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disturbedbydesign · 2 years

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Special Girl - Part 1

Summary: You arrived at Harvard as a shy, nerdy girl. You never thought a guy like Lloyd Hansen would notice you. But Lloyd saw you—really saw you—and for a time you became his special girl. Now, years later, you're stuck in a sexless marriage. Unloved and unfucked for months, you've decided enough is enough. The fact that Lloyd has been keeping tabs on you for years has nothing to do with it... or does it?

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Chapter WC: 5.6K

Warnings: DUBCON (alcohol use/manipulation); INCREDIBLY unsafe/unhealthy/deadass wrong BDSM practices (Lloyd doesn't do safewords or aftercare); plus-sized reader/fatphobia; cheating; degradation; bondage, spanking/whipping, gagging; knife kink; blood kink; CNC roleplay; gunplay; rough oral (m receiving); explicit sex (O,V,A); unprotected sex (Lloyd doesn't wear condoms, ok?); unwanted pregnancies/abortion; physical intimidation/abuse; general toxicity; Lloyd is a psycho and he's fucking mean—Dead Dove Do Not Eat! 18+ only, no minors.

Series Masterlist

Part One

Every day feels the same, and that sameness is going to kill you soon. It’s been killing you slowly for years, but today it ends—one way or another. Six months, you’d told yourself. Six more months and you’re done.

You wake up next to the man you call your husband but he feels like a stranger to you. He grumbles as he throws the covers off and rips open the curtains, shoving his boxers down and kicking them into the corner instead of placing them in the hamper like you’d asked him more times than you can count. He showers with the door open, and the sight of his naked body makes you angry. He hasn’t fucked you in 5 months and 29 days, and you almost tell him, “Today’s your last chance, Michael,” but you don’t. You won’t beg for it. Not anymore. He has to want you.

Your 6-year-old son whines and struggles as you try to get him ready for school. Harrison hates school and he hates you for making him go there. You cook their breakfast and pack their lunches while they eat. When they’re done, you pour Dunkin breakfast blend into a crimson travel mug with the Harvard seal emblazoned on it, add just the right amount of 2% milk to turn it from black to caramel, and hand it to your husband. He thanks you with a kiss on the forehead—never the lips—and then leaves for his bright shiny law office in McLean.

You were going to be a lawyer once. You and Michael met at Harvard Law, and you both had the same idealistic dreams back then—you wanted to do immigration law, he wanted to work for the Innocence Project—but then you got pregnant and the smell of money wafting off the white-shoe firms was too tempting for Michael to pass up. You told yourself you’d go back to work once Harrison was older, that you wanted to be a hands-on mom for the first few years of his life, but you knew even then it was a lie you told yourself and everyone else. Seven years at Harvard, all that money and time and hard work, and for what? Washing skidmarked underwear and making PB&J with the crusts cut off.

What a fucking waste. You can hear it in his voice—that gleeful sneering tone that makes your blood run hot. So disappointing, Porkchop. So ordinary. So boring. I thought you wanted more than this. I thought you were special.

But Michael likes you at home. He likes a clean house and a hot meal and a child raised by its mother. He likes that your brain has atrophied in this endless cycle of cook-clean-chauffeur-shop, that you’re no longer smarter than him, that you rely on him for money even though you should be making six figures right now, too. He likes the big, beautiful house in the D.C. suburbs, the senators and lobbyist neighbors, the private schools and the fancy cars. He likes to answer for you when people at dinner parties and cocktail hours ask you what you do for a living: “Oh, she doesn’t work.”

You still don’t know what you did to make him hate you so much. (Actually, you do know, but Michael doesn’t.) It’s not even hate, though—it’s worse, it’s indifference. In some ways it’s so much crueler. At least with hatred, there’s some passion behind it. If you hate someone, it means a part of you still cares, still wants to love them—that maybe a part of you still does. You of all people would know.

You don’t hate Michael; you hate yourself for choosing this life with him—this boring, ordinary life—when you could have had something more. Maybe not what you wanted, who you wanted, but being hurt by him would have felt better than the endless parade of nothing you feel now. Did you ever love Michael? You think you must have at some point but you can’t remember why. Was it because he showed you that love didn’t have to hurt, that you could be more than someone’s dirty little secret? It’s been so long since you felt that way, though. Maybe it’s just another lie you tell yourself.

You drive your son to school and he makes a scene at drop-off, begging you to take him back home. When Harrison is angry, which he is more and more lately, his ocean blue eyes turn stormy. That’s when you see it most clearly—when you see him—and you know the answer to the question you’ve refused to entertain for the last seven years. It wouldn’t matter anyway; he’d made that very clear the first time. You were only ever meant to be a secret indulgence, a toy he could take out of its hiding place and play with and throw away when it bored him. Besides, you know who he is now—what he does. There’s no room for you in his life, and certainly no room for Harrison.

And you’d be fine with that. You would, but he just won’t leave you alone.

You return home and you clean clean clean until everything sparkles and shines. You turn over endless piles of laundry. You pick up dry cleaning and drop off more. You eat a salad. You go to the gym and work it off. As your muscles burn and the sweat drips down your back, you force yourself to remember what it felt like to carry all that weight. Your body is screaming at you to stop but you keep going. Another pound or two, you think, and maybe my husband will touch me.

But that’s not why you work out—not really. You do it because you like the pain. You miss it. You haven’t felt that good pain in years but your body remembers it, remembers him.

Even when Michael was interested in fucking you, it was never what you wanted. There was no passion to it, nothing primal and animal that told you that he absolutely had to have you. Michael’s go-to move was poking you in the leg and saying, “Wanna do it?” and then engaging in bare-minimum foreplay before 15 minutes of missionary with the lights off. You could set a clock by it, but you told yourself it was ok because it was what you deserved. It was the punishment for your crimes, and living with it was your form of atonement. At least he made you cum sometimes.

But not like he did. Never like he did.

You shower at the gym and leave to pick up Harrison. It’s a Wednesday and he has Pee Wee football practice after school so you’re greeted with a smile instead of a scowl. Besides for pizza and superheroes, football is the only thing that makes your son truly happy, but for you it’s just hours and hours of practices and games and more laundry to do and the disapproving stares of the other mothers when Harrison breaks the no tackling rule. He’s big for his age already—tall and broad, built tough—and the rules of flag football mean nothing to him. One more hit, the coach had told you last week, and he’s out.

You sit at the far end of the bleachers, away from the other mothers and their death stares. They’ve all complained to the coach and you don’t blame them—if it was your son getting hurt instead of doing the hurting, you would feel the same way. You say a quick prayer to whatever god is listening that Harrison plays by the rules today and then you check your email on your phone. You’ve got a few Amazon shipping updates, a check-up reminder from Harrison’s dentist, and a message from the alumni association reminding you that the Harvard-Yale game is next weekend. You delete that one as aggressively as possible, and when you return to your inbox, there’s a new message.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think the sender was spam—just a nonsensical jumble of letters and numbers—but you’ve seen ones just like it many times before. The subject line is blank, and when you open it, there’s just two words: “Hey, Porkchop.” You look up and across the field and you see him standing in the parking lot, leaning against your car with his arms crossed. Your heart starts pounding when you make eye contact and it jumps into your throat when he gives you a cheeky little wave.

You know he’s been watching you. His emails and texts over the years always made it clear that he’s keeping tabs. You never respond but they’ve been more frequent lately. Then six months ago he sent you a picture—-taken through the blinds in your bedroom—-of you and Michael having sex with a one-word message: “Boring.” Ever since you’ve felt his presence. Everywhere you go, you feel his eyes on you. He’s been telling you things he couldn’t possibly know if he wasn’t watching. He’s even started talking about Harrison—”Good looking kid,” he’d said in an email with a picture of Harrison at his first football practice attached. “Looking strong out there.”

You never thought he’d actually show up. You just assumed he’d been taunting you and teasing you and leading you on like he always did. But here he is in the flesh, wearing a black turtleneck and tight white pants and sporting a Tom Selleck mustache that should not be attractive but very much is. You grab your purse and hurry around the field to the lot, and as you approach him, he’s focused on the field, on Harrison.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Lloyd?” you whisper-shout at him when you’re close enough.

“Aww, come on, Porkchop.” He looks you up and down and flashes you that smug smile that haunts your dreams. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “I mean it.”

Lloyd takes you by the elbow and grips your arm hard, dragging you around to the back of your car with a few long strides. No one on the field can see you now, which should frighten you knowing what you know about the man in front of you. But you’re not afraid of him—-at least not like that. Lloyd likes to hurt you in other ways.

