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BBD SHIFT 3 IS OUT!!!🦴
go play it now! the guide is HERE if you need it and dont forget to read the devlog! :3
CHARACTERS PLAYLIST!! 💖
BBD MASTERPOST by @neurthewanderer!! 💖
PLEASE DELETE ALL PREVIOUS GAME FILES BEFORE INSTALLING SHIFT 3 TO ENSURE THE GAME WORKS CORRECTLY AND TO AVOID POTENTIAL ISSUES WITH OLD DA
thank you so much for playing and supporting the game! have fun pookies! 💖
NAVIGATION⬇️
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♡ And all you had to do was stay mad
⸺ ft. Lane (BBD) , reader
⋆˚꩜｡ summary . an argument in the rain, a fever, and Lane showing up anyway. soft apologies, plastic bags full of your favorite food, and a side of him you didn't know existed. ౨ৎ wc . + 4.2k!
⋆˙⟡ tags . mature — mdni, reader-insert, second person pov, f!reader, no explicit content, angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, fluff, idiots to lovers, pining, soft Lane, post-argument fluff, caretaking, reader being sick, domestic fluff sorta???
₊˚⊹♡ cw . mature — mdni, FUCKING LANE. AGAIN. also , sexism, misogyny, arguments between love interests, mild language/cursing, maybe a little out-of-context Lane but I just loved writing him being so caring <3 + Lane le fou du métro qui rentre chez les gens sans prévenir ?? wtf frérot
✧ a/n! . hi people! this is my second BBD fic ever and it's still about that same infuriating man smh. In honour of Shift 3 of Big Bad Dogs (a beautiful visual novel made by @where-spar0w-barks, go give her some love she’s been working hard and doing a wonderful job with the whole game!) releasing tomorrow, I decided to celebrate by writing a small fic about Lane! (yes, him again...) Also writing soft Lane after he’s been an absolute menace for 90% of the fic was healing. he’s still annoying though, don’t worry! As always, happy reading and hope you enjoy!
It’s raining. Again.
La météo a été capricieuse ces derniers temps.
But that’s not necessarily something you dislike, you who have always found the smell and sound of rain so comforting. Especially that evening; you feel you need it. It might even be the only thing that will comfort you.
The only thing you don’t like about the rain is the cold.
The convenience store is silent, apart from the constant sterile buzz of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, unpleasant to look at, almost blinding when you stare for too long. The one in the back, near the washroom, keeps blinking every now and then. When you started working here, you swore you could feel it vibrate behind your eyes. You’ve grown used to it now. And what better way to complement this horrible light than with the omnipresent smell of the store? The building smells like something rotten, maybe food. Or something else, you’re not sure. You wouldn’t be surprised.
The floor is sticky and you feel like the mop you used just a few minutes ago in an attempt to clean the floor actually makes it worse. Mopping spreads the smell, homogenizes it, gives it an even coat across the whole surface so every step pulls just slightly at your shoe. This floor has absorbed everything. Soda. Rain tracked in from outside. Other things you don’t name. One of the corners of the store smells like puke, just the residue of it, and no matter how many times you’ve sprayed bleach on it, the smell never seems to go. And somewhere near the bathroom, or maybe in it, something metallic. Blood has a smell like an old penny.
You started taking the habit of breathing through your mouth in order to reduce the smell you impose on your nose. It kind of disgusts you to breathe all this through in your mouth though. But it doesn’t matter. After a while you stop noticing. That’s the worst part—tu t’y habitues vite, très vite.
And, thankfully, it’s the end of your shift. Meaning cleaning the store, closing everything—
The stockroom door opens, and a familiar voice tears you out of your thoughts.
“So, babe, I was just thinkin’—”
Your co-worker leans on the counter next to where you stand, busy cleaning the chipped, damaged countertop with an old and dirty torn rag. You don’t react. Or rather, you wish you didn’t react, but your heart does a weird flutter thing at the sound of his voice.
“Not sure I wanna hear it, Lane.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m still mad. In case you haven’t noticed the look on my face yet.”
Lane scoffs, that infuriating smirk never leaving his lips. However, when his gaze finally settles on your face and he takes a good look at you, his shit-eating grin falters, without quite disappearing. Usually, when he does something that pisses you off, there’s annoyance and exasperation in your eyes. That’s the main reason why he loves riling you up, if he’s being honest. He loves seeing the fire in your eyes, the anger bubbling up.
This time, he sees disappointment. And even tiredness.
‘You gotta be a little toxic, just enough to keep ‘em hooked. And then, let them cry about it on Facebook.’ ‘Women like assholes anyway, right? Let’s give ‘em what they want.’
This time, he feels like he fucked up real bad.
“I’m sick of this, Lane. I’m sick of having to listen to your sexist bullshit every single day.”
“… Damn.” He scoffs and runs a hand through his black hair, and his gaze shifts on everything but her. “Thought you enjoyed the date.”
“I did. I enjoyed that shitty date in the stock room, those dumbass jokes of yours, until you said what you said.”
Cela fait trop longtemps que tu as jeté l’éponge avec lui. Tu n’as plus l’énergie de te battre face à ses propos.
You deliberately omit to mention that you enjoy flirting with him.
He swallows at your last words. Like he’s just understood that he could’ve gotten something, someone, but he lost it because he’d rather be an asshole than actually telling you how he feels.
“But the way you talked to me just now? While I was trying to calm you down, so that you didn’t end up getting your nose busted or some shit? That was the last straw.”
‘Shhh shhh. That’s enough girl words for today.’ ‘Let the men talk.’
You notice the way his jaw clenches and works as he looks away. But that’s always been Lane, hasn’t it? Always speaking before thinking. Regretting after. Except now you’ve grown sick of dealing with it and letting him get away with everything.
“… Fuck.” He finally starts, but it seems like he’s thinking about what he’s gonna say next. Which is, for Lane, a fucking achievement. But here he is, picking his words carefully. He waits a bit, leaning both of his elbows on the counter, head down ; the posture of a man holding something up — himself, maybe, or the counter, or the specific version of tonight that was still somehow salvageable, except it hardly was. He gotta play his cards right.
But at the end of the day, it’s just Lane, isn’t it?
“Women. So fucking fragile. Really can’t take a joke anymore.”
You pause in your movements, right hand still on the soaked-cleanser rag, left hand still holding the side of the counter. Your head is down for a few seconds, like his words are repeating on loop in your head, before slowly, very slowly, you start cleaning the counter again. The movements measured, processing his words.
Before you take a step back, suddenly throwing the rag back under the counter. You tug on your apron, before finally tearing the cloth off you, as well as your tag. In just a few seconds, you’re in the stockroom, throwing the apron on the shelf where it belongs and stuffing the tag into your pocket. You quickly grab your bag before stepping out of the stock room again.
He’s the one supposed to close tonight, anyway.
His expression completely shifts when he realises you are, in fact, leaving the store angry and upset, because of him. Because he kept running his mouth once more, but this time, you weren’t buying his shit.
“Bro, it’s literally pouring out there. What are you, a golden retriever? You’re gonna get soaked and get sick, just—stay, it’s not that deep.” But even as he says so, he can see it in your eyes. You don’t care anymore. “I mean, do whatever you want. I don’t care. But it’s nasty as hell outside, so. Just sayin’—”
The door closes behind you, and both its noise and the heavy rain pouring down manage, to your greatest delight, to block out the sound of his voice almost carrying outside.
You forgot your umbrella. Again.
And you really hate the cold.
“I’m sorry again, RJ.”
“It’s fine, shit happens. But—take care, yeah? Come back as soon as possible.”
“How about the store?”
“Why, Lane’s a big boy, isn’t he? Can take care of the store by himself, for once. You get some rest, yeah?”
“Yeah. Bye.”
You shiver as you press the ‘end call’ button, bottom lip shaking slightly.
The bus didn’t come this morning. You waited for what felt like hours—come to think about it, it was probably something like 30 minutes—before you decided to walk back home under the rain, without an umbrella. Because a little rain isn’t gonna kill you, right?
