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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year

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Who’s The Boss? 6

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, bullying, coercion, anger, yelling, Lloyd being Lloyd. 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 just an intern but that doesn’t matter to the demanding CEO of The Hansen Agency.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: Oh this man.

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 <3

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

Love you like Lloyd loves needlessly gross jokes. Take care. 💖

You leave your notebook on the floor. You don’t care. In the morning you’ll toss it in the bin and forget about your disastrous foray into the office hellscape. And mourn Fiona properly.

You would rather spend the rest of your life serving cheeseburgers. Tomorrow, you’ll send another twenty applications to Burger King or whatever.

Ugh. Your dad is going to be so mad. He was so happy to hear you actually got a job for the summer, maybe a bit too happy, and now you have to break it to him that you didn’t even last a week. You turn off the daisy shaped lamp next to your bed and fall back in a huff.

Game plan. Don’t leave your room. That’s probably your best course of action, just until you can figure something else out. They’ll probably assume you’re working, meanwhile you can cocoon yourself in and hope you miraculously become a butterfly.

The dread pits in your chest and you roll over, hugging your pillow with a sigh. God, you miss sleep, you miss those campus days you slept until noon, the lazy afternoons of ‘studying’. You only have to make it through two months of parental disappointment before you can be free again.

Despite the storm of worry brewing, of all the consequences of your outburst, you sink into a heavy sleep. A senseless, deathlike coma that sees you through to the blare of your alarm. You reach over and blindly swipe your finger around your phone screen until you dismiss it. Back to sleep–

Your phone vibrates beneath your touch and you sigh. You pull it over to glance at the screen. 4:01am. There’s already a text in your inbox. Nah. Good night.

You bury your face back in the frilly edge of your pillow case and ease back into the rumble of your exhausted snores. You dream of the bright fluorescent lights and the lifeless printer, Lloyd’s voice reverberating behind your ears. “Intern! Coffee!”

You wake again, breathless. The sky outside is pale blue, the sun is up. You check your phone again. More messages. The serendipity of your awakening is confirmed by the sudden vibration that jitters through your arm. It’s him.

You check the time. 6:37am. You have at least a dozen missed calls. You watch the call time out and another icon pops up denoting your neglect. You’ll let him figure it out. He can go find another helpless intern to terrorize.

Your phone quakes again before you can put it down. You mutter and unplug it from the charger. You answer, sprawled flat over your bed with no intent on rising.

“Intern! Where the fuck are you?” Lloyd hollers.

“I told you, I quit.” You say above the chaos on his end. You hear the buzzing of voices and the clicking of keys.

“No, you don’t quit–”

“Well, I did. So get your own coffee.”

“This isn’t ov–”

You hang up and shake your head at the phone. You hold your finger down on his number and hit ‘block’ before dropping it back on your nightstand. Right, back to sleep.

Your next disturbance comes with a shadow of a headache. If you sleep any longer, your skull is going to start pounding. It’s after eight as you take your phone and scroll through Hazel’s TikTok, videos of her dancing with her office perks. Maybe you can ask her about hooking you up at her office.

Your screen flashes yellow and another name pops up. Suzanne Brewer. Right, this is ridiculous. Maybe she can get you your pay. Or maybe Hansen had them delete your direct deposit info like the petty asshole he is.

You swallow your nerves and answer. She’s the more sensible of the office rabble.

“Hi,” you drone into the speaker.

“Suzanne,” she announces herself, “you need to come into office.”

“I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I told Mr. Hansen, I quit. I’m not coming–”

“Gimme that!” You hear Lloyd’s snarl and a scuff, some grunting as there’s an audible struggle over the phone, “listen here, intern, it’s 8:27 and I still don’t have my coffee so you get your dumb little ass here and do your job–”

“Well, it isn’t my job. It was never my job. I’m just an intern.”

“You’re a fucking bimbo!” He shouts back. “A quitter! A coward!”

You grimace at your room. This man is insane. Why doesn’t he just grab some other poor soul? Why is he bothering you still? You were pretty clear.

You say nothing else and hang up, turning your phone to silent. You listen to the house. It’s quiet. Your parents will already be at work. You can sneak out for a snack and a pee.

You set off on your quick reconnaissance. Your brother is probably still sleeping. Oh to be a careless teenager again. Like a squirrel, you gather rations and return to your burrow.

You spend your day with one earbud in, watching pointless two-minute videos and scrolling job boards. The pickins are about what they were before. Slim.

You send off as many applications as you can, the tedious work of uploading a resume only to have to put in all the same information again on a wonky form. You don’t get it. It’s like entering a lottery, nothing you put in matters.

You feel accomplished even if you achieved nothing. And yet, that dark cloud remains. How do you tell your parents? Mom, dad, I failed again. It’s a bit dramatic but no matter what you say, that’s what they’ll hear.

You could lie, put up a front until you get something new. What happens if you don’t get something though? Your dad would kill you. Ugh. You can’t go back to the Agency. You won’t. You don’t have much but you have what crumbs of pride you were able to take with you.

Your mom gets home first, you hear her chastising your brother for the mess. Then your dad drives up in his truck and you watch from the window. You can hide but time ticks on. You can’t avoid this forever, it’s gonna eat you up inside. You never did well with tummy troubles either.

You listen to the life beyond your bedroom door. Those fools. They’re totally ignorant to the fact that you’re a fuck up. Well, they know that, but they don’t know about your latest delve into the art of fuck-uppery.

You pace and try to pump yourself up, like a fighter before the big match. You punch the air and hop in place. You’re going to do it. Just a few more minutes.

You smell basil and garlic. God, you’re hungry. Dinner. That’s when you’ll make your grand reveal. But you can’t show up in your pajamas. You pull on a pair of denim shorts and a loss cotton tee. Better.

You pause at the door, about to open it and listen. In your self-contained destruction, you lost track of the noise on the other side of the wall. No, no, no. You’ve gone crazy. It can’t be.

You push your ear to the door and the muffled tones make you want to shrink into a worm. Worm life seems so much simpler than this. You slowly turn the knob and ease the door back to listen through the crack.

“You know, Mr. Hansen, my company was contracted on that project you did down at Heath,” your dad booms, a tenor of ass-kissing in his voice.

“Yeah?” Hansen’s voice comes back and you slide down to your knees, your weight snapping the door shut. You don’t hear what pandering comes next. Why the fuck is he there?

Right, you’re going to go out and send him away. Tell him one more time that you quit since his old ears don’t seem to function. Mr. Hansen, go fuck your own mustache. Yeