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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect and abuse, 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: You're forced to return home after a nervous breakdown.
Characters: Lloyd Hansen
Note: I have so much for the ex con pervs so here is this too.
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The numbness is like a clog in your veins. It's as if you just stopped working. Your mind, your body, just stopped after it all combusted in tears and defeat. Shaking on the floor, sobbing, maybe you screamed. You can hardly remember how it went.
You remember laughing. Not you. People laughing at you. You don't think you've ever truly laughed at anything. There's never been a reason to be happy. Whether you did good, there's always better. It's never enough until it became too much.
All that comes through the fog is Jacques' angry shouting, his mean words, his endless reproach. Not good enough. Not good enough. The same words your mother spoke a thousand times over. It was one note. One misstep. It was just enough to light the house of matches.
Your head lolls against the seat and you blink through the window. It's all ashes now. What you worked your whole life towards is nothing. Your cello, smashed; your wits, too. You don't know if you're relieved that it's finally over.
No. After all that after your meltdown in the opera house, after a blurry flight behind a wall of endless tears, after this meandering car ride down streets you never wanted to see again, you still have to face her. Your mother's spite is far worse than anything the snake-tongued conductor could come up with.
You have nothing left to cry. You rock with the car's motion as it steers up the long drive to your mother's house. The elaborate Tudor style always struck you as horribly out of place. She never settles for anything less than the best.
Her porsche is in the crescent drive and another car. Is it new? A convertible Bently.
The drive stops just behind it and you thank him. He was kind enough to turn off the instrumental when you asked. You never want to hear or touch another string again. He opens your door, then takes your bag out of the trunk. Another thanks and he's off. For a moment, you hesitate. Nearly running after him to say you forgot something. No, the cello is in pieces, swept into some Italian dumpster.
You stare after the car, reticent to face the house, to meet your mother's wrath. The air is dulcet and cool as the afternoon softens to evening. You can hear the buzz of insects and the soft scuff of critters in the hedges. It's too peaceful.
Your ears are fuzzy and your vision narrow. You extend the handle of your bag and linger a little longer, taking in the groomed flowers and the classical statues of nymphs hopping around the greenery.
"Evening, sunshine," a voice startles you so you knock over your suitcase. You spin to face the man as he comes up the long drive, jogging in only a pair of black shorts. You gulp and shake your head in confusion. This is your mother's house... "You must be the prodigy."
You rock on your heels and blink. He offers his hands as he slows and nears. His hairy chest sparkles with his sweat. He's older, grey at his shaved temples, the longer strands of his hair combed back over the top of his head, a small elastic keeping them out of his face. His eyes are bold and blue, his nose reminds you of a Roman bust, and his lip is trimmed with a thick mustache. You look at his hand. You don't know what else to do but shake it. You give your name and earn a snicker.
"Oh, I know," he drawls and squeezes your hand, "Lloyd. Hansen," he turns your hand and raises it. He kisses it, the fuzz above his lip tickling you. "You don't look like her."
Your lips part in confusion, "you know my mom?"
You try to slip free of his grasp and he clings to you. He lets go only as you yank again. You bend to grab your bag but he's quicker. He brings it up with the handle and wheels it toward him.
"Was out for my run. Gotta keep fit," he declares. He is. Very fit. You find that sitting behind your cello hasn't lessened your already thick thighs.
"Um, where is my mom?" You ask.
He cackles again, "she's probably knee-deep in the merlot," he winks and gestures at the house. "Wanna go find her?"
"Erm, okay, but..." you turn and he's quick to step up next to you, the wheels of your luggage rolling loudly on the stonework. "Uh," your lip quivers, "who are you?"
"I told ya, sunshine," he drapes his arm across your shoulders and you wince. He curls his hand around and latches on, urging you onward, "Lloyd. Unless you wanna call me daddy."
You let out a strangled noise. "Huh?"
"Kidding. Me and your mom... we've been spending time together. Think she likes me," he keeps your feet moving as he drags your bag. "I mean, how can you resist a hunk like me?"
Your eyes search the steps as you approach him. You squirm but he doesn't let go. You're never this close to people. It can get a bit crowded when the orchestra has all their instruments set but nothing like this. You don't talk to people, you don't touch them. You just do what you're told.
He walks you up the steps and his hand slowly drifts from your shoulder. You notice it getting lower and lower, crawling down your back. As you get to the top, you scurry away before it can get any lower. You reach for the curled door handle and twist desperately. You pull it open and stand back.
"Woah, little lady, supposed to be the man opening doors," he smirks. "But I don't mind being pampered."
He steps through and you wait a moment before you trail him. You don't like him. Something about the way he talks, the way he saunters, the way he just touches you. You flutter your fingers together and bite the tip of your tongue.
"Katherine," he leaves your suitcase at the base of the banister and calls out. "Hope you got enough wine to share."
He stops and peeks back at you. He beckons you to follow. You stay behind him as he heads for the kitchen. You hear the clink of crystal.
"Lloyd," your mother trills as he enters, "there you are. Ooh, and you're sweaty. Should we add to that?"