The walk managed to calm you down from your previous altercation with Lane, but you’d be lying if you said it made you feel any better. Actually, you sobbed. Hard.
Car existe-t-il un sentiment pire que de se disputer avec l’homme que tu apprécies ? Ce serait mentir que d’affirmer que tu n’es pas insensible au charme de Lane.
Lane made you laugh. He made the shift bearable. Easier. Lighter. And, to be honest, it felt good knowing that there was somebody in that damn store waiting for you, interested in you. But you also truly believe you deserve someone who respects you—that’s the bare minimum, isn’t it?
When you got back home, you didn’t even bother taking a shower. You were soaked to the bone, already starting to sniffle, but given the day’s events, you didn’t have the energy to do much except curl up under the thin covers of your bed.
La décision la plus stupide que tu as pu prendre jusqu’à présent, sincèrement.
Unsurprisingly, you had a restless and unpleasant night, the result of a developing fever, and you only woke up around 5 p.m. Thankfully—or surprisingly—RJ was nice enough to give you the night off and let you rest and recover.
You check the thermometer again and can’t hold back the groan. 101.2 ° F. It might not be the worst fever of your life, but it will keep you stuck in bed for at least the day. You only managed to get a cold, wet washcloth for your forehead, a bottle of water and some paracetamol before falling into your bed again, shuddering. You didn’t even—
vrrrr!
With half-lidded eyes, you grab your phone and unlock it. You stare at the notification for a few seconds, eyes still half-closed, processing the information before you finally read:
Lane: ‘yo’ Lane: ‘RJ just called me. said you werent coming to work tonight’ Lane: ‘u alright?’
You audibly groan, pressing a hand against your forehead, and the gesture makes some water dribble from the washcloth down your temples. For a few seconds, you contemplate answering him with a sardonic answer, like something in the lines of “yes i quit because of my co-worker’s sexual harassment”, before you finally settle with a less heated answer—frankly, you don’t have the strength to fight again.
*‘Got a fever, 101.2 F. Can’t really stand up without my head spinning, won’t be able to come tonight. Sorry’
As soon as your thumb presses the little ‘sent’ button, you immediately regret your message. You’re already expecting his answer, and knowing him, probably something that would sound like ‘told you so’ or ‘almost like someone warned you lol’, when your phone immediately buzzes again.
Lane: ‘shit’Lane: ‘ok’Lane: ‘hold on’
Your brows furrow. You reread the messages once, twice, thrice. Is this his way of telling you to hang in there? One hand holds the washcloth, the other holds your phone that you approach closer to your eyes, thinking the words would magically arrange and reorder into something you’d actually understand, but—
bang!
Your phone falls right onto your face, knocking your nose.
“Fuck—goddamnit!”
You immediately grab your phone and move it away from your face, before your gaze zeroes on the screen, and you stare at the ‘gblsjgfkkd’ message your phone just sent to Lane. Who, of course, immediately answers.
Lane: ‘damn babe fever got to your head or what’
You throw your phone at the bottom of your bed and close your eyes. And despite the migraine throbbing in your temples, the fever knocks you out, and you sink into the arms of Morpheus.
Knock, knock, knock.
You hate fever dreams. You could’ve sworn you heard somebody knocking on your door. Actually, you could’ve swore you heard somebody entering your flat—fuck.
Head spinning and still dizzy, you straighten up in bed, the motion making you feel nauseous immediately, and you throw one leg out of the bed before you hear a familiar voice behind your bedroom’s door.
“Yo, you asleep?”
“… Lane…?”
The door pushes open, and you immediately recognize your co-worker’s silhouette. It is Lane. Standing at the doorframe, each hand carrying a plastic bag, each of the two filled to the brim. He’s not wearing his apron nor his nametag, but instead, he’s got that one dreadful pink ‘white boy of the year’ shirt. The simple sight of him is enough to make you even more lightheaded… With a weird fluttering feeling in your stomach.
“Already in bed and waiting for me, huh? I like that.”
