Pairing: Lane Fostman x fem! Reader
Wc: 5,2k (a bit shorter than usual...)
Author's note: A few people asked for a part 2 of the "The Missing Jacket" chatfic, so I'm here to deliver (〜￣▽￣)〜!!
(Make sure to read the first part to know what's going on)
Unfortunately, it's not as silly and funny as the chatfic and is leaning to a more serious fanfic
Also, I'm very curious about you guys' thoughts!
“It cant be that important. You double Xs are so dramatic for what??”
“No way u r actively ignoring my calls and emails while setting ur foot in my casa in like 10 mins”
“wait can u get snacks before storming into my house like the beast u are? Like the Norwegian chocolate??”
“Heh the beauty (me) and the beast (you)”
These are the emails Lane has sent you over the past 20 minutes while you are out in the cold, wearing your burgundy spare jacket and blue beanie, on your way to his funky house. All this effort, such as enduring the cold and the dark streets in the middle of the night, just to get your jacket back.
I swear to God, if this bastard dares to touch my jacket, I’ll personally exile him to North Korea.
Who am I kidding? He’s probably already digging through the pockets and is about to find…!
You violently shake your head to clear of the thought, not daring to finish the sentence. Still, with every step forward, you can already picture the insufferable grin plastered across his face when he opens his door and is ready to hit you with his foul jokes.
Walking with your eyes fixed on the ground, you start to recognize the familiar building: You’ve finally reached Lane’s apartment.
World, if you’re merciful today, you will strike me down with lightning just to save me from this embarrassment.
You squeeze your eyes shut, desperately waiting for a sign from above, only to be met with disappointment (men). The sky remains dead quiet. No thunder, no sudden lightning, not even a drop of rain.
Maybe Lane should be one stroked down with lightning.
Once inside the building, you stand frozen in front of his apartment door which still has that fake ‘Beware of DOG’ warning sign. You hadn’t bothered questioning him about it the last time you were here trying to grab the store keys.
Maybe Lane is the dog that should be castrated.
After taking a few deep breaths, you gather every ounce of courage you have left and finally knock on his ugly door. To your misfortune, there are no sound of footsteps approaching the door or obnoxious comments which can only mean one thing: He’s found it. He’s probably inspecting it right now like a dog sniffing around a new toy before tearing across the room with it.
For a second, you genuinely consider to turning to God for salvation or just fleeing the building entirely. Quitting your job at Mad Dog Convenience store, moving to another State, and starting over under a new identity sound entirely reasonable. Realizing you’re overreacting, you take one last deep breath and knock. And knock. And knock.
I’m sorry, RJ, for thinking about abandoning with this asshole.
I truly am, even though you kinda deserve it.
After endless knocking, the door finally swings open. To your surprise, Lane is wearing a look of pure annoyance and irritation.
There is no single trace of schadenfreude on his face.
Don’t tell me that even Lane Fostman is grossed out by it.
Before you can even defend yourself, Lane runs his big mouth, “What the fuck is your problem? You don’t gotta knock the shit out of my door, it’s as sensitive as the owner, you know?”
Wait, he hasn’t gone through my jacket? (yet)
“You’re not sensitive,” you reply dryly.
“Well, thank you for viewing me as a brav-“
“You’re just as emotionally avoidant as a Gen X dad.” You cut him off, leaving him with a single eyebrow in pure irritation.
Still standing in his doorway, you watch as Lane starts inspecting you, eyeing you up and down as if you’re hiding something behind your back, under your beanie or tucked inside your spare jacket. Resisting the urge to shove him away, provoking him might give him an excuse to grab your jacket inside the apartment.
Trying to sound like a normal civilian for once, you ask, “What are you doing?”
He ignores you, still eyeing you from every angle possible. “Seriously? Down another six pack of Red Bull?”
“Nah, I was just checking if you brought any snacks this time,” he answers, his disappointing tone vanishes as that stupid, familiar grin plasters across his face. “But it’s fine. You’re the only I need anyway.” Lane winks at you with a cheesy, flashing smile.
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” you state, staring at him with a deadpan expression. “So, are you letting me in or what?? It’s way too early to deal with your bullshit.”
“Ow, I’m still wounded. No snacks for your man? I specifically requested that Norwegian chocolate. You know what they say: The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Ouch, you’re a cruel woman.”
Without saying anything, you try to slide past him, but Lane throws his arm across the doorframe, efficiently blocking the entrance.
“Woah, hold up. Let me get this straight,” he voices smoothly. “You try to barge into my private casa with no valid reasons AND no snacks? You’ve gotta say the password to get in.”
You let out a tired sigh. “This again? I’m not repeating the password like the last time or want to scream my lungs out in this building while your neighbors are trying to sleep.”
Lane just stands there with a smile as if he’s about to drop a piece of wisdom instead of another nonsense.
He shakes his head gently. “No need,” he says lightly. “Every time you come over, there will be a new password.”
Your eye twitches slightly.
This is a humiliation ritual.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter under your breath before speaking up. “I can’t believe I’m asking this again.”
Your voice carries the weight of someone who has already endured too many absurd situations to count with Lane, the man who once took your unlocked phone and changed his name to ‘Work Husband <3’ in your contact while you went to the bathroom. Later, you changed it into ‘Asshole.’
Lane grins annoyingly confident and finally reveals: “The new password is ’Yes, I do.’”
For a full second, time stops.
You press two fingers against the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, not from anger exactly (though there’s plenty), but from tiredness and genuine shock.
How can one be such an idiot?
In front of you is only a standing Lane with a satisfied smug, shoulders relaxed, lips curved, and arms loosely crossed as if he’s waiting for applause after delivering slam poetry.
All words die in your mouth, so all that comes out is, “I thought you didn’t believe in marriage because no one can keep promises or something along those lines.”
“Yeah, but I believe in us.”
“Save it, Tristan Dugray.” You snap back.
“Why is so grumpy, Eric Cartman?”
The second the words leave his mouth; you glance down at yourself. The burgundy jacket and the blue beanie. The colors aren’t just matching, they’re almost identical to the fat ass.
And now he’s comparing to Eric Cartman?
Not even subtly! No, full on “Why are YOU dressed like this?” It’s directly at YOU while he’s laughing at your face.
Lane doubles over immediately, a full body laugh that shakes his shoulders as he clutches his stomach with both arms curled tight around himself.
“Hey! I just compared you to Tristan Dugray who is at least handsome, and you just compared me to a fat, racist and ableist kid?!”
Lane’s laughter finally calms down; his shoulders still shake slightly and then it hits him.
He stops smiling, tapping his finger slowly against temple like some genius detective connecting all the dots at once and speaks up, “Wait, are you finally admitting I’m handsome?”
There is zero hesitation in this conclusion.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” your voice tight now and add sharply: “Besides, Tristan and Rory were not good for each other.”
“Just like us, pretty,” he quickly replies. “We’re basically soulmates in every universe.”
He nods firmly to himself, as if fate itself had whispered the truth into both of his ears alone.
No questions asked, no room for arguments.
“Women chase toxicity. Get burned. Cry about it later then go right back to the arms of the very same guy.”
Now he looks up at the ceiling dramatically as people do when they’re about to spew nonsense, exhales loudly, and says in that obnoxiously mocking tone, “Women.”
The words leave your mouth like a bullet, sharp and unfiltered.
“Are you done with your daily sexist comment on women, asshole?” You asked with your arms crossed.
His smug doesn’t immediately vanish, but it softens as if he wasn’t expecting that level of direct hit today.
“Whatever.” He mutters to himself, looking anywhere but your eyes.
I hope he will be reborn as a male seahorse.
“You’re really good at changing the topic,” you admit flatly, stepping forward like a person about to physically past him if necessary. “Just let me through.”
Lane doesn’t move, not even an inch.
Instead, he leans into the doorway with one shoulder braced against the frame and that insufferable grin spread across his face once again.
“And you’re good at falling for it or falling for me,” the way he says it as smooth as honey laced with mischief.
“But that’s on you,” he continues cheerfully, pointing one finger at your chest without touching you. “Because you for your so precious jacket here last time and now refuse to say three simple words.”
Of course, he’s pointing there.
Why didn’t the universe strike him down?
You shove his finger aside with more force than necessary like swatting a bothersome insect that’s been buzzing in your personal space for too long.
“Fine,” you snap, the word is sharp. “Yes, I do.”
Spoken through gritted teeth as if they physically pain you to say.
Lane doesn’t react at first. For once, there is silence from him. Just wide eyes and a slight parting of his lips because he hadn’t expected you to give in so fast. Then slowly that stupid face breaks into an even wider grin than before, the kind that is usually reserved for Christmas morning.
Without any other words (a rare moment of Lane being quiet), he steps smoothly to the side, clearing the doorway completely with such politeness as if Christina Aguilera were there to step in.
Once you are inside his apartment, you immediately notice his dirty laundry scattered in the corridor. His hoodies, socks, t-shirts, and a single black shoe left behind like evidence of a crime. Yet across from it, the video game shelf is neatly organized. The titles are sorted by year or even by publishers and every case perfectly aligned, not even dust dares to disturb them.
And then there is a toilet paper roll on the floor.
His apartment reflects his mind, attitude, and personality.
You barely have time to process this tragic scene (and let alone say anything) before Lane swiftly walks past you without glancing in your direction and plops onto his beloved couch like he owns both your time and patience.
What the hell is wrong with him?
He grabs that greasy, light blue controller, the one with sticky buttons and questionable stains, and slips on his headphones around his neck without a word. You stand frozen for half a second with your arms crossed again because apparently that’s your default state now around him.
Then without warning, he starts playing something.
Your eye twitches slightly as irritation builds rapidly inside your chest.
“Do you think we’re having a sleepover?? Give me my jacket back!”
Still focused on his game, he barely glances away from the screen as he presses a few buttons on his controller and says, “Probably somewhere in the kitchen. Your favorite place, right?”
The moment he finishes speaking, you glance back at the roll of toilet paper lying on the floor. You bend down, snatch it up, and launch.
Lane effortlessly ducks out of the way.
“For someone that lazy, you sure move quickly.”
“Babe, you already have seen my infamous six pack. I can’t be that lazy, now, can I?” He pauses, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Besides, I can move quickly in other occasions.”
You stare at him for a moment before rolling your eyes. “The only six pack I know is the Red Bull one you chugged and then threw away because it was expired, you greedy asshole.”
Quickly you make your way into his kitchen, and the sink hits you immediately. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes, a plate with dried spaghetti sauce clinging to it, a bowl with a half-eaten cake and a spoon lying there abandoned. As your eyes scan the room, there is still no sign of your jacket. It’s not on the counter, it’s not draped over any chair, and it’s definitely not folded neatly on the table. Instead of marching back out to confront Lane right away, you swing open his refrigerator to grab a drink, desperate to calm down after his relentless provocation and teasing nearly had you screaming at him.
To your shock, sitting inside is a six pack of sugar free Red Bull.
You instantly recall suggesting it to him few weeks ago when you were (unfortunately) worried about his sweet tooth. Back then, he just scoffed, responding with his casual cocky judgement, “Nah, I’m good, pretty. I get that every chick wants a long-living Lane, but I just love ruining my health with sugar.”
Yet here you are, looking at the proof, that Lane Fostman actually listened to your advice and had even already finished one can.
Against your better judgement, the gesture hits you as surprisingly sweet.
Without wasting another second, you march over to the couch where Lane is sitting, but before you can demand answers, your eyes lock onto what he’s holding in his right hand.
Lane flicks the blue lighter, sparking a flame to light his cigarette, completely aware that you’re standing over him. You can feel the shift instantly. He isn’t throwing a temper tantrum or any cruel insults this time; he is dangerously and quietly furious.
“You’ve already lit your cigarette,” your voice isn’t loud, but it’s firm. “Give me my lighter.”
Lane holds out his hand, dangling the lighter toward you with an edge of annoyance you could spot from a mile away. “It seems like it doesn’t belong to either of us.”
It is not exactly embarrassing.
It just overcomplicates things a bit more.
It’s just not any lighter, we both know it. Written onto the blue plastic are two vertical initials: BB. And you and him know exactly who it belongs to.
“Seriously,” you say, taking a step toward him and holding out your open palm. “Just hand it over, it isn’t what you’re thinking.”
“I know you think I’m stupid, but even I can see what’s going on.” He drops the blue lighter onto the table in front of him, the thud dripping with passive aggression. Lane’s gaze stays focused on the plastic, staring at it as if it’s condom or a love letter.
“No, you don’t.” You snap back.
“So, you pity-fucked him and smoked afterwards. That’s even low for you. I mean, it’s a weirdo who is completely deranged.”
