opening with a painful squeeee made them clench right back like someone just smacked her with a rubber band.Â
So much for silence and ambiance. Mai groaned.
Lo and behold, out walked Lane himself. In all of his migraine inducing glory, a presence about as relaxing as a power drill, and as welcome as a brain tumor.Â
His eyes found her figure first, not difficult to do when the person youâre staring at is actively avoiding giving you attention. Unfortunately, to men, a lack of verbal protest is usually a sign of consent, and the boy settled just inches away from her skin, and way too deep into her privacy bubble. But itâs okay. Itâs just Lane.Â
âWatch out,â He said smugly. The brunette beside him watched as he took out his own cigarette pack from within his pant pocket and took one stick out with practiced motion. âThat shit kills ya.â
It had been a month since her first meeting with Lane, and Mai was⌠completely dumbfounded when it came to him. He was so easy to hate. Everything about him screamed, âIâm insufferable! You will literally never have an enjoyable time talking with me! I hate women and I think youâre dumb!â (Mai imagined him as an annoying hand puppet stuck in her face when visualizing that thought), but there was⌠more. Something that he didnât want her seeing, and something that she really, really wanted to see.Â
And he was funny. Sometimes. Unfortunately.Â
So overall⌠Mai couldâve gotten stuck with worse.
âGod, I hope so.â She simply replied, not bothering with telling him off this time.
âAw, youâd really leave me and have me do all your work?â The alleyway momentarily lit up with flame as Lane lit the cancer stick now placed firmly at the front of his mouth. âDonât you wanna see this workplace slowburn through to the end? At this point, youâre gonna look like a grandma by the time youâre thirty. Thatâs why smokingâs for the men.â Nevermind. There wasnât anyone worse. He winked and Mai had the primal urge to puke on his shoes.
The girl simply groaned, taking another drag of her own cigarette as the silence spoke for her, and hoped that it would make Lane get the message. âI donât need that right nowâ.
She finally turned her gaze his way, to see if his mouth was opening right back again maybe, but no. Lane followed in her motions, taking a deep inhale of his own cigarette. âSee, I actually quit smoking this morning.â Mai raised an eyebrow. He looked right back at her. âWhat? I didn't say it was going well.â
While Mai took a deep breath, he chuckled at his own joke, promptly pocketing the lighter back from where he took it. The brunette squinted her eyes at it.
âIs that one of the lighters from the display?â She deadpanned. Of course.
Lane only grinned right at her before exhaling the smoke. For once, he didnât say anything. It was a blessing, but more of a curse.
Mai rolled her eyes. âAre you at least planning to pay for it?â Swear to God, one of them was gonna lose their job sooner than later. Or maybe the store would shut down entirely before that happened.Â
Lane, of course, just grinned wider. âHey, itâs basically ours right? So itâs free.â
âItâs literally not.â She hated how frustrated she was starting to sound. This was supposed to be her break, God damn it! âIâm surprised every day when I show up to work and Iâm not welcomed by your head on a pike in front of the main entrance.â
Lane just snorted. âOh please, RJ loves me too much to do anything.â His smile for her was starting to become like a red cloth in front of a bull. âI get him all the good reviews from hot babes who come to see me, remember?âÂ
âLane, pay for the damn lighter.â Her words didnât hold any resolution anymore. She only kept it up so she couldnât say she didnât argue if they got in trouble for this.Â
That grin disappeared from her field of view, and he mumbled, âEh, if I donât forget.â Then more quietly, as if he thought she wouldnât hear it: âAlways gotta be bitching about something.â
Mai, thankfully, did not pop a vein at that, or care to give it a response. âDid you at least check that no one was in the store before you came out here?â
âYes.â He was the one to roll his eyes this time. âDonât frown at me so much, youâll get wrinkles.â
With one last twitch of the brunetteâs eyebrow, the conversation came to an end, and the irritation disappeared from the girlâs face in an instant. The sounds of both of their deep breaths, synchronising and desynchronising beside each other, was⌠relaxing. Credit where credit is due, Lane seemed to notice the same thing. There were times when he really was good company, scarce as they might be, when he actually tuned in to what she needed from him in those moments.
And when you look around and nobodyâs home,
âYouâve been awfully share-y today.â She spoke too soon. âUsually youâd snap my neck if I even dared ask for your favorite color.â
âYeah, well, donât get used to it.â Mai deadpanned. âAnd my favorite color is green.â
âOh, huh, now that you mention it.â Laneâs eyes went wide, like he was amazed by the fact he hadnât figured it out sooner. Or he had, and he was just playing her. Either of the two was highly possible. Then his figure suddenly straightened, and that blue gaze snapped right back at her. âSee, this is what Iâm talking about! Iâm winning you over, youâll be crawling into my lap with all your deepest secrets by the end of next month.â He grinned insufferably, and Mai wanted to smack him.
âGross.â The brunette gagged. âBut if you actually do your job for maybe three days, I might just consider giving you my last name.âÂ
Laneâs grin got impossibly wider, and Mai sensed incoming doom. âYou wanna make it a reward system, Maithylee?"
âYou-!â Lane was openly laughing now, probably at the way her voice went thrice as high in pitch as she smacked his shoulder with her free hand. âYou ass! You looked through my files!?â
âGirl, this place has, maybe four people working here.â His chuckling broke off as he took another drag of his cigarette, then spoke with smoke still coming out his mouth. âWe talk. Exchange intel if you will.â Lane brushed off stray lint off his apron. Then said, with sincerity: âMai suits you better, anyway.â
âHmm.â Mai simply assented, exhaling her own smoke, then throwing the remaining bud in her hand on the ground and snuffing it out with her heel. âAnd whatâs your full name? Like⌠Highway or something.â
âThatâs the best you could come up with.â It wasnât a question, and Laneâs voice sounded almost disappointed.Â
âIâm getting on your level.â The brunette shrugged. (She thought she heard him mumble: âWomen.â) âSo you know my last name. Whatever. Iâm still expecting you to do your job.âÂ
âOh please,â Lane grinned, playing with the cigarette between his fingers. âYouâre already used to me at my worst. Me showing effort now might send your cute ass into shock.â
Mai remained silent. Lane was just about to open his mouth again, when she blurted:Â
âI meant what I said earlier.â He looked at her confused, so she quickly explained. âYou know, back in the stockroom. After our âdateâ.â She muttered quietly: âImpress me, Lane. âCause I think youâre capable of more.â
Laneâs eyes widened momentarily, and the brunette thought she saw a smidge of red speckle his cheeks for a second, before his expression eventually fell, and was replaced with squinted eyes and frowning lips. âThen youâre gonna be really fucking disappointed.â She barely heard him say.
They stayed silent for a few seconds, accompanied only by the serenade of raindrops dripping quietly from a nearby gutter, and Lane taking another lazy puff of his cigarette. Then he promptly dropped the rest on the floor, just as sheâd done minutes earlier.
âDo you ever think about it?â He suddenly muttered.Â
âAbout what?â Mai murmured, though she feared she knew exactly what it was he was asking about.Â
âAbout doing something else, like you asked.â There it was.
Donât you wanna go back to wherever weâre from?
Because truthfully, Mai never thought about anything else anymore. But what could she do, apart from wait for something to happen?
It had to be some sort of involuntary mental self harm at this point, thinking of what she could do, or what she couldâve done differently. Who she couldâve been. Did every path, every choice, lead to where she was at now? Alone, with barely anyone to talk to, praying not to God, but to the lights in her apartment, that they would still turn on if she flicked the switch?
Her mom used to tell her: be kind, because kindness comes back. How long, Mai thought, until that moment really came? Or would she have to wait until she died, because the person saying those words to her turned out to be a hypocrite?
How do you even explain this to someone, without revealing more than is safe, without loading the gun yourself that would inevitably get pointed at your face later?
That Mai Chylinski was truly, utterly, and completely stuck in place, and that thatâs exactly the only thing sheâd been doing for years now: waiting for something to happen.
I shouldnât even be smoking. Mai laughed internally. If I lose my voice, then there really will be nothing else left for me.
Mai thought about her answer. Then thought some more, all the while Lane remained silent alongside her, his gaze softer now as he gave her room to arrange what she wanted to say.
She almost said nothing at all. But as if to sabotage her, her lips parted by themselves, and she let a whisper come out.
âConstantly.â She confirmed. âBut⌠I donât know what Iâd do.â She paused. Then, âThereâs nowhere else left I could go where things wouldnât be the same.â
She'd settled on that.
Lane, thankfully, just nodded, and didnât pry any further, seemingly ignoring all of the facts sheâd just unintentionally revealed. âThatâs fair.âÂ
Mai thought that was the end. But to her surprise,
âWell, if you ever figure out what you want, I think you should go for it.âÂ
And her heart skipped a beat.Â
Lane? Being compassionate?
She really did know nothing about him. But maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for her to learn more.
So maybe sheâd have a reason to stay.
â...Thanks.â And Mai smiled, genuinely, for the first time since she came outside.
âYeah, donât mention it.â Lane waved his hand around, then stretched just a little. âAlright, cancer refilled successfully, time to get back to work.â
âYou? Work?â Mai crossed her arms. âAs in, actual work? That requires effort?â
Laneâs grin didnât falter for even a second. âUh, no.â He mirrored her, crossing his arms across his chest as if to mock her. âThatâs your job, remember? Get back to your cleaning, woman.â
âGet back to the garage and change my tire, bitch.â Mai followed up without missing a beat. âGo get drafted and die in a war for me, male.â
That seemed to surprise the grinning bastard, and he choked out a disbelieving laugh. âOh you know well Iâd die for you, my misandrist, crepuscular queen.â Lane winked. âThis workplace romance is just getting started, but Iâm already committed.â
The brunette batted her eyelashes at him prettily. âReally? You would? Just like, whenever I wanted?â She said in a very exaggerated feminine drawl. âThen maybe I shouldnât waste any time.â She smirked.Â
Lane whistled. âBrutal.â He looked her straight in the eye. âYouâre hot when you fucking hate me.â
âYeah, why do you think I look so good all of the time?â Mai put her hands on her hips as if to emphasize. âNow get back on the register, you ruined my break and I need my five minutes back.â
The face of unbearability only salutted her. âYes maâam.â Then disappeared like he was told to.Â
Maybe she was far from where she wanted to be.
Maybe something would finally happen soon. Maybe not.
But for now, this was okay too.
It had to be.
In the wake of your sunshine,Â
Iâve never felt so glum.
-------
BONUS:
Me asking my friends for help with writing Lane.
Translated: @everyone quick come up with the dumbest most sexist thing to say that you can in 10 seconds.
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Lane (BBD) Oneshots - Chapter 5 - Convo with Princess!MC
Part 1 - The Journey
Word count: 4008
Warnings: societal pressure to be the âperfectâ royal, and miscellaneous royal shenanigans.
Note: This initial idea isnât mine! It rightfully belongs to @sealpapi-07 for her genius AU ideas!!! Iâm simply interpreting it the way I do best: in the form of fanfiction đ.
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a wonderful princess sleeping peacefully in her queen-sized bed in the prestigious Protagonist Family manor, when there came a firm rapping on the door.
âIâve been ordered by His Royal Highness, Prince Lane of Lazy-ass Land to deliver an important letter to the Protangonist Family. Itâs regarding an invitation to the customary masquerade ball being hosted, in honour of Her Royal Highnessâs coronation - Prince Laneâs sister - next month.â
At the palaceâs gates, the servant waved off the meek messenger on horseback as he nodded, tugging on the reins and galloping off into the vast countryside.
The servant then humbly ascended the wide, grandiose staircase belonging to the royal family, walking past paintings worth more than her entire bloodline, statues hand-crafted and sculpted by household names in artistry and crimson red wallpaper laced with golden roses that sheâd kill for. Her steps loudly booming through the hallways, she approached Princess MCâs sleeping chamber and gave a gentle knock on the mahogany door.
âYour Royal Highness, may I come in?â
A moment came and went. She heard nothing from the other side of the wooden barrier.
âYour Royal Highness? May I come in?â
Not a sound whatsoever.
âYour Royal Highness? Princess MC?â
Yet again, nothing. She knocked once more on the door, this time more feverishly.
âYour Royal Highness? Youâve received a letter from-â
â5 more minuuuuuutes.â
She pinched the bridge of her nose in disdain. How on Earth is it justified that sheâs expected to be up and running the second her alarm strikes, leaving the palace spotless by 6, but a member of the aristocracy deemed superior to her can take her sweet time getting through her morning routine?
Hmph, rich people, she thought to herself. Putting on her best polite voice, she cooed:
âPrincess, if youâll just allow me a few minutes of yourâŚâ, she glanced at her wristwatch, the clock saying 11:35, ââŚprecious time, Iâll only hand you His Royal Highness Prince Laneâs letter to you. Then, I shanât pester you any longer.â
Finally, a muffled sigh reached the maidâs ears. At least she wouldnât have to call the palace guards out of fear that someone had kidnapped her overnight, like that one time a few weeks agoâŚ
She fumbled through each golden key in her hand and unlocked the door to the haven that was her masterâs bedroom.
The room itself was surely fit for a princess, though it certainly had enough room to accommodate 3 more as well. In spite of the roomâs immense size, every inch of wall the eye could see was smothered in even more pricey paintings, a vanity as large as the King and Queenâs egos combined and a plethora of exclusive, academic examination certificates the princess had amassed over the years. She may have been a deep sleeper, but she was also a deep intellectual. So, it was no wonder - especially having been taught privately by only the best professors - that the common folk had nicknamed her the brains of the land.