He shoots his usual cocky smirk at you, although something reads in his eyes. He’s not as confident as he was the night before. He’s almost… Hesitant?
“What are you doing here?” you mutter, pressing the now warm and almost dry washcloth over your forehead.
“Told you I was coming. By the way, would it kill you to answer my messages?”
“I was asleep.”
“I was waiting for an answer.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Yeah? Tough shit, ‘cause I’m here now.”
He approaches you, and, weirdly enough, you don’t try and move away. Maybe you’re too tired, too weak to tell him to fuck off. Maybe you still hate him. Or maybe you want him to stay. You don’t offer resistance as he reaches for the washcloth and lifts it off your skin.
“I’ll go freshen it again. Eat. Brought you your favorite.”
He disappears in your bathroom like he knows the damn place, and honestly, he kinda does. He already came by a few times before. But your brows furrow as your gaze drifts to the two plastic bags he set by your bed, and you reach for the one that seems to contain food, according to the familiar smell that emanates from it.
You fish the dish out of the plastic bag, only for your eyes to widen once you finally recognize the smell. At the same time, Lane comes back into the room, wet washcloth in his hands. He stares at you, and you stare back at him.
“… It’s my favorite. How did you know?”
“News flash, pretty. I listen when you talk.”
Ah. So he’d noticed, that one time you’d mentioned it offhandedly between two customers, almost to yourself, not even sure you were talking to him. He’d been scrolling on his phone, back turned to you. You’d assumed he wasn’t paying attention.
He takes a few steps towards you and sits at the edge of your bed, right next to your arm. Silently, he rearranges the pillows behind your head to make it more comfortable, before settling the fresh washcloth back on your forehead with a delicacy you hadn’t expected him to have until now. You let him, without a fuss.
He takes the plate and the fork from your hands, stabbing the food before raising the fork to your lips.
“You are not feeding me, Lane.”
“Seems like I am right now, though.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Eat.”
You look at him, then. Really look. You think he’s going to mock you, say some stupid bullshit, but he looks… Calm. Quiet. The smirk disappeared the moment he sat down next to you. So, reluctantly, your lips part and you take a bite. Chew. Swallow. He stabs the food again and brings it back to your mouth.
It’s… weird. Almost intimate, in a way—but you don’t mind it. Because even though you’re still upset, even though you’re still angry at him…
Lane is taking care of you right now.
And you’re not sure you want him to stop.
“… Was with Ludwig when you sent the message.” He finally speaks. “We were playing Call of Duty when my phone buzzed.”
“… He ok?” you reply, politely.
“Yeah.” A beat. “Told me to tell you to ’get well soon’.”
“He’s sweet, when he wants to be. Tell him I say thank you.”
“Will do.”
There’s a small silence, and you can’t help but talk again (et par la même occasion, balancer une balle perdue à Ludwig):
“And tell him to take a shower from time to time.”
“Right—”
“I’m sure he still stinks.”
“… Will do.”
You’re not sure you like this. Well, you can’t really complain. Not when someone’s taking care of you while you have a bad fever. But it feels strange. Lane’s behaviour is strange. He’s not his usual cocky, smug self, and that alone is enough to throw you off.
Especially after yesterday. You’d stormed out of the store angry and upset, and even though you hated the comments Lane threw around like they cost him nothing, you couldn’t stand being in an actual fight with him. Not just the regular, low-grade anger. You’d been angry at him plenty of times before, and it’d never felt like this. This felt like something with weight to it. Something that might not bounce back.
“Is this your way of apologizing?” you finally ask.
“Is it that obvious?” He replies, and you notice the self-deprecating tone in his voice. He seems to hesitate, then adds: “It’s also a way for me to ask you not to leave. Please.”
The honesty and fragility in his voice throw you off. You blink at him, surprised, searching his face for any trace of the usual bullshit—the smirk, the slight tilt of the head that means he’s about to say something that will annoy you—but there’s nothing. He’s completely sincere.
“Please.” He repeats, quieter this time. His cheeks and ears turn slightly red, before he adds: “Shifts won’t be the same without you. I enjoy spending time with you. You’re fun to be around.”
There it is.
Your jaw falls open.
You don’t recognize him. Honestly, you’ve never seen Lane with so much… seriousness. He’s always been fucking around before. The jokes, the flirting, the need to fill every silence with something loud. And now here he is, sitting on the edge of your bed in that dreadful pink shirt, holding a fork, asking you to stay. Like it matters to him. Like you matter to him.
You don’t say anything for a moment. The rain is still going outside. You can hear it against the window, steady and low. But inside your room, all you can focus on is Lane’s steady breath, and yours, slightly shaky.
“Lane.” Your voice comes out rougher than you intended. Not only because of the fever, but also because… Fuck. You don’t know how to react, you’re not used to this side of him. At all.
He waits. Doesn’t push, doesn’t fill the silence with one of his stupid one-liners like he usually would. Just watches you, fork still hovering between you, like he’s bracing for whatever you’re about to say.
“…Feed me the rest first. Then we’ll talk.”
Something in his face cracks open. Relief, you guess. Though he doesn’t comment on it, and doesn’t make it weird. He just brings the fork back up, and you eat. Slowly. Quietly.
Tu apprécies le silence, pour une fois, après une journée pareille.
He’s careful about it in a way you didn’t expect from him. He wipes a bit of sauce off the corner of your mouth with his thumb without even thinking about it, he scrapes the plate when you’re getting close to done like he doesn’t want a single bite left for later. As if feeding you the right amount actually matters to him.
When the plate’s empty, he sets it on your nightstand, fork balanced on top, and for a second you think that’s it. He’s done his good deed, he’ll get up, make some excuse, leave before things get too soft between you two—
He doesn’t.
“Move over.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Move over.”
“Lane, you’re not—”
“I’m not what? Staying?” He’s already toeing off his shoes—which, coming from Lane, surprises you, but you don’t comment on it—not even looking at you, like the conversation’s already over in his head. “Watch me.”
“You’re gonna catch whatever I have.”
“Honestly? Couldn’t care less.” He shrugs, like that settles it.
You want to argue, to insist, to remind him that he has to go to the store tonight, that he has a life, an apartment to sleep in—but a part of you, more tired than rational, doesn’t really want him to leave. So you move over. Just enough.
The mattress dips under his weight, and the whole bed feels… different with him in it. Smaller, warmer, despite the chill still clinging to your skin from the fever. He lies on his back first, hands behind his head, staring at your ceiling like it’s got something interesting written on it.
He’s so stupid. Sometimes. Well, all the time.
… Most of the time.
“… So. About yesterday,” he starts, and immediately you can tell he hates this. He hates apologizing. Hates the seriousness in his own voice, because he can tell as much as you can that this isn’t how he usually is. “I was an asshole.”
“You don’t say.”
“Shut up, I’m trying.” A pause. His jaw works the same way it did at the counter, except this time there’s no stock room to hide in. Just him, and you, and the rain that’s finally stopped outside. “I shouldn’t have said that shit. The fragile thing. Well, shouldn’t have said any of it.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“… You gonna make this easy for me or what?”
“Nope.”
He huffs, almost a laugh, and turns his head just enough to look at you. “Fair.” A beat. “I’m sorry. For real. Not the bullshit ’sorry you’re upset’ kind. The actual kind.”
You don’t answer right away.
You let him stew for a bit, just long enough for him to realize it was no small thing, that he really hurt you, and that apologies, even sincere ones, aren’t always enough sometimes... But you also know Lane. Know that this—the quiet, the honesty, the fact that he’s lying in your bed in that ugly pink shirt instead of playing with Ludwig while downing energy drinks—is about as far as he can stretch himself.
“… Okay,” you finally say. “Apology accepted. Don’t make me regret it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The smirk immediately creeps back in, and God, how you’ve missed it.
“Though, for the record, I still think you can’t take a joke.”
“Lane.”
“Kidding! Kidding.” He raises both hands in surrender, then immediately drops one back down before you can call him out on the obvious deflection. “C’mere.”
“What—”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. His arm slides under your neck, around your shoulders, and he tugs. Not roughly, but with enough certainty that you don’t really have room to protest, not that you’re sure you want to. You end up half-tucked against his side, your forehead pressed just under his chin, the heat of the fever blurring into the heat of him until you can’t really tell where one ends and the other begins.
Smooth motherfucker.
“Comfortable?” he asks, and under the cockiness, the smugness of him, you’re sure you can hear hesitation. He sounds like… like he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask, like he’s still expecting you to push him off.
… You don’t, though.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.” He says it light, but his hand finds your shoulder and stays there, thumb moving in circles—he’s restless. “You’re rude when you’re sick, you know that?”
“… And your shirt makes me wanna bawl my eyes out.”
“Ouch, rude.”
“Accurate.” A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. Small, rough, more air than sound, but real. He feels it against his chest and you swear you can feel him grin into your hair.
“There it is.” His voice drops to a quieter tone. “Was worried I broke something permanent yesterday.”
“You almost did.”
“… Yeah.” This time, he doesn’t joke. His chin tips down slightly, resting against the crown of your head, careful, like he’s testing how much weight he’s allowed to put there. “M’sorry.”
“I know.”
You can hear Lane’s heartbeat under your ear, slow and a little too fast at once, and his hand is against your shoulder, and the fever finally eases into something closer to sleep than misery. You blame it on the medication he brought you. Or maybe you blame it on the simple fact that he’s there.
You hate to admit it, but his presence soothes you. Especially when he’s calm and quiet like that, holding you against him. You allow yourself to snuggle even more against him.
“Lane...?”
“Mmh?”
“...Thanks for the food.”
He huffs against your hair. Almost a laugh, and then you feel his lips pressing against the crown of your head, giving you a small kiss. “Anytime, pretty.”
Tu fermes les yeux. And for the first time in a long while, you don’t resist the sleep that gently envelops you, cradled by his warmth and the steady sound of his breathing.
Translations!
— "La météo a été capricieuse ces derniers temps." = The weather has been unpredictable lately.
— "Tu t'y habitues vite, très vite" = you get used to it fast, very fast.
— "Cela fait trop longtemps que tu as jeté l'éponge avec lui. Tu n'as plus l'énergie de te battre face à ses propos." = It's been too long since you gave up on him. You no longer have the energy to fight his comments anymore.
— "Car existe-t-il un sentiment pire que de se disputer avec l'homme que tu apprécies ? Ce serait mentir que d'affirmer que tu n'es pas insensible au charme de Lane." = Because does a worse feeling exist than fighting with the man you like? It would be a lie to claim you're not susceptible to Lane's charm.
— "La décision la plus stupide que tu as pu prendre jusqu'à présent, sincèrement." = The stupidest decision you've made so far, honestly.
— "et par la même occasion, balancer une balle perdue à Ludwig" = and, while at it, take a random shot at Ludwig (literally "throw a stray bullet at Ludwig", means tossing in an unrelated jab/insult at someone in passing lol)
—"Tu apprécies le silence, pour une fois, après une journée pareille." = You appreciate the silence, for once, after such a day.
— "Tu fermes les yeux." = You close your eyes.
→ In your arms, in your warmth
𖥻synopsis: The only purpose of you begin in Lane's house is to grab his Mad Dog store keys, since you forgot your copy inside the store last shift. So why are you all of a sudden on his lap, letting him touch you like you guys have something?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀〰〰〰—✦—〰〰〰
warnings & tags: +18 content, smut; porn with plot; sexual tension; p in v; petnames; teasing; biting; marking; tit sucking; manhandling; praise kink; Lane
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀〰〰〰—✦—〰〰〰
𖥻before you read: this is a lane x reader; if you don't like this content, pls skip; 2nd person pov; around 5.2k words; pls excuse any grammar or orthographic mistakes (i'm dyslexic and english is not my first language)
BARK, BARK, BITCH! (Big Bad Dogs)
Summary: You’re a southern girl, but just because you’re from the south doesn’t mean you’re some sweet little belle.
