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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months

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Same as it ever was 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: Sorry to those who expected a team-up or simps!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your eyes burn as you rub them with the heels of your hand. It's late, very late, and Pete's not home. He missed bath time and bedtime. You're only fortunate that the sitter fed the kids.

You continue your tedious Excel mission, yawning at the sharepoint file as you sweep your fingers over the touchpad. You sit against the pillows propped against the bed frame and struggle not to doze. You're almost there, you can do it. Yeah, keep telling yourself that and it might even be true.

You hear an engine. You're not much of an automotive enthusiast but you recognise it. It's Pete unnecessary Corvette. The vehicle he convinced you would be the perfect company car. You sigh and hunker down, blocking out the ruckus of his return.

Still, you hear it all. Him unlocking the door, pausing to take off his jacket and shoes, climbing the stairs, at least considerate of the hour as he keeps his steps light. He enters, seemingly shocked to find you awake as his eyes round in your direction. He stretches, pushing his neck side to side in an exaggerated gesture of fatigue.

"Ugh, long day," he rubs his shoulders with a groan.

You don't acknowledge him as you keep your fingers fluttering over the keyboard. It's too late and you're too drained to be any more angry than you already are. You narrow in on the laptop as he hovers at the edge of your vision, undressing piece by piece.

"Big meeting today. Might've found another investor," he talks above the bellowing elephant in the room. "I think we're almost there."

You curl your lip but say nothing. One word and it's over. It will all come spewing out. Between him and your asshole boss, you have a thread of patience left.

He tosses his pants at the hamper and they catch on the edge before falling on the outside. He doesn't pick them up. You wonder why he insists on spending label name money when he doesn't take care of his clothes. Why he wears big names as you're digging through thrift store bins. You blow out a breath, a sigh that fills the room.

"So," he rolls down his underwear, shamelessly naked but for his black socks, "you just going to give me the silent treatment when I worked all day--"

"I'm still working," you snap and still your hands, glaring up at him, "I'd be done by now if you had picked up the kids from Emma's."

"I... you weren't serious about that, were you?"

"Don't," you warn him and lower your gaze back to the laptop, "I have a big meeting in the morning and I'm gonna spend enough time getting this done. I don't need an argument--"

"Relax," he snips, "I'm gonna shower and sleep. You don't gotta worry." He lumbers over to the bathroom door and you roll your eyes, "we both know nothing else is going on in that bed."

You swallow as your eyes sting again. He slams the door and you hiss. If he wakes up the kids...

You wait and listen for any stirring beyond your bedroom walls. Thankfully, the house is silent but for the sudden scour of the showerhead. You bat away the layer of tears threatening to spill and shake your head. It's not like you didn't try; you put on some old lingerie two weeks ago and he rolled over and went to sleep. Still, you're the problem. It's always you.

You hit save to make sure the sharepoint updates and you take a final look over each sheet. You're done, you think. You hope. You're too tired to care. You shut the laptop and put it on the night table.

You slide down onto your side and flip off the lamp. You lay with your back to the bathroom door and squeeze your eyes shut. Sleep should be easy but your anxiety further jabs the migraine into your skull. You hate this, all of it. How did it come to this? Where did you go wrong?

🗄️

A couple hours of sleep is hardly enough to recover from the hectic day behind you, or the one awaiting you. You get the kids up, packed, and off to school knowing Pete is probably not even awake. You didn't even try to rouse him as he would only add to your list of worries.

You head to the office, your hope of getting in early crushed as you hurry in at your usual time. You fall into the chair, coat still half-on as you jab the button on the monitor. The PC is asleep but not off. You hit the space bar to wake it up.

You finish stripping off your outer layer and hang it over the back of your chair. You swivel in and gape at the sight before you. Every cell is empty. You click through the sheets as your heart plummets. You close and try reopening the file, hoping it merely timed out.

Nothing. It's all gone but how? You can't believe it. You go into the recovery settings and search through revision history. It's all be locked, you can't see any past edits.