Where the studious princess slept could be found on the right wall, around 5 metres (16 feet) ahead of the maid, on a towering pile of puffy purple mattresses framed by a beautifully crafted gold-leaf bed, accompanied by a wooden, metre-long bench (also fitted with purple cushions) sitting proudly in front of it. Her Royal Highnessâs beloved desk, used for schoolwork and story writing, was situated right opposite the bed, suffocating under a heap of loose sheets and textbooks. A sleek and elegant grand piano sat casually in the corner.
As the maid took her first step inside, different hues of green, blue and pink lights stunned her eyes. Only once she scuttled away from the blinding rays, did she realise they came from the stained-glass windows lining the walls opposite the door. She fought the urge to curse the perfectly polished floor for amplifying the squeak of her slip-up across the room.
Still, she continued, making another few awkward paces closer to the dishevelled aristocrat. Oh, and she forgot to mention that there was a pair of bedside tables on either side of the bed as well, so she left the sealed envelope on one of them, bowed respectfully and hurriedly made her way out, lest sheâd get scolded for being louder than a mouse.
Being one of the newly recruited maids for the Protagonist household, a recollection of her servant training began running through her mind:
RJ, her manager's voice, boomed in her head, "One: you're only ever allowed to communicate with royalty if they initiate the conversation. However, don't expect it to be your typical back-and-forth convo. Believe you me, the only thing a servant would be useful for would be to dump their darkest secrets and frustrations on you with an endless monologue."
Whispers arose amongst the more excitable maids in the servants' training hall.
"And no. No one's allowed to gossip about it either.â
Awwwwwww.
âTwo: Every time you enter their room, always walk as quietly as you can. Youâll never know if youâll get scolded for breathing too loudly.
And three: unless they ask you to, never let them see your face. Keep your head down, bow as low as you can, make yourself as small as possible, and maybe then the people of the palace will tolerate your existence."
The servant got stupidly lucky, however; the princess she served wasnât the type to scream her head off upon letting her leave the room.
Now that she was back out in the long, decorated hallways, she was left alone to entertain her thoughts.
Oh, how much I wish to lead the life of a princess. Then, my only worries would be what dress to wear for the masquerade ball.
Inside Her Royal Highnessâs sleeping chamber
Another one I need to get ready for?
The royal groaned loudly in frustration. Good thing it wasnât a last-minute invitation she had to prepare for the very same day, or else sheâd really lose it. Detangling all the knots in her hair would be a colossal milestone in itself, never mind finding the right dress to wear.
Peeling the envelope open, she read its contents aloud:
âUnto Her Royal Highness,
You have been cordially invited to Her Majesty Queen Amelia's masquerade ball, which will take place exactly one month from today.
Please check your calendar for availability and reply to this letter as promptly as possible to confirm your attendance.
Yours faithfully,
Prince Lane of Lazy-ass Land, Queen Amelia's brother.
P.S.: Flip over the page?" she asked, noticing the tiny letters written discreetly in scribbled, skewed handwriting that blended each letter, making the words on the corner of the page barely legible. A clear contrast, as opposed to the rest of his writing, crafted in gorgeous cursive.
Did two people write this? Bewildered, she turned over the sheet of paper.
"I'd be impressed if you were able to endure that posh, bullshit stew my father made me write. Don't think I'll ever talk like that in real life. It ain't me and won't ever be.â
Well, that certainly answered her question.
âAnyway, I heard some things about you from a friend of a friend, let's say, and I think you're cute.
Donât tell them I wrote you this, but my mom and dad literally rule over my life more than their country, and they check every letter received under my name. So, do me a favour, gorgeous, and write âlovely Prince Laneâ as code for âI love you so much, Lane. Iâll gladly kiss your feet!â, yeah?
Just so you know, I donât play around. Youâre either in, or youâre out. Thereâs no in between, princess.
- L "
How⌠loaded.
She pondered before throwing the letter over the edge of her bed to seriously consider the proposal.
Hah, âconsider the proposalâ?: bullshit.
She would never go out with a scumbag as nihilistic and careless as Prince Lane of Lazy-Land. The same prince who doesnât care to improve his handwriting in his letters, God forbid, learn how to spell. Just think how her ultra-strict parents would handle the scandal! Gossip that would spread like wildfire across all the land.
Neither her parents, nor her extended family, nor the common folk would tolerate him even setting foot inside the palace.
The princess was adamant. She would never go out with him. Never in a million years.
âŚOr would she?
Although she knew full well that everyone in every possible timeline of the Protagonist family (from her ancient ancestors to her future heirs) would never approve of the prince, there was this morbid curiosity pulling her closer to the prospect.
Imagine the idea of going out with a boy, the thrill of being late at curfew, and the freedom she could have to simply talk with whomever she pleased. The sheer novelty of getting away from her regal responsibilities.
An escape.
Of course, every royal family is plunged straight into the warm embrace of wealth and riches, but itâs also riddled with rules, lies, alter-egos and rigid, inflexible tradition.
Ever since she could first walk and talk, she was always told by everyone around her:
âThatâs no way a princess should walk.â
âSmile and wave, Princess! Smile and wave!â
âStop scowling, the whole worldâs watching.â
âYou should be grateful - not everyone has the same life as you.â
Iâm fucking sick of it. Fucking sick of it all. Their constant critiques, their useless opinions. Everything.
Iâm going regardless.
And so, with the same resignation bubbling in her veins that she held for the royal family, she bolted furiously to her desk, seized a pen and paper, wrote the letter and handed it to her servant.
Now all she had to do was wait.
In Prince Laneâs room, Lazy-ass Manor:
Oh my god.
Her letter. In my hands.
I couldnât help but let out a pathetic scream into my pillow that morning. I was still in utter disbelief that submissive, goody two-shoes princess MC would flip over the page, let alone notice the stupid code word I wrote.
It didnât matter, though. The only important thing was that she would come to me the night of the masquerade ball, and she would walk out of there a different woman.
A woman who would belong to me.
As if the precious letter would dissolve at any moment, my hands desperately clawed at its seal. I ended up tearing the expensive seal in two, out of the sheer excitement pulsing through my veins.
I began reading her reply:
âUnto Your Royal Highness,
I am writing back to you to confirm my presence at the masquerade ball held in honour of Queen Amelia, as proposed by the lovely Prince Lane.
I look forward to visiting the Lazy-ass household and meeting Her Majesty in person.
Yours faithfully,
Princess MC of the Protagonist landâ
I went skipping to breakfast later that morning.
"Someone's certainly more ecstatic than usual.", my sister hummed, her back facing the grand breakfast table as she scrolled through her personal walk-in wardrobe. She was still looking for the perfect dress to wear for her upcoming masquerade ball, two weeks in advance.