Warning(s): MINORS DNI THIS IS AN +18 GAME — threats of violence, sexism (for context: it’s 2009), mentions of rape and death, perverted men, sexual harassment, fem!reader, southern/country reader, blackcoded reader but anyone can read.
A/N: Wow didn’t think I’d be posting this since going on hiatus. Anyways, Big Bad Dogs by @where-spar0w-barks is a pretty cool visual novel so far and I’m excited for the next update. Also the reader is based off my oc Kiriko. Idk if I’ll do another part or not, I’m taking things slow.
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 💔), 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
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♡ Antagonizing on purpose
⸺ ft. Lane (BBD) , reader
⋆˚꩜｡ summary . Lane has a new favorite hobby. Unfortunately, it's you. (and you don’t mind this as much as you should) ౨ৎ wc . + 1.5k!
⋆˙⟡ tags . mature — 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
₊˚⊹♡ cw . mature — 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 i’m french, lane est un emmerdeur de première mais c’est pour ça qu’on l’aime <33
✧ 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 I’LL GIVE IT TO YOU GUYS DON’T WORRY! (and yes I absolutely have other cod fics for you dww) happy reading and hope you enjoy ♡
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 he’d 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 couldn’t help it.
Not when the way you reacted was so endearing to him.
Monday night, he decided he’d 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.
You’d given him the most judgmental side-eye he’d ever received in his entire life before shoving him aside and scanning the items for the poor customer who’d 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 you’d 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 couldn’t enter.
You’d told him he was a ‘territorial manchild with the emotional intelligence of a rock’.
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," you’d hissed back.
God, yes.
By Thursday, you were staring at him, deadpan, as he reorganized all the facing you’d done by yourself. Because of course that idiot, who’d 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 weren’t 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? I’m 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 was—that 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 now—" You waved again, this time at the minimal space between you two. "—this."
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. He’d beg on all fours. Hell, he’d bark. He’d 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.
“... You’re gonna invite me?”
“Yeah.”
“On a date?”
“Yeah.”
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 you’d been busy mopping the sticky floor when Lane had decided to open his mouth and hit you with his plan. Well, you didn’t believe him. Or maybe you didn’t want to acknowledge the warm feeling that had settled in your fluttery stomach the moment he’d said ‘I wanna take you out on a date.’
Especially when the last date he’d 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.
“With what money?” you finally asked.
“The money that I make while working.”
“You don’t work, Lane. I’m the one doing the damn job here.”
“I still get paid for it. Probably a few more bucks than you do. Y’know, wage gap and all that.”
There it was. Again. Clearly, that man didn’t 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 him—only for Lane’s hand to close around your wrist.
“C’mon, sweetheart.” His voice dropped, tone now low and intimate. “Let me make it up to you.”
You didn’t 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.
“Please, baby?”
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.
“If you wanna make it up to me so bad,” you finally said quietly, “you can start working on that shitty sexist attitude of yours.”
“I am working on it.”
“Hardly.”
“So it’s a yes on the date?”
Il est exaspérant.
But this time, you didn’t hold back the amused smile on your lips—slow, 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 who’d 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 wouldn’t have it any other way.
“... Promise you’ll behave from now on?”
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.
“I’ll try my best, angel.”
SHIFT 2 IS OUT!!! 💖
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...
COME PLAY MY VN!!! :3
MY X: https://x.com/sp4r00ww
DICSORD SERVER: https://discord.gg/PFb8PRv668
Découvre la communauté Big Bad Dogs (VN) Official Discord (18+) sur Discord - discute avec 48 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!!!💖💖💖
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#bbdask #bbdfanfic #bbdfanart #bbdyap #bbdupdate #bbdmemes
Hi! I wanted to make a suggestion. If you reblog fanart o fanfic, could you make a separate tag? Like #bbdfanart or #bbdfanfic
While I think everyone is very talented, sometimes I only want to see official updates/asks
you are so right im sorry i was just super lazy to organize things 😔😔
then i will use #bbdfanart, #bbdfanfic, #bbdask and #bbdupdate now😼😼💖💖
thank you anon😔😔