“I can be wherever the fuck I want to be,” he snaps. “Besides, I thought you’d be happier to see me. You seem like you could use a little attention.” Lloyd removes his hand from your arm and runs it down your flank, grabbing at your hip and giving it a squeeze. “I gotta say, Porkchop, I liked you better with a little meat on your bones.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” You move to swat his hand away but he catches your wrist and you can’t help but look up into his piercing blue eyes—your son’s eyes. “Let go of me,” you whisper, but you don’t mean it.

He chuckles and drops your wrist, running his hand across his chin. “Alright,” he says, “I’ll play nice.” He leans down close enough that you can feel the icy mint of his breath against your lips. “For now.”

“What do you want, Lloyd?”

“Today’s the day, right? D-Day? Last chance for ol’ Mikey to lay some pipe or you’re through?”

Your mouth drops open but only a tiny squeak comes out. How the fuck does he know that? The only person you told was your therapist.

“Oh, Porkchop. I know you’ve gone stupid on me since you had the kid, but when are you going to get it through your pretty little head that I know everything. I see everything. There isn’t a thing you can do or say or even think that I can’t find out about if I want to.”

“And why do you want to?” The words fly out before you can stop them. “Why the fuck do you even care, Lloyd? Why are you doing this to me?”

He cocks his head to the side and gives you a half smile that makes his dimple pop, and you see that little twinkle in his eyes that comes out to play when he’s feeling especially cruel.

“You know why.”

Lloyd grabs you by the throat and shoves you against the back of your SUV, kissing you so hard and deep that your legs threaten to give out. His thick mustache tickles your nostrils and it’s a new sensation. He was clean-shaven back at Harvard: one of the football team’s rules (and pretty much the only one Lloyd didn’t break). You moan into his mouth—-you can’t help it—-and the only thing holding you up is the hand around your neck and the weight of his broad, heavy body pressed against yours. You can feel him smirking against your lips after your moan slips out, and by the time he pulls away, you’ve soaked through your panties. You haven’t been kissed like that since your wedding day—the last time you saw him, when you did the thing you try so hard not to think about but always come back to when you’re alone in the tub with just enough time to rub one out in between supper and bathtime. The thing that changed everything and nothing at all.

“Here,” he says. “Take this.” He hands you a slip of paper with an address on it—some bougie D.C. neighborhood near Embassy Row. “I’ll be there Friday night and Saturday but Sunday morning I’m gone. No telling when I’ll be back. Do me a favor and make the right choice for once.” He grabs your face in his large hands and leans down to whisper, low and gravely, against your forehead. “Don’t disappoint me again.”

Before you have a chance to answer, a huge black Suburban with tinted windows pulls up and Lloyd hops in the passenger seat.

“See you soon, Porkchop,” he says, half hanging out the open window. “Tell the kid Daddy says hi.”

***

“Oh come on,” your roommate Shay begged. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

You had zero desire to go to the Phoenix club party but it was Harvard-Yale weekend and the Crimson had absolutely slaughtered the Bulldogs that afternoon. Shay was dying to go and she’d been trying to drag you out for weeks.

“I won’t even get in,” you told her. “I’m just a freshman and I… I just won’t. It’ll be embarrassing.”

You didn’t tell her the real reason you didn’t want to go, which was that you packed on the freshman 15 and then some and you didn’t want to be the fat girl left out in the cold while your much thinner, much hotter roommate got into the party.

“Babe, they let all the girls in, and that goes double for freshmen.”

“And that’s supposed to make me want to go?” you replied. You knew the reputation that the finals club parties had on campus, and you knew it wasn’t the safest place for a drunk 18-year-old girl to be, especially on the night of The Game. “Those guys are so sketchy.”

“Yeah, but they have the best booze,” she said. “And we’ll watch out for each other. Come on, please?”

You sighed and rolled your eyes, but part of you couldn’t help but be curious about the legendary party scene at the clubs. And on Game Day? After a win? It was bound to be wild.

“Alright,” you agreed. “Just this once. But I’m not getting wasted. I’m considering this more of a sociological experiment.”

“Whatever gets you out the door, nerd,” she replied. “Now let’s find you something to wear that isn’t that ratty old hoodie and jeans.”

You were freezing cold and terribly uncomfortable in the dress and heels your roommate chose for you. The dress was stretchy enough to fit you but you didn’t consider it flattering. You told her as much but she assured you you looked great.

“Your tits look incredible in that dress,” she insisted. “Seriously, I can’t look away.”