Personally, I'd simply throw on the first tuxedo I see the day of the event, but I guess that's just how women work: slowly.
"Guess what?" I shout from across the room.
"What?!" Amelia screamed, face buried between ballgowns and cloth hangers.
"Just guess!"
"No, I'm using all my brainpower on picking out what to wear! Just tell me!"
Rolling my eyes and storming over to the soon-to-be queen, I pull her backwards from the collar of her pyjamas, making her stumble towards me with the funniest face that read 'What-the-fuck, Lane?!'.
"HEY, WHAT WAS THAT FO-"
"Princess MC's coming to your masquerade ball!" I exclaim.
She stopped, face returning to neutral.
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah! Look, I've got the letter." My fingers carefully unfurled the parchment, now damp from my sweaty palms.
Amelia cocked her head to the side to view it better, quickly skimmed through the message's contents, then looked back up at me, smirking.
"One thing's for sure is that you don't have bad taste..."
She proceeded to lovingly push me out of her girly haven with both hands on my shoulders.
"...But if you want to woo her, I suggest you fix the rats' nest that's sitting on top of your head.", she advised, ruffling my hair so hard that I feared she'd scratch my precious scalp, before shoving me near the breakfast table. It took me quite a few steps to wear out the momentum she'd induced.
Grinning, I tousle my hair to fix it.
"Don't worry sis, I've got the charisma to back me up. Until the time comes, I can brush the aesthetics to the side. You'll see."
One month later, outside the Protangist Family manor:
At last, the day of the masquerade ball had arrived.
The princess finally set her dazzling red, rhinestoned shoes out onto the grass. Inhaling the fresh breeze of a summer evening, she gazed at the gorgeous sunset ahead, admiring the scene in all its glory.
The Sun partially dipped below the curve of a small hill ahead, resembling one half of a fresh orange. Shadows were cast from the surrounding trees onto the immense array of fauna and shrubbery in front of the palace. Above, the sky slowly poured out different colours from the sweltering Sun, all the way to the skyâs edge. Yellow oozed from the sunny egg yolk, gradually spilling into shades of crimson, turquoise, ending in a profound, navy blue lining the corners of the sky. A gust of sweet lavender blasted at her nostrils and teasingly played with her locks.
It was there. She could almost taste her anticipation.
Then, a door clicked open.
âYour Royal Highness, you forgot your mask!â the servantâs voice called from behind her.
Turning around (and almost tripping in high heels and a red ball gown), she smiled and took the delicate decoration in her hands.
âThank you. You really saved me from being frowned upon at the ball!â She grinned, giggling at her absent-mindedness.
But the servant, instead of accepting her gratitude, gasped loudly in shock.
âYour Highness⌠you look stunning.â, she said, mouth agape.
âThanks,â the princess added, briefly looking down at her dress, âIt was my motherâs.â
âIt really suits you, Your Highness. Fits like a glove.â
Awkward silence.
âAnywho, I wonât delay you any longer. Your ride has already arrived after all!â
âReally?â
And there he was.
BB, the knight in shining armour. A man as broad, lean and strong as his fellow companion: a Black Beauty as dark as dusk itself.
The dreamy hunk panted wildly, rushing to jump off his horse and crash-landing with bent knees and a loud grunt.
Oh, the number of ladies who would swoon over this guyâs noises alone is diabolical.
He came skilfully marching towards her, throwing apologies left and right, as if heâd forgotten his muscular stature could swallow hers whole.
âPrincess! No - Your Royal Highness! I give you my utmost apologies for causing you such a delay,â kneeling formally on the grass, his knight helmet fixed on the princess, âPlease forgive me, Your Highness, and we shall be on our way.â
Briskly, he got up from his awkward (yet undeniably sexy) position and led her towards his black stallion with a gentle hand clasping hers.
âEasy, girl. Easy there.â, he patted the animalâs neck reassuringly. The Black Beauty herself still seemed rather riled up after the previous trip; an uneasy feeling settled in the princessâs gut at the thought of getting bucked off a moody horse.
âAre you sure this horse isnât going to get annoyed with me and potentiallyâŚâ
The knight hummed in approval.
âPositive. Sheâs taken far heavier cargo on longer trips than this one. This ladyâs a strong one, no doubt. You can rest assured, Princess.â
The knight, then, skilfully mounted himself onto the horse, followed by a small wriggle of his hips to secure himself onto his stallion.
âHere. Need a hand?â he asks, offering his gloved hand again.
The royal meekly grasped it, like last time, and made a painfully awkward attempt at mounting herself. On her first attempt, the frilly skirt on her dress didn't leave enough room to swing her leg over the Black Beauty's rear. And so, with a sigh of frustration and a brief flick of her dress, she tried it again.
Only to fail once more.
This time, she'd bent her knee while trying to hoist herself up, kicking the poor steed in the process. After another aeon of painstaking, pathetic shots at getting on had dragged by, the knight finally had the guts to ask.
"Are you sure I shouldn't help you up, Your Royal Highness? That way, we can arrive sooner at the b-"
"Nope! I'm fine!", she shouted, small grunts interspersing her breathless voice. At this point, she was clawing desperately at the animal's back like a leech, trying to find something else she could grasp besides her only foot that dug into the left stirrup and into the horse's side. It responded in kind: more annoyed, exasperated whines.
Soon, she heard a small sigh escape the rider, followed by a thick thud on the ground. The royal was still midway through readjusting her clothing for the umpteenth time when a pair of rugged hands seized her waist, lifted her above the horse and successfully plopped her right on the curve of the filly's spine.
His touch was calloused. Rough. More like snatching his favourite, lovesome dolly to cuddle in the dark, warm confines of his bed, instead of cautiously escorting a member of the Protagonist royal family to a long-awaited masquerade ball.
Careful not to squeeze her organs out of the royal, his fingers' iron grip loosened slightly when positioning her over the horse; the tips of his fingers slid higher up her waist unintentionally, resulting in the dress's material bunching up at the torso and some accidental contact between his hands and the underside of her breasts. For the recipient of his subtle groping, this was... new. Not quite unwelcome, but not quite what she expected from a knight's company either.
"Thank you..."
The embarrassment was already making itself excruciatingly obvious on her face, so - to avoid being seen by the knight standing below her - she gazed up towards the sky, pretending to be more interested in her destination, instead of the journey that the man's hands just made across her body.
Either way, nightfall had already flung its veil over the sky, forming a vast dome of black and white fragments of stars. Time was pressing on, and they needed to be on their way.
Yet again, BB pulled himself up into the space between the princess and the stallion's neck and tugged at the reins of his mighty steed. Surprisingly (although she should've expected it), the up and down motion of the horse's trot inspired a new fear in MC: falling off horseback. Thus, she resorted to clutching at the knight's firm shoulders and protruding collarbones in order to stabilise herself, in spite of the pony's violent thrusts.