“This is what I was talking about. Already accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
Stepping right into his space, you cut him off before he can say another word. “No, no, I’m talking now. The only reason I have his lighter is because he left it on the counter after buying some spicy ramen. I was going to return it to him next him he comes to the store.”
“Bullshit, it’s not even your responsibility. You just could’ve given it to me or RJ, but of course, you want to do it yourself.”
“Are you fucking with me right now?” You ask with a raised eyebrow. “You know damn well that you were sleeping in the stockroom and BB only comes during our night shift.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep telling that to yourself.”
“You’re acting like a possessive boyfriend, Lane. What’s going on with you?!”
“You think I fuck with a guy who broke my nose? And I don’t like you in that way. Woman, you know better than this.”
“And man, you know better than anyone else that I tried to stop your dick measuring contest. So, stop spreading lies like that!”
“As if-“The rest of his words die in his throat as a nosebleed breaks right out in the middle of your argument.
You go completely still, staring in horror as blood trails over his upper lip and drops onto his. Motionless, silent, and out of oxygen, you stand there as panic breaks through your veins and sends your heart into a race.
Damn it, why can’t I just be normal?
Why can’t I have a normal reaction for once?
Before you could even take a single step away from Lane, a loud rumble of thunder shook the room, drawing your eyes straight to the window just as the power died. In the next breath, the apartment went completely dark where the lights are shut off and the TV screen cut to black mid-game while Lane still sits frozen on the couch.
Did the universe actually hear my prayers?...
No way, why would it start listening now?
“What the fuck was that?” The silence after the thunder was now shattered by his big mouth.
His disoriented voice snaps you back to reality. You pull out your phone, flicking on the flashlight and aim it straight at Lane’s face who was sitting there and clutching his nose with both hands. Without waiting for him to speak, you scan the floor for the toilet paper roll you had thrown at him earlier. You scoop it up, sit back down on the couch beside him and hold out two sheets of toilet paper toward him.
“Here,” you say surprisingly steady. “Use this to clean the blood off your face.”
The pitch-black room hides just how much of it there actually is.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be touching that.” He states, a smirk spreading across his face.
“Let’s say it wasn’t only used to clean up tears and snot.” He glances down at himself.
“Lane! I already touched it!” Your calm demeanor completely shatters. “Why didn’t you say anything, you asshole?!”
You hurl the paper roll straight at his head.
“Ouch,” he winces. “Easy there, nurse. I’m injured.”
Regardless, he still uses the two sheets of paper while you set your phone face-down on the table in front of you, so at least a fraction of the living room stays dimly lit. As he wipes his face, you keep your eyes locked on the dark TV screen, not daring to look at him or the blood.
An awkward silence settles between you two. Just minutes ago, you were at each other’s throats and now, here you are sitting in the dark with an injured Lane.
Should I say something or just wait?
You both speak at the same time and cut each other off at the same time.
“Ladies first,” he offers (prick).
“How kind of you,” you reply dryly. “Does this happen a lot or is it just bad timing?”
“It’s nothing too bad, just happened a few times last week.”
“Wait, what?! Lane, you should see a doctor!” You finally turn to face him. Light bloodstains still streak his chin.
“Nah, it’s fine,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze. “Besides, all they want is a fat paycheck for doing nothing.”
“And besides,” he adds with a faint grin. “I still got you as my nurse, don’t I?”
“Maybe, I hit you too hard with the paper roll.”
“So, no more Doktorspiele?”
The awkward silence returns, settling heavily between you both.
This time, he breaks it himself, “So…I think you should just take the lighter and we forget about the whole thing.”
“What a terrible take,” you counter. “Why do you care so much about him? Seriously, you act like he pissed in your Red Bulland you were already like that before he punched you.”
“You make it sound like I was jerking off to him,” he cringes at himself at the thought of it. “Look, I don’t know if women are just naturally blind when it comes to ‘bad boys’ on motorcycles, but I feel it in my balls that something is off with this guy.”
“Ha-ha, hilarious,” he deadpans. “I’m serious, though.”
“I don’t know…” you pause, trailing off for a moment. “I just haven’t been feeling like myself lately. I feel confused about everything.”
“Don’t tell me this is about your fried brain blanking out again,” he says, trying to pass it off as a light joke, but the subtle shift in his voice and the seriousness in his expression betrays him. He turns to face you completely, his mouth slightly open.