You took the compliment but you still felt exposed. You never wore tight clothes, preferring to hide your chub under layers of fabric or loose-fitting dresses. You’d always been a bigger girl but your first few months of college, even without being a heavy drinker, saw you tipping the scale much higher than ever before. The skin-tight green dress you were wearing was making you feel vulnerable and you could tell the discomfort was written all over your face.

“It’ll be fine,” Shay promised you as you walked to the Phoenix.

You could hear the crowd two blocks away, so loud that the whooping and cheering and chanting of “Fuck Yale” could probably be heard all the way in New Haven, and when you rounded the corner onto Mt. Auburn, you saw the epic line.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, though the sound of the crowd drowned it out.

The line to get in was around the block and then some, and it was almost all scantily clad girls, many of them freshmen you vaguely recognized. You saw the hot blonde from your psych class with a group of her equally hot friends at the front of the line being waved in by a guy at the door, and you saw him laugh in the faces of the two guys after them and send them on their way.

“There’s no way we’re getting in. Let’s just go somewhere else,” you told Shay, but you were really more concerned that she would get in and you wouldn’t.

“We’re getting in,” she said, “and we’re not waiting on this fucking line either.”

Before you could argue, Shay was dragging you toward a girl about 10 people back in line.

“Hey, cousin!” Shay yelled, and she shoved her way into the line next to her cousin Maddie.

Maddie was a sophomore and had been hooking up with one of the Phoenix guys. You felt awful cutting the line, and the girls behind you were quite vocal about how pissed they were about it, but Maddie silenced them with a simple, “Hush, freshmen,” and before you knew it, you were standing at the door in front of the guy who held all the power.

“Hey Mads,” he said. “See you brought some fresh meat.”

“This is my cousin and her roommate,” Maddie said. “Be nice”

The guy looked Shay up and down, clearly approving of her, but when he took a look at you, he started laughing. You almost ran away crying right then but you forced yourself to make eye contact and smile.

“Oh, Lloyd’s gonna love this one,” he said. “Entrez, mademoiselles. Down the rabbit hole you go.”

On your way down the stairs, you asked Maddie, “What was that supposed to mean? Who’s Lloyd?”

She just laughed. “Lloyd Hansen? The football player?”

“I’m not much of a sports fan,” you replied.

“Well he’s basically a god on the team, and he’s only a junior. But I’d stay away from him if I were you. He’s… well, I’ve heard some stories and none of them are good.”

You really did mean to heed her advice, you did, but two hours and several vodka cranberries later and you were drunker than you’d ever been in your life. You didn’t feel sick, just completely out of control, but you liked the feeling. You were always so buttoned up and guarded and it felt so fucking good to just let go for once. Shay stuck by your side as promised and the two of you danced and drank and danced and drank more.

You don’t know exactly when it happened—-you were out of it then and time has only muddled the memory further—-but at some point, you found yourself alone in the courtyard out back. You looked around for Shay but she was nowhere to be found. There was a group of guys nearby, and through the din and the ringing in your ears you could hear them laughing while one of them made oinking and squealing noises. You knew without knowing that they were laughing at you, and as you shoved your way through the crowd and back inside you heard one of them shout “Get ‘er done!”

It came on you suddenly—-that feeling that your bladder might burst. You needed to find a bathroom and quickly. You asked the person closest to you and she pointed in the direction of a huge line of girls.

“Fuck,” you shouted to no one, and then you felt a tap on your shoulder.

When you turned around, you were eye-level with the incredibly broad chest of one of the guys you’d seen outside.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, and you looked up into the prettiest blue eyes you’d ever seen, framed by long lashes that most women would kill for. “You lost?”

“I… uh… my friend is…” you stammered, having trouble finding words with this beautiful guy towering over you. “I… is there another bathroom here?”

“Upstairs,” he said. “Members only, but I’ll make an exception for you.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the stairs. “Come with me.”

The ground floor of the Phoenix looked like some sort of Gilded Age mansion, probably because that’s exactly what it was. Every inch of the place reeked of old money. You followed the handsome, brown-haired stranger up to the second-floor hallway and he opened a door into a large, well-appointed bedroom.

“Master bathroom’s right through there,” he said. “It’s the nicest one in the house.” He cocked his head to look at you. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

“No,” you said. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Good girl.”