He chuckled.
"If you're scared, then feel free to...", as if the last couple of moments never happened, he gently peeled her hands off his shoulders and placed them around his toned stomach, "... hold on tighter."
Fuck needing to leave the house to feel rebellious. BB's touch right here makes me feel like I could fly to the moon.
And there came the moment where the crack of the reins pierces the air, and the beast underneath him exploded into a boisterous canter.
Immediately, the princess yelped and clawed her hands around his torso like a clingy cat, too terrified to even open her eyes. As she'd closed off one of her five senses, the only thing she could do was feel the jolting rise and fall of the stallion's footfall, let the click, clack sounds of hooves against palace grounds assault her ears and sense the cool wind flush her face. The royal was also secretly thankful for her rider's back being so warm, making it an excellent meat shield against the gnawing phobias and cold air.
As the visceral galloping became habitual and the princess got bored with closing her eyes, she finally opened them to witness a sight for sore eyes: BB's sexy silhouette splayed across black mane whipping in the wind and the stars winking at her from above.
Riding on a horse now felt exhilarating. With the knight's silver mesh clanging to the rhythm of the animal's jumps and the higher vantage point on horseback, the royal could easily extend her hand and brush it against the oak trees' branches lining the borders of the palace gardens. The entire world was zooming past her, and for the first time in her insular, guarded life, she felt liberated and free.
Next came the rolling hills that the couple glided past. Each and every one had its own colour palette of bright flowers dotting it. The first had an assortment of bluebells that washed the grass in a blissful shade of blue. After that, another field of lavender sprang up, greeting them warmly with its delectable aroma. However, the final mound covered in roses was sufficient to make the princess gawk in surprise. Rows upon rows of crimson flowers lined the landscape, painting the scene red with greedy possession and unspoken passions yet to unfold.
"This view never gets old."
As if the member of the aristocracy's manners had vanished, she eagerly tapped the knight's shoulder and asked:
"Please can I take a rose from the field for me? Please?"
The horse, then, ground to an abrupt halt.
âOf course. Whatever Your Royal Highness desires.â
The princess started shifting around in an attempt to dismount, but the knight put a hand on her thigh, stopping her.
âWait⌠donât get off. I will. You canât afford to damage your dress.â
And with that, he set off into the field of flowers, leaving her to sit alone with her thoughts on the horse.
BB⌠Iâve heard a lot about him from the estateâs biggest gossip girls. Apparently, heâd gotten into an altercation with Prince Lane at a similar party exclusive to aristocrats. But, that doesnât line up at all with the knight whoâs escorting me. He acts innocent, gentle, as if heâs never even known the definition of the word âviolence.â
Hm, maybe I mixed up the names of the members of the knight workforceâŚ
After what felt like aeons of listening to crickets chirping in the darkness of the night, the sound of familiar footsteps rang out along with quiet curses.
ââŚOw. Here, Your Royal Highness, your rose.â
He held it towards her delicately, yet with an air of awkwardness at the same time, as if he wasnât sure whether his previous actions were out of character. But, the princess wasnât looking at her handsome knight, or the gorgeous crimson hue of the petals, but the ruddy, copper hue on the stem.
âYouâve got blood on your fingers. You should be more careful when handling some species of Rosaceae. Every rose has its thorns.â
Instead of looking at his bloody thumb, he gazed unflinchingly at the princess and reached up to tuck the rose into her hair.
âIt was worth bleeding for, though. In life, you always have to make sacrifices.â
âBut, to what extent?â, she fired back with a defensive look in her eyes, then, suddenly tore a small piece of her dress, âHere. Take this fabric and wrap it around your thumb and make sure that it doesnât come into contact with anything, especially dirty objects. I wouldnât want you getting an infection.â
The man took the gift with grace, promptly following the royalâs orders.
âThank you⌠Youâre too kind.â
âItâs the least I could do.â
A comfortable silence ensued. From what it seemed, the knight was smiling at her briefly through his helmet and thus, hopped on horseback once more.
âGood thing weâre almost there. I can see Lazy-Land Manor from here.â
He was right. Right on the horizon, an immense white mansion bedazzled the skyline; a beacon of yellow light spewing light from a distance. The final destination.
Lane (BBD) Oneshots - Chapter 5 - Convo with Princess!MC
Part 2: The Masquerade Ball
I know it's been TOO LONG, but I made it worth it. I swear. T_T.
Word count: 4596
Warnings: controlling parents, mentions of beheading/metaphor for violence.
Note: This initial idea isnât mine! It rightfully belongs to @sealpapi-07 for her genius AU ideas!!! Iâm simply interpreting it the way I do best: in the form of fanfiction đ.
In the heart of the Lazy-ass Household
Sigh.
Yet another gaggle of giggling women I need to tend to. Thereâs always the same girl traffic on Highway Lane before the announcements and the dance itself. The same girls at the same balls asking the same questions.
Honestly, being hot is so exhausting. I should have a massage after this as a reward for the sheer toll in takes on me.
âPrince Lane! Tell us, when are you going to dance with everyone after the announcements?â screams the first lady-in-waiting in green that somehow manages to sprint towards me.
The next one was a dumb blonde with fake lashes and a blue dress trailing behind her that was as excessive as her delusions. Instantly, several more cluster behind her.
ââEveryoneâ? What do you mean âeveryoneâ? Back off, heâs all mine! The princess of Delulu-Land wonât have any sharing to do tonight! Right, Prince Lane?â
Of course, she has to give me that desperate  âPlease care about me?â look on her face that every girl gives me. Try as she might, but itâs not going to convince me to give her a chance. Dancing with me twice in a row in another ball a few months ago doesnât mean she owns me anyway.
Good thing I excel in excuses.
âSorry, ladies but Laneâs got some princely duties to attend to. You know how it is: all work and no play. âParting is such sweet sorrowâ...â
That should do it. A Shakespeare reference always leaves them waiting, begging, and pleading for my attention.
I turn to go down to the glamorous ground floor below the palaceâs balcony. Leaning over the balconyâs golden-etched fencing, I scan the living, moving chaos underneath; I have to find Princess MC or else Iâll die of boredom and cruel betrayal. Luckily, I didnât have to look further than the entrance.
âThere she is...â
At the entrance
Lazy-ass Manor was so extravagant and exorbitant that the poor princess had to navigate around the palaceâs six other entrances, only to find the one fitted with ginormous, carved double doors that were at least 5 times her height. BB could only help lead the way until that same entrance, as the doors were far too heavy for her to push open. The lowest socio-economic group the ball could tolerate was upper-class citizens, and the meagre salary of a knight didnât even come close. Therefore, following another timid wave goodbye and the final whip of his reins, he and his black steed dissolved into the nightâs mirage for the last time that day.