“Sadly, yeah and I’m not even sure if I want to remember,” you admit, pressing your hand to your forehead. “It’s not normal to faint at a sight of blood to have your heart racing like crazy for no reason.”
Outside, thunder rolls and lightning flashes against the glass as the rain continues to pour down non-stop.
Lane stays quiet for a while, unable to answer.
“Well, that’s alright, I guess?” He blurts out, breaking the silence again. “I mean, hippies manage to be happy while being high 24/7 and losing their shit. As long as you remember me, everything’s fine.”
A smug grin spreads across his face, leaving you between confusion and a faint sense of relief.
Was that supposed to be sweet?
“Come on,” he adds immediately, catching your expression. “Don’t give me that vulnerable girlfriend look. I know you’re totally into me, but I ain’t the one to comfort you.”
Can he just shut up for once?
“Besides,” he groans, shifting his gaze toward the ceiling. “My apartment can barely handle a little thunder, and I work my ass off every day just to pay rent here.”
“You already did on your first day and I jerked off to it on the same day.”
You glare at him, but he only smiles back, looking entirely unbothered. That is when your gaze lands on the table. Sitting next to a mess of clutter was the discarded, yellowed bandage that was on his nose, the exact one you had helped him put on weeks ago.
Wait, is that the bandage I put on a few weeks ago?
Don’t tell me he hasn’t changed it since then.
Doesn’t he know how to put on a new one?
Without any thought, you grab your phone and march into his bathroom. The beam of the flashlight immediately catches another mountain of dirty laundry piled high in the bathtub. Scattered across the sink were a razor, aftershave and a stray can of deodorant. You reach up to and pull open the mirror cabinet above the basin.
Instead of first-aid supplies, the shelves are stacked with an eyeshadow palette, lip glosses, and random makeup containers.
Does Amelia always dump all her stuff in his apartment?
And Lane actually lets her?
Well, at least, he’s useful for once.
You shake your head, continuing to go through the shelves until your fingers finally brush against a roll of bandages and medical tape.
Navigating the pitch-black corridor with your phone light, you make your way back to the living room. Lane is still sitting on the couch where you left him. Even in the gloom, you can tell from the silhouette of his face that he’s squinting in confusion, already prepared to make another obnoxious comment.
Before he could get a word out, you drop the roll of tape straight into his lap and unrolled a piece of fresh bandage. “Stay still,” you order before he can protest. “It’s already hard enough trying to fix a broken nose in the dark.”
“It is necessary,” you can him off smoothly, leaning in. “You think I didn’t notice you wearing the same filthy bandage for weeks? This is why you should’ve gone to a doctor if you can’t even handle basic hygiene.”
“Can’t waste more money,” he mutters, turning his face slightly away.
“Right, I forgot how broke you are.”
“We’re in the same boat, nurse.”
“I’m not the one walking around with a broken nose because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“And yet, you’re still the one to take care of me.”
This answer leaves him speechless for a while, unable to counter back.
Silence falls over the room, heavy and sudden. As you reach out, cupping his jaw gently with one hand to hold his head steady while the other hand smooths the tape across the bridge of his nose, you feel it. A sudden, unmistakable heat radiating from his skin.
Despite the dim lightning, the stillness between you both makes his sudden tension completely obvious. His breathing hitches, his eyes escaping yours, and a faint flush creeps up his neck and cheeks.
He can’t be serious right now!
“Are you…” You pause before dropping the bomb. “...blushing right now?”
“What?!” Is all he can manage to get out. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s just weird having you so close to me, breathing right in my face. You usually shove me away.”
“Because I usually have good reasons!”
“Now, you don’t.” He turns his head slightly, trying to avoid your gaze. “Look, it’s nothing, so don’t get any ideas in that pretty, little head of yours.”
“Yeah, sure.” He scoffs, though his smug expression falters for a millisecond. “Y’know, you shouldn’t be doing this. I can handle things on my own.”
“Yeah, clearly. You’re doing a fantastic job.” You roll your eyes.
“No, seriously,” he says, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “Are you trying to be my fucking mom or something? Playing the hero who saves the poor, tragic assholes like me?”
Ignoring his defense mechanism, you smooth down the edge of the tape, finishing the job before stepping inches away to glare at him.
“Why are you getting so defensive? It’s not like I’m erasing your precious masculinity just by putting a bandage on your face.”
“It has nothing to do with that, woman.”
“Sure, keep telling that to yourself.”
“Hey, I’ve had way worse injuries in high school and Lub never bitches me about my choices.”
“So, you didn’t even let Lub to patch you up?” You ask, turning your attention back to him with a slight raise of your eyebrow.
“Hell no, ‘cause he respects my choices and boundaries,” he says, leaning back. “But sure, you can keep touching me and not just my face.” He winks.
“You’re filthy. No, thank you.”
Silence settles between you both again, filled only by the heavy rhythm of rain battling the windowpane. The weather is definitely not on your side, it never was. Cracks of lightning split the sky, followed by the low and booming rumble of thunder. You keep your gaze fixed on the glass, watching the water streak down.
How am I supposed to walk home in this??
I didn’t even have my umbrella with me.
How can one be so unlucky?...
Suddenly, your phone, which has been face down on the table to illuminate the living room, shuts off. This leaves the two of you in the darkness once again. You snatch it up immediately, only to see the dead battery icon flash briefly before the screen goes entirely black.
“Fuck, I forgot to charge my phone,” you say out loud.
It’s probably a sign to take the lighter and head home.
A second later, Lane turns on his phone, flicking on his flashlight and aiming the beam directly at your face. You instantly raise your hands to shield your eyes from the blinding light.
“What the fuck, Lane!” You shout at him while squinting. “Aim it somewhere else! Are you trying to blind me?!”
“My bad, my bad. Calm down, you also did the same thing to me,” he replies with a satisfied smirk. He shifts the phone away, aiming it at the ceiling. “Come one, let’s go check the fuse box. I can’t stand sitting in the dark anymore.”
“Wait, we could’ve checked the fuse box sooner and you still let me drain my phone battery for you?!”
“It’s nice to see how much you’re willing to sacrifice for me, wifey.”
You land a solid punch on his shoulder, making him wince and pull back.
Moments later, the two of you are back in the narrow corridor near his front door. Holding his phone in his left hand, Lane shines the light into the open panel and starts flicking switches at random.
“Do you even know what you’re doing, Lane?” You ask, standing just a few inches away from him and the fuse box.
“It’s better to let a man than a woman to do the work. Y’know, so, there won’t be any damages.”
As you raise your fist to strike him again, the lights suddenly flick back on, exposing the chaos on the ground. Even worse than the mess was his face, wearing an unbearable smug grin that practically screams, I told you so.’
Now, he’s even more convinced…
You quickly walk into his living room and grab the damn lighter, trying to breeze past lane until a hand catches your shoulder. You turn your head to face him.
“Whoa, you’re leaving in this weather? That wind is probably gonna blow you away,” he says, doing a terrible job at hiding his concern.
“I’m kinda used to it now. After our night shifts, I walk home in the rain all the time,” you explain, letting out a soft sigh. “Besides, it’s late and I’m tired.”
“I still have a few Red Bulls left, so you’ll have your energy in no time,” he offers, gesturing toward the kitchen.
“Lane, what I need is sleep.”
“At least, wait until the storm calms down a bit.” He insists.
I don’t even have the energy to argue back.
Without a word, you turn around and crash onto his couch. Seconds later, Lane flips on the TV and his Xbox, sitting down beside you. Shoulder to shoulder, he dives back into his match, immediately yelling at the screen, “You fucking pussy! You ambushed me and still manage to die?!”
Despite his hooting and hollering, your eyelids grow heavier by the second. Giving up the fight against your exhaustion, you let your head rest against his shoulder.
The last thing you mutter before completely dozing off is, “I saw the sugar free Red bull… you actually listened to me.”
Lane’s heart instantly hammers against his ribs, a heat rushing up his neck and flooding his face. Completely thrown off and unable to concentrate, he loses to a noob for the time all night.
“Whatever.” He mutters to no one, but himself.
[You have been added to the group chat “Sorting things out”]
Ludwig: SO I heard a comment from SOMEONE against me and Hinata-chan
Do you have anything to say, Lane’s work wife?
Lane: You fr created a group chat?
Save me (by BTS) from these men.
Lane: Can we like stop arguing?
It’s not good for the baby
How I felt after writing ounces and inches even though I live in Europe (or any other continents) 🏈🦅🗽
So, I hope you like part 2 and I'll see when to post the group chatfic