It felt like ages before your bladder was finally empty. You used some expensive French lavender soap to wash your hands and dried them on a plush hand towel with the Phoenix insignia embroidered on it. When you exited the bathroom, the brunette was sitting on the four-poster bed sipping a honey-brown liquid from a crystal tumbler. His dress shirt was unbuttoned to his chest, his crimson tie hanging loose, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow revealing thick, veiny forearms dusted with hair. You found yourself speechless and staring; he was gorgeous, tall and broad with a chiseled face and an athlete’s build. You had no idea what he was doing with you.

“You want a drink, sweetheart?”

“I, uh, I shouldn’t,” you said. “I need to go find my friend.”

“Just one drink,” he said. “Come on. This whiskey is older than my dad. I promise you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“I don’t really drink whiskey,” you replied, but he was already up, taking three long strides toward the bar cart in the corner.

The glass clinked three times as he dropped in ice cubes from a silver bucket, and you watched as he poured you three fingers of the liquid gold. You didn’t want it but you took it anyway. You didn’t even know him but some part of you—something deep-down and driven by primal instinct—didn’t want to disappoint him. The first sip burned like hell and you coughed after you swallowed.

“Easy, easy,” he said, rubbing your back with one of his large hands. He sat on the bed and patted the spot next to him. “Come sit for a minute. Talk to me. I’m so fucking bored.”

You sat down next to him—close but not close enough to touch—and he watched as you pulled your skirt down where it was riding up.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” you asked, braving another sip of the whiskey, which you had to admit was growing on you just as the heat in your belly was growing as you drank it.

“Uh, Lloyd Hansen?” he replied, sounding a bit miffed at the question. “You may have heard of me? I was the guy on the field today who knocked the Yale QB on his ass about a dozen times?”

You vaguely remembered hearing the name Lloyd Hansen but you didn’t remember where you’d heard it. You thought to yourself that it must have been someone talking about the game.

“Congratulations on the win,” you said. “I don’t really follow football but, you know, fuck Yale.”

That was the first time you heard Lloyd laugh, and he did it with his whole chest.

“Fuck Yale indeed,” he said. “And now that you know who I am, I want to know who you are and how you ended up at my party. I’ve never seen you around before. I would remember you.”

You told him your name, that you were a freshman and that you didn’t really go out much. You knew you sounded like a complete loser, but the alcohol was like a truth serum and you ended up telling him that you were more into studying than partying.

“So you really are a good girl, then?” he said, his hand inching closer to your thigh. The deep pitch of his voice was almost as intoxicating as the drink in your hand. “How refreshing.”

He placed his drink on the nightstand and moved closer to you.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, and you nodded. “All the girls that come around here, they’re so fucking boring. So ordinary. Just a bunch of dumb bitches with rich and powerful parents who are only at Harvard to fuck around for four years and find a husband.” He ran his pointer finger down your thigh and toyed with the hem of your dress and you shivered as he leaned in close and spoke low in your ear. “But not you. You’re something special. I knew it the second I saw you.”

“I… I’m nobody,” you said. “I’m not special.”

His lips brushed the side of your neck and your eyes fluttered closed. “Yes,” he purred. “You are.”

Your memory gets hazy then. You remember Lloyd on top of you, kissing you and groping your tits through your dress. You don’t remember him taking it off you, or his clothes coming off, but you remember the feeling of your knees hitting the plush Persian rug as he pushed you down on the floor in front of him. He sat on the edge of the bed, long legs spread wide on either side of you as his fisted his cock in one hand and grabbed the back of your head with the other.

“You know how to suck a dick?” he asked, and you shook your head no.

You’d only ever given handjobs before and you’d never seen a dick as big or as thick as Lloyd’s. You were terrified. You didn’t know what you were doing and you didn’t really want to do it but, again, you couldn’t shake the feeling of not wanting to disappoint him. You didn’t want to be boring or ordinary. You wanted to be the girl he thought you were. You wanted to be special.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded. “Stick your tongue all the way out.”

You did as he asked and he slapped your tongue with the head of his cock a few times before he told you to lick it. When you did, you tasted something salty—not exactly a bad taste, but strange.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl,” he said, gripping your head tighter. “Now wrap your lips around it. Yeah. Just like that. Fuck, I knew those dick-sucking lips of yours would feel good. Now open up your throat and breathe through your nose. I’m gonna fuck that pretty face of yours.”

He put his other hand on the back of your head and started to move you deeper onto his cock, and when he hit the back of your throat, you gagged and tried to pull away.

