You’re welcome to leave a letter, a prompt or simply something you’re curious about. I may take my time crossing the distance, but I read every message that reaches me.
Masterlist - AO3
Fandom: Harry Potter • The Freak Circus • Big Bad Dogs • ETC
Mainly for indie game i have played so far.
I focus on slow burn/romance tension, headcanon and healing.
Accounts for other fandoms:
TKDB/SD: @kinarchivist
BSH/HTBUWYYB: @radonair
English is not my first language ⚠️
I can use Vietnamese and English but my English is kinda rusty so if I make any mistake pls remind me. Thank you.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
ɴᴇᴜʀ
Note: I'm not allowing any paraphrasing or feeding my works to AI.
Plagiarism isn’t flattery, it’s theft. If you’re inspired by my work, ask first. Respect the time and effort writers put into their stories. Let’s keep this community creative and fair.
its the first time in my life im experiencing 40 degrees im fucking melting + im sitting all day on a leather gaming chair in front of a huge ass gaming computer💔💔💔💔
There's this Asian tip we always use. It's always around 40 degree where I live when summer comes. Fill a plastic bottle with water and put it in the freezer until it turns into ice. Leave it there for 3 to 5 days, or even a week if you can. Older ice tends to melt more slowly. Then take it out and wrap a towel around it. Hugging it can help cool you down because it gives off cold air.
Also, if you have a shelf or rack that's a little shorter than your fan, freeze a large tray of water and place it in front of the fan. DIY AC 🌬️
It's better not to use ice cubes. Just fill the whole tray with water and freeze it into one solid block. It'll stay colder for longer. All of my international student friends used to do that when they first moved to Europe.
I just finished the Lane fic and I crave more. ITS SO GOODDDDUHHHHH😩😩😩😩 I also LOVE how you are nailing lanes character and even the dynamic between reader and lane. Im eating it up and feel so full and greedy for MOREEE👅👅👅👅 I will have notifications on for when the next part comes out🫰 thank you for blessing me. #stayfreaky 🐛
Thank you for your kind support Pookie 🩷
I was having lots of fun writing him because ehe he's (our) loser 👀
I just found out you're in BBD fandom too, and you've been there for so long?! Hello? Why didn't I know that before? Also your fic is so good I devour it in one night (I need sleep). Thank you for the food 👨🍳
Hi Pookie 🩷 Glad you enjoyed it!
I don't think I've been in the fandom for that long (I actually don't know when BBD was first released). When I played it for the first time, the 2nd Shift was already out, so I don't think I've been around for very long haha.
Truly incredible how, nowadays, some people need certain things in stories to be literally spelled out or "they're just headcanons".
Have these people never heard of 'subtext'? Even in real life people don't always literally spell out everything to others. There is nuance in actions and dialogue.
Pairing: Lane x FEM!Reader (Reader is both a dog trainer and a dog herself, make of that what you will 😈)
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
<previous chapter> - <next chapter>
You have no idea what is going on in his mind, one moment he is like this and another moment he is like that, it really confuses you and exhausts you at the same time.
But you try to be patient, because in a way, you understand how hard it is not to be able to voice your own thoughts, to have all these emotions swirling inside you with no proper outlet.
It is because Lane reminds you a lot of yourself back in your teenage rebellion phase, which is why you find it hard to ignore his antics and just assume he is a bad person overall.
You remember when people considered you as some hopeless case, someone too far gone to be helped and guided, and even through all that, you still stand here, completely normal and whole, at least from the outside.
But you cannot deny that you have lost some part of yourself alongside those paths you took alone, and because of that, every time you meet anyone who just slightly resembles your past self, you cannot help but pity them a bit, be more patient for a bit, try not to walk away immediately for a bit. Some of that has given you great experiences, and some have not, though you would say, you do not regret most of the things you do.
You took the coat in your hands as you slowly put it on, the fabric still carrying some warmth.
You look at Lane now, having his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes darting elsewhere, and he is clearly still pissed and annoyed but still chooses to stay instead of leaving.
What an amusing sight to see.
You wonder if he ever recognizes that he keeps following you around, like even when you snap and kick him slightly, he would still stay. As if he is anticipating that you would throw him a treat, a bone, give him a pat or call him a good boy.
You are not a mind reader, obviously, and there are still many things about Lane that you do not know. But for now, most of what he shows you, you can see right through all those unserious, unpleasant jokes he makes, or how words roll out of that foul mouth of his.
You know he has some issues, you just wonder where these issues come from.
It is not to the extent of being too curious or anything, just enough for you to sometimes wonder if you should bash his skull open and see what is really inside, because there is no other scientific, proper theory that can explain his mind in some way to you.
You look at his side profile as his eyebrows still frown slightly, and for a moment, he looks like a sulky puppy that just got scolded by its owner for chewing on some shoes.
You cannot help but let the chuckle escape your lips, a small, involuntary sound that breaks the tense silence.
And that both catches Lane's attention and irritates him at the same time as he speaks up, his voice carrying a note of indignation.
"What is so funny?" he asks out, as if your laughter has directly offended him.
"Do you think I look funny? Pathetic? A loser to you?" he asks out so spitefully, and the more his tone grows exasperated, the deeper the corner of your lip grows, your amusement only increasing.
"Your words, not mine," you answer him as you shrug your shoulders.
That may have pulled the last trigger of him, because you imagine if he had a tail right now, it would be all fluffy because of anger.
"Are you trying to be a bitch again?" His words roll out, and they remain completely damaging to you as you look at him.
His pale blue eyes seem to grow deeper and darker as the light does not quite reach them, and you speak up calmly. "I do not think I will ever be as much of a bitch as you when you are whiny, Lane," you say, and the words hit their mark.
"I am not whiny," he argues back almost immediately.
Your chuckle just grows deeper as it rumbles in your chest, the sound echoing in the empty alley.
"Sure, whatever you say," you speak up to him.
He scoffs annoyingly before looking away, turning his back toward you, and you find his reaction hilarious.
Because you know he was angry a moment ago, but at the same time, he does not seem to be that pissed off either. And you wonder why, because your attention was still on him and that is enough?
"Turn around, Lane, let me see how busted your nose is," you speak up to him, and the young man remains still and unfazed, not moving at all, just standing there stiffly with his back to you as if he has made up his mind not to fall for any words you say anymore, ignoring your voice completely, and you sigh in the back of your mind.
"Okay then," you raise your voice a bit wittily as you lean against the wall slightly, your posture casual and relaxed.
"Your face is the only redemption part of yours, Lane. I just assume you are no longer that good looking after having some knuckle sandwich," you make a small mockery comment, stroking his ego just the wrong way enough to prickle under his skin.
"So that is why you are embarrassed then," you continue, and you do not say anything for who knows how long a moment, the silence stretching between you like a taut wire.
If there were a clock on the wall, you could hear it tick tock right now, but there is not, just the heavy silence of the alley and the faint sounds of the city in the distance.
As for Lane, even when you are only able to see his shadow in the alleyway, how his silhouette just seems to grow wider and longer in this eerily space, you can still tell, his shoulders are tensed up, and how he is fighting himself internally whether to turn around and face you or not.
You just mindlessly lean against the wall as your eyes stay on his back, and for not even three seconds long, he immediately lets out a defeated groan before ruffling his hair and turning around to face you, his expression a mixture of annoyance and reluctant compliance.
"You are so fucking annoying sometimes," he grumbles under his breath, and you only let out a laugh, the sound carrying in the cold air.
"Get one to know one," you push yourself from the wall as Lane just steps closer to you, as if he really anticipates you to check on him, and you do, because well, you still feel bad for him in some way, it must have been hurt after one or two days.
"Did it hurt? Did you visit the hospital like I told you to?" you ask him out as your fingers lift his chin up slightly to see some slight bruises still visible on his face.
The discoloration standing out against his pale skin in the dim light.
And just as you think it is really difficult to view his face under this horrible darkness, a bulb suddenly lights up at the back of the alley.
Oh so this shithole has a light after all.
But for some reason, this light is even worse than at the Mad Dog store, it is too dim and so flickering that it just overstimulates your vision a bit, but it is better than nothing.
So you just press your finger against his jawline as Lane lets out a small grunting sound, the noise escaping his lips before he can stop it.
"Fucking hell, are you trying to torture me?" he asks out.
You just smile at his complaint as you force his face up slightly, your touch firm but careful. You do not answer him for a moment, you just keep looking at those bruises on his face, and it somewhat reminds you of your brother, who used to be a very reckless child, always coming home with bruises and scratches, either from hanging around with friends or something else, and it makes your mind drift back to his missing call, and you hope it is nothing serious.
"You worrying is showing, sis," and that irritated, annoyed voice echoes above you once again as your eyes find his pale blue gaze, the smirk even more visible now when you hear his tone.
"You know, if you really are that concerned, how about you kiss me better," he says, that same old unserious flirting teasing again.
Most of the time you just ignore him, throwing his words to the back of your head as you just do not want to think about his meaningless teasing. This time is no different, you ignore his words entirely.
"I asked, did you visit the hospital?" you repeat your question, a bit more impatient this time, and you almost see Lane's lip pout out in unamusement when you clearly did not listen to what he said earlier.
He averts his gaze, looking away, and you just force him to look back at you. Your hand almost pressing on his cheek as his blue gaze meets you once again, flickering slightly under the dim light. His long eyelashes just flush slightly when he blinks, and you have to admit, he is so annoyingly handsome. The type that even with bruises and cuts and scratches just seem to add more to his striking features, somehow suiting his cocky attitude in some way.
"I did, they said I’m fine. I even have my arm bandaged again," he lifts his hand up slightly, a bit exaggerating, and only then you realize that earlier when you grabbed on his arm, you have accidentally grabbed the bandaged one. Since he had his coat on, the long sleeve covered up all the bandage wrapped around it, and you completely forgot.
"Fuck! I just grabbed you so tightly on that arm though," you quickly pull your hand away from his face, and for a brief moment, you almost imagine his face almost following, chasing after your touch as you shift your attention to his arm.
He does not shift away, letting you do whatever you want, his eyes watching you with an unreadable expression.
"Yeah, hurt like a bitch when you clung on me like that," he lets out a bitter comment before you see that smugness smirk return to his face once again.
"Although it does look funny when you are panicked like an idiot like that," he makes another mockery comment as his eyes lock on you, and you just press your hand against his arm a bit too hard as he hisses out a painful sound.
"You are so evil, woman!" he yelps out before pulling his arm away from your touch out of pain, and you just laugh at his dumbass.
"Deserve," you throw him a small answer before leaning against the wall, flicking out your cigarette packet again.
You just want to curse out loud because those bastards made you drop one of your precious cigarettes, and now your mood is even shittier than before.
Taking one stick in between your lips, you shove your hand to the pocket of your coat, only to find it empty, and that is weird. You remember putting it right there, you never leave your house without your lighter because you cannot go on too long without your cigarette, so a lighter is an essential thing to you.
You shove your hand to the other pocket, only to touch some cold material, and you take it out, only to see that familiar perfume vial.
Did Jul slip this in your pocket without you knowing, so she did give it to you.
You thought she was being unserious when she said the scent suited you. \
Such a tempting and captivating scent, suited you?
You doubt that, you have rarely used any strong smell perfume, the best you have is some cheap ass produce that the scent stays inside the moment you step outside, and under the sun for five seconds, all the scent has already faded away.
But this one, it seems to linger around for long, even now you can still smell it between your nose tip, and you put the vial back into your pocket, shoving it a bit deeper than you intend as you turn to Lane with unamusement in your eyes.
"Give it back," you order him, almost grunting out the words as he gives you that dumbfounded, innocent look.
"Give what back?" he asks out as if he genuinely has no idea what you are talking about, and he plays it a bit too well, even you almost fall for his acting, if not because you know you cannot survive without your cigarettes, you might really believe you have forgotten your lighter at home.
"My lighter, I know you have it," you warn him as your tone grows a bit flatter with impatience, and the corner of his lip just curves up in a sneer, a smug expression that makes you want to strangle him.
"I don’t know what you are talking about, I didn’t take anything," he clearly finds your reaction amusing as he just shoves his hands in either side of his coat pocket, and you just want to grab him by the neck and shake him around like a ragdoll.
"I am not joking, Lane, give it back now," you step closer to him, and he does not seem afraid of your words at all, just leaning down slightly to have a better look at you, but the dim light and the night out cast his shadow over half of your face. You cannot even see his face properly, but you are sure that smirk is definitely still there, so smugly printed on his face.
"No," he does not even pretend anymore, and you step closer and try to shove your hand in his pocket.
"Where did you put it, motherfucker?" you ask out as Lane just lets you give him that body check, raising his hands up in the air so dramatically as you check both of his pockets and find nothing, and eww, you do not want to check his pants or anything, but you really consider that as you want to find your lighter.
"Lane," you call out his name, a bit warning and threatening, but the motherfucker still looks at you with that smug smirk as he speaks up.
"You did not even try to find it. Zero for the effort," his words just irritate you more and more each moment as your heels tap against the ground slightly before you pull him by the collar of his coat, pulling the zipline off slightly to try to find if he has any inner pocket.
"I am not joking, where did you put it? That is my keepsake," you remind him that you are really being serious about that lighter.
But his hand suddenly catches your wrist so firmly that you are startled by his action.
"What is this?" His question makes you pause whatever you are doing and follow his gaze to land right on the slight bruises around your wrist, the faint marks that must be from earlier when that nasty motherfucker was gripping on your hand so tightly.
"Nothing, I just scratched myself a bit," you try to pull your hand away and deflect on that, because you know how exaggerating Lane can sometimes be, most of the time.
"Was it that guy from earlier? I told you he was shady," he starts, but his grip just grows tighter, and trying to pull away just seems to twist your wrist even more, so you stand still.
"No, it was not him, it is nothing really," you sigh heavily as you try to ease him down, but you see the way his pale blue pupils seem to flicker between your face and the mark on your wrist, his expression hardening.
"Nothing?" he asks again, and you can hear that bitterness and sourness between his breath.
"You really think I am that stupid, don’t you?" he asks out as his eyebrow cocks up slightly at your words.
Using your free hand, you take the cigarette from your lip so you can talk better.
"Listen, it is nothing serious," you try to ease him down, but obviously the confidence in your tone is dying down at each minute you feel his gaze piercing on you.
"Nothing serious, or not my business for you to tell me," and suddenly the conversation just once again circles back to where you do not want it to be the most.
Because you do not like explaining yourself, you clearly do not like having to tell people what you have been through and what happened, it just feels worse than being in that same situation.
"I do not want to talk about that," you finally voice out what is in your mind, and Lane still is not satisfied with that.
He seems like he wants to argue back, but in the end, he decides not to, like swallowing anything he has back to the back of his throat as he looks at you. His palm is still wrapped around your wrist as you feel his thumb rub against the faint mark on your skin, so softly that you feel the goosebumps growing on you. Because his fingertip is slightly rougher than how slender his fingers look. You want to pull your hand away because the way he touches you is a bit too intimate, and the silence feels a bit too awkward.
"Fuck," but his sudden curse under his breath is loud enough to echo in the space and startle you.
"Should have told you to go inside, and I should not have taken that much time talking with my friends," he says, and you raise your eyebrows at him as his eyes meet you again.
"Well, it is not your fault," you answer him, and he does not seem to listen to you, but at the same time, he is.
"No, this place is a shithole," he continues to murmur under his breath as he looks at you.
"And you," but he pauses mid-sentence as your eyes are still on him, and you see the pink hue slowly creep up to the side of his face as he slowly looks away, a bit bashful by what he is almost going to say, you suppose.
"I what?" you ask him, pressing on the matter as his eyes snap back to you, meeting your gaze with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat.
"Nothing," he says quickly, too quickly, and he looks away again.
But his hand is still on your wrist, his thumb still tracing that faint circle on your skin, and you feel the heat of his touch spreading up your arm like a slow fire.
"I was just going to say," he starts, but then he stops again, his jaw clenching as if he is fighting with himself, and you watch the war play out on his face, the way his expressions shift from frustration to vulnerability to something else entirely that you cannot quite name.
"You are so goddamn stubborn," he finally says, and there is no heat in his voice, just a tired resignation that makes your heart ache in a way you do not want to examine.
"You know what I mean," his tone sounds a bit troublesome as your eyes continue to follow him, watching the way his jaw tenses and relaxes, the way his Adam's apple bobs slightly as he swallows.
You see the way his eyes flicker over you up and down, assessing you in a way that feels different from before, and how his palm almost feels a bit sweaty around your skin, a nervous energy radiating from him that you have not quite seen before.
Oh, he is nervous, what a rare sight.
Well, not that rare, but rare enough to make you pause and really pay attention to him, to the subtle shifts in his demeanor that you usually brush off as just another one of his antics.
"I do not actually," you speak up so casually, as if you really have no idea what he is referring to, and that earns a laugh from him, a dry, mocking sound aimed more at himself than at you.
"Do not tell me you have no idea how many eyes were on you the moment you walked through that damn door," his voice is low, and somehow that makes each word that rolls out of his tongue seem to grow heavier and heavier, pressing down on you like a physical weight.
"They were just waiting for the opportunity, when you are alone, and they would make their move on you," he emphasizes, and you see the way his eyebrows knit together out of annoyance, the lines on his forehead deepening in the dim light.
"Whether you are interested or not," he adds, and the words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication.
"Oh," you let out a small answer as you look up at him indifferently, your face betraying nothing of the thoughts racing through your mind.
You feel him step closer, the tip of his shoes slightly brushing against yours, and how his presence just seems to grow clearer with his breath almost fanning over your face. You can smell that alcohol, that cheap beer through his breath, but for some reason, you do not mind that at all. The scent, you mean, it does not repulse you the way it should, the way it would with anyone else.
You look at how he looms over you, his invasion of your space and your scent not really making you tremble at all. At least, not as scary as when those other guys were circling you like some stray dogs baring their fangs around each other, fighting over the bone, scrambling for food, because that had made you feel exposed, vulnerable, like you were just some kind of piece of meat in their eyes, prying you open and weak to their cruelty, and you do not like that feeling, not one bit.
Though you never seriously really take Lane's words and antics as something into consideration, it is always just some meaningless joke and teasing, just his way to cope, your way to buy time in that hellhole you call a job.
But you still know he is a man regardless, you just believe he would never do anything to you, and you expect it to be so.
But right now, the way he looks at you, his pale blue eyes just seem to grow darker slightly with something so subtle behind his gaze that you cannot quite tell what it is. And if you looked closely enough, you might have caught how his throat bobs down slowly, but fortunately for him enough, the dim light is not enough for you to see every kind of small, subtle thing about him.
And for a moment, he thinks himself as no better than those dogs.
Men. Do not they always claim they are creatures that follow their instinct like some wild animal, like primal thing, claiming that is just how they are, not something they should be held accountable or criticized over.
But that means they put others in danger because of their so-called "natural instinct" and how they just straight up dehumanize themselves while demanding to be treated like a human.
Does Lane think he is any better than those men?
No, when it comes to desire.
But yes when it comes to being decent enough not to launch and pounce himself on other people, especially when they obviously do not give out that consent.
But that does not mean he does not have that dirty desire that most people sneer at men for. He has. Plenty of it actually.
Maybe even worse than some men if you ever were able to read what is running through his mind every time he sees you.
You know he fancies you, right?
Fancies you enough that even when you are in the most shambled, wrecked state, he would still find you so goddamn fucking attractive.
Even when you look sleep deprived with horrible dark circles under your eyebags. Even when you look so hollow doing your work. Even when you make such vulgar, offhand comments about anything. He wants you in every single one of those moments, a constant, aching thrum beneath his skin.
You do not fancy him as much as he does toward you, you never take him seriously, nor even into consideration for a potential threat or a potential partner. Which is why you are always so careless around him.