Now, the princess had other things to tend to: the masquerade ball. She couldnât ponder how suspiciously familiar BBâs stature looked, even though it was her first time riding with him. She needed someone to dance with...
...and a score to settle with a particular prince.
Though the tiny slits in her mask narrowed her view, the party was clearly booming. Exclusive figures from the most idolised, lavish families greeted each other through demurely waving a fan in front of their faces or confidently extending their hand in the same practised manner. Around and above the crowd, there were decadent walls carefully carved, painted and crafted to tell stories through pictures, along with several paintings dotted here and there and a sculpture of a mighty Zeus hurling his thunderbolt just below the balcony. The place was defeaning too. The aristocratsâ avid chatter combined with the orchestraâs live music conceived a cacophony of ecstatic vigor. This was it: the ultimate hub for the life of the party.
Though I do wonder how the Lazy-asses could afford such a mansion, if they just sat around doing nothing all day...
But then, the princess lifted her gaze to a very amusing sight. A tall, dark prince in white and blue attire was being dragged up the stairs by another princess in blue, flailing around like an absolute hooligan. The lady grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, pulling him backwards and making him awkwardly collapse into the womanâs arms.
She giggled to herself.
âGuess heâll need some help prying off an unwanted guestâ
And with that, she squeezed her way through all the flirting gentlemen, blushing ladies and scurrying servants and glided up the graceful steps to meet him. Once she was within earshot, she could finally hear the frivolous bickering going on between them.
âLaaaane! You told me you were going to dance with me once youâve finished your stupid princely duties. What happened? Why didnât you come running back to me? Do you not love me anymore? Please say you do-â
âI didnât say that! The masquerade ball is being held in my sisterâs honour as queen and, sadly, I have to actually do some work and help around,â the prince reasoned, prying her arm off his shoulder.
However, the princess still remained relentless. Her hands returned to desperately squeeze his biceps as she stared wide-eyed into his soul for an answer.
âBut, you said I was the only o-â
âIâve got another princess to dance with.â
âAnd that princess is me.â
Now, the third aristocrat stepped into the mix,
and both parties before her showed very mixed reactions. To her right, the star-studded princess gave her the nastiest side-eye that her baby-like doe eyes could muster. If looks could kill, the heir to the throne of Protagonist Land wouldâve been beheaded already. To her left, though, things only got better. The prince turned his head around slowly. Ever so slowly. As he did, both women could see the intense blush that swelled on his cheeks. Wide, blue orbs, with pupils the size of saucers greedily absorbed all of her in, and the way he panted with his lips slightly parted didnât make him resemble a desperate dog in heat any less.
Suddenly, her hand snaked onto his shoulder.
âWell, it clearly looks to me that he enjoys my company a lot more than he does yours. Therefore, I believe youâll do more service to your reputation as a royal if youâll run along and find another partner to dance with, rather than clinging to him like a leech.â
The blue princess simply let out an atrocious gasp and loudly stomped off, squealing like the spoiled little girl she was. Multiple people from the surrounding crowd stared at her as she made a scene, but they soon went back to their own mindless conversations.
âSo... how about it?â, the princess offered, now rubbing the back of his neck slowly, âCare to dance?â
At that, he immediately regained his composure and answered smirkingly.
âOf course, Princess MC.â, his insufferable grin returned to his face once more, adding, âSo, you didnât forget about me? Iâm impressed...â
The prince, all haughty and pompous again, gently grabbed the princessâs open palm, leading her back down the stairs once more towards the centre of the party. This time, without the clumsy trip-ups, of course.
âDonât worry, a spontaneous letter from âa lovely princeâ such as you would never slip past my mind.â
âI know. I tend to have that effect on people. Itâs called charisma, sweetheart.â, he leaned in towards her ear, hot breath tingling the skin under her jaw.
âAnd Iâd have half a mind to know all the things the other royals say about you.â, she admitted, excited to channel her suppressed feelings of rebelliousness through him, yet apprehensive about the rumours that might spread about someone as studious as her hanging out with a Lazy-Ass like him. There was absolutely no preventing gossip here. It permeated every aspect of a royalâs life, every comment looming in the air as a threat to a royalâs precious image.
Today - she decided - I wonât let it get to me. I canât afford to get cold feet when this will be my last chance to rebel, to feel as if I own my life for once. Because Iâll morph my life into whatever I please...
... not the one they wanted me to have.
âYeah? Like what? Lay it on me.â
Now, theyâd both drifted into the heart of the ballroom, where the noise level was amplified further to form a cacophony of posh accents and high-pitched giggling. As the princess had experienced the cooler air of the balcony (which was less crowded than downstairs), sheâd just realised how hot, sticky and humid the air felt upon entering prior. The couple had to resort to shouting in each otherâs ears to maintain proper conversation.
Though the close proximity initially felt unnatural, she quite liked the intimacy of the moment. At least she got to experience a conversation that isnât had in the deathly awkward silence of the halls or somehow overheard by her parents. If sheâd dared to speak improperly in this dense, bustling room, no one would notice.
âThat you...â
For some reason, she still felt rather bashful about bringing up such scandalous topics. So, hastefully darting her head left and right, she looked up to Prince Laneâs smirking face to continue.
âThat I..? Come on, princess, youâre getting there,â he said, immense sarcasm overriding the encouragement.
Just to double-check no one would hear, she tried looking over his shoulder, but to no avail, thanks to her tall dance partner: how convenient.
âAwww! The most articulate royal of all the land - fluent in Latin, Greek and French - is reduced to a flustered, wordless little mess in front of oh-so charming Prince Lane. How cute.â he cooed.
âI- You didnât even let me speak!â
He shrugged.
âDidnât have to. Your eyes said it all.â A hand glimmering with rings formed circles around his cerulean eyes, motioning towards them. They were infuriatingly pretty, she noted.
âBut I -â
âI canât hear you~â, he sing-songed. The bastard even had the audacity to act like he was trying to listen to her with a finger tapping against his earlobe.
âYouâre BAD NEWS!â she finally projected, though her voice hardly rose above the din.
The prince looked relieved again. Satisfied even.
âThatâs what I like to hear.â
Suddenly, a trombone began playing through the noise, causing it and all the ecstatic back-and-forth chatter to gradually grind to a halt.
Despite this, the princess still felt compelled to beat him at his own game. The same thrilling rush of adrenaline when gambling hurled her better judgment out of the window. The same tiny string of resolve and civility completely snapped somewhere on that staircase. It didnât make sense how such a laid-back, dishonourable prince could have the power to render her speechless, but she wasnât going to question it now.
âGreetings, ladies and gentlemen!â, a womanâs voice echoed across the room, her effortless aura coating her tone in a layer of gentle authority, yet empathetic enough not to come off as threatening.