“Ah ah ah,” he said, “you can take it. Come on. Just relax.”

To this day, you don’t know how you didn’t throw up on him. He stood up and held your head in place as he fucked his way past your gag reflex and down into your throat over and over again, with fast harsh thrusts that had your mascara running rivers down your face and your own spit dripping down your chin onto your bare chest.

“That’s my good little cocksucker,” he said. “So fucking good for me. Look so pretty when you cry.”

Your nails dug into the hard muscle of his thighs as you let him use you, not knowing how long it was going to take or what exactly was supposed to happen. All you knew, looking up at him as he fucked your windpipe raw, was that he was the hottest guy you’d ever seen. The way his jaw clenched as he grunted, the deep V-cut that framed your face as he pushed and pulled you, the veins popping in his neck and his arms—-it was all too much. He was too much. The ache between your legs was getting unbearable and you took one of your hands off his leg and started to rub your clit.

“Oh, you love choking on my dick, huh? My pretty little slut’s gonna make herself cum with my fat cock down her throat, isn’t she?”

You moaned onto his flesh—his filthy, cruel words only making you want to please him more. You wanted to cum so badly but your own fingers just couldn’t get you there. You didn’t have enough time anyway, though, because Lloyd’s grip on your head tightened to the point of pain.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he said, pulling out of your burning throat and leaving you coughing and gasping for air. “Look up at me. I’m gonna paint that pretty face white. Open your fuckin mouth.”

You tried to keep eye contact with him but it was hard while you were still trying to catch your breath and keep from coughing.

“Look. At. Me,” he barked.

You stared into his lust-blown blue eyes as his mouth dropped open, his lips forming a perfect pink O as he huffed out air. Then you heard him grunt and you felt the first spurt hot against your cheek. The second one barely missed your eye but you kept them open, and he smirked down at you as he pressed the tip of his cock to your tongue and shot straight into the back of your throat. You gagged on it and swallowed and he laughed at you before gathering the cum off your face with his fingers and shoving them in your mouth.

“Clean your plate like a good little girl,” he said. “Come on. Suck.”

And you did, because the way he looked at you when you started to lick the cum off his fingers—there was something reverent about it, with more than a hint of amusement.

“I knew you’d be good,” he said when you’d licked him clean. “Fat chicks really do give the best head.”

You felt your cheeks blaze with embarrassment and shame and you would have started to cry if he hadn’t already fucked all the tears out of your face. You started to gather your clothes but he grabbed you by the arm and yanked you up off the floor.

“Aww, don’t worry, Porkchop,” he said, pulling you against his bare chest. You looked up at him, horrified, but he wore a smug, satisfied smile as he ran his hands down your body, grabbing handfuls of flesh at your sides and your hips and finally taking two handfuls of ass. “Just means there’s more of you to love.”

“Get off me,” you cried, and you tried to push him back but he held you tight.

“Quit fucking struggling,” he snapped, his grip on you tightening to a bruising pressure. “You think I’m being mean? If you want mean, little girl, I can show you mean. But I’m dead serious. The guys make fun of me for it but I fucking love me a fat girl. Of course, I can’t actually be seen with one. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I fucking hate you, you asshole,” you screamed. “Let me go.”

“No,” he said, his mouth a hard line. “I’m not done with you, and you’re not done with me, but there are rules to this.”

“Fuck you and your rules. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

He grabbed your neck and pressed lightly on the sides, bringing his face down to yours—so close his lips grazed yours when he said, “You don’t really mean that, do you, Porkchop? It would be such a disappointment if you did.”

You opened your mouth to speak—-to scream or to cry you don’t know—-but he silenced you with a deep kiss. You hated yourself for returning it, for opening up for him and letting his cruel tongue inside. But fuck he felt good—-his lips and his hands and his rock-hard body. You never dreamed a guy like Lloyd would ever look twice at you. Even through your drunken haze, you knew you were being used—-that you were easy pickings for him that night and he took advantage of you—-but you didn’t care. He felt too fucking good for you to care.

He made you cum on his fingers and his tongue three times that night before he kicked you out.

“Sorry, Porkchop. No girls in the house past sunrise. I’ll be seeing you real soon, though.”

You wanted to tell him he wouldn’t, that you’d just used him the way he used you. but you knew even then it was a lie. Any self-respect you had went out the window the moment you met Lloyd Hansen.

PART TWO >>>

#lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen #chris evans #chris evans characters #the gray man #special girl

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