She doesn't notice you as she struts over to him, swaying her hips emphatically. She frames his face and presses her lips to his, her tongue forcing past them as he grunts in surprise. He laughs and gentle nudges her away as she brushes up and down his torso. She's wearing a sillk robe and it doesn't look like much else.
"Kat," he drawls, "sweetie pie is here."
"Sweetie--" she looks past him and flinches as she notices you. She sighs. "Oh, there she is."
Her face darkens as the lines deepen harshly. You shrink down and keep your chin low. "Mother."
"Mother," she mimics. "I-- I can't deal with you right now. I'm not ready."
She sniffs and spins, scooping up her glass of whine, "Lloyd, please, get me away from her."
You're not surprised. You've gone and ruined everything she worked for. That's how she sees it. It's nothing you did. No, she made you get up all those early mornings, she got you to classes, she got you to every concert.
Lloyd glances back at you and you signal weakly with your palm out. You turn and traipse away. It's better that you go hide. Even on the good days, that was the safest.
You grab your bag and roll it out after you. You'll just keep to yourself until she's ready to tell you to your face how much she hates you. You lift the bag onto the lower step but before you can get it higher, Lloyd calls out to you.
"Hey, sweetie, I can't let you hurt yourself," he strides over and scoops the bag up by the short handle sewn onto the side, "show me where I'm going and I'll be your very own prince charming."
You retract your arm and stare at him. He's strange. The way he says things is so odd. You usually struggle to understand what other people mean but he's a true enigma.
"My room is... up here," you murmur and climb the stairs. He waits and trails after you. You can't help but feel as if he's watching you.
You veer down the hall and to your bedroom. You open the door but find it full of boxes. You stop short and he keeps from running into you with a hand on your hip. Reflexively, you push him off.
"You sure this is the one, sweetness? I've gotten lost in here a few times myself," he snickers.
"N-no, this is... it." You frown. You're not really upset. You still don't feel much more than dazed. You have some of the pills left the doctor gave you.
"Aw, you know what? I shoulda said something. Since your mom's in one of her moods. This place is under a redesign. Everything's a bit all over. I'm all over," he rubs your arm. "We were trying to figure out where to put the in-home gym."
"A gym?" You utter.
"Sure, I mean, not that you need it." He runs his fingers down the back of your arm. "Don't wanna mess with a good thing."
You reel away from him. What does that mean?
"I'll... I'll find a guest room."
"Sure, baby, let's do that."
You grimace and latch onto the plastic handle of the suitcase, "I can do it myself."
"Now, sweetie pie, I heard all about what happened to you. Your ma was way too messed up to take the call. Yeah, I mean, those things are no joke," he keeps hold of the bag. "The doctor said rest and relaxation. Avoid stressors. So let me take a load off... typically I'd be letting one off."
You shake your head. Huh? He's talking in riddles.
"Come on, let's get you all settled," he grabs your arm and yanks you out of the room. You stagger as he pays little heed to your struggle. He marches you down to the room right next to your mom's. You wouldn't have chosen that one.
"This one should still be in tact," he affirms and pushes open the door. "See? Nice big bed... for just you? You'll be all cozy." He puts the bag just inside and sweeps his arms around. "It'll be nice to stay in one place, won't it, sunshine? And we can all figure out how to be one happy family."
"Family?"
"Well, you know, can't remember the last time I spent the night at my own place. I've been... hanging out with your mother." He grins. You're overly aware of his still shirtless state. "No kids of my own, ya know? Not really the type but I can figure it all out."
You nod and sidle past him.
"Thank you." You cross your arms as you shuffle away.
"Anything you want, ask Daddy Lloyd. He'll bring it to you on a gold platter," he declares.
"I'm fine. I don't need anything," you assure him.
"You look tense," he steps closer and surprises you as he clamps down on the muscles along your shoulders. He kneads with his thumbs and you squeak. You throw your hands up and try to shove his away.
"Relax, baby, it's a massage. Ugh, I can tell you need it," he purrs, "you're all tense."
"Please, I'm okay--"
"No, you are not, sunshine," he tuts. "Just stay still, alright?"
"Please--"
"Keep begging, I love the sound of it," he laughs. He continues to work the flesh with his fingers.
You squirm and squeal as his hands creep closer to your neck. He chuckles as his fingertips dance up your neck then he closes his fingers around your throat. You gasp as he keeps them firm but doesn't squeeze. He pushes his pelvis against your back and you clasp onto his wrists. He hushes you.
"Mommy won't even look at you," he nuzzles your crown. "Think she'd come running."
You whine and try to pull away. He keeps hold of you. You can feel now. You can feel so much.
"Ha," he lets you go and you stagger forward. "I'm just tryna make you laugh, baby cakes. Try it," he taunts. "Might help with all that tension."
You face him and your mouth falls open. Your heart is racing, your breath shallow, you blink at him dumbly. He bites his lip.
"Oh, I like when you look at me like that," he rubs his hand down his chest and hooks his thumb under the elastic of his shorts. "Got a nice mental picture for later."
He spins and struts out. Your lip trembles as you watch him go. He swings the door shut behind him and you jump.
You didn't think things could get worse than they already were.