Whispers arose in the crowd for a second, only to be severed by her domineering presence. It was then that the princess could finally witness her from the balcony in all her glory. A gorgeous woman - clad in a silky, red robe - leaned on the gilded fence on the balcony, captivating everyone with her signature red hair, striking blue eyes and sultry voice. Beside her bejewelled form raising her status head and shoulders above the rest, the ornate crown that sat upon her head said it all: she was the queen.
Everyone gathered from all the surrounding lands to celebrate her coronation. Everyone came to see her. The main event of the entire night.
She bathed in the attention of all the lords and ladies for a solid minute, as if to silently communicate: âYes, Iâm real. And yes, Iâm the woman of everyoneâs dreams.â Then, she continued.
âItâs immensely rejuvenating to watch you all congregate, dance, talk and laugh together. All in the name of my coronation as Queen Amelia of Lazy-ass Land.â
Loud cheers erupt from certain parts of the crowd. Clearly, the free booze has already worked its magic on some of the royals in the room.
âI know, I know, itâs a huge milestone. As well as an equally tumultuous journey to get to where I am today, but as queen, I will not let the glorious land of the Lazy-asses down!â
Another outburst of whoops ensues. Queen Amelia hastily grabs a glass of champagne from the expectant servant and lifts the glass towards the crowd, a large smile plastering over her features.
âBut for now, a toast to everyone who came, to my family who shaped me to be who I am today and to an enduring, timeless reign.â
âLong live the queen!â jeered the horde of aristocrats.
Everyone seemed to go back to their idle conversations, yet there was a distinct shift in the atmosphere. Some sort of tension - no - anticipation hung loose above everybodyâs heads. The whole mass of people began having a mind of its own and different couples started migrating to different places in the room. All the ladies suddenly began lining up on one side of the ballroom and all the gentlemen formed another line right opposite their partner, waiting expectantly for something. For what?
A ballroom dance.
Upon instinct (and also to avoid the putrid feeling of embarrassment), the princess held up the edges of her dress and awkwardly scurried over to find purchase in the first gap she could find on the femalesâ side. Thankfully, Lane found his place facing her before the dance commenced. Then, the melodic sound of a piano finally broke the silence.
The dance, in practice, was simple: walk towards your partner, hold hands as you walk around each other, walk to the other side of the room, walk back to your partner. Rinse and repeat.
So, why did the princess find the stupidly easy action of walking towards Prince Lane such a Herculean task?
That boyâs bad news...
âWhatâs wrong, princess? Canât walk? Gee, I havenât even broken your back and yet youâre limping around the place like you need me to carry you.â, teases the devil dressed in a blue suit.
Trying furiously to hide her blush, she canât help but entertain this banter.
âOh, please! I thought carrying that ego on your shoulders was heavy enough. I wouldnât want to break your brack with the extra effort.â, she mused, intertwining her fingers with his as they pranced around each other.
âWhat on Earth are you talking about, princess MC of the Protagonists? Your name has long been synoymous with an excellent perceptiveness, but, alas, I guess my charisma has blinded you.â, and with that, a large hand seized the small of the princessâs back, bending her backwards in a dip. Something that was definitely not a part of the dance, âBut, donât worry. You can trust me to lead you on if you canât see. After all, Iâve always wondered how youâd look blindfolded.â
That little shit!
âLane!â
âWhat is it?â, he asked, still smug as ever.
âLet me go! This isnât the dance routine weâre meant to follow!â, she whisper-shouted, lightly jabbing at the princeâs biceps.
âOnly if you say my name like that again.â
âNo.â
The tone of her voice sounded far more hesitant than the princess intended.
âFine by me,â he grinned like a deranged lunatic and leaned closer to her face just to annoy her further, âWe can stay like this for the rest of the night.â
Being held so closely by a man in the middle of a ballroom could easily on Princess MCâs Top 3 Most Embarrassing Moments Of All Time, but she never realised that it would feel so thrilling, empowering and exciting all the same. Laneâs ocean eyes consumed every part of her. First, maintaining eye contact for what felt like millennia, then trekked shamelessly down the curve of her neck and drank in each dip in her collarbones and the rest of her exposed flesh, only to shoot back up to eye-level, before he could get caught glancing at her clothed chest.
It only took his hot breath barely scraping her cheek to make her insides melt like iron forged in a scalding furnace. This astounding effect he had on her could hardly be put into words. If anything, the princess felt as if she was slowly stripped naked, exposed, spread and laid bare on a platter in front of him, ready to eat. Ready to be eaten. And her prefrontal cortex mustâve started shutting down because there wasnât a single objection to be found in there. Maybe the horny, animalistic side of her had finally been awakened.
All thanks to Prince Lane of Lazy-Ass Land.
The next thing the princess knew, she began hearing their names being hurled around the ballroom. Laneâs arm also started trembling from the tension in his muscles arising after holding her for so long.
How long had it been exactly? Well, long enough for rumours to run rampant among the royals.
âYour handâs exhausted. Let me go before you drop me on the floor.â, she commanded.
Raising an inquisitive brow and a sly smirk, the prince asked: âWhatâs the magic word?â
â...Lane.â
But, before she could huff in indignation and wounded pride, she was hurled back up and left to gather her footing in front of a whole audience. All around her, princesses were staring (perhaps envious, perhaps enthralled at the new gossip), couples exchanged whispers in each otherâs ears, and even the musicians and the servants couldnât help but get a slice of the action.
Okay, this wasnât the type of âexposedâ I had in mind...
Then, she turned around, finally having the guts to look the devil in the eye again. And there he stood: all perfect, gelled-back, jet-black hair, with the same stupid smile to boot. All flawless and nonchalant, as if he remained completely unaffected, as if that moment had never happened.
Of course, I got carried away. I got lost in the feeling of it all. I shouldâve known that he was a player. It mustâve just flown past me because heâs just too good at it-
A warm hand seized hers.
âCome on. Letâs ditch this place.â
âWhat?â, she asked, incredulous.
âPeople are talking about us. The longer we stay here, the more our reputations will be ruined.â, he tugged her close to his chest and whispered tenderly in her ear, âI know a place outside the castle that the guards donât patrol at night. Itâll just be the two of us.â
Her heart leapt in her chest. A secret getaway with a guy she likes? This was all she ever dreamed of!
In response, she gave him a smile that said more than a million âyesâs ever could and almost skipped with him on the way out of the ballroom. She couldnât care less about all the eyes trailing on her back.
Funny how falling in love hid her embarrassment better than any mask could.
On the Lazy-Ass castle grounds
The scene was so perfect that the princess almost felt blessed. A cool breeze fanned her neck and the sky was perfectly clear above them. Trees could be heard gently rustling in the distance.
âCome here.â
He immediately took a seat on the grass, patting the spot beside him.
â...You donât care about ruining your suit?â
âYou think Iâm going to go back to the party?â, he retorted.
The princess clicked her tongue. Reluctantly, she sat next to her newest suitor.