You clutch your head as despair and panic and grief swallow you up. Luck has never been your friend but this is a new low. You roll back slightly and fold over in your chair. You have a choice; accept defeat and tender your resignation or hope for mercy and pretend in the meeting that the file was corrupted without your knowledge.

"You know," your chair jolts as someone kicks a wheel, "there's a very strict security policy around here. All work devices should be locked and shut down before they are left unattended."

You sit up and spin, dizzy from grief and utter dread as you face Mr. Hansen. He smirks down at you, a black button-up under a sleek evergreen jacket. His wardrobe is even more ostantatious than your husband's; probably because he can afford it. You lift your face and deflate.

"Mr. Hansen," you murmur.

"Anyone could just see the budget… they could tamper with it," he watches you smugly, "or even…delete it."

Your ribs rack and your ears tingle. He did this. Is he crazy? You stand up and he stays as he is. The closeness between you is suffocating.

"Mr. Hansen," you repeat, "I had the numbers done–"

"Oh, you do?" He chuckles, "that's great."

"What did you do? Why?" You accuse.

"I told you, honey bun, you owe me," he pishes his shoulders back, "so…" he lifts his arm and checks his watch, gold and expensive. Probably worth as much as your mortgage, "how exactly are you gonna pay me back? First I let you off early," he holds up a finger "then… I work a miracle and help you recover that pesky budget."

"Sir," you choke out, mortified, "I'll… I'll stay overtime all week. I swear, I'll–"

"Hmph, nah, I got enough soldiers running the ant hill," he tweaks a brow, "overtime… boring. You got kids, they need mommy home to kiss them goodnight."

You clamp your lips together and watch him desperately. He just wants to torture you. You can feel it all slipping away; your job, your husband, and yourself.

"What do you want?" You exhale weakly.

He tilts his head and lets the tip of his tongue poke out, "you know," he wags his index in front of you, "I know this trick on Excel, why don't I show you?" He pauses for effect, basking in his victory, "in my office?"

A stitch dimples between your eyebrows. His office. Why? You don’t let the trickle of suspicion overflow. You’re not his type. Definitely not Kendra. No, this will be worse than whatever disgusting thoughts he has in her direction.

You set your chin and turn your hands out, “alright, fine. Show me.”

You wait, and he hesitates, as if waiting for you to flinch first. Finally, he pivots on the heel of his ridiculous loafers and struts towards his office. You leave your chair facing the rest of the office and follow, pressing your sweaty palms to the pilled wool that strains across your thighs.

He opens the door of his office and you enter behind him. He lingers by the door and closes it as you stop just inside. For all your years there, you’d never actually been inside his office. There was never any reason for it. Thankfully.

He doesn’t say a word as he rounds his desk and sits casually in his tall-backed chair. It’s much better than those out in the bullpen with the worn cushion and squeaky wheels. You wait, patiently impatient, for him to begin. You feel him plotting, measuring his next move.

He rolls closer to his desk and takes the nearly flat apple mouse, moving it atop the leather pad and clicking with a single finger. His eyes reflect the large screen of his iMac and the corner of his mouth curves upward.

He looks at you and beckons with his other hand, “come here. I’ll show you.”

You reluctantly round his desk. There’s something about his nonchalance that both irks and unsettles you. You near and look at his screen. You see the slobbery lips of a teary-eyed woman right before he minimises the window. You pretend not to notice as he clicks onto the excel file.

It’s there. All your work. You squint and see the title in the bar of the window; Copy of… He kept a copy but he destroyed yours. It’s all a trick. You can’t be surprised by that.

“There it is,” he clicks his tongue, “all your hard work. Wow, I gotta say, that’s impressive.”

“You…” you put your hands on your hips and glance between him and the screen, “what do you want?”

“Nothing much,” he snickers, “and I’d say it’s not too different than what you want. What you really want.”

You blink at his vague statement. You bring an arm up across your stomach and stare at him nervously. Men like him just want their ego inflated. You just have to remember how to kiss ass.

“So,” he leans back and reaches for his belt, “we don’t got much time. Meeting’s in a smooth fifteen so–”

“What are you doing?” You hiss.