Because you never think he would do anything, and you are right, he will not do anything. But it is not because he is perfectly well-behaved. Quite the opposite. He is only like this because there is a leash strong enough to chain him to something resembling morality, so that even when a bone is dangled right in front of his eyes, he would not be able to take it.
But that does not mean that the sight of that bone does not attract him, and even when he closes his eyes and turns away, he can always sense the smell lingering around, luring him in and whispering in his ears, telling him to break out of those chains and take what he thinks belongs to him.
He is a man himself. He knows how men work, how malicious they can be.
Of course he would know, what he feels about you might be the way other men feel about you. Some with self-control and some with none, and the thought churns his stomach.
He does not like it, not just because you are in a vulnerable position, but because he knows you are smarter than him. You are way more capable of protecting yourself, and somehow it makes his existence feel meaningless.
Because instead of some protector, in your eyes, maybe you will not even give him a piece of your mind as much as those dogs out there, and that twists him the wrong way.
He does not like the idea that you pay much more attention to someone else, even if that attention is fear or anger.
If you want a dog, you already have one standing right in front of you.
If you want a mad dog, he can try to be one. He can bare his teeth and snap just as hard.
All you have to do is help him take off this unbearable leash.
But he guesses even in the back of your mind, your subconscious, you would still be able to be aware of that, that Lane is no much different than those dogs in frenzy.
Do you think you can tame him enough, because he is on a leash, that is why you think so little of him. You think he is harmless enough so you can just tease him on and on like that, do you not.
And tonight, not only are you all dolled up, not for his eyes, but for yourself only, but he has to think of that other men can see how ravishing you are.
It is like he has been bewitched in some way, he could not take his eyes off you the moment you stepped through that door, his eyes were already on you and he recognized you immediately, recognized you even before his gaze lifted up.
Because it was your scent that was the first thing that made him notice it. Was that your perfume?
Normally you would only have that tangy scent of tobacco on your sleeve, your collar and the back of your hair, or maybe even between your fingertips.
He knows, he smells it when you help him bandage up, he could not help it.
It just flooded in his lungs like that, lingering around as if to remind him exactly why he ever had his eyes on you to begin with.
Do you ever notice those subtle things about him, or do you just think he is some type of brat, wet behind the ear and immature enough to make you laugh and make a joke about to your friends.
His hand suddenly loosens around your wrist, but he just leans closer, making you step away instinctively, until your back comes in contact with a solid stone wall behind you, the cold brick pressing against your shoulder blades through the fabric of your coat.
He does not exactly cage you in, he does not circle you either, you can step away anytime you want, but the way his eyes are looking at you somehow makes you think it is a better idea not to make any reckless attempt.
Like a dog sniffing around you before it decides whether it would find you as a threat, or as a piece of meat, or if it would just leave you alone.
"La-" you want to call his name, at least to shake him off whatever is going on with him, but he does not even let you finish, the syllable dying on your lips as he continues.
"You know," his words come out a bit more raspy than usual, his voice rough and low, as his silhouette finally looms over you, almost completely, and when he steps closer, suddenly even that sliver of dim light seems to disappear between you.
You can no longer see his expression, just the dark shape of him against the faint glow of the flickering bulb at the end of the alley. But you can feel his breath mingling with yours enough, hot and shallow as if he is trying to hold himself back from something, the tension in his body palpable even through the darkness.
"I noticed you first by your scent," his face suddenly so close to your ear, and you feel that curl strand of his hair fall slightly, grazing and brushing against your skin featherlight enough, close enough to make your pulse race, to make your heart almost skip a beat, and for a moment you thought he would sink his fangs down right into the side of your neck.
"It smells like Hellspits but…." he stops halfway through his sentence because he does not even know how to describe the scent anymore.
If Hellspits has that synthetic cherry and the sourness and that tangy scent, then the scent now lingering on your skin has somehow evolved to be more seductive.
It has that boozy and musk scent lacing with that familiar cherry, but somehow with a smoky undertone that seems more intoxicating. The synthetic, rebellious sourness of the tobacco gone because you no longer smoke that Hellspits brand since it got discontinued, and he somehow misses the scent himself.
It was like your color, your natural cologne, but now it is replaced by a velvety cherry that clings to your skin, your hair, like sin. It did not just linger in the air anymore, it more invited people to lean in closer to you, to breathe the scent in from the crook of your neck. It is such a dangerous scent and somehow it fits you and does not fit you all at the same time.
It confuses him so much that he grunts out slightly. The sound echoing through your ear right to the back of your mind, scraping across your scalp like thousands of ants crawling over your head.
And if Hellspits was a cheap, reckless night on the neon streets, this perfume was the expensive, unhinged secret kept behind closed doors. And both you and Lane are afraid to even see what is behind that door, but curiosity is a really odd thing, it makes people do things they tend to regret by the next moment.
You feel the goosebumps remain on your skin as you look up at him. For the first time, you finally find a bit of hesitation when it comes to facing him, but you cannot see anything inside the darkness, you just know he is there because his presence is clear and his breathing is still fanning at the side of your face, and for that short moment, he seems to notice your subtle shift of your body, the way you tense up slightly.
As you suddenly feel him exhale deeply right close to your neck, it is not like he buries his face there. But it is close enough for you to feel like there is an intruder, dare and steal some of that sinister scent from you.
Your body is all stiff up when you feel him breathe in the scent by your neck and your ear. You do not even dare to move, at least, not until you feel his hand slide up around your waist. It is subtle enough for you not to notice at first, but his grip is firm enough to make your body shift slightly.
How his large palm slides under your coat as if it is the most natural thing to do, and sits right where it should, just resting there against your hip. His hand just stays there, he does not do anything more, he does not grip you too tightly, nor does he pull you closer to him.
He just places his hand there as if it is anchoring him, so that his senses will not drift too far away in the moment. As if he is reminding himself of whatever self-control he has left in himself.
And the weight of it, the heat of it, seeps through the thin fabric of your dress, and you feel your breath catch in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribs like a caged bird desperate to escape.
*☆ *☆ *☆
"You know how pathetic it was," he murmurs under his breath, his voice dropping to a plaintive whisper right against your ear, sounding so utterly broken it borders on pathetic.
You can feel the heat of his words against your skin, can feel the way his breath hitches slightly as if the admission itself has cost him something precious.
"To get jealous over a fucking cigarette," he continues, and a low, frustrated groan escapes his throat as he chokes out those words.
The sound vibrating through the air between you, so vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache with an emotion you do not want to name.
And suddenly your mind now remembers the unlit cigarette still resting between your fingers, the paper and tobacco, a forgotten weight that you have been holding onto through all of this.
You are surprised that you have not even dropped it yet as your hand rolls slightly into a fist, the cigarette pressing against your palm. But soon you try to regain your composure a bit as your eyes remain on him, studying the way the dim light catches the edges of his face, the way his jaw is set with a tension that speaks of barely leashed desire.
You do not say anything at first, not because you do not know what to say but because you need to collect your thoughts and think carefully before you ever say anything that might offend him further. Because you can see how he is right now, how close to the edge, and you do not want to push him over. Raising your hand slightly, you tuck on the fabric of his open coat, your fingers curling into the material, and you feel his body stiffen, jump slightly under your touch. As if he was not expecting you to reach out, as if your simple contact has sent a shock through his system.
You do not pull him or anything, you just grab your hand slightly on that fabric, a small anchor in the storm of tension between you. And his eyes remain on you, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle, as if he is eyeing you, inspecting you, sizing you up to see whether you would be a good fit to fill whatever void of hunger he has inside him.
He does not move away, but you almost hear his breath hiss, a sharp intake of air that speaks to his focus, and he is so focused on your closeness that he does not even notice how your fingers slightly tremble on the fabric of his coat, the small betrayals of your own body that you cannot quite control.
"So that is why you hid my lighter," you turn the conversation away slightly, circling it back to him.
And he just leans down to look at you, his pale blue eyes seeming to grow deeper and darker when your eyes lock onto his, the pupils dilating slightly as if he is drowning in the moment.
"Because you are jealous of some cigarettes?" you ask out quietly enough, your voice carrying a soft, teasing edge that you know will get under his skin, and your breath mingles with his so softly. The warmth of it enough to make his stiff body slightly loosen up, like he is lowering his guard, letting you in just a little bit more.
"So," your hand slides a bit deeper into the fabric of his coat as you touch his shirt underneath, feeling the warmth of his chest through the thin cotton, "you want to replace them?" you ask out, a bit more coquettish than you intend to.
Your voice drops to a lower, more intimate register that seems to catch him off guard. But it is good enough, because you feel his hand grow tighter around your waist, through the fabric you can still feel how hot his palm is, the heat seeming to radiate between you two, and you almost can imagine how sweaty his palm must be, how his heart must be racing just as fast as yours.
You tug on his coat slightly once again, a small, insistent pull that brings him just a fraction closer, and his eyes just seem to quiver under your words, his composure cracking at the edges like ice under pressure.
He looks like a whimpering dog like this, and you cannot help but notice how different he is.
Because a moment ago he was still so confident, looming over you with a hint of territorial possession, but now he just seems to grow weaker at each melodic tone you let out of your mouth, each word a small weapon that pierces through his defenses. Like it tickles his chest just right, making his head hard to think straight.
You feel him step closer, pressing you against the back of the wall slightly as his other hand reaches up, and he gently tugs the stray strand that wanders on the side of your face to the side, the back of his slender fingers just grazing against your ear so softly, so featherlight that it tickles you slightly, enough to make you almost squirm under his touch. But you do not react to that, you just look at him, holding his gaze as he almost presses his forehead against yours.
"You have no idea," it takes him a moment to admit, quiet and slow at first as he looks at you, his eyes carrying both a whimpering plea and a bit of command in his tone, a strange duality that makes your heart skip.
"How I have to fucking share a smoke with you just to get a taste," he says, and the words are laced with frustration.
"Fuck you and your stupid habit!" He adds, and he is so cranky that you almost laugh out loud at his words, at the sheer absurdity of him being jealous of an inanimate object.
"Is that so?" you ask him out, a bit too sweetly and softly.
He just groans out, a sound that is a bit of crumble, a bit of defeated, a bit helpless, a bit capitulate, and you cannot tell which is which anymore. But it is enough to pique your interest as your hand still grips the fabric of his coat. You let him come closer, but you do not allow him to do anything further. And he looks at you with anticipation, with a bit of pleading, like a puppy waiting for some treat
If you were drunk, you would surely give in to him, or worse, pounce yourself on him and kiss him until he fucking forgets his own name.
He really thinks he is the only one who has to control himself?
This is what you do not like about men, they always think they are the only wild dogs in this dogs-eat-dogs world. What makes them think others cannot be just as much of a mad dog like them, what a naive way of thinking.
"Then working with me must have been torture for you," you lift your face and reach up slightly, enough that the tip of your nose bumps against his, and you can smell that medication scent, can sense the softness of the bandage on his nose, only briefly but enough to make him almost squirm.
"Is it not?" you emphasize as you continue to whisper to him, tilting your head a bit, "more reason for me to quit the job," and you feel his hand on your waist just grow more firmly as he grunts out once again.
"Do not mess with me," he says, and the words carry absolutely no damage toward you.
Is that supposed to be a warning?
But it sounds so pathetic you almost laugh, because he is indeed really weak against you, is he not. Once again you wonder where all his confidence comes from when he is this much of a mess around you.
And you hear your name roll out of his lips, through the breath that mingles between you two, the sound of it sending a shiver down your spine.
He seems to take your reciprocation as permission, because his hand cups the side of your face so gently.
You feel the rough sensation of his palm, the calluses on his hand making the sensation become more vivid to you. You feel his breath grow closer to you, warm and uneven.
He tilts his head slightly, angling his face just right, aiming slowly at your lips. The anticipation builds in the air between you like a held breath,
But before he can come any closer, your hand moves away from his coat, and your other hand places the cigarette you have been holding the whole time right between his lips.
He is a bit caught off guard, his eyes opening wide when you flick out the lighter and light the butt of the cigarette. The amber hue of the dim flame from the lighter somehow seems even brighter than the wrecked ass lamp above you two, casting a warm glow across his features.
You see the warm light reflect in his eyes, laced with a bit of surprise and disappointment, very subtle, and for a brief moment, maybe you can see your own reflection in his eyes, a tiny figure caught in the depths of his gaze.
You do not say anything, your eyes just flicker from his face to the flame between you two, watching as the cigarette catches, glowing orange, and when you see it has been completely lit up, you pull your hand away slightly, feeling the grip of his hand on your waist loosen up a bit as you finally speak up to Lane once again.
"Take a deep breath, Lane," you coo once again.
He just looks at you with those pathetic, hurtful eyes, the cigarette still resting between his lips, the smoke curling up into the darkness like a question left unanswered.
As if you just messed with him and stepped right onto his tail, but still, he listens, he obeys your words, and you can tell he wants to sigh out heavily, wants to let out all the frustration and desire that is building up inside him like steam in a pressure cooker.
But he does not, instead his eyelids slightly close, covering up the ocean blue that you always find so captivating, that shade of pale blue that seems to hold the secrets of storms and calm seas all at once.
And you watch as his lashes rest against his cheeks, long and dark, casting shadows in the dim light. And he inhales deeply, the tangy scent of the cigarette slowly filling the space between you, that Cindervein lacing with the velvet cherry perfume on you, somehow strong enough to overpower, to cover up all of your natural scent. And maybe it really does help you two to calm down, because you finally see the space between Lane's eyebrows relax a bit, the tension easing from his features like a knot slowly coming undone.
And his eyelids slowly open again, his eyelashes fluttering slightly when his gaze locks on you again, and there is no longer that deep, dark gaze piercing into your soul, instead he looks more grounded now, a bit clouded if you are being more accurate, as if the smoke has cleared some of the haze of desire from his mind.
He seems to have calmed down a bit, and you do not say anything, but your hand reaches up as your fingers gently take the cigarette away from his lips. Your fingertip brushing against his lower lip so softly that he leans in out of instinct, chasing the contact, but you have already pulled your hand away, leaving him reaching for something that is no longer there.
And he exhales out that smoky veil, the gray tendrils lacing and circling around both of you, breaking up that intoxicating scent that had been clouding your senses earlier, replacing it with something more grounding.
Your lips curve up slightly into a small smile as you part your lips open slightly, enough to tug the cigarette between them, and you too, inhale in a heavier sensation, letting the smoke fill your lungs, the familiar burn settling into your chest like an old friend.
It is just how Cindervein is different from Hellspits, it smells heavier, but tastes way softer, while Hellspits, god it smelled so sweet and soft, but tasted way, way heavier, enough to choke you if you were not used to it.
"Is it that fun messing with me?" you hear him, loud and clear, and you look at him between the gray veil dividing you two in the world.
Even when his hand is still on you, even when he is still standing so close, there still seems to be some type of barrier between you, keeping both of you from crossing any invisible line that no one knows who was the one that drew it up first.
Before you answer him, you breathe out the soft smoky veil, and it travels in the air, lacing between you and him, floating right against his face, seeming to seep into his skin, and he does not seem to mind the smoke as he just looks at you, waiting for your answer as if he is holding a grudge against you.
"Look in the mirror, Doll eyes," you mock him by mimicking his tone from when he talked with you earlier inside the bar.
The nickname rolling off your tongue with a teasing edge that you know will get under his skin.
"Besides," you take another inhale as the tobacco between your lips seems to flicker with that tiny red dot, like how his heart must be beating right now, chaos and off-rhythm, a wild drumbeat that matches the pounding in your own chest.
"I do not kiss, nor hug, nor touch," you pause for a moment as you breathe the smoke out once again, syncing it with the words you say next, "nor have sex," and you almost see how his jawline tightens at your emphasis.
His other hand pressing on the wall at the back of your head, and you can sense it roll into a fist, the knuckles white with tension.
"With anyone I am not in a relationship with," you finish, and for a moment you see something in his eyes light up, a spark of hope that makes his lips part open, but you have already stopped his words even before they can come out.
"I do not do casual dating either, Lane," your words come out coldly and firmly enough for him to get the message as you inhale another deep breath from the tobacco between your lips, letting the smoke settle in your lungs before releasing it slowly.
"You sure have lots of rules for yourself," he makes a bitter comment, and you feel his hand loosen around your waist, the warmth of his palm fading slightly as he pulls back just a fraction, and your lips just curve up slightly as you look at him.
"I learned it the hard way," you throw that simple and short answer to him.
And you take the tobacco in between your fingers as you lean against the wall slightly, not even caring if his hand is still on you, at least he is not trying to do anything, at least he is respecting the boundaries you have just laid out.
You breathe out once again as you lock eyes with him, the smoke curling between you like a veil of secrecy.
"If you want your reward, you need to try harder than that," you emphasize as you look at him, narrowing your eyes as you scan his expression, and he too is scanning your face to see any sign of bluffing, but unfortunately for him, you are being totally serious.
You really do not do casual dating, people tend to assume when they see you, quick to judge you by your appearance. But not many know you have quite strict rules when it comes to relationships yourself, rules that you have carved out of pain and experience and the hard won knowledge of what you deserve.
His eyes lace with both hesitation, doubt, and disappointment, and he cannot hide his feelings that well, especially when his eyes do not lie as much as his mouth does, revealing the conflict raging inside him.
"Fix your fucking attitude first, Lane," you remind him, but it sounds more like an advice than a command. And he just continues to stay quiet, as if he is really taking your words into consideration, as if he is letting them sink in.
You can still see that annoyance hint on his face, but still he is being unusually quiet, a rarity that makes you pause.
You place the cigarette back between your lips as your hand reaches up to touch his ear, almost like pinching him on his helix, and Lane lets out a small yelp at your sudden action.
His body jumped slightly at the unexpected contact. You do not press hard enough to hurt him, but enough for him to let out that small groan.
You can sense the tip of his ear is burning hot under your fingers, the heat radiating from the sensitive skin.
"And do not think I am not noticing this piercing set you have," you press your fingertip against the star shaped stud as you look at it more closely now, the metal catching the dim light.
"It is exactly the same as mine," and you watch as his eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by your observation.
He thinks he is so slick and sneaky, but you know, you noticed right the first moment he placed his hand behind the backrest of your stool, when he was busy barking that other guy away, and the star shaped stud was glistening under the dim bar light, shimmering and catching your attention immediately.
No wonder he was so quick to pick out that set, because he has the exact same one, even choosing to wear it tonight.
Cheeky bastard.
"Ouch! Stop pinching my ear," he whines out a bit annoyed, and you move your hand away, a small smirk playing on your lips as he just looks at you.
His hand finally leaving your waist to move up and rub his ear where you just pinched him, the skin slightly reddened now, and you laugh out loud at the sight.
"It is not some rare set, everybody knows it was a souvenir from the first tour of that stupid indie band," he tries to deflect and explain at the same time, and you buy his words for now, not pressing on the matter further. The cigarette is still burning between your lips as you let his excuse hang in the air.
You feel your phone buzz slightly, the vibration against your hip pulling you out of the moment, and you take it out to see it was Anna that called you, her name flashing on the screen.
You take the cigarette out of your lips once again as you pick up the phone, bringing it to your ear.
"Oh hey, where are you? Cindy said she picked up her phone then went to the bathroom, and when she returned, you were nowhere to be seen."
Anna's voice sounds worried and concerned, and you ease her down with a casual tone.
"I am outside for some smoke, I will come back right now, don’t worry," you answer, and she says okay before quickly hanging up, the line going dead.
You look at the call end as you turn to Lane, and once again, you place the cigarette between the parted lips of him, letting it rest there as you whisper quietly to him.
"Consider that as your reward tonight."
You then push him away slightly, your hands pressing against his chest, and you walk back inside. Not even sparing him a single glance, not even looking back to see how confused and dumbfounded he is, standing frozen in his spot like a statue, the cigarette still between his lips, the smoke curling up into the darkness like a question that will have to wait for another night to be answered.
Pairing: Lane x FEM!Reader (Reader is both a dog trainer and a dog herself, make of that what you will 😈)
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
<previous chapter> - <next chapter>
And as you thought you would have some time alone, Lane just slides into the seat next to you, so smoothly, so confidently.
As if it is his place, the place that was designed for him only, right next to you.
You feel the warmth of his presence before you even fully register that he has moved, the air around you shifting with his proximity.
"Lemonade," he huffs as he looks at the half-empty glass in front of you, his voice carrying a note of amused disbelief that makes you want to smack him.
"I did not know your taste is equal to some dull boiled chicken breast," he continues, and you can hear the teasing lilt in his voice, the way he is trying to get under your skin because that is just what he does, that is his specialty, pushing your buttons until you snap.
You roll your eyes at him as you push the glass away slightly, the condensation leaving a wet trail on the counter, and you turn to face him with a look that is equal parts annoyance and curiosity.
"Then what did you suggest?" you ask him as you lean your face slightly against the back of your hand, your eyes scanning his features, taking in the way the dim lighting catches the metal in his piercings, the way his dark curls fall across his forehead in that effortlessly messy way that you have always secretly found attractive.
And a small smile forms on his lips as his eyes dart slightly toward the counter, checking to see if anyone is watching, and knowing there is no bartender around. He so naturally leans closer to you, more like he slides his seat way closer to you than before, until there is barely any space left between you.
His scent immediately invades your personal space, you can barely hear any music around you anymore, the noise of the pub fading into a distant hum that seems to exist only in the background.
All you can hear is his voice and his soft breath, with that fresh minty scent of cheap men's care products that somehow smells better on him than it has any right to, and you feel your heart rate pick up slightly, a reaction that you try to ignore.
"Nothing. This place sucks at everything," he makes that comment, his voice low and conspiratorial.
You can’t help but chuckle out loud a bit, the sound escaping your lips before you can stop it, because he is not wrong, a place that fucks up lemonade, it is really hard to imagine what else they mess up in their menu.
Lane's gaze falls onto the drink that the dude earlier had ordered for you, the Malibu Ananas that you had so firmly declined, and he knits his eyebrows together slightly as he emphasizes his words. "Especially that one," he gestures at the glass and you laugh out again, the sound feeling lighter than it has all night.
"He might have tried to poison you, or worse," he speaks up once again, being all exaggerating and dramatic.
You lean against the backrest again, making the distance between him and you grow apart a bit. Because you need some space to breathe, to think clearly, to remember why getting too close to Lane is a bad idea.
"I did not plan to drink anyway," you speak up as you grab your bag on the counter, your fingers wrapping around the strap, and you can feel his eyes on you, watching your every move.
"Because you do not drink or…" he pauses.
And you almost startle when you feel your stool move so slightly, a gentle tug that pulls you closer to him, and your head turns to meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his in the dim light.
That pale blue gaze, but deep enough to capture anyone, to pull them under like a riptide, and his eyebrow slickly cocks up. The bandage on his nose catching your attention, and how his face is still slightly bruised from the incident at work, and somehow, despite all of that, he still looks like he is the most handsome one in the whole room.
A fact that you find both irritating and undeniable. Guess this is where all his ridiculous amount of confidence comes from, you think, because looking like that, he has probably never had to work for anyone's attention in his entire life. You tilt your head slightly when he pulls your seat a bit closer to him, closing the space between you two once again, and you wait, watching him, waiting to see what else he has to say, because you know there is more, there is always more with Lane.
"Or?" you repeat as your gaze locks with his.
The word hanging in the air between you like a challenge, a dare, a question that you are not sure you want to hear the answer to.
It is like a staring contest, and as you have mentioned several times before, Lane always loses this game against you. Because you never really feel afraid of him openly staring at you, you have always been used to the fact that people look at you, that they watch and judge and assess. So Lane, it is not something different or special, just another pair of eyes in a sea of them.
And the thing about you is that if you find someone attractive, not on the romantic level yet but just visually appealing, you will stare at them too, not as shamelessly as Lane because you still have some respect for other people's personal space. But you do stare, you see pretty and you say pretty, what is so hard to understand about that.
And when you look at Lane's eyes, all you can see is that pretty ocean sky irises, that mesmerizing shade of blue that seems to shift and change with the light. And it captures all your attention, like looking at some well painted canvas that keeps pulling you deeper into its depths, and you find yourself getting lost in them without even realizing it.
That must be the reason why you never find it hard to hold eye contact with anyone, because you simply focus on their eyes in the moment and nothing else, while when people look at you, you get that you are more intimidating to them than you thought, that your steady gaze makes them uncomfortable in ways they cannot quite articulate.
And as you expect, Lane shifts his gaze away first after a moment of staring way longer than he usually does, and he continues his words, but this time his voice grows so low you almost cannot hear it between the soft music playing in the background.
"Or because that guy is not your type?" he asks.
You do not answer him, you just laugh at his words as you turn away from him, once again landing your focus on your bag as you open it, searching for something that you are not quite sure you need yet.
"Do you wanna know?" you ask out, but you do not mean it seriously.
You just do not feel like answering his question, and Lane can tell, because he knows you well enough by now to read the subtle shifts in your mood. He seems displeased about your answer, and you can almost feel his sulky presence next to you, but it does not last long.
When you take the cigarette pack out of your bag, a bartender returns to the counter and politely reminds you of the rules.
"Sorry, we have a policy not to smoke indoors," the bartender says.
You want to sigh out loud as you figure, a pub that serves non-alcoholic drinks and sucks at everything on their menu, of course they would not allow indoor smoking either, because that would be too convenient.
"Do you have any place to smoke?" you ask.
The bartender seems troubled by that question, his eyes darting around as if he is trying to find a diplomatic answer.
"We… uhm… have the back alley," he finally offers, and you want to sigh for real but you hold back.
Because you need a cigarette and you are not going to let a little thing like a no-smoking policy stop you.
"Good enough," you say, and you grab your bag and immediately move out of your seat, your heels clicking against the floor as you head toward the back exit.
Lane seems surprised by you abandoning him like that, and he also stands up and follows you outside to the back alley like some lost puppy he is, trailing behind you with that persistent energy that you have come to expect from him.
Pushing through the heavy door, the cold night breeze prickles on your skin, and somehow it makes you feel way more relief because inside was a bit stuffy and suffocating. The air thick with the smell of alcohol and sweat and desperation. The fresh air makes you feel more grounded as you finally step out and lean against the wall nearby, your shoulders relaxing slightly as you take a deep breath.
"Are you always like this? Leaving your friend alone like that inside?" he asks out, his voice carrying a note of annoyance.
Obviously you both know this is not about your friends he is talking about, he is talking about himself, about the fact that you walked away without a second glance.
You know he is sulking again, because he always does this when you do not give him the attention he craves, and you did not even look up at him before flicking your phone out to answer some of your messages, your fingers moving across the screen with practiced ease.
"Since when did you start to care about other people?" you speak up, a bit too casually, and there is a hint of mockery laced in your tone as Lane just looks at you with that unreadable expression.
"When I saw you clearly do not enjoy the moment you walked by that door," he speaks as if it is a matter of fact, his voice steady and certain, and that catches your attention quite a bit as you cross your arms in front of your chest, looking at him with raised eyebrows, a silent challenge in your gaze.
"Oh please, you are not the only one allowed to hang out with your friends," he emphasizes as he leans his shoulder against the wall right next to you, his presence a warm solid weight in the cold night air.
"Besides, this place has been open for a while, lots of people come here for the atmosphere and cheap beer," he makes an obvious statement.
You just look at him, a smirk playing on your lips.
"I am amazed a loser like you has some friends," you say.
That just offends him even more as he stands back straight up and argues with you, his voice rising slightly. "Whatever," he twists his eyebrows in annoyance, and you just want to laugh out loud because it is so fucking funny trolling him all the time, payback for all the other times he has been such a dick at the store.
"Should not you be in your bed getting some rest, Lane?" you make fun of him again as you gesture, pressing your fingertip against your nose softly, a mocking imitation of his injury.
"How would you heal if you keep wandering around like that?" you continue, and your tone must have irritated him enough because he groans out slightly before he speaks up.
"Stop making fun of me, I’m fine, it is nothing," he says, his voice defensive, and you just shrug your shoulders.
"Okay, just asking," you reply.
Looking at him again, and you notice that his nose seems to be slightly more busted than yesterday, the bruising darker and more pronounced under the dim light of the alley.
Did you not tell him to visit the hospital? You doubt he would even listen to you anyway, he is too stubborn for his own good.
You flick out the cigarette pack from your bag once again, taking one stick between your lips as you search for your lighter, your fingers digging through the depths of your bag.
You do not find any at all, and you realize with a frustrated sigh that you put it in the pocket of your coat, and you left your coat inside at your stool.
Fuck this forgetful brain of yours.
You have been so scattered lately that you cannot even keep track of your own belongings.
You are about to step inside but when you just make a small movement, Lane already blocks you as he asks out, his body shifting to stand in your path.
"Where are you going?" he asks with frowned eyebrows, as if you have just abandoned him once again, and you wonder why he is so insistent on following you around, why he cannot just let you have a moment of peace.
"Inside, I left my lighter in my coat," you answer him casually.
The cigarette rolling slightly between your lips with every word that leaves your mouth, and his gaze is just entirely captured by you, especially where the cigarette is pressing at, his eyes fixed on that spot with an intensity that makes you feel warm despite the cold.
God, he wishes he could be in that place.
You can almost see the thought flicker across his face.
He wonders if it is normal to get jealous over a cigarette, if it should have been his lips locking on yours, not that tasteless bitter herb smell. But his eyes quickly shift away as he turns and pushes the door slightly, a sudden movement that breaks the tension.
"I will get it for you," he says, and he quickly disappears behind the door like a puppy playing fetch with its owner, and you cannot help but let out a small chuckle at the absurdity of it all, at the way he is so eager to please you even when you give him nothing in return.
You turn your attention to your phone as you see some missed calls, the screen lighting up in the darkness of the alley, and you feel your stomach drop slightly when you see the name on the display,
The Nuisance, your brother's contact name that you had set years ago as a joke but that now feels strangely appropriate given the circumstances.
So you decide to call back the number, pressing the phone against your ear, and you hear the ringing sound, a melody that you have heard several times before, one of those songs that used to be very famous in your childhood. A nostalgic tune that both you and your brother used to enjoy so much that he had set it as his ringing tone and never bothered to change it all these years.
But the song seems to get longer and longer with each second that passes by, the familiar notes stretching out into an eternity of sound that grates against your nerves in a way it never has before, and you find yourself growing more and more irritated by each passing moment because your brother has not picked up, and for some reason, the song that you used to love has turned into something that makes your skin crawl and your teeth clench with every repeated chorus.
Because he never takes this long to pick up your call, he always answers immediately, always. And if he has called you that many times with missed calls, it means something urgent came up or he needs something, so now when you call him back, why has he not picked up?
The moments go by and you feel more unease creeping into your chest, a cold knot of anxiety forming in your stomach, and you begin to stomp your feet on the ground slightly, the tip of your heel tapping against the dirty ground beneath you in a nervous rhythm, your arm crossing over your chest as you try to keep yourself calm.
But after a long moment of no one answering, the ringing song finally dies out, cutting off abruptly into silence. You look at the screen of your phone, the call ended without a connection, and you feel a chill that has nothing to do with the cold night air.
This back alley is not exactly a place to stand around, you realize, looking around at your surroundings, there is no proper light, not even some dim wrecked ass light like in Mad Dog, just a cold empty endless abyss of darkness that seems to fall too eerily for a place right at the bustling downtown.
You wonder why it is so quiet and empty, and for some reason you find yourself shivering a bit, the night air is cold but it is also humid enough, so you should not have felt this much of a chill, but you do, and it makes you want to get inside as quickly as possible.
You plan to go inside, but before that you decide to text your brother, your fingers moving quickly across the screen as you type out a message.
"Hey, stupid, I was out with my friends, did not pay attention to my phone. What is wrong? Call me back when you see my text."
You send it off, and you sigh out heavily as you just feel more unease after that, a lingering sense of dread that you cannot quite shake, but before you can even do anything, a voice cuts through the silence of the alley.
"Hey sweet cheeks, what are you doing all alone out here?"
The words come from somewhere in the darkness, and you turn to see a group of some dudes emerging from the shadows as they approach you, their footsteps echoing against the dirty ground.
You quickly hold onto your bag, your fingers tightening around the strap as you recognize these type of situations, the predatory energy that radiates from them making your instincts scream at you to run.
You do not answer them, you plan to leave immediately, to walk back inside and forget this ever happened
But one of them blocks your path, his body shifting to stand directly in front of you, and you look up, slightly meeting eyes with the dude. It is so dark you are unable to make out anything in the darkness, not his face or anything, just the vague outline of a figure that seems to loom over you.
But you can tell they must have been hanging around this area a lot, because they move with a casual confidence that speaks of familiarity, of knowing that this place is their territory.
"I am not in the mood to entertain your gentlemen," you speak up to them, your voice traveling in the alley, and there is not a sound of tremble in your tone because if you show any sign of fear, it would just feed more into their insidiousness and thirst, you know that better than anyone, you have learned that lesson the hard way.
"Oh, playing hard to get I see," one of them says, and another chimes in.
"We like feisty ones like you," and you feel them closing in, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of nonsense that makes your head spin.
"Come on, hanging out with us a bit," one of them suggests, and another adds, "We are lonely, you are lonely, is it not better to have some company?" and a third one says, "It is cold tonight, why do not you join us?"
But the guys seem persistent on bothering you tonight as they circle you and talk all type of nonsense, their words blurring to the back of your mind like a radio out of signal, starting to make all type of static nonsense noise that makes your head hurt, feeling like thousands of people are banging a hammer in your skull.
You try to keep your mind clear, to focus on your options and your exit strategy, but someone suddenly grabs you by the arm, and that snap something in you, a primal instinct that takes over, and you turn and give him a kick before pulling your pepper spray out and spraying it into the faces of the guys in front of you.
You quickly grab the taser and point it at another guy, and he lets out a yelp scream before collapsing on the ground, his body twitching as the electricity courses through him, while the other guys cover their eyes and scream like fucking slaughter pigs on the dirty ground.
There was another guy, and he was quicker than you, grabbing you by your wrist and shoving your shoulder against the wall. You drop the taser, the clatter of it hitting the ground echoing in the alley. You kick him and scream out, but his dirty hand clamps over your mouth as he speaks to you so slimily, his voice dripping with mockery.
"Ssshhh, sweetheart, you are smarter than that," he says, and you struggle against his grip, trying to bite on his hand, but he just chuckles out, looking at how useless and vulnerable you are, squirming around like an unleashed rabid dog, and it seems to entertain him even more and more, his eyes gleaming with a sick pleasure.
But before he can do anything else to you, suddenly his head is right next to you against the wall, and someone shoves his face right into the brick, hard enough to create an impact that makes a loud thud sound, and you freeze at your place as the guy's hand loosens around you, the pressure on your mouth releasing.
You quickly move away, scrambling to put distance between yourself and the attacker, and you look at the silhouette behind him, a tall, rough man. But you have no idea who that was as his face emerges in the darkness, the shadows obscuring his features.
Your breath is uneven, coming in ragged gasps, as the guy grabs the other dude by the back of his head and slams his head against the wall once again, even harder than the first time, and you hear the sickening crunch of bone meeting brick as he groans out something to the man in a language you cannot understand.
You cannot make out the words, but you can hear the other dude's quivering legs, the way they tremble with fear as he seems to answer the guy between his trembling voice, his words barely audible above the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
The other guys on the ground are now trying to get up, and they all seem scared of the man in front of them, their bravado completely shattered as they gather themselves and run away when the man is done talking, their footsteps echoing as they disappear into the darkness.
He finally releases the other guy, the one who had been holding you, and he lifts his knee and knocks it into the guy's stomach, before he doubles over out of pain, quivering in his breath as he almost crawls and runs out of the alley, desperate to escape.
It all happens so fast that your brain cannot process what just went on, the violence and the rescue blurring together in a chaotic mess of adrenaline and confusion, but you quickly grab your phone as the light from it shines between you two, illuminating the man in front of you.
"Marek?"
*☆ *☆ *☆
His expression is just as surprised as yours when he sees your face, the shock registering in his dark eyes for just a fraction of a second before he schools his features back into that familiar mask of indifference.
You can see the way his gaze sweeps over you, assessing, making sure you are not hurt.
"What are you doing wandering around these types of places?" he asks out like a guardian catching a child sneaking out of the house late at night.
And you find that a bit funny, the way he talks as if he is your dad. Scratch that. Even your dad did not give a single flying fuck about you, let alone a stranger who barely knows your name.
"Hanging out with my friends at the pub, I only stepped out for some smoke," you explain, and he leans down a bit, seeming to check on you.
His eyes scan your face and your body for any signs of injury, but you take a step back slightly from him, creating distance because you do not like feeling cornered or examined.
"I am fine," you speak up coldly and firmly.
He straightens his back again, holding his hands up like he is defeated, a gesture of surrender that does not quite match the intensity in his gaze.
"Should you not know better than to hang around at this type of back alley at night? You know what kind of people flock around here every night?" he continues to talk as if he is lecturing some misbehaved child.
You almost let out a small mockery chuckle, not because you do not take his words seriously. But more because you did not think a person like Marek would react like that, would care enough to lecture anyone about their safety.
He gives off the vibe that he does not care about anyone's business but his own, and that he would rather not be bothered by anyone's hassle either way, so the fact that he helped you already makes you confused enough, and you definitely do not think he should be standing around and nagging you like some disappointed father figure.
"Well, for the record, I was not out here alone. I have company," you reason with him, and the man just cocks his eyebrow slightly at your words, a skeptical look that makes you want to roll your eyes.
"Oh, and where are they?" he asks, and the way he looks down on you as if you are just some brat really irritates you a lot, because you have been used to being the one who considers others as brats, and you do not even want to answer him anymore, but still you do.
"Grabbing some stuff for me inside," you answer so shortly, and you can see it makes Marek slightly displeased as his eyebrows slightly frown, the lines on his forehead deepening in the dim light.
"No wonder Jul mothers you so much," his voice is rough and low, and you just lean back against the wall behind you, the cold brick pressing against your shoulder blades.
"At least you know about EDC," he adds, and you watch as he crouches down slightly to pick up the taser you dropped earlier out of panic.
His movements are fluid as he hands it back to you. You snatch it from his hand, your fingers brushing against his for just a moment, and you shove it back into your bag, the weight of it comforting against your hip.
"Thank you for helping me anyway," you change the topic as you look at him, your eyes meeting his in the darkness. "What are you even doing here? I thought Jul worked tonight or something," you say, genuinely curious, because you do not know exactly where Jul works, but you always assume that a person like him would always have to be around her also, that he is some kind of shadow that follows her wherever she goes.
"What do you think I am? Some type of pimp?"He seems offended by your question, and even you are surprised by his reaction.
The way his voice hardens and his eyes narrow with something that looks almost like disgust.
"I am just some jockey those pimps hire, not some babysit to follow her around like some dog on a leash," he says.
And wow, such an aggressive answer, you think, and you assume that either these two are on some bad terms or that they had a fight which makes his mood so fucking bitchy tonight, seemingly even worse than Lane when he is being a whiny little bitch.
"Good to know, stranger," you emphasize, and the man's eyebrows just knit together even tighter, his jaw clenching with barely suppressed irritation.
But soon they loosen up as he just seems to sigh out a soft breath, and he looks at you with such a defeated look, as if he knows he is putting his anger out on the wrong person, and he just stands there for a moment and does not say anything at all, the silence stretching between you like a heavy blanket.
You also do not say anything, ignoring his existence as you take out your phone once again, checking to see whether your brother has replied to you, but nothing comes up, no messages, no missed calls, just the empty screen staring back at you.
And that just makes you feel even more unease, a cold knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach, and suddenly every tremble of fear you felt earlier now all fades away, replaced by another type of fear and hollow emptiness as you call him back once again, but this time the line seems to be busy, the engaged tone buzzing in your ear.
He must have been on the phone with someone else, you tell yourself, trying to rationalize, to calm the rising panic in your chest, and if he did not reply to your message, maybe it is not that urgent and you are just being all paranoid, letting your imagination run wild in the darkness of this empty alley.
"Have you considered what I said before?" the man in front of you suddenly speaks up.
His voice seems to echo in the dark alley, and the only light is from the tiny screen of your phone as you lift your face up to meet his gaze, your eyes adjusting to the darkness to see his expression. Dark and cold stare, sharp and narrow even more in the darkness, it is the kind of gazing that freezes people in their place, but for some reason, you are not that much afraid of him, not the way you should be, not the way you would be with any other stranger in a dark alley at night.
"The job offer you mean?" you ask him back for some confirmation, and he just nods his head slightly, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
"What exactly is that line of work you want to introduce me to?" you ask out straightforwardly, voicing the question that has been in your mind ever since the day he gave you that business card.
The one you had shoved into your bag and tried to forget about because you did not want to get involved in anything shady.
Somehow his eyebrows twist once again as he leans closer to you and speaks up, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone.
"It is not the type of work you think. Jul would press a fucking barrel of a .44 magnum against my skull if I ever introduce any young girl or woman into it," he emphasizes.
His words carry a weight that makes you believe him, and his hand reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, the fabric rustling in the silence. Before taking out his wallet again, he takes out another business card and hands it to you, the familiar glossy red cheap stock card with the background so dark black with a sheen of metallic that shifts when you tilt your head, and in the center, you see it more clearly now, a silhouette of something like a dog, its form almost hidden in the darkness of the card.
"It is my friend's place, he has a bar downtown that is short of people. It is just a normal bar, so you do not have to worry," he explains.
And your eyes land on that familiar business card once again, the same one you had seen before but never really looked at since the day he first gave it to you, because you just assumed it was something you should not touch, something that would drag you into a world you wanted nothing to do with.
But knowing now that it is not some type of shady business, you really rethink and reconsider that a bit, your fingers itching to reach out and take it.
"What are you doing out here?" you ask him, a bit skeptical as your eyes narrow a bit, because if he does not give you a satisfactory answer, then you would not trust him enough to take the card, you would not put yourself in a position where you could be taken advantage of.
He scoffs out a small mockery smirk, the corner of his lip curling up in a way that is almost amused, and he finally answers you as if he is indulging a child's curiosity.
"I am an odd-job worker, any job offer I would do it. This part of the town is full of crackheads and creeps around," he explains as he shoves his free hand inside the pocket of his pants, his posture relaxing slightly.
"We sometimes patrol around to chase them away to avoid harassing customers around the area," he continues, and then he cocks his head to the side slightly. "Happy?" he asks, and you look at him, staring into his gaze as your eyes scan his expression to see if there is any lie behind it, but his face remains unfazed and indifferent, and you believe he must be telling the truth then.
As you reach your hand out, about to take the card into your palm, someone suddenly pulls you from behind, or more accurately, you feel someone's arm wrap around your waist as the person pulls you back slightly. Enough to make your back come in contact with a solid chest,.
You lift your gaze up in surprise, only to see Lane with his jaw so tight he looks like he is about to crack his teeth. His eyes fixed on Marek with that same old punchable face.
Fuck.
You curse, in any moment he could have stepped out, he chose now, the worst possible timing, and you just want to sigh out heavily because you know this will be a mess.
And just as you expect, Lane steps forward a bit as he shields you away from Marek, positioning his body between you and the larger man. You might be unable to see the rough man in front of you anymore, but you doubt that Marek cannot, because he is way taller than Lane and can just look down on him, and you know that Lane hates when people look down on him, hates feeling small or inadequate in any way.
"Who the fuck are you?" Lane asks the rough man, his voice dripping with hostility, before turning to you slightly, his eyes blazing with a possessive fury that makes your heart skip a beat.
"And why the fuck are you talking to shady strangers in this kind of dumpster?" his words sneer, echoing in the empty dark hall, and you tug on his arm, trying to pull him back.
"He is my acquaintance, Lane," you emphasize as your grip on his arm grows a bit tighter, hoping he will listen, hoping he will not do something stupid.
And Lane just gives you that skeptical look, his eyes narrowing as he studies your face, trying to read the truth in your expression, and he looks both annoyed and disdainful at the same time. His eyebrows twisting together so sharply that you almost want to reach out and smooth them.
Lane does not say anything, but still his gaze once lands on Marek's face, and all you can imagine is two dogs growling at each other. One big dog that seems unfazed by the one puppy that keeps barking so harmlessly at him.
Marek looks so unbothered and unamused by the whole thing, his expression completely flat and indifferent.
But soon you hear Marek's voice echoing in the alley once again, and you just want to shut them both up, to make them stop this ridiculous posturing.
"Didn’t know you were into puppies, Doll face," Marek says.
And you want to scream because what is wrong with people, why do they keep calling him a puppy. Puppy this. Puppy that.
You think Marek and Jul are closer than you thought, even their sense of humor seems to rub off on each other.
"Who do you call puppy, mo-"
Lane starts, but you tug on his arm once again, trying to stop him from arguing with Marek, but he just seems consumed in his own world, his eyes locked firmly on the man ahead, not even paying that much attention to you.
Marek just ignores him completely, his gaze shifting past Lane as if he is not even worth acknowledging. He shoves the card into your other hand as he speaks up, his voice carrying a note of finality.
"Just a little advice for you, puppies are fine, but do not pick those that behave like unleashed rabies," he says, and he just seems to enjoy riling Lane up even more, knowing clearly that you cannot keep the guy in one place.
And as you expect, Lane steps forward as if he is ready to have a real fight with the guy almost twice his size, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"Fuck you just say? Are you asking for some ass whooping?" he sneers out.
You look at him and cannot help but imagine a Chihuahua going against a Rottweiler. The sheer mismatch of size and strength makes the situation almost comical if it were not so dangerous.
You wonder where this dude gets all the confidence to keep messing up with people that clearly can fold him like a quesadilla any moment they want.
You try to drag his attention elsewhere.
"Lane," you say, your voice sharp and commanding, hoping to snap him out of whatever frenzy mode he has entered.
And Marek seems unfazed once again, his gaze shifting to Lane's face before he lifts his hand up and grabs Lane by the jaw, his grip firm and unyielding. You almost stutter at the side as Lane moves his face away, but the man's hand grips so firmly, keeping Lane's face locked in place before he speaks up, or more of grunts each word out.
"Some note to keep in mind, no owner wants a dog that is so misbehaved and disobedient all the time. Fix that attitude of yours, whippersnapper," he says.
His grip is so tight that your own jawline just feels hurt for Lane, and you can see the way Lane's eyes blaze with humiliation and rage, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
Finally, Marek pulls his hand away, stepping back a bit as his back straightens up once again, and he looks down at you with that same unreadable expression.
"Give me a call when you are done considering, princess," he says, and so he walks away so casually without even looking back, as if even if Lane chased after him and threw a few punches, it would just be some mosquito bite to him, inconsequential and barely worth noticing.
And his broad shoulders slowly blend in with the night as all you hear is his footsteps drifting further and further away, the sound fading into the darkness until there is nothing but silence and the heavy breathing of the man beside you.
*☆ *☆ *☆
When you finally are sure that he is really gone, you finally release Lane's arm as you turn to look at him, your expression carrying a hint of displeasure that you do not even bother to hide.
"What is wrong with you?" you ask out, your voice a bit too harsh as it seems to bounce off the walls and echo in the endless, void like space of this dark alley, the sound of your words lingering in the air like a challenge.
"What is wrong with ME?" he argues back when he hears your question, clearly offended and displeased by the fact that you are pinning the story back on him.
You can see the way his hands clench into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening with barely suppressed anger.
"He looks like a pimp and he is trying to recruit you into who knows what kind of business!" he continues, his voice rising slightly, and you can hear the genuine concern buried underneath all that aggression, even if he would never admit it.
"He is not a pimp, Lane," you explain, your voice carrying a note of exasperation as the young man still looks displeased and inconvenienced by the whole situation.
His eyes still fixed on the spot where Marek had disappeared into the darkness.
"I told you, he is my acquaintance," you repeat, trying to make him understand, but he just shakes his head, his expression stubborn and unyielding.
"Bullshit, I do not buy it," he speaks up, and for the first time, you ever hear Lane being reasonable, or at least trying to be, his voice carrying a note of genuine concern that makes you pause.
"He looks like a pimp, and how long do you even know him?" he asks, and you can hear the suspicion in his voice, the way he is trying to protect you even if his methods are completely wrong.
"Does that matter to you?" you ask him back, and you do not even let him answer, because you already know what he is going to say.
"It is none of your business either. Do not go around jumping on other people like that," you lecture him, your voice firm and unyielding, and you see the way his gaze locks onto yours, his eyes burning with a fire that you have not seen before.
"Do you want someone to break your nose for real? Or do you want your face to be rearranged?" you emphasize.
But that just seems to irritate Lane even more as he talks back, his voice carrying a note of defiance.
"What? You think I will not be able to step up to those guys?" he suddenly becomes so irritable that you have no idea what else to say, his words dripping with wounded pride and misplaced anger.
You just feel tired, so tired, and you want to sigh out so heavily and loudly that the sound would carry all the way to the next block.
"Or that you like those shady guys? Was that why you-" he starts, but you cut him off before he can say anything further, your voice sharp and warning.
"One more word and I am going to fucking spray you for real, Lane," you warn him, your hand hovering near your bag where your pepper spray is stashed.
You know how foul his mouth can be, how sneering his tongue can get, and how vile his words are when he is angry. You are not going to fall for any of his words in a heated moment, because you are so used to that by now, used to the way he lashes out when he feels threatened or vulnerable. You have reached the point where you do not want to hear any of that anymore and would just stop the argument before it goes too far.
"What am I? Some type of dog to you?" he asks out, and somewhere between his words.
You can hear a bit of both hurtfulness and spitefulness at the same time, a vulnerability that he is trying so hard to hide behind his anger. And suddenly you feel so bad, even though you did not do anything, but why is he always like this, acting like you abandoned him outside in a rainstorm or something.
What the fuck did you even do and why do you have to put up with his antics.
"What is your freak obsession with dogs?" you ask out as you push him away slightly when he is stepping too close into your space, your hands pressing against his chest to create some distance.
"All I am trying to say is that you should not jump to conclusions all the time. You are being really reckless," you say, and that seems to hit just right on the nail, because you see him scoff as he looks away slightly, his eyebrows still knit together as you look at him.
He looks so stubborn, and those bruises that are still on his face just seem to add more to that stubbornness, and the bandage around his nose.
He just throws the coat in his hand toward your way as you catch it, the fabric warm from his body heat.
"Put your coat on first, it is cold outside," he says, and you cannot even catch up with his brain anymore.
Pairing: Lane x FEM!Reader (Reader is both a dog trainer and a dog herself, make of that what you will 😈)
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
<previous chapter> - <next chapter>
You shake your head to sweep away the consuming thoughts, forcing yourself to focus on the present instead of getting lost in the tangled web of nostalgia and regret.
You finally move to the bathroom once again, your reflection staring back at you as you stand in front of the mirror.
You are all dolled up now, your makeup flawless and your hair perfectly styled, and you finally take off your daily piercing set, the cheap studs that have been keeping your piercings open, and you carefully put on that one special set.
The one Lane had chosen for you, the one that held so many bittersweet memories, and it fits perfectly, the metal glinting against your skin like tiny stars.
It is a night out with your friends, you remind yourself firmly, and you should not be all down and dewy, because that would just spoil the mood and make everyone worry about you. Whatever is in the past is firmly in the past now, you are moving forward, are you not, you have left that life behind and you are building something new, something that belongs only to you.
So the moment you finish putting on that piercing set, your phone buzzes with a text from Anna, a simple message that says she is on her way to pick you up, and you grab your small purse and head out the door, locking it behind you with a satisfying click.
"Going on some date, sugartits?"
You were in the middle of locking your door when you lifted your head and noticed that Jul was also standing by her own door. Her key in hand and her eyes already on you with that sharp, assessing gaze that always made you feel slightly exposed.
Oh right, you realized.
It was also around the time she got to her work as well, and you glanced at the watch on your wrist slightly before looking up again, your eyes meeting her gaze as you answered her question.
"I am just hanging out with my friends," you said, and that earned a small laugh from her, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to echo in the narrow hallway.
"Good, you should go out more when you are still young," she gave off a comment.
You saw the packet in her hand, the familiar shape of a cigarette pack, and she raised her hand slightly, her lips carefully flicking out a small cigarette that she placed between her fingers with practiced ease.
Her cherry lipstick painted the edge of the cigarette slightly damp with that distinguished crimson, and you could not help but keep your eyes on her, watching the way she moved with such effortless grace.
There was something about Jul that always made people stop and look a bit longer, a magnetic quality that drew your attention whether you wanted it to or not, and her wavy hair fell down to her shoulders so smoothly, like a waterfall cascading over rocks, each lock falling so arbitrarily but at the same time seeming like they fit in exactly where they were meant to be, as if she had been sculpted by an artist who knew exactly what they were doing.
"Something on my face, sweetheart?" she asked out, and you saw the corner of her lip curve up so softly, a tiny movement that was barely perceptible but somehow made your breath catch in your throat.
It was enough to somehow make you shiver, because she was gorgeous and beautiful, you admitted that freely, and she might have used to people staring at her all the time because if not, your staring right now would be considered outright rudeness.
But she did not seem bothered by it at all, she seemed almost amused by your attention.
"It is nothing, I just think your perfume smells nice," you tried to deflect, averting your gaze slightly from her face so you would not get caught staring any longer, but you could still feel her eyes on you.
"Uhm, I get that a lot," she spoke up so casually, but for some reason, her voice was soft like a melody in some old lullaby, soothing and hypnotic and strangely intimate, enough to lure you in, but enough to make you dare to keep your distance also.
Because there was something about her that felt dangerous in the best possible way.
"Do you want to try it?" she asked out quietly.
Your gaze once again fell back to her face, studying the way her long eyelashes curved up slightly even when she was looking down at you, making her gaze somehow even more alluring than usual, as if she was seeing right through all of your carefully constructed walls.
"Can I?" you asked out, your voice carrying both curiosity and a hint of wonder.
You were genuinely surprised she would offer and you wondered if she was really serious or just teasing you.
She just chuckled softly, that warm, intimate sound that seemed to wrap around you, and she pressed the cigarette even further into her plump lips, the darkened crimson of her lipstick staining the paper even more as she took a slow drag.
You watched her slender hands open the small bag she always carried with her, and she only took out a small vial, which seemed to be the decant version of whatever perfume brand she had been using, you did not see any label on the small tube, just the clear glass and the dark liquid inside.
Her hand reached out to yours, and she caught your wrist gently in between her palm, her fingers cool and soft against your skin. You saw the sharp almond nails of hers, a deep crimson that matched her lipstick, glistening under the dim light of the hallway.
She softly sprayed one on the back of your wrist, and you let her do so, the slight dampness coming in contact with your skin, and her cold fingers then rubbed against your skin softly, working the scent into your pulse point with a gentle circular motion.
It was just a small spray, barely a spritz, but the scent seemed to fill up your lungs and the entire hallway at the same time.
A rich, intoxicating fragrance that you could not quite identify but that made you want to breathe deeper. You could smell it, that cherry wine like scent that lingered in the air like a promise, and you looked up at her, your eyes meeting hers in the dim light.
"I think it suits you more than me, sweetheart," her comment caught you off guard a bit.
You had been expecting her to be possessive of her signature scent, but instead she seemed genuinely pleased to share it with you. Her hands continued, spraying your other wrist with the same generous spritz, and then she moved her finger to the back of your neck, slightly right behind your earlobe, and you almost squirmed out of startled surprise, the coldness of her finger coming in contact with your sensitive skin making you jump slightly.
She was leaning so close that her lock of red fire hair fell down softly, grazing your skin slightly, and for a moment, the scent lingered between you and her, and now you both smelled exactly the same, the cherry wine fragrance mingling with the warmth of your bodies. You almost could not tell whether it was her scent or yours anymore.
"I still think it is your color," you spoke up quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
When she slowly pulled her hands away with a small, satisfied smile, and you watched her tuck the vial back into her bag with a casual grace.
"How adorable of you to say so," she spoke up quietly, her eyes closing with her smile.
Those sweet words falling out of her lips as she suddenly wrapped her arm in arm with you, linking you together in an intimate gesture that felt both friendly and somehow more than friendly.
She began to lead you to the stairs.
"Let us go, I suppose we both have people waiting for us, yeah?" she said, her voice warm and light, and you let yourself be led.
*☆ *☆ *☆
You gave Jul a wave when she got to the car waiting for her right at the block, the sleek black vehicle idling at the curb, and you saw a man leaning against the car, waiting for her with an air of patient boredom.
It was Marek, you recognized him from the few times you had seen him picking her up, and he did not seem to pay attention to you at all, only giving you a brief, dismissive look before he opened the door for Jul and quickly got inside himself.
"Hey!" Anna rolled down the window of her car as she called for you, her voice bright and excited, and you felt a genuine smile spread across your face at the sight of her.
"Hey," you greeted her back before getting into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of her car enveloping you like a warm hug.
"Oh doll face, you look so pretty tonight," she let out a teasing compliment, her eyes scanning your outfit and makeup with approval, and you just laughed at her words and threw the compliment right back at her.
"I can say the same to you, gorgeous," you replied, and her laugh echoed in the car as she started the engine and began to drive off, the streetlights casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across her face.
"Oh, you changed your perfume, babe?" she asked out, and she made that exaggerating sniff with her nose as if she was some type of animal tracking a scent.
You could not help but laugh at her antics. "Ah no, the neighbor just let me try hers," you explained a bit awkwardly.
You were not quite sure how to describe the strange, intimate encounter you had just had with Jul, and Anna only gave you a small look through the corner of her eyes, a knowing glance that made you feel slightly exposed.
"Well, it smells good, seems to suit you," she made a small comment as she continued to focus on the road, her hands steady on the steering wheel, and then she added, "She has good taste."
You just nodded at her comment, your mind still half occupied with the lingering scent of cherry wine and the memory of cool fingers on your skin.
"Yep, she indeed has good taste," you agreed.
For the moment, you two talked about so many things during the drive, the conversation flowing easily and naturally as you caught up with each other's lives, and it was not a long drive, but it was long enough for you both to reconnect and share the small, mundane details that made up your respective existences.
Your first stop was at some restaurant with the rest of the group already there, a cozy little place with warm lighting and the comforting buzz of conversation.
The plan was to dine out before you hit any pub nearby, because what was a girls' night without food and alcohol in equal measure.
The atmosphere was nice and everybody seemed to have their lives settled and figured out in some sense, there was a palpable sense of contentment in the air that made you feel both happy for them and acutely aware of your own drifting uncertainty. As for you, you were still confused about what you planned to do with your future, still fumbling in the dark without a clear direction, and that uncertainty weighed on you more than you usually let yourself admit.
"You still work at that convenient store you told us last time?" someone suddenly asked.
The question cuts through the flow of conversation and draws everybody's attention onto you.
You put down your fork slightly when you hear their question, feeling the weight of their collective gaze.
"Yeah, I plan to quit soon, but the new one is still trying to get a hang of it, and the other employee is not really helping at all," you answered, your voice steady and matter-of-fact.
You were not ashamed of your work, you did not do anything illegal or immoral, so why should you be ashamed because of some minimum wage job that paid your bills and kept a roof over your head. Most people on this table also had minimum wage jobs, you reminded yourself. They were just better at finding what they enjoyed doing than you were, they had figured out their passions and their paths while you were still stumbling around in the dark.
Anna giggled beside you, joined by some other girls at the table, as they all seemed to share a knowing look, and one of them spoke up.
"Oh, you mean the one with the pretty face but the foul mouth you talked about," she said, and just the mention of him already gave you a severe headache.
The familiar throb of annoyance pulsing behind your eyes, and you pressed your fingers between your eyebrows in a futile attempt to ease the tension.
"Yes, him," you confirmed.
Your tone carried a tired resignation that made the others chuckle sympathetically.
"Guess that is what people call pretty privilege," someone spoke up, and the conversation continued to flow naturally.
Nobody really pressed the matter further as people just moved on from different topics to different topics, the easy rhythm of old friends catching up after too long apart.
There were reasons why you had stayed in this circle for so long, and one of them was that people in this group knew when to ask questions and when not to, they respected each other's privacy and personal matters without pushing for details that were not offered freely.
You had fallen out with numerous people before over that exact issue, people who had criticized you for nearly everything you had done, especially about your drinking problem before, and you knew it was not a good thing, you knew you had been spiraling and self-destructive.
But at the time, you had also been devastated by your state, drowning in grief and pain, and those people had really not helped at all, their judgment only adding to the weight you were already carrying.
But this group, these women, understood that sometimes the best thing you could offer a friend was simply your presence and your silence, and that was why you loved them, that was why you kept coming back even when everything inside you wanted to hide away and isolate yourself from the world.
*☆ *☆ *☆
So in the end, you still go to the pub with the group despite no longer consuming any type of alcohol. Anna had assured you that she picked out this specific pub because they seemed to serve non-alcoholic stuff too, so you could enjoy your drink while not having to worry about others judging you or pressuring you to join in on the drinking.
And so you did, though it was not uncommon for people to come to a pub only to call some non-alcoholic beverage, but only calling lemonade, that seemed to attract quite lots of eyes and attention that you did not want too.
People always seemed to find it strange when someone came to a place dedicated to alcohol and ordered something so innocuous and childish. Some of your friends were hanging out somewhere especially near the stage, because there was a live show tonight and they seemed to have invited a small band to come and play.
Your friends seemed to enjoy that as they gathered near the stage, their laughter and cheers blending with the music in a way that felt distant and muffled to your ears. Left behind, there was only you and one girl who was uninterest enough to stay at the bar top without going anywhere, and her name was Cindy. You two had also been friends for quite a while now, though she was also one of a few who had moved out of the town and only came to visit once in a while when her schedule allowed.
"It has been a while since I last saw you wear that piece," Cindy's sudden words drew your attention from your glass to her face.
You did not quite catch what she was talking about at first, but then you noticed her gaze land on your ear as you let out a small smile and touched your earlobe where the piercing set lay, the metal cool and familiar against your fingertips.
"Yeah, I think it is time to let them see some of the light," you answered her quietly, your voice soft and contemplative.
She did not seem to make any further comment on the matter, just nodded slowly as if she understood the weight behind your words.
"Do you have any plan after quitting that job?" her question once again caught your attention as your eyes locked with hers, and you could see the genuine curiosity and concern reflected in her gaze.
The way she was trying to look out for you in her own subtle way.
"Well, not really," you placed your chin on your palm as you leaned slightly on the counter.
The wood cool and smooth against your elbow, and you let out a small sigh.
"I have not really had much thought in my mind," you answered her between the chatter and the music in the background. The noise swirling around you like a living thing.
"But I guess I would not pick on any other night work, such a hassle," you continued.
She chuckled softly at your words, a warm sound that made you feel slightly less alone in the crowded pub.
"Yeah, indeed, I used to work a night shift too, not recommend," Cindy said
You agreed with her on that, because night shifts were soul crushing in ways that day workers could never truly understand, the way they messed with your sleep schedule and your mental health and your entire perception of time.
"And I heard there recently some serial killer on the loose, targeting night workers also," she spoke up as she shifted her body on the stool slightly, her posture becoming more serious as she leaned in closer to you.
"I did not mean it in a rude way, I just worry for you, that is all. After all, we are…" she paused, searching for the right words.
You finished the sentence for her.
"Women?" you said.
She just gave you that bitter look, the one that said she hated having to say it out loud but knew it was the truth. You could sense the concern in both her eyes and her voice. She did not need to explain that, because you both understood how the world was toward women.
You had already gotten used to that by now, and had accepted it as just another part of your daily existence. Sometimes you questioned a lot of things you did, but at the same time, you wondered if there was ever any other way you could do certain things when society did not even give you an option, when the system was rigged against you from the very beginning.
"Last night," you started, and you wondered if you should tell her about the incident that had happened at your workplace, the one that had been playing on your mind ever since it happened.
"There was this dude that tried to attack me," you finally spoke up, and Cindy's eyes widened at your words.
Her face shifted from casual curiosity to genuine alarm in an instant, and she seemed both surprised and concerned as she looked at you, her hand reaching out to grip your arm.
"Oh my god, are you okay? Did anything happen?" she asked out of pure panic, her voice rising slightly above the background noise.
You shook your head to reassure her.
"No, my coworker came out in time, and I was in better shape than him, to be honest," you continued.
But she still had that concerning look on you, the one that said she was not buying your casual dismissal of the situation.
"Do not be so calm about that, what if something really happened?" she argued back to you slightly, her grip on your arm tightening.
"Then consider myself lucky," you emphasized, pulling your arm away gently. "I normally am really cautious, I carry pepper spray and stuff, but you know," you paused, your gaze dropping to the counter, "that experience left me wondering if any of that stuff really can protect me?"
You questioned her, but it was more to yourself as you played with the straw in your half empty glass, the ice clinking softly against the sides.
Cindy's hand placed on your shoulder softly as she spoke up, her voice carrying a warmth that made you look up at her.
"I think you should not work at that place anymore, it seems like a shady hood," she spoke up with sincere concern in her tone, and you looked at her, seeing the worry etched into the lines of her face.
"Anna also said the place you live did not exactly safe either," she added, and you did not answer her.
Because you did not think you would move away in the meantime, not when you had just gotten settled and not when you had nowhere else to go.
You just took a small sip from your straw as you let her words sink in, the watery lemonade doing nothing to quench the thirst that had settled deep in your chest.
"If you need help, you can tell us, we would be more willing to help," she said.
You just smiled at her, a small, grateful expression that you hoped conveyed how much her words meant to you.
"I appreciate you guys, but this is my matter to handle, I will tell you guys if I need anything," you said, and she looked at you with those searching eyes.
"Promise?" she asked out, and you nodded and answered her.
"Promise," you answered.
Before she could say anything else to you, her phone suddenly buzzed slightly, the vibration rattling against the counter, and she let out an exhausted sigh as she glanced at the screen.
"Sorry, I have to take this," she flicked out the phone and looked at the screen before standing up and excusing herself to somewhere quieter, leaving you once again alone with your thoughts.
You did not really mind being alone, even in a group hangout kind of setting.
You just preferred that way, you enjoyed the feeling of being alone as much as having someone by your side, and it was just that sometimes dissociation felt more natural than trying to blend in and engage with the people around you.
So you really enjoyed some time alone like this, and all the noise just seemed to blur to the background around you, the music and chatter becoming a distant hum that you could easily tune out. You played with the straw in your glass slightly, your mind absently wandering elsewhere, drifting through memories and thoughts that you usually kept carefully locked away.
Until you felt like someone sitting down right next to you, right where Cindy had just sat not too long ago, and your eyes finally lifted up slightly, because for a moment, you thought Cindy had returned from her phone call.
"That was qui-" you started, but you stopped mid-sentence when your gaze met with a strange face, some man you did not even know, sitting there with a smile that was supposed to be charming but just made you feel wary.
"May I sit here?" he asked out with a smile, polite enough but also distant enough that you could tell he was testing the waters.
"You already sit," you emphasized.
Your gaze stopping only briefly on the man's face, taking in his features and finding nothing that particularly interested you. He was not your type, that you were sure of, and you did not think you would enjoy any company tonight besides from your friends, so you had no interest in entertaining whatever approach he was about to make.
Your attention fell back to the glass on your counter as the man continued, as if he had not given up or gotten the hint, and his gaze followed yours as it landed on the icy lemonade in front of you.
"Well, then can I buy you some drink?" he asked out another question, his tone low and quiet as it blended well with the background music between both of you.
You looked at the glass, then looked up slightly to answer him, your voice flat and dismissive.
"You are not my type," you said.
Because you really did not want to waste your time or anyone else's time with this back and forth, and tonight you were simply not in the mood for any of that. It was not like people had never approached you and hit on you before.
To be fair, you were the one who got hit on the least in the group, but you still had a decent amount of encounters to get some free drink out of it. Unfortunately, you did not drink anymore, so most of this tactic no longer worked on you, and if you ever played along, it was actually to get some drink for your girlies rather than for yourself.
The dude let out a smile, almost defeated, but still he finally got the hint and backed away.
You preferred that way, people who got the hint fast and quickly stepped away when someone was uninterested to save the time and hassle for both parties.
He just stepped away as he had no further intent to talk to you, and finally the seat next to you was once again empty and you could finally breathe out properly now, letting out a sigh of relief that you had not realized you had been holding.
You pushed the glass away slightly as somehow now it did not taste anything at all, the lemonade that had once been refreshing now just a bland, watery mess.
This pub sucked, they even fucked up a lemonade, which was why your glass was only half empty and the ice had melted to make the taste so bland and unamusing, exactly how you felt right now, dull and hollow and completely uninterested in your surroundings.
But only for a brief moment, someone once again approached you, this time you noticed it sooner as you lifted your gaze up to meet his, your eyes scanning him with a wariness that had become second nature.
He stood at the seat next to you, keeping some distance as his hand placed on the counter, leaning slightly as he called the bartender for some order, and you watched him with guarded curiosity.
"I really like your outfit, especially the piercing," he spoke up so casually, more casually than the guy from earlier.
You raised your eyebrow slightly at his words, your face remaining indifferent even as you took him in more fully.
Well, this guy was more of your type, if you had to admit it.
With his dark curls and his piercings and his lean frame, and for a moment you did not say anything. Just eyes locking on eyes as the guy seemed to take your silence as some progress.
"Sorry if I make you uncomfortable, I just want to have some talk," he continued.
You saw the strand of dark hair fall on his face slightly, and how the piercings on his ears seemed to glisten under the dim light, catching your attention in a way that you had not expected.
He reminded you of someone, dark curls, piercings, a bit tall and lean, pale skin and slender fingers, a tall bride nose.
The only difference was the eye color…
Wait.
You caught yourself wondering why you had suddenly imagined that guy out of anyone, why your mind had conjured his image when you were looking at a complete stranger.
It was just your general type, so why was he now the figure imagined in your head?
Why did this stranger's resemblance make your heart beat just a fraction faster even though you had no interest in him at all?
You covered your lip slightly to prevent yourself from choking on your own thought as the guy seemed concerned by your sudden reaction.
"Are you okay?" he asked out.
Your eyes landed on his face once again, taking in his features with a more critical eye.
He was good looking, you gave him that, but not good looking enough for you to want to have some company or feel entertained. Not when your mind was clearly elsewhere, not when the only person you kept thinking about was the one who had been occupying your thoughts far too much lately.
And the eye color, what was the point if his eyes seemed so dull to you anyway, a flat, uninteresting shade that held none of the depth or intensity that you had come to associate with that other person. Suddenly, at the back of your throat, all you tasted was nothing, not even the sourness of some lemonade, just that bland, empty, hollow taste of nothing.
He was also speaking a bit too formal to your usual roughness, his words too polished and careful to feel genuine.
"You seem to drink only that all night," he spoke up once again when he noticed you were fine, his eyes flickering to your glass before returning to your face.
"May I share a drink with you?" he asked.
And right when the final words rolled out of his tongue, the bartender slid two glasses in front of you that you had no idea what they were, the amber liquid catching the light in a way that was almost hypnotic.
"Malibu Ananas," the man spoke as he still had not sat down but he was anticipating to have your permission at least, his posture hopeful but not pushy. "I hope it is to your taste," he added.
You looked at the glass in front of you, slightly the amber yellow color with a touch of lime on it.
It looked really good, with the ice floating on top and the fresh water seeming to drip at the side of the glass, looking tempting and inviting enough that you had to stop yourself from taking a gulp.
But then, even in the moment when the liquid color seemed to hypnotize you, you broke out of it quickly as you turned to the guy once again, your expression hardening.
"I do not drink, but thank you for the offer," you spoke up a bit firmly, and the music still blurred in the background with people chatting, creating a wall of noise that made your words feel even more final.
The guy seemed caught off guard, he might not be used to being turned down, or he was just that confident that he would be able to approach you successfully, and you could see the surprise flicker across his features before he schooled it into something more neutral.
"Oh," he let out a small comment, his voice carrying a note of disappointment that he did not bother to hide.
"You come here without drinking, it must be bored," he said, and he did not press on the matter whether you wanted to drink or not.
His words were not rude or anything, yet somehow they prickled under your skin more than necessary. For a moment, you just lost complete interest and he just seemed like many other average guys in your eyes.
Because he had pricked on the matter that you always found as an issue of yourself while he had no idea about all that, and he had no idea about you.
It was just fun and casual, people found each other attractive, they talked and drank and maybe something more, who knew.
But you had far long no longer been interested in those casual talking and drinking anymore, let us just say it was not really what you were looking for whenever someone hit on you when you were going out with your friends, it was just not what you preferred, you would stop at drinking and talking, but now that you no longer drank, the talking would not even happen anymore.
That made you question, how long exactly had you not really been close with anyone, it was nothing priority in your life so you never really cared about that aspect that much, it had just turned dull in your life when you were too occupied with surviving each day and paying your bills.
"Not really, I enjoy being alone," you answered again, this time more coldly, and even you were surprised by your own tone, the sharp edge that had crept into your voice without your permission.
But you did not really care what kind of attitude you gave him anymore, you just found everything so unamusing and this guy.
Now that you looked closely enough, he was not even close to your type really, not with the way he was pressing and the way his confidence seemed to be wearing thin.
He looked a bit troubled by your words but did not seem like he would back away either, because he continued, this time leaning a bit closer to you, invading your space in a way that made your skin crawl.
"It is alright, we can just talk if that is what you prefer," he said, and as each word rolled out of his tongue, it just somehow seemed to irritate you even more and more, and you felt like your headache grew worse and worse with every syllable.
Your brows slightly frowned as you were about to decline him once again, to tell him to get lost in no uncertain terms.
But before you could say anything, you felt someone right behind you, one hand bracing at the backrest of your stool as the heat radiated from him, and the sudden presence made you turn around slightly, lifting your head only to see who had the nerve to approach you so casually like that.
You were irritated enough about one guy, you did not have enough patience to handle both of them at the same time, and you were fully prepared to snap at whoever it was, but the first thing that came into your vision was a white bandage covering his nose, and then those familiar dark curls falling in front of his forehead, and most of all, those mesmerizing deep blue eyes that seemed to penetrate through your skull, seeing right through all of your carefully constructed defenses.
Your eyes widened a bit as you did not expect to see him out of all people there.
You had expected a stranger or someone who might have tried to intervene thinking the dude must have made you uncomfortable, but you did not expect that to be Lane, and your mind raced with a thousand questions about what the hell he was doing here.
For a moment, none of you said anything at all, the silence stretching between the three of you like a taut wire.
You did not even know why he had even intervened, but you guessed it was his way of being a knight in shining armor, showing up at exactly the right moment to rescue you from a situation you had been handling just fine on your own.
"Don't you see that she is not interested?"
Lane did not lock eyes with you for long, but more so his attention fell to the guy next to you, and he straightened his back up a bit as his hand still rested at your backrest, standing behind you as he leaned over to the other guy, sneering out with a volume just enough for the guy to hear.
His voice seemed to disrupt the music in the background, and you wondered if people were looking this way thinking there was some fuss or a fight about to break out, but the two men were just talking so they likely would not intervene if it was nothing.
"Hey dude, I am talking to her, it is a bit tactless to barge in do not you think," the guy dropped his formal act from earlier as he spoke more casually to Lane.
Lane did not seem to mind his words, you saw the corner of his lip curve up into such a punchable smile, that familiar smirk that always made you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure.
God, was he asking for another punch from someone again, you thought, because you knew that smirk meant trouble, you just were not sure what type of trouble that was.
You did not say anything, or more like you did not get to say anything, because you knew that smirk meant something was about to happen and you were not sure if you wanted to be part of it.
"How about we ask her?"
Lane's voice laced with some cockiness and challenge as he shifted his body a bit, leaning to the side of your face, close enough to make it look slightly rather intimate for two strangers, but with enough distance that you could still hear the music in the background.
His voice traveled through your ear, almost creeping up to your mind as it seemed to itch something up in your brain, that familiar tone that always got under your skin in ways you did not want to examine too closely.
"Did this guy bother you, doll eyes?" he asked, and you wanted to roll your eyes and gag out, telling him to drop the fucking nickname because it was stupid and embarrassing and made you feel things you did not want to feel.
But for a brief moment, you saw him wink at you so slightly, signaling you to play along, and you just tilted your head slightly, giving him that one subtle annoying look before you answered quietly.
"Yeah," you said.
And immediately when you answered, Lane straightened back up again as he leaned over to the other guy, his posture radiating confidence and barely concealed aggression.
"See," he said, his voice dripping with mockery, "she is not interested, did you get the message?" he spoke up as if mocking the dude, and the guy just stood there dumbfounded, looking at Lane with a mixture of confusion and irritation.
"I do not think that is your business," the guy tried to argue.
But Lane just scoffed out some small huff as if his words were completely meaningless to him, as if this guy was not even worth the effort of a real response.
He did not give any doggy damn about what this person had to say, that much was clear from the dismissive way he waved his hand.
"I am just trying to save your face, man," he shrugged his shoulders when he heard the answer, his hand still at the back of your stool as he spoke up, his voice carrying a sneer that cut through the noise. "You are making yourself look rather pathetic right now."
The words rolled out of his tongue so vile and sneering that if you were some guy with low self-control, you might have thrown one or two fists into that annoying handsome face already. Because Lane had a talent for pushing people's buttons in the most infuriating way possible.
You looked at him through the corner of your eyes as the other guy stepped a bit closer, his hand also placing on the back of your stool slightly, and you startled and looked over, finally paying a bit of attention to the guy who had been so persistent.
"Do you prefer this wet behind the ear dip shit instead of me?" he asked.
And oh, now his true color was showing.
He talked way more bluntly, way more spitefully than earlier, his politeness completely gone now that he was being challenged.
Lane's face, however, was just indifferent, his lips pressed to a thin line, his eyebrows relaxed as if the guy's words did not affect him at all, and he just waited for you to answer, as if he was so sure that you would not pick this guy over him.
You looked at the guy leaning so close to you, seeing the necklace dangling in front of his chest.
You thought he was good looking earlier, but now that you compared him with Lane side by side, he was really just some dull old fray blank canvas, completely unremarkable in every way.
You did not say anything at first, just flicked your eyes on him, scanning his face slightly, and you wondered why men were so persistent sometimes. It crept the shit out of you, the way they could not take a hint and kept pushing even when it was clear they were not wanted.
But you knew the type like this, he was just as wet behind the ear as anybody else, they just liked to stroke their egos by acting all cocky and confident, but inside, it was easier to drag out their insecurity than most people thought.
You reached your hand out toward him as your finger hooked slightly onto his necklace, and he seemed caught off guard by your action, his eyes widening when you tucked him slightly closer by the silver chain around his neck.
You leaned closer to the side of his face, close enough for your voice to graze featherlight against his ear, and you spit out that one single comment before pulling away.
"You are not even half as pretty as him,"
Your finger slipped away from the silver chain around his neck as he seemed startled by that, his eyes still widened, standing all dumbfounded as if he was still trying to process everything that had just happened.
But Lane did not give him a chance to even gather his senses as he slightly moved the guy's hand away from your stool, his touch firm and dismissive.
"Get lost," he said, and that sounded way more disdainful than his usual tone.
But you did not care anymore, you just leaned against the backrest as the so persistent guy earlier now slowly walked away in defeat, his shoulders slumping as he disappeared into the crowd. He might have looked back a few times, you supposed, but you did not even spare him a single glance, your attention instead fixed on the man standing behind you, the one who had shown up out of nowhere and inserted himself into your night in the most unexpected way possible.
Pairing: Lane x FEM!Reader (Reader is both a dog trainer and a dog herself, make of that what you will 😈)
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
<previous chapter> - <next chapter>
The weight of exhaustion pressed down on you like a physical force as you finally drifted into that deep, dreamless sleep after an endless night shift, your body screaming for rest and your mind desperately seeking oblivion. You thought you might finally have your sound, uninterrupted slumber, the kind that stitches together the frayed edges of a worn out soul, but no, you did not get that luxury.
Instead, the familiar darkness of your unconscious mind twisted and warped, reshaping itself into a landscape you had tried so desperately to bury, and there, standing in the center of that haunted terrain, appeared a face you had sworn you would never want to see again for as long as you drew breath.
It was your mother, but not the mother who had once tucked you into bed or kissed your forehead when you were small and innocent. This was the mother who had become a stranger to you, her voice cracking through the air like a whip, loud and demanding and utterly devoid of warmth, and her eyes were terrible to behold, filled with such a potent mixture of rage and hatred that you found yourself wondering, even in the depths of your subconscious, how any woman could look at her own children with such monstrous contempt.
You could not even hear half of what she said, as if your own mind had decided to protect you by tuning out the venomous words, and your brain seemed to blur every image around her into an indistinct smear of color and shadow, leaving only her face in sharp, agonizing focus, those watery red veined eyes staring directly into your soul with both anger and profound disappointment, a double edged blade that cut deeper than any physical wound ever could.
You found yourself questioning, in that strange way dreams allow, why you even bothered to dream of her at all, considering it had been an eternity since you had walked out of that house, since you had last heard her voice or seen her face, since you had made the conscious decision to sever every thread that connected you to that place and that person.
You doubted that you even remembered the exact timbre of her voice anymore, nor did you have any clue how much she had changed in the years since you had fled, whether the bitterness had consumed her entirely or whether she had softened with age, but you realized with a sickening lurch that the details did not matter, because what you could still remember with horrifying clarity was burned into the back of your mind like a brand, carved into your very skin and bone like a curse, a permanent reminder of who you were and what past you carried with you, a burden that you seemed utterly unable to run away from no matter how far or how fast you traveled.
It was her words that haunted you most of all, the spiteful phrases that had spilled from her lips like poison, and you could not fathom how a woman who had once taken such meticulous care of the family, who had cooked meals and washed clothes and tended to scraped knees, could let such vile, corroding things escape from her mouth. Those words were like venom, dripping from the fangs of a serpent as they seeped into your bloodstream and corroded you from the inside out, and with each passing day, with each moment you allowed yourself to remember, with each memory you had of her that resurfaced unbidden, it all seemed soaked in that darkened toxic poison that made you feel suffocated, that made you want to gag out your own organs just to be rid of the rot that had settled into your core.
You asked yourself, not for the first time, why you could only remember all the distasteful memories of your mother, because it was not as though there had been no good moments, no instances of laughter or affection or shared joy, but you supposed that those fragile, fleeting glimpses of happiness were simply not enough to overshadow the crushing weight of what had ultimately driven you away from your family, the accumulation of small cruelties and larger betrayals that had finally broken something irreparable inside you.
Her eyes pierced right through you in this dreamscape, fixing you in place as if she were a monster, a beast that was ready to tear you apart the very next second she had, and you glanced around, your gaze sweeping over the familiar surroundings with a growing sense of dread, yes, it was that same old house, that same old living room with its worn furniture and faded wallpaper, the same space where you had endured so many silent meals and shouted arguments and long, suffocating silences.
And when your eyes once again landed back on her, you noticed the way her expression shifted, the way her rage seemed to intensify as she registered your absent minded distraction, and without any warning, she lifted her hand so high that you could see the tension in her arm, the way her fingers curled into a rigid palm, and she brought it down across your face with a force that stunned you. The sensation bloomed across the side of your cheek, a sharp, stinging impact that radiated outward like ripples on a pond, and even though you knew this was just a dream, just a figment of your exhausted and traumatized mind, it felt real, so real that you could almost feel the burning heat rising against your skin, could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in your mouth as your vision blurred slightly from the shock.
It was not the first time she had slapped you, you knew that with a grim certainty, but despite all of her spitefulness, despite all of her sharp words and colder silences, your mother had rarely ever actually raised her hand to you or your siblings, that particular form of cruelty had been reserved for your father, who had wielded his fists with a casual, terrifying regularity that had made you flinch at sudden movements for years afterward.
Your mother had only slapped you a couple of times, and only when you had been too misbehaved for her to talk some sense into you, when your teenage rebellion had pushed her past the breaking point of her patience.
But how could anyone expect you to be a sane person, a well-adjusted individual, when you had been raised in a household full of people who were not even close to sane themselves. A chaotic, toxic environment where love and violence had become so hopelessly intertwined that you could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
The blurry words she had been shrieking at you just moments before seemed to blend into the background even more after she slapped you, fading into a meaningless drone that you could not decipher, and you realized with a start that your body was moving on its own accord, your legs carrying you down the long, dimly lit hallway that led to the front door as if they had a will completely separate from your frozen mind.
You burst out of the house like some startled deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, your bare feet slapping against the cold concrete of the porch steps, and then you were running, just running straight forward with your eyes squeezed shut against the sting of unshed tears, and the cold night air swept across your face, making you shiver violently because of how thinly you were dressed, because you had fled without grabbing a coat or even proper shoes.
You just kept running like that through the dark of the night, your feet pounding against the pavement as you flew down the block, and behind you, you could hear your mother yelling your name, her voice growing more distant and more desperate with each passing second, but soon she did not even bother to chase after you, and that silence was somehow worse than her screaming, because it felt like she had simply given up on you, had resigned herself to your escape, and you realized with a hollow ache that she had probably given up on everybody around her a long time ago, had surrendered to the darkness that had consumed her from the inside out.
You continued to run, your chest heaving and your lungs burning as each step grew heavier and more labored, and you could feel the clutch of panic tightening around your heart, the sense that you were running in circles through an abyss of pitch black darkness.
Because every block of houses looked exactly the same, every street corner seemed to lead to another identical stretch of asphalt and streetlights.
You could not escape whatever reality you were trapped in, could not find an exit from this labyrinth of your own making. It was as if you were trapped and bound to this place, destined to wander these streets forever, and you finally let out a shuddering breath as you felt your legs give out beneath you, forcing you to stop by the side of the sidewalk, where you doubled over to catch your breath, your hands resting on your knees as you stared down at your feet and tried to remember how to breathe properly.
In the dark of that quiet, deserted night, a sudden stream of strong light flashed across your eyes from the distance, and you lifted your gaze, squinting against the glare, to see a car coming from the end of the road. Its headlights cut through the gloom like twin swords, and you could not make out anything else because of that oppressive brightness that seemed to swallow everything in its path.
The car slowed and then stopped a few short meters away from where you stood frozen, and you could see a silhouette shift in the driver's seat, the figure moving with a deliberate, almost predatory grace as they opened the door and stepped out into the night. When the door swung open and the light briefly illuminated the scene.
You finally managed to make out whose car that was, and you felt the blood run cold in your veins, turning to ice as you froze in your spot, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare with wide, horrified eyes at the approaching figure. The shadow seemed to spread and grow as it approached you, seeping into every corner of your vision like some kind of vile, sentient darkness that curled around you, wrapping its tendrils around your limbs and your throat, tying you down and strangling the very air from your lungs, and you felt your breath grow even heavier than it had been when you had been running, felt your heart pound louder and faster in your chest as you instinctively took a single, shaky step backward.
You wanted to close your eyes, to shut out the sight of that approaching monster, but you simply could not. Your eyelids refused to obey your commands, and you screamed at yourself internally to run, to flee from that nightmare made flesh, but your legs were rooted to the ground, paralyzed by a terror so profound that it had completely seized control of your body.
You just stood there, frozen like a tape that had been suddenly paused, and the shadow drew closer and closer, and you could see the faint outline of a face, could see the glint of eyes that promised nothing but pain, and you braced yourself for whatever horror was about to unfold, your mind racing with desperate, futile plans of escape.
But before the shadow could reach you completely, before it could lay its hands on you and drag you into whatever abyss it had come from, a loud, familiar sound echoed through the air, ringing in your brain with such force that it felt like a physical blow, a sharp, insistent noise that slowly but surely tore you away from whatever nightmare you were currently trapped in.
Your eyes flew open, and you were gasping, your chest heaving as you stared up at the ceiling of your own room, and the sun outside your window had already begun its descent, painting the sky in warm hues of orange and pink as twilight touched the horizon, and the obnoxious alarm from your phone, the one you had set to wake you before your evening plans, was still echoing through the quiet of your small, cluttered room.
You could feel the cold sweat beaded on your forehead, could feel it trickling down your back and soaking into your thin shirt as you shifted slightly on your bed, your body heavy and reluctant to move, and even though you had technically gotten enough sleep, you still felt tired, your head throbbing with a dull, persistent ache that seemed to settle behind your eyes.
You found yourself wondering, with a sense of grim resignation, if you could even manage to hang out with your friends tonight, if you could gather the energy to drag yourself out of bed and pretend to be normal, to laugh and joke and forget the terror that had just gripped you, and you reached out slowly, your fingers trembling slightly, to grab your phone and turn off that god awful alarm that had saved you from your own mind.
You lay there for a long moment, staring up at the old, frayed ceiling with its water stains and peeling paint, and you thought about all of the life choices that had brought you to this point, to this small, lonely apartment in this unfamiliar city, to this job that drained you and this existence that felt so hollow and purposeless.
You wondered why, after so many years of distance and silence, after so many attempts to forget and move on, you still had those kinds of nightmares, why your subconscious insisted on dragging you back to that house, back to that family, back to all of the pain and trauma you had tried so desperately to leave behind.
It had been a while since you had last allowed yourself to remember them, to remember your past, and you had almost convinced yourself that you were free, that the scars had finally healed, but clearly, clearly, you were wrong, because here you were, drenched in cold sweat and trembling like a leaf, haunted by ghosts that refused to stay buried.
Maybe it was stress, you told yourself, clinging to that rational explanation like a lifeline, maybe these night shifts were really starting to affect you, messing with your sleep cycle and your mental health, and you knew with a sudden, urgent certainty that you had to change your job quickly, that you had to find something, anything, else to do with your life, or else you would drive yourself completely insane.
Maybe it was just those voices inside your head, the ones that whispered doubts and fears and insecurities, the ones that never seemed to shut up no matter how hard you tried to drown them out, and maybe they were the ones messing with your life, sabotaging your peace and dragging you back to the darkness you had fought so hard to escape.
Whatever the reason was, whatever dark force or psychological trauma was behind these recurring nightmares, you were still the one that held the buckle, still the one who had to drag yourself out of bed each morning and face the world, still the one who had to find a way to keep moving forward despite the weight of the past that clung to your shoulders like a shroud.
*☆ *☆ *☆
You drag your body off the mattress with a groan that seems to echo in the empty silence of your room. Your muscles protesting every movement as if you had run a marathon instead of simply sleeping, and you glance at the phone lying next to you on the rumpled sheets, only to discover with a mild spike of irritation that you had completely forgotten to charge it overnight. You feel a wave of relief wash over you when you realize the battery had not died completely, because if it had turned off, you would have definitely slept past your alarm and missed the plan you had made with your friends.
That would have been a disaster you did not want to deal with right now, not when Anna had gone through the trouble of organizing this gathering.
Yeah, of course you have some friends.
You remind yourself with a wry twist of your lips, people you used to be incredibly close with, but then life happened and everybody grew up and grew apart, drifting into their own separate orbits until the once tight bonds had loosened into something more casual and sporadic.
Because that was just how things worked in this world, life kept pulling people away from each other while also pulling them close together in the most unpredictable and confusing ways.
You and Anna had been friends for quite some time now, and you could honestly say that she was one of the first few people you had met when you first moved to this town, a small but bustling place that was not exactly a big city but still offered enough opportunity for job hunting that it had seemed like a viable escape route from your past.
It was far enough away from your hometown that you did not have to constantly worry about running into anyone you knew, and that distance had been a significant factor in your decision to pack your bags and start over somewhere new, somewhere where the ghosts of your past could not reach you so easily.
The group of friends you had cultivated in this town had all come through Anna as well, her warm and infectious personality drawing people in like moths to a flame, though some had inevitably moved away to pursue their own dreams in bigger cities, while others had stayed behind, it was just that everybody was so busy with their own lives now, juggling careers and relationships and responsibilities.
It was genuinely hard to have a full gathering with everyone present. But Anna was like the heart of the group, the core that was able to bond everybody together despite the distance and the busy schedules, and her ardor, that unrelenting passion for connection and community, was one of the many things that kept you tethered to the group and kept the whole fragile structure united again.
She was a good friend, you had to admit, even on your most cynical days. Because Anna had never judged you for your past or your secrets, had never pushed you to share more than you were comfortable with, and had simply accepted you as you were, broken pieces and all.
So no matter how tired and completely wrecked you felt right now, with your head still pounding and your body still aching from the nightmare that had shaken you awake, you did not want to decline any of her invitations, because she had put in the effort and you wanted to show her that you appreciated it, that you valued her friendship even if you did not always have the energy to express it properly.
Besides, it had been a while since the last time you had gone out and hung out with anyone, since you had allowed yourself to simply be a person instead of a walking corpse shuffling between work and your apartment, and you knew, with a certainty that felt almost foreign, that you should really blow off some steam when you had the rare opportunity to do so.
You glanced at the time on your phone, the bright numbers informing you that you still had a couple of hours to get ready, and you told yourself that you should probably start moving, because you currently looked like a complete mess.
The kind of disaster who survived only on energy drinks and stale cheese crackers, but that was your standard appearance when you went to work.
It was a night shift, after all, and who the fuck cared how you looked when you were just stocking shelves or ringing up customers at two in the morning.
You did not care, your customers definitely did not care, and your coworkers most certainly did not give a single damn about your appearance, so you found no reason to be tidy or put together during those long, soul crushing hours.
But when it came to going out with your girlies, with the small circle of women who had become your chosen family in this unfamiliar town, of course you had to be all dolled up, because that was part of the ritual, part of the experience, and you wanted to feel good about yourself for once, wanted to look in the mirror and see someone who was not drowning in exhaustion and despair.
So you moved to the bathroom, your feet shuffling against the cold tiles, and you gave yourself a clean, nice shower, letting the hot water beat against your tense shoulders and wash away the lingering remnants of sweat and fear that had clung to your skin from the nightmare.
You stood there for a long moment with your eyes closed, just breathing and trying to center yourself. You stepped out and moved to your sink, wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel before you began your skincare routine, going through the motions with a practiced familiarity that felt almost meditative, and you let your mind drift as you patted serums and creams into your skin, trying to coax some life back into your tired, sallow complexion.
After about an hour of careful work, you found yourself standing in front of your closet, a small but neatly organized space where you had hung your dresses with careful precision, and you looked at the colorful array of fabrics and wondered which one you should wear, because you had not taken any of these babies out for a spin in who knows how long, and the decision felt surprisingly weighty.
Soon enough, however, you had already made up your mind, your fingers reaching out to pluck a specific dress from its hanger, a piece that you remembered loving the last time you had worn it, and you slipped it on. The fabric settled against your skin like an old friend, and you turned this way and that in front of the mirror, checking how it fell across your curves and whether it still flattered you the way it used to.
You returned to your bathroom and began to do your makeup, because Anna had said the place was not somewhere flashy, so you did not really think it was necessary to do heavy makeup.
But you were the type of person who, once you had already put some makeup on your face, felt compelled to do a full face already, because going halfway just felt incomplete and lazy. So by the time you actually realized what you were doing, you had already found yourself doing your hair as well, curling and pinning and spraying until you looked in the mirror and saw a face that was almost unrecognizable, a person who looked nothing like the living corpse that had stumbled out of bed just a couple of hours ago, and you could not help but give yourself a small, satisfied smile as you let out a soft sigh.
"This is why I love makeup," you murmured to your reflection.
And for a moment, you felt a spark of genuine happiness, a tiny flame of self appreciation that had been buried under layers of exhaustion and cynicism.
But then, the more you looked at yourself in the mirror, the more you examined your reflection with a critical eye, the more unsatisfied you felt, because something was missing, something small but significant that could pull the whole look together, and you realized it was your piercings.
You usually just wore some cheap studs in your ears to keep the holes from closing, simple and functional and utterly boring, but now that you had already dressed up and done your hair and makeup, you felt like you should dig through your accessories a bit, find something that would actually complement your outfit and complete your overall aesthetic.
You stepped out of the bathroom and returned to your nightstand, pulling open the drawer where you kept your small collection of jewelry, and you took out a box that held all of your piercing sets, opening it carefully to reveal the gleaming metal and sparkling stones inside.
You really did not know which set you should put on, and you found yourself looking through them with a thoughtful hum, your fingers brushing against the different pieces as you considered your options, and you were so absorbed in your little dress and makeup session, so focused on the tiny, unimportant decisions that made you feel like a normal person, that you almost jumped when your phone suddenly buzzed beside you.
The vibration rattling against the wooden surface of your nightstand. You picked it up, your eyes scanning the screen, and you felt a familiar surge of annoyance when you saw the name that flashed across the display.
The Headache.
A fitting moniker for the person who always seemed to call at the most inconvenient times.
You almost wanted to sigh out heavily, to let the sound escape your lips and convey just how much you did not want to deal with this right now, but you finally clicked on the answer button and put him on speaker, tossing your phone aside onto the bed so you could continue sorting through your accessories while you dealt with whatever nonsense he had called to bother you about.
"What do you want, Lane?" you asked, your voice flat and unimpressed, already bracing yourself for the usual round of pointless chatter.
"Ouch, no what are you doing? How is your day? Do you miss me and stuff?"
The unserious, cocky voice traveled through your phone to your ears, that familiar tone that always seemed to grate on your nerves, but you did not pay him half the attention, too focused on the delicate pieces of jewelry in front of you.
"Yeah yeah whatever," you replied, waving your hand dismissively even though he could not see you, and you let the dismissive tone carry through your words. "What do you want? Be quick, I don't have time today."
You repeated yourself, and through the speaker, you could hear some rustling sounds on his side, the noise of him moving around wherever he was, and you wondered briefly what he was doing before you pushed the thought aside.
"Are you going somewhere?" His tone suddenly grew flatter than usual, a shift in his cadence that you did not quite understand, and you just turned and picked up your phone, holding it closer to your lips as you answered him.
"Sorry that you seem surprised that I have an actual life outside of working at that broken store," you shot back, your voice dripping with saccharine mockery, and you could not make out any sound at his side for a long moment, just silence that stretched and stretched until it felt like a physical presence in the room.
For a moment, Lane seemed to grow quiet, and you almost felt like all you could hear was his breathing, so slow and steady, as if he were weighing his next words carefully, and then he finally spoke again, his voice carrying a strange distance that you could not quite place.
"I gave Emma the key, so she will be the one to open the store tomorrow," he announced, and you could sense some emotional distance in his voice, a coolness that felt unusual coming from someone who was usually so loud and obnoxious.
"Well, unlike you, she is always early for work, so you did not need to tell me that," you answered him, your tone sharp and teasing, and you heard him groan from the other side, that exasperated sound that he always made when you got under his skin.
"Just saying because she has that creepy helmet dude wandering around her," he groaned again, the sound dragging out as if your words had annoyed him in every possible way, but he could not really argue with the truth of what you had said. Because everybody knew that Emma was the most reliable employee in that godforsaken store.
"If you worry that much, why do not you try to open earlier and do your job properly for once?" you chuckled out, a soft, amused sound that escaped your lips before you could stop it.
You set the box aside, angling it so the light from your bedside lamp caught the metal and made it glimmer more brightly, and your mind drifted into a sudden, unexpected nostalgia as you looked at the intricate pieces.
On each of the piercing sets you had collected over the years, different memories were attached.
Some that you wanted to forget with every fiber of your being, some that you wished you could go back to and relive, and some that simply stayed and remained as one of those special, cherished memories in the back of your mind, preserved like pressed flowers between the pages of a book.
You heard Lane answer something on the other side of the line, his voice a low murmur that you could not quite decipher, but your mind was too occupied, too lost in the fog of memory and emotion, to even make out anything he was saying, and you just stared at the glinting metal without really seeing it, your thoughts wandering down paths you usually kept carefully barricaded.
"Hey! Are you still there?"
His voice suddenly drew you away from your absent minded spiral, snapping you back to the present with a jolt, and you sighed out softly, rubbing your temple with your free hand.
You had been spacing out lately, again, and you knew it was a bad sign, a warning from your subconscious that you were pushing yourself too hard and ignoring too many things that needed to be processed.
"Yeah," you only gave him a short answer, your voice flat and distracted, as you picked up two sets that you found the most fitting for your outfit today, holding them up side by side to compare them.
"Are you busy?" he suddenly asked out, and this time, you could detect a hint of concern laced in his tone, a softer edge that he usually kept buried under layers of sarcasm and bravado, but you answered him with a voice that was unamused.
"Yes, I need to focus right now, so stop talking," you emphasized, your words clipped and dismissive, as you continued to examine the two sets, turning them over in your hands to see how they caught the light.
It was so hard to decide, and you just leaned back on your bed slightly, the phone still in your other hand, and you continued to hear Lane's voice through the speaker, a constant background noise that you half tuned out.
"What are you doing?" he asked out, and you could hear that there was a hint of curiousness in his tone, and underneath that, a hint of impatience, as if he did not like being kept in the dark about your activities.
You wondered why he always had that question, every time he texted you or called you about things clearly unrelated to work, he would always ask you what you were doing, as if he needed to know your every move, as if your answer would determine whether he could join your activities or not.
"Picking out my piercing set, I am going out with my friends tonight," you answered him, your finger tapping softly against the mattress, and you heard another sound from his line, a rustle or a shuffle that you still could not make out.
"Oh, what did you pick?"
The topic seemed interesting enough to him, enough to pique his curiosity quite a bit, and you could hear the genuine interest in his voice, a rarity for someone who usually only talked about himself.
Your mind then drifted, almost involuntarily, to the image of his pale skin, to the memory of the helix piercings that lined the edge of his ear, and his pierced eyebrows, and the ring that sat snugly in his nose. And for some reason, you felt like he had more piercings now than how you remembered him having.
He had once mentioned that he had gotten some of them in high school, rebellious teenage choices that had stuck with him, and then he had just continued to accumulate more over the years, collecting them like souvenirs from a life he had lived on his own terms, and you supposed that was one of the many things Lane was genuinely interested in, one of the few topics that actually seemed to matter to him.
You had never really asked him that much about himself, despite working together and knowing a few surface level things about each other, and you did not think that you and Lane shared that many stories or meaningful experiences.
Which was surprising, was it not, considering how much he yapped all the time. But all he ever said was some bullshit nonsense, never anything important or serious enough for you to even remember, let alone hold onto. And you preferred it that way, because after all, you two were only coworkers, what was there to even know about each other, and there was no reason to dig deeper when you had both made it clear that boundaries were important.
"Haven't decided," you answered him quietly after a long moment of silence, a pause that was filled only with the soft sound of your breathing and the faint hum of the phone line, as you continued to fight an internal battle over which set to pick.
"Want me to help?" he suddenly asked out, and you paused for a bit, looking at two completely different sets laid out on your mattress.
You tilted your head slightly, considering his offer. You thought for a moment, long enough for the other line to feel a bit impatient and uneasy, the silence stretching between you like a taut wire, and then you finally picked up your phone, taking a quick picture of the two sets before sending it to him.
"I do not trust your taste at all, but let us see if you can amaze me," the words rolled out of your lips a bit teasingly, a playful edge that you had not intended but that slipped out anyway.
You could hear Lane let out an annoying huff on the other side, that sound of mock offense that he always made when you insulted him.
He seemed to check the photo you had just sent him, and he did not seem to take that long to decide, because his answer came almost immediately, confident and certain.
"The one on the left," he said, and his words made your gaze fall to the set on the mattress, landing on that one particular set where the most standout feature was the starry stud with some matching daith pieces that complemented them perfectly.
"Are you sure?" you asked again, your voice carrying a hint of doubt that you could not quite suppress, and suddenly, your question seemed to make him question himself as well, a flicker of uncertainty that you could hear in the slight hesitation of his breath.
"What do you mean am I sure? Yes, I am sure," he replied, and he sounded a bit offended by the fact that you were doubting him despite having sent him the photo of those specific two sets, as if your lack of faith was a personal insult.
"Why did you pick it instead of the other one?" you asked out, a bit curious despite yourself.
You heard Lane sigh on the other side, a long sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand similar conversations. For some reason, this was way more entertaining than you had expected it to be, and you found yourself smiling slightly, a small amusement that you would never let him see or hear.
"Is this some type of trick question that women always ask out to make our lives harder?" his sarcastic remark remained unfazed to you.
You answered back with an equally unamused tone, playing along while also teasing him slightly, because that was the nature of your relationship, a constant push and pull of mockery and banter.
"Yeah, so you better answer it right, or you would likely step on dog shit tomorrow," you said, your voice flat and threatening in a way that was clearly joking.
He groaned at your words, that sound of pure annoyance that he seemed to reserve especially for you, and he answered, murmuring between his breath in a way that made it hard to catch everything he said. You could imagine his troubled face right now, the way his brow would furrow and his hand would rub the back of his neck in that habitual gesture of discomfort he always displayed when he was put on the spot.
"I don’t know what you are wearing, so I am assuming that set would go better with any outfit, and besides, it suits your e-," he started, but then he suddenly stopped mid-sentence, the word dying on his lips as if he had caught himself just in time.
"Suit my what?" you asked out, your curiosity piqued, when he suddenly stopped.
You did not even know if he had stopped talking or if it was the signal cutting out. But after a moment of silence, you began to wonder if he had been cut off, so you called for him slightly, your voice carrying a note of confusion.
"Hello? Lane?" you called, and after a while, you finally heard his voice on the other side of the line once again, his words seeming to stutter as his breath grew a bit more uneven, ragged in a way that made you pause.
"Nothing, I just like that set better," he answered, his voice a bit too quick, as if he was being chased down by someone, as if he was desperate to change the subject before you could press further.
You looked at the set once again, the starry studs glinting under the light.
"Okay then," you gave him a simple answer.
He seemed surprised by your words, because he immediately asked out, "Really?"
As if he could not even believe that you would trust his judgement on that, especially since you had just said you did not trust his taste.
"Oh Lane, I already picked out these two as my favorite sets, you just helped me decide on which one I like more and which one I like less," you answered him, your tone slow with a hint of mockery behind it that you knew would get under his skin.
You heard him laugh out annoyingly on the other side, a sound that was half frustrated and half amused.
"And here I thought I was so special," he said, and there was a hint of disappointed behind his tone, a subtle dip that you did not manage to catch at all, because you just thought he was acting all sulky like he always did when you did not give him the attention he craved.
"Whatever, if you have nothing else to say, I am hanging up now," you announced, your voice final and dismissive.
Lane continued to speak up, not quite ready to let you go.
"Wow, throwing me away after using me," he paused, before scoffing out between his words, "You are cold hearted, woman."
You laughed at the words he said, a genuine laugh that surprised you, because if he was in front of your face right now, you would definitely grab him by his neck and shake him around so violently for that comment.
"Don’t push it, Lane," you warned him quietly, your voice carrying a thread of genuine threat that you let him hear.
He immediately shut up, that rare moment of obedience that made you smile despite yourself.
"Okay… Have fun… I guess," he murmured out, his voice softer now, and he did not even hang up first, just let the silence stretch, waiting for you to make the final move.
"Bye, Lane," you voiced out to remind him that he needed to end the call.
He finally said goodbye before you heard the click of the line disconnecting, and you sighed out heavily as the phone call finally ended.
*☆ *☆ *☆
You know that Lane has had his eyes on you for quite some time now.
You are not stupid.
Because you have noticed the way his gaze lingers on you a beat too long during your shifts.
The way he always seems to find an excuse to stand just a little too close when you are both behind the counter. And he has never been subtle about his staring or his flirting, not even in the beginning when you first started working together.
You will not deny that you are having the hots for him either, because that would be a lie, his face is exactly your type.
All sharp angles and rebellious piercings and that cocky grin that makes you want to smack him and kiss him in equal measure, but that is just it.
His face being your type is simply not enough for you to risk anything, not when the stakes are so high and the potential fallout could be catastrophic.
Personality wise, Lane has lots to work on, and you are not exactly the type of person who would want to spend your precious time teaching someone how to be a decent human being, because that is not an easy task and it is overwhelming, you have your own baggage to carry without adding someone else's emotional education to the pile.
He has always looked at you with those lost puppy eyes in his gaze, that soft, vulnerable expression that he probably does not even realize he makes. He particularly sticks to you like a little tail, always hovering and finding reasons to be near you.
You do not want to lead him on nor give out any mixed signals that could be misconstrued as encouragement. Because you know the type of person like Lane, behind all of that bravado and those unserious jokes that he uses as armor. You know he is sensitive and emotional as fuck, because you are just the same underneath your own carefully constructed defenses.
You know exactly how difficult you are to handle on your worst days. So to stick you both together in one place is already amazing by science, let alone having anything further than that, because two emotionally volatile people with unresolved trauma and defensive sarcasm do not exactly make for a healthy relationship, they make for a spectacular disaster waiting to happen.
But people like him are really the type that you find hardest to turn down.
Because one moment they can be all over you, showering you with attention and playful banter, and then one small word from you, one misplaced comment or unintentional slight, can make them shut out completely and retreat into themselves like a wounded animal.
You wonder if he would get hurt if you ever straightforwardly rejected him, if he would take it in stride with that easygoing demeanor he projects. Or if it would actually wound him deeply and make working together awkward and painful for both of you.
Whatever it is, you appreciate that he has not said anything out loud nor really done anything overt to mess up the coworker relationship between you and him. Because at least with that unspoken agreement, you both can pretend not to know one another's feelings and maintain the fragile peace that has been established.
Your mind drifts apart like that, wandering down familiar paths of overthinking and second guessing, but your eyes remain fixed on the set he has chosen, the starry studs and matching daith pieces that catch the light so prettily.
You reach your hand out, your fingers closing around the delicate metal as you carefully pick them up.
You remember the person who had once given you this set, the way they had said it would go well with your eye color, and somehow that memory makes the corner of your lip curve up in a soft, involuntary smile, but at the same time, something in your chest twists so harshly that you have to pause and take a breath.
You know it was a good memory, a sweet moment that had made you feel seen and cherished, but after all, it is only a memory left for you to remember, a ghost of a feeling that you cannot quite grasp anymore, with nothing else to hold on to except the fading warmth of what used to be.
You also remember wearing this very piece to your first concert ever with your friends, a bunch of teenagers who had snuck out of the house in the dead of night, catching a bus that traveled so far from the town you had been born and raised in just to watch an infamous band at the time playing on a stage that had seemed so much bigger and more magical than it probably was.
That was how your teenagehood had gone by, a blur of rebellious adventures and stolen moments, and it was not completely bad, there were still many special memories you had made with your friends back then, moments of pure joy and freedom that you had clung to when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
But through time, maybe even those memories were not strong enough to keep you all together, because people drifted and changed and became strangers wearing familiar faces.
Quick, guys, help me pick a dress for the LALY BBD Shift 3 Release! This is a very important event. I can't half ass it. Maybe slap a tiara on my head and some extra sparkly stuff or something.
Pairings: Lane x F!Reader.
Tags: Flirting, Teasing, Shotgun Kiss, established relationship,
Note: Sorry for being late for his birthday. I was so busy that I even forgot I had this sitting in my drafts since last year ayayaya. Sorry my baby birthday boy.
I included it with that fic I wrote for Lane - 𝐏𝐚𝐰𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, because, well, you can treat it as a sneak peek, but it’s more of a standalone one-shot. I just wanted to write him something for his birthday at the time.
It has a shotgun kiss in it btw 👀
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Lane is, by every known metric and definition, an absolute menace of a boyfriend. But he is still your boyfriend, so you’re stuck with him.
To be fair, he has been surprisingly well behaved ever since he managed to bag you. He actually toned down a lot of his usual antics because he knows you aren’t exactly thrilled to hear him rattle off twenty dumb jokes a minute.
You let a few things slide, but you’re still strict as hell with him. You are the definitive “takes absolutely no bullshit“ type, and honestly? Sometimes you scare him. It is a terrifying, highly effective vibe that somehow turns him on and keeps him in line all at the same time.
So you sneer at him more. Wreck his entire existence if you want to. He is exactly where he wants to be, completely down bad and loving every second of it.
But right now? God damnit, you feel like actual trash because you are failing miserably at the whole girlfriend gig. You almost completely forgot his birthday. The only reason you even realized it was happening was because of a neon sticky note RJ slapped onto the schedule sheet in the storage room.
Working consecutive night shifts had completely fried your brain, turning your memory into a total amnesia mess. And since it was already late and you were stuck on the clock, it wasn’t exactly the ideal time to orchestrate a mind blowing birthday bash.
Knowing Lane, you totally expected him to throw a massive tantrum, sulk, or pout. His girlfriend forgetting his big day?
THAT IS UNACCEPTABLE.
Instead, the guy genuinely does not seem to care. He has zero shifts to give. He is being way more chill than usual and hasn’t even dropped a single passive-aggressive hint about it.
You can’t help but wonder if this is some twisted, high level psychological tactic to make you drown in your own guilt.
How is he not pressing you on this? This is the very first birthday he gets to celebrate with you, and you completely dropped the ball.
Is he secretly furious? You have no idea, but you know you need to fix this disaster immediately.
But you better come up with something to fix this mess ASAP because there is no way you are letting his birthday go by this pathetically.
And it does go by a little pathetically. Well, more boringly than pathetically
The two of you end up parked outside a random, dimly lit gas station, sharing cheap snacks and a couple of cans of lukewarm beer and soda. You bought them from RJ’s store, and yes, you actually paid for them. The poor guy’s business is already declining so fast you didn’t feel like speedruning his bankruptcy by shoplifting.
Since you aren’t drinking tonight, the beer is strictly for Lane. You volunteered to play driver so he could enjoy himself, a gesture that earned you that signature, incredibly dumb smirk the second you suggested it.
Celebrate his birthday at this ungodly hour? The two of you should just be grateful there are still functioning streetlights on this block.
“So this is your grand concept of celebrating a birthday.”
He drops the snarky comment with a lazy grin. You want nothing more than to sigh heavily and shove his face away, but you actively restrain yourself. You are the one who forgot, so you are trying your absolute best not to be mean to him tonight.
“Bear with me. I’ll make sure we have a much nicer date tomorrow,” you answer quietly.
The smirk on his face only grows wider. It is so infuriating.
Why does he always look so incredibly punchable and highly kissable at the exact same time?
Like dude, pick a struggle.
Even before you dated him, you still thought he was obnoxious and lame. But unfortunately for your sanity, his face is 100% exactly your type, so you learned to mentally tune out everything coming out of his mouth and just pretend he is saying blah blah blah whatever while working together.
“I’m not complaining, though,” he chuckles softly.
He cracks open a can of soda and holds it out to you. You take it from his hand, watching as he immediately grabs another can for himself.
When you raise your eyebrows at him, Lane just looks back at you before taking a small sip.
“What?” he asks.
“You said you hated that flavor.”
You remember his weird, hyper-specific taste ratings for junk food very well. He has an incredibly critical scale for terrible gas station snacks.
“I like it fine,” he deflects weakly while you smirk.
You smirk, leaning in to remind him of his own words. “You literally told me last week that it tastes like medicine for a disease you don’t even have.”
He groans, rolling his eyes. “Okay, fine, it tastes like cough syrup. So what?” he argues in that dumb little annoying tone again.
“I’d rather stay sober so I can hear you sing me a birthday song loud and clear.”
You watch the curve of his lips slowly pull into a wider grin, and immediately you know he has another stupid idea brewing in his head. Every time that smirk appears, it is basically a warning sign.
He starts humming a terrible rendition of the tune, leaning way too close to your personal space. Frustrated, you plant a hand on his face and shove him away.
He just laughs, a loud, genuine sound that echoes into the cold, dark emptiness of the night as he looks out into the distance.
You reach into your pocket and pull out your cigarette pack, only to find a single, lonely cigarette left inside. Your lucky one.
You slide it out of the empty cardboard.
“Lane,” you call out.
His attention snaps right back to you. If you are being completely honest, Lane’s attention never actually drifts away from you, even when he pretends it does. He is always listening. He is honestly way more sensitive and observant than anyone else you’ve ever met.
One minute he is a goofy, hyperactive idiot, and the next he can spiral into a total brooding mess.
He is a difficult person to handle, but who is not?You aren’t exactly a walk in the park either. You two are just perfectly imperfect for each other.
“Make a wish.”
You continue when he raises his eyebrows in confusion.
“Is this some kind of inside joke I’m missing?” he asks skeptically in that permanently irritated tone of his while you roll your eyes.
“There are no bakeries open at midnight, so I can’t get you a cake. Consider this your birthday candle.”
You explain while holding up the cigarette.
Lane lets out a mocking, irritated huff of a laugh.
“Should’ve figured. Especially after you aggressively slapped my hand away at the cashier earlier.”
He suddenly shifts his voice into a high pitched, incredibly obnoxious mockery of yours. “It’s your birthday, asshole, you said.”
He cracks up at his own impression, thoroughly amused with himself.
“Wow. Do I feel loved.”
You sigh again, the guilt creeping back in. He is being so casual about this whole disaster, which almost makes you feel worse, but you can tell he genuinely doesn’t think this is a bad night.
You remember him mentioning once that he never really cared about his birthdays anyway.
And honestly, you kind of get it.
Your family was never really the celebrating type either. Most of your birthdays passed exactly like any other normal day. Just another Thursday.
Still, you have a brother, and you always made sure there was at least some kind of celebration for him even if it was nothing fancy.
Cheap junk food. Ice cream. Bags of chips. Cans of cheap beer the two of you secretly stole from the convenience store near your house.
Not exactly a heartwarming Hallmark birthday special, but at least it was something.
“Well, it is my lucky cigarette. So yes, you are indeed loved by me,” you say, cocking an eyebrow.
The unlit cigarette rests between your fingers. Lane’s eyes flick from your face down to the tobacco, a slow, amused smile spreading across his lips.
“For the record,” he says casually, “this is the worst birthday party I have ever had.”
You know he does not mean it. Lane just has that stupid way of joking around, and it barely affects you anymore when you already know half the things coming out of his mouth directly contradict whatever is actually happening inside his head.
And you can see that faint pink tint creeping across his face the second you say you love him.
He is a terrible liar, and you can see right through him, but if you call him out on it, he might just dissolve into some embarrassed, flustered puddle, so you keep quiet about it instead.
Besides, you have plenty of time to bully him about it later. He cannot cover it up with alcohol or some shit either, because he has not touched a single drop.
As for Lane, he is staring because he knows that one small habit of yours. You never really hide it, but to him it feels like something that has been with you for a very long time now.
Every time you get down to the last cigarette in a packet, you always make a wish before lighting it up.
At first, he did not really care. Then, slowly, it turned into curiosity, wondering why you did that.
And then weirdly jealous because where the hell and from whom did you even learn a habit like that?
His brain came up with every possible scenario. Some ex. Some charismatic asshole you used to date. Somebody memorable enough that their habits still stuck to you years later even when you claimed it had been forever since your last relationship.
Back then he was just your annoying dumbass coworker, so he had zero right to ask about it.
But later, when he found out it actually came from your father, he felt weirdly relieved.
You told him your dad was not exactly a great father figure, but sometimes the man had this strange, dark sense of humor that still lingered in your life even after you left home the second you hit adulthood.
“You’ve had worse.”
You commented softly, your voice cutting through the quiet night and dragging Lane back from whatever distant land his mind was wandering off to.
Your words anchored him, pulling his attention right back to the present as his gaze locked onto yours again. He looked at you for a brief, heavy second.
He looks at you for a moment, only a brief second. “Yeah,” he spoke up, his voice dropping a fraction. “I had.”
The atmosphere shifted, brushing against a topic a little too sensitive for a birthday, and you immediately wanted to distract him from whatever bad memories were trying to creep in.
“So this is what you get, Lane.”
You urge him as You lean closer while speaking, trying to pull him away from whatever ugly memory started creeping up his head. Somehow, Lane instinctively follows your movement, mirroring you and leaning closer too.
“Birthday boy gets to blow the candle,” you say with a smile, emphasizing every word.
“You want me to blow on a cigarette.”
Oh, he felt so incredibly coy correcting you, didn’t he?
You couldn’t help it, you reached out and pinched his cheek. It was just hard enough to make him let out a sharp yelp.
“I want you to shut up, close your eyes, and make a wish like a normal person,” you repeat while staring at him.
His cold blue eyes settle onto you again.
They seem to seep into every corner of you whenever he looks at you like that. Even when he stays quiet, his eyes always seem to hold a thousand stories inside them.
He just keeps looking at you, much longer than usual. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip because Lane was never really a looker. Well, that is not entirely true. You always feel his eyes on you because subtlety has never once existed inside this man’s body.
But when it comes to staring contests, he has never been able to win against you. He always drops his gaze far too quickly. He is a floor-staring, wall-gazing kind of man, someone who keeps himself carefully hidden behind stupid jokes and cocky smirks.
But you know Lane. He is such a dishonest bastard sometimes. He bottles everything up until the pressure explodes so violently you barely get time to prepare for it.
So when he lets himself do this, holding your gaze longer than he usually can. It means he is giving in a little.
You notice his lashes flutter slightly before he finally closes his eyes.
Those bright blue eyes disappear behind his eyelids while he shifts closer, and your smile grows softer at the sight.
Despite laughing at you earlier, he is taking this way more seriously than you expected.
And when he finally opens his eyes again, meeting yours with that deep ocean stare, you cannot help smiling wider.
“Happy birthday, Lane. Hope all your wishes come true, dumbass.”
You speak softly, and his lips curve into a deeper smile.
He looks so stupid, so ridiculous, and somehow so stupidly charming all at once.
That rough, boyish edge to his smile mixed with the slightly disheveled state of his hair from sitting out beneath the night wind. The way his laughter spills softly into the cold air.
It is such a rare sight, seeing Lane without his usual cocky, irritated smirk, so you let him be. Let him laugh quietly to himself until his attention slowly anchors back onto you once more.
“You’re nicer than usual, sis.”
He teases you again with that nickname.
You almost want to punch him for real this time because he really has a talent for killing emotional moments the second he gets embarrassed.
And judging by the slight redness tinting the tips of his ears, yeah, he is definitely embarrassed.
But instead of saying anything, you pull the lighter from your hoodie pocket and flick it open.
The warm orange glow spills softly across the space between the two of you, lighting every feature on his face more clearly. The flame dances in the blue of his eyes, cold ocean shades mixed with warm amber light, creating a contrast so beautiful it almost feels like the fire could melt straight through his endless blue sky.
The light paints his features so delicately that it almost feels like the world itself loves him, kissing every detail of his face. For a second you feel irrationally jealous of literally everything around him.
Because seriously, when Lane shuts the hell up, he is unfairly pretty.
You place the cigarette between your fingers against his lips.
For a brief moment, he hesitates, but slowly leans forward and takes it. The soft friction of his lips brushes against your fingers. The night air is cold but still heavy with humidity, and somehow his breath and that featherlight touch are enough to make you feel like you are burning.
And he lingers there, not pulling away even after you move your hand back to shield the flame from the wind. You press the lighter gently against the tip of the cigarette, burning it into a soft reddish glow that flickers quietly in the dark.
The old porch lamp above you buzzes and flickers like it might die any second. The light from the cigarette feels so small, like a cherry resting on top of a cheap whipped cream cake. Somehow, though, it is enough to illuminate the entire space between the two of you.
And throughout the entire process, Lane’s eyes never once leave you.
His eyes stay fixed on you. Every tiny movement.
The way your fingers shift.
The subtle movement of your body leaning closer.
The wind brushing loose strands of your hair across your face.
Even the way your breathing lingers near him.
Like he is trying to memorize every single part of you all at once.
♪⊹₊⟡⋆
And that tangy scent fills his lungs so familiarly.
You changed the brand you smoke because your favorite got discontinued. And even when Lane only smokes occasionally, he somehow misses that scent just as much as you do.
It feels strangely wrong not having that sour sweet cherry scent lingering around while he works, or when he steals a few drags from you.
Because he never actually finishes a cigarette himself. He always takes one or two drags before handing it back to you, telling you to finish it, when clearly he is the one borrowing from you.
What a sneaky, shameless thief he is.
And he misses that signature scent on you. It used to carve so deeply into every part of you.
Your hair, your collar, the sleeves of your shirt.
Somehow it always ended up clinging on to him too.
Do you know there were nights when he did not want to change his shirt because the lingering scent reminded him too much of you?
You think there is a reason he always hangs around whenever you smoke even when he never asks for one?
You have no idea how many times he fantasized about you long before you even noticed his awkward, messy attempts at flirting.
He is pathetic. A desperate loser. He knows that already.
Hell, he still does not know how he actually managed to bag you.
Sometimes he genuinely feels like the luckiest man alive.
You told him to make a wish, but he did not make one because he never believed in any of that bullshit.
He made plenty of birthday wishes when he was younger, and none of them ever came true.
But with you, it feels like he does not need to wish for anything anymore because somehow it always finds its way to him anyway.
You make him see and feel things he never even knew he wanted.
And weirdly enough, he does not hate it at all.
After taking one or two drags and exhaling that soft bergamot scent into the cold air, he realizes you really do like sour flavors in your cigarettes. Somehow, this scent feels much heavier and tangier than your old signature one.
But for some reason, he thinks it suits you even more.
Those Hellspits feel like frayed old memories you still try to hold close. Nostalgia, maybe. But it does not really suit you anymore, does it?
He actually likes the taste of Cindervein much better.
At first, it took him a while to adjust and get used to it.
Somehow you changing brands feels like you are finally leaving those old memories behind instead of crumbling yourself apart trying to piece them back together again. Like you finally let go of things that used to hurt you.
And for some reason, that gives him more relief than it even gives you.
Because in your past, there was never any sign of him.
But in your present, he is everywhere, and he intends to make sure he stays in your future too.
Jesus Christ!!
That sounds so fucking corny and cheesy.
No way he would ever admit something like that out loud to you.
But maybe you are sharp enough to notice that already.
Oh, Lane. You can never hide anything with a face that expressive. Dumb boy.
“What are you thinking?”
You take a sip from your soda before placing the cigarette against your lips again, dragging in that heavy scent as you enjoy the feeling.
Of the smoke drifts slowly through your lungs, warm and comforting, making your shoulders relax slightly.
Do you even realize the effect you have on him?
His eyes lock intensely onto the cigarette between your fingers. He is still lingering on that brief brush of his lips against your fingertips earlier.
And now you are placing your mouth right where he just…
Ughhhhhhh!!!!!
Why is he acting like a fucking virgin right now when he absolutely is not?
The two of you have done far more intimate things than this, and somehow one tiny movement from you is still enough to make him feel like he is sitting right on the edge of losing his mind.
Heat creeps from the back of his neck up to his face and ears. He can feel it clearly, and he knows you can see it too. Your lips slowly curl into such a knowing smile while the veil of gray smoke softens your gaze between the two of you, like a thin curtain hovering quietly in the space separating you.
“I just think it’d be funny if you sang me a birthday song right now.”
You nearly choke on your smoke as you sit up straight, coughing slightly while he gives you that mischievous, devious look.
“I didn’t agree to that.”
You quickly lower the cigarette over the soda can because there is absolutely no way you are embarrassing yourself further tonight.
He has way too many ridiculous ideas in his head sometimes. Half the time you cannot even keep up with them.
“It’s my birthday. You owe me that much.”
He leans back slightly, resting his hands behind him against the stone surface.
“I’m not gonna sing in a gas station parking lot, Lane.”
You emphasize every word while his eyebrows pull together into a slight frown, his lips turning downward too.
“Wow. That’s a lot coming from someone who claims to love me.”
Oh, he is absolutely doing this on purpose.
Speaking so casually, but you can hear the sulking hidden underneath every word.
“Forgot my birthday and now refusing to sing me a birthday song.”
He teases while his gaze settles back onto your face again. You kick lightly at his leg, but he quickly pulls away before you can reach him properly.
“Fine!”
You sigh heavily while glaring at him.
And the asshole looks way too satisfied with himself.
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the seat with the most devious grin imaginable, like he is fully prepared to sit there and watch you publicly humiliate yourself for his entertainment.
♪⊹₊⟡⋆
Did you sing him a birthday song?
Yes.
Did you enjoy it?
Absolutely not.
Did Lane enjoy it?
Oh, absolutely. The asshole even recorded you!!
That was so fucking terrible because not only did he record it, he also started criticizing your singing technique afterward like he was suddenly some version of Michael Jackson.
“That was terrible. You’re fired as my birthday bard.”
He manages to get the words out between his laughter because he is literally clutching his stomach, trying not to fall off the bench.
Meanwhile, you are one second away from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently.
“Shut up. And you can’t fire me either.”
You snap back, slightly offended, while he finally manages to calm himself down enough to breathe properly again.
Though his laughter still echoes through the empty parking lot, you can almost see tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Yeah, right. At least those still count as happy tears.
You do not say anything else after that. Instead, you pick up the half-finished cigarette from earlier and take another slow drag from it.
Lane tilts his head while watching you, resting his knuckles beneath his chin before making another comment.
“You’re gonna burn a hole in your lungs someday.”
“Didn’t know you were a doctor now, Lane.”
You assume it is just another one of his usual dumb jokes, so you casually throw the sarcasm back at him, but this time he seems a little too serious.
“I’m just a concerned boyfriend.”
And you have no idea how to answer that.
Most of your exes never gave a single fuck whether you smoked or not. They barely cared when you were drinking yourself into oblivion half the time.
But seeing Lane worried about you feels strangely unfamiliar.
Though, to be fair, he has always shown affection in unusual ways.
“Are you worried about me?”
You ask teasingly while he rubs the back of his head awkwardly, shifting his gaze away from you.
“Am I not being clear enough?” he mutters quietly.
You look at him for a moment.
From this angle, you can only see part of his side profile, the reddened tip of his ear, and the messy dark curls falling over his forehead.
God, you really want to laugh.
Or maybe aggressively hug him.
Mostly because he is being so painfully obvious right now, and Lane absolutely hates when you point out his emotions directly.
“Lane.”
You call his name softly, and he turns slightly to look at you again.
“I’ll quit.”
His eyes widen immediately into the most ridiculous expression.
“Both the store job and the smoking,” you clarify again as his eyes slowly narrow at you suspiciously.
The job part is not exactly news.
He already knows you are leaving the store job soon. You have always talked openly about it. Truthfully, Lane feels the same way, he has similar plans himself. He has already found someone to replace him once he quits too.
That new girl can handle herself pretty well now, and having another reliable worker around would make things easier for her. Neither of you has hidden those plans from each other. It has been decided for quite a while already.
You both knew this was coming.
“That’s a lot of bullshit coming from you.”
Still, Lane sounds deeply skeptical about the smoking part.
You just laugh quietly and lean a little closer toward him.
“I used to be in rehab. Cigarettes are nothing compared to that.”
You rest your hand gently against the back of his neck, and the moment your cold fingers touch his skin, he flinches slightly.
You can feel goosebumps rising beneath your fingertip.
Cute
You softly laugh under your breath.
Why is he still so nervous around you after all this time?
Or maybe your hands are just freezing enough to startle him.
At first, he says nothing.
The silence stretches quietly between the two of you while his eyes wander across your face. From your eyes, to the cigarette between your fingers, and then finally… Settle on your lips.
“Have faith in your girlfriend, Lane.”
You slip your hand away, planning to put the cigarette out inside your soda can, but his large hand reached out and caught your wrist.
Your brows lift slightly in confusion.
Did he not just say he was worried about your health?
You watched as his long, pale fingers smoothly slid the cigarette out of your grip and into his own. It fits so naturally between his pale fingers that it almost feels like it belongs there.
You look up at him while he slowly brings it to his lips.
The cigarette presses softly against his mouth, and his icy blue gaze never leaves yours for even a second.
They stay locked onto yours like he is planning something.
There is something unreadable sitting under his expression.
He takes one deep inhale, smoke filling his lungs slowly while you remain still, waiting to see whatever ridiculous thing he is about to do.
And before you can even process it properly, his hand slides to the side of your face, cradling the back of your head. In one fluid motion, he pulled you in while leaning closer himself.
He pressed his soft lips right over yours, catching you entirely off guard as he opened his mouth slightly to claim yours.
The heat of his lip hit you instantly, a sharp and intoxicating contrast to the freezing night air.
The smoke lingers between both your breaths, that gray veil that always seemed to drift between the two of you now tangling around your bodies instead, wrapping you together beneath the flickering gas station light.
He let the smoke escape from his lips right into yours, a shared, breathless exhale that tasted entirely of him, blending the sharp, familiar bitterness of tobacco with the sudden, sugary rush of that artificial soda.
You felt the warmth of his face so close to yours. His eyes closed slowly, though that lingering, intense blue gaze felt like it was still burned into the back of your mind even as his long eyelashes brushed against your skin.
Your vision blurred out completely.
It wasn’t just from the rising smoke or the tangy, sour scent of the tobacco, but from the crushing intimacy of how he was holding you. Lane’s lips were soft, parting further as his tongue slid forward to seek yours out.
He didn’t just kiss you, he consumed you, his tongue tracing the smooth line of your teeth before intertwining with yours in a slow, rhythmic dance that made your chest ache with fierce heat.
Why is it so gentle and so lingering tonight?
Like he wants to savor every second of this.
He kissed you with a sudden, deep hunger, but it was anchored by a tenderness you had never really felt from him before.
His large hand remained anchored on the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone while the cigarette still burned between his fingers.
The sharp and smoky aroma seeped vividly into the air around you, tying you two together in the quiet night.
His long fingers gently pressed against your jaw, his grip remained firm but careful as he angled your face up slightly so he could get better access to your lips and your tongue, so he could draw you into a deeper, wetter rhythm
He sucked softly on your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth with a gentle, agonizing friction that made a quiet gasp hitch in your throat, allowing him to deepen the kiss even further. His warm breath and radiating body temperature completely enveloped you.
You just let him kiss you like that, melting into a sense of profound longing. It felt as if he believed that after tonight, he might never get to taste you again.
Did telling him you were quitting smoking really affect him that much?
Why?
You never thought of smoking as something deeply sentimental, signature aspect of your life. You had already planned on quitting eventually anyway.
It was just a habit you picked up from the people around you growing up. From old friends. Old versions of yourself. From pieces of your childhood stitched together into something messy and unhealthy.
But maybe Lane sees it differently.
Maybe to him, it feels like you are leaving behind another piece of yourself.
To abandon something that had been with you for so long, present in so many chapters of your life, it was a sacred ritual. It needed a proper mourning. And maybe this is his weird, emotional little way of saying goodbye to it.
The kiss grew deeper with each passing second, becoming heavy and desperate as his tongue stroked against yours, tasting the dark, bittersweet hint and the sour aroma that somehow tasted way better when tangled in his mouth.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie as you pull him closer, feeling his other hand finally settle carefully against your waist.
Your arms moved to wrap around his neck smoothly, a motion so natural it felt like you had done it a hundred times before. Lane dropped the cigarette to the ground, entirely abandoning it to free his hands so he could hold you properly.
He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around you as if he wanted to cradle you right there in the dark, as if he wanted to press his body so tightly against yours that you would carve directly into his heart and let you sink deeply into him forever. Where nothing else can ever take you away.
Suddenly the kiss feels less like desire and more like desperation.
When he finally pulled away, a thin, silver string of saliva lingered between your lips in the dim light.
His breathing is uneven now and so is yours.
And before you can even recover properly, Lane stuck his tongue out and licked your lower lip softly, catching the stray moisture, as if he still wasn’t satisfied, as if that devastating taste wasn’t enough to appease the impatient, needy man he truly was beneath all his bravado. That restless part of him he always tries to hide.
One taste still is not enough for him.
He is still greedy for more.
He presses his forehead against yours afterward, messy strands of his dark hair brushing against your skin lightly.
Your hand drifts to the back of his neck again. You lightly scratch against his skin just to tease him.
You know exactly how sensitive he is there.
You feel the quiet shiver run through him while he exhales a low laugh against your face.
And honestly, you enjoy tormenting him with it.
Testing his patience while pressing soft kisses against the side of his face.
“Was that your wish?” you asked quietly, your breath still slightly off-rhythm.
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest.
You are not entirely sure if he is laughing at himself or at how stupidly sentimental the moment sounds.
“No,” he answers softly before nuzzling his face against yours again.
Your fingers slide gently into his curls, brushing through his hair while he practically melts against you.
He feels like some oversized clingy dog desperate for affection.
And the second you pet him gently, a low satisfied sound rumbles from his chest.
He laughs softly under his breath while your fingers continue moving through his hair.
“You said you’d quit smoking.”
He mentioned again, lifting his head slightly so his eyes could lock onto yours.
“Then do it as my birthday gift next year.”
His voice comes out so clear and sincere that it catches you completely off guard. And every word sinks deep into your chest.
You freeze for a second and suddenly you understand this is not really about cigarettes.
It is about him wanting you here next year. And the year after that. And every year after that too.
The silence stretches too long, and slowly you see something fragile creep into his expression.
The teasing confidence disappears completely, leaving behind something… melancholy.
He looked exactly like a pathetic puppy drenched under the rain.
Your chest aches immediately at his expression.
“Fine,” you whisper softly when you see that look on his face. “I promise.”
His eyes flicker slightly.
“I’ll celebrate your next birthday too,” you continue quietly while cupping his face between your hands. “And the next one. And the next one after that too.”
You press small kisses all over his face between your words, laughing softly when you feel the faint dampness against his skin.
Normally, Lane would complain about how cheesy and gross you are before hiding his face somewhere out of embarrassment.
But tonight he does not pull away.
Tonight he just stays there quietly, letting you hold him, letting you kiss him, while his soft laughter echoes through the empty parking lot beneath the dim flickering lights.
And somehow, in that moment, you realize something.
Maybe whatever wish Lane made tonight already came true after all.
