#lanebbd

i can give some lines, there are funnier ones but they might be too offensive, so youll discover them in Shift 3!😽

Happy birthday to Lane once again!

My little thoughts:

I love this piece so so so much!!!😻😻😻

It’s created by my favorite idol artist😽😽!@bombsanchez 我爱你…

I was totally drawn in by their fan arts back then. I never imagined I could actually get a commission from them. I’m utterly overjoyed. I hope I can commission them again someday. Wish I could secure a slot every time they open for commissions!!!!😿💞

I love every single fan art they draw. It feels like I’m in a dream, and all my unhappiness has faded away completely!!I really feel like the goddess of luck is looking after me🥺❤️❤️❤️

Lastly, thank you everyone for loving Lane. He’s such a lucky sweetie.

再次祝lane生日快乐💞

一些我的碎碎念：

唉呦 约到女神的稿我真的好开心呀 就是有一种说不上来的感觉 你们懂的当时就是女神的同人图把我吸引入坑的！

我从来没有想过居然可以约到 女神也特别特别宠我的…

I get why Laly said, “Lane is way more jealous than BB.”

BB’s vibe is pure obsession, while Lane’s energy is all jealousy.

One is about possession, the other is about territory. Uhm, uhm, you see the difference, right?

𝐇𝐞𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 .ᐟ.ᐟ

ft: lane (big bad dogs) reader: fem wc: 2307 cw: SMUT 18+ & probably ooc! lane mb everypony & not beta read

i wrote this in one day aaaaaaaaaaaahashjkdlasdalsd and yes i believe in loverboy lane after he gets into a committed relationship what abt it no i couldnt come up w a title

woah aark actually finished a fic how revolutionary

ladies ladies hold your applause

"I feel like I'm being used." Lane sits unimpressed at the opposite end of his couch, glaring at you from the corner of his eye while you settle yourself back into the worn cushions.

"You are," you grin cheekily, taking a swig from your half-finished Bud Light, and sighing as you stretch your legs across his lap, "but you love me."

"I guess—ow! What the fuck?!"

⸺ 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.