He stops, keeping his hands over his lap. You see his velvet pants twitch.

“We can play pretend. I don’t mind. You like the whole hard to get thing, I get it, you got class,” he says, “but we both know the old man isn’t giving you what you need. I can tell by the way you keep your ass clenched–”

“Mr. Hansen,” you snarl.

“I’m not asking for much. A quick handy,” he unbuckles his belt, “I just want a little more than you give the husband. I don’t want it to be a chore, alright? You’re not washing dishes–”

“You’re gross-”

“And you’re going to do it,” he opens his fly. Again, your shock is lacking. No underwear, nasty. “Because you’ve been here, what…” he reaches into his pants and pulls his dick out as he talks, “twelve years?” He strokes himself without shame, “and you walk out of here without a single reference and you’ll be lucky to get a job at the McDonald’s drive-thru.”

You focus on his face, horrified. Like most women, it’s not the first time you’ve been in this position. Propositioned in such a revolting way. Put in a winless situation. Yet, you somehow believed those days were over for you. You’d found safety in age.

“You can’t be serious…” you mutter.

“I’m fucking serious and I’m horny. Since you wanna cockblock me, you can deal with the consequences, honey,” he turns the chair towards you, “you do remember how these things work, right?”

You stare at him, almost glaring. You don’t let your revulsion seep through fully because as repugnant as he is, he’s right. You need this job. You’re not young, you can’t just walk away and crash on a friend’s couch until you find something better. You’re a mother and a wife. A wife.

“Is it really cheating if you can’t stand it?” He chortles as if reading your mind.

You take a breath and step forward. He winces at your suddenness. He braces the armrest of the chair as you reach for his rigid length. You grip him, biting down to keep from ripping your touch away. You look past him to the wall as he grunt and lets out a quivery breath.

You pump him and he hisses, “honey, it’s not a stick shift. Be fucking nice. Get some fucking lube on it.”

You tamp down your disgust and pull your hand back. You hold it up and spit onto it, hiding the action as best you can. You’d rather spit in his face.

You grab him again and run your hand from base to tip and back. He chokes and clings to the chair tighter as it shifts beneath him. He groans as you fixate on the framed Harvard Business School degree. Just when you thought life couldn’t slap you in the face again.

He pushes his head back and rumbles as you feel him tensing. He’s like any man. Simple, through and through.

You feel him trembling and sense the change in his tone. He’s close. You taste bile, sickened by yourself and him. You stop and keep your hand around him.

“Send it,” you demand.

“Huh?” He puffs.

“Send the file or I don’t finish. And neither do you–”

“Honey, that’s not–”

You squeeze, “send the file.”

“Fine, fine,” he reaches over, straining as he taps a few buttons. You watch the screen and he hits share, you wave him away from the keyboard. You type in your email with your free hand and press enter.

“Great,” you pump your hand again, hips aching at the awkward way you have to bend.

You grasp the chair above his shoulder as you speed up. He growls and plants his feet, rasping through his rising pleasure, “don’t fuck up my suit–”

You angle his dick and cup your hand under the tip. You have to look then. You watch as he explodes, catching the gushing flow in your palm as he quakes and moans out his delight. Your stomach churns as you stroke him until he’s empty and squirming.

You retract your hand and turn to grab a tissue to wipe away the mess. You’re certain to take a healthy dollop from the sanitizer bottle as well, clearing your throat as you try to shake off what you just did. You look at your watch and roll your shoulders.

“I’ll see you in the meeting,” you retreat to the door as his breath peters out.

“Honey…” he sighs.

“Mr. Hansen,” you reach for the door, leaving him with his limpening dick hanging out.

You march out, not looking one way or the other, as you head for your desk. You’re shaking by the time you reach it, nearly collapsing into the chair. What have you done? You are just as disgusting as he is. You’re pathetic, you’re a loser, you’re… a cheater.

#lloyd hansen #pete brenner #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #dark pete brenner #dark!pete brenner #pete brenner x reader #lloyd hansen x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #same as it ever was #au #the gray man #pain hustlers

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