âTouchĂŠ.â
A terse silence followed. It wasnât exactly the awkward kind; it was more charged, tense, like a dam that would threaten to explode if only one more drop of water fell behind its walls.
There was so much to say, but nowhere to start, and it would be only so much time before someone might discover them.
So, the prince decided to take the initiative:
â...So, what have you actually heard about me? What rumours were spread around the royal palace this time?â
âWow. Amazing ice-breaker, Prince Lane. Always turning the conversation back to you again.â
He didnât seem to notice the comment at all (with emphasis on the word âseemâ), merely running a hand through his locks.
âCome onâ, his elbow nudged her side, âYou know you want to hear the juicy gossip.â
He proceeded to flip onto his stomach, feigning shock on his face and kicking his legs playfully in the air.
âyOuârE BaD nEWs!!!â
The princess simply rolled her eyes skywards.
âFuck off.â
At that, Lane let out a sinfully breathy gasp. With his eyes widened to the size of tennis balls and a sound that resembled a moan more than anything, youâd have half a mind to think that he was orgasming without context.
âA princess never talks like that!.â
âDonât. Please donât say that to me again. Youâre already sounding like my parents...â, she wrapped her arms around her knees, looking bitterly into the darkness ahead, â... Some oppressive, obsessive people they are. âHow are our daughterâs grades? Is she seeing anyone? Has she been misbehaving? Has she gained weight?â Theyâre always watching over my life, always scrutinising me like Iâm their experiment theyâre inspecting under a magnifying glass. Iâve always had a real intolerance to their antics. But now, Iâm fucking sick of it.â
Silence. A long pause stretched between them. For one of the royals, it was one filled with pure loathing and disdain for the rigid expectations thrust upon her. For the other, it was one of inner sympathy, masked with a cowardly exterior; a cheap trick and a cheesy one-liner.
âMeh,â
âWhat?,â The princess turned to face Laneâs neutral, donât-give-a-fuck-but-I-canât-let-it-show expression.
âWhatâs the point?,â He shrugged.
âWhatâs the point? Iâm the heir to an entire kingdom. Once my father dies, Iâll have the responsibility of my people on my shoulders. I canât just-â
Yawning, he interjected with: âGeez, youâre already sounding like my parents. My dad hasnât been getting off my ass recently in preparation for Ameliaâs coronation.â
âOf course, your dadâs pissed about that! If I were your father, Iâd wake you up every morning with an hour-long lecture on princely duties and values,â
Lane chuckled. The princess continued.
â... But, then again: I guess that makes the two of us.â
She turned around again to meet a pair of gorgeous, yet cryptic blue eyes. Lane was staring back at her intensely, never once breaking eye contact, but she couldnât read his underlying emotions. It was like riding a boat out to sea, on a calm, sunny day, hanging over the edge of the boat and trying to see, with a naked eye, what roamed in those bottomless depths.
It was simply infuriating that the last guy she shouldâve hung out with was the one who intrigued her the most. This flexible, dynamic mask he wore that he could bend at will made it impossible to figure him out precisely through her analytical gaze. And all the more irresistible.
Then, as if to provoke her, he widened the gap between them again by reclining onto the grass like a lazy tomcat.
âGood to know the feelingâs mutual.â
The princess only hummed in response. And there they sat: almost side-by-side in the palace gardens, silently appreciating each otherâs company, gearing up for another war with them against the world, their parents, their resposibilities.
In the here and now, nothing else mattered. They werenât forced to plaster smiles on their faces during royal family reunions; they werenât obliged to hang out with the creepy, handsy royals from thoss random, allied countries for a whole dinner night; they didnât have to keep up with dog-piles of homework. It was just them. Sitting together and stewing through the thick bog of their personal thoughts.
After a few seconds, Lane decided to bring it up again:
âWhatâs stopping you, though? Why limit yourself to what your parents tell you to be? Why waste time hesitating before you even try something at all?â
The princess didnât have to ponder for even a second.
âShame. The fear of disappointing my people, my family, and especially myself.â
âWhat a shame.â, the prince teased, crippling the serious, built-up mood.
Huh? What does this clown mean now?
Thatâs when the tip of his pinky brushed against hers and a spark of electricity shocked her. She looked up at his half-smug, half-genuine face - now the closest it had been this whole night - and stared. Bewildered.
â âCause I always thought that a princess as confident and myth-busting as you wouldnât know the feeling.â
The princeâs palm drifted slowly, tenderly onto the back of her hand.
âLane.â
âYes?â, he grinned like he was drunk in love.
â...Why do you care? A-as in, why do you tell me such encouraging words?â
âBut, why do you question it?,â he leaned closer, his breath now tickling the hairs on her chin, â...Princess.â
Suddenly, a hand began threading through her locks. All the while, the princessâs frontal cortex was experiencing breakdown. And yet he continued:
âThis is destiny. Itâs something we canât and shouldnât question. Up there in the stars, some divine being intervened with reality and, like the miracle it was, pulled the strings of fate and wrapped us together. Like this.â
He demonstrated by intertwining two fingers next to his face. Laneâs voice had become deep and gravelly: a stark contrast to his smooth, superficial play-boy one. Their faces were so close now that Laneâs azure eyes began blurring into blue blobs.
Then, their noses brushed, another spark jolting the princessâs senses. The latter quickly gained her courage again, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into her.
A cocktail of love, adoration and newfound bravery exploded somewhere inside her, after the first kiss. Soon, the pair grew desperate, feverishly touching each other, tasting each other in the grass, yet they still couldnât get enough of each other.
And for the first time in Princess MCâs life, she felt...
...Wicked.
THE END
EPILOGUE (OUTRO)
BB was sitting on the dusty road, while his mighty steed was munching on the nearest apples sheâd found. A bouquet of hauntingly beautiful roses lay abandoned at his feet. It was a bloody, three-hour flower project that he decidedly neglected on the ground.
This time, heâd chosen to scour the Lazy-assâs outermost gardens to find a fortune-telling dandelion to pick at. He was almost done shaving off all of his hostageâs redeeming beauty.
âLove me,â pluck, âLove me not,â pluck.
â Love me,â pluck, âLove me not,â pluck,â
âLove me..â
Pluck.
It took just the mere clenching of his fists to kill the flowerâs last screams for mercy. Whatever remaining evidence left of its beheading was scattered as tiny white petals on the floor, resembling meagre crumbs of bread.
Hopeless, BB lifts his head to the horizon, to the shiny castle heâd visited, just to get a chance of escourting the princess to a silly, frivolous party.
Oh, the things heâd do for her.
Over the years, he tried so desperately to save it: their dying love. She can never discover this, however. The drastic lengths he went to to remind her of him would mortify her, if she knew.
Despite the heavenly image of the princess now dancing in front of his eyes, one bittersweet message stood out from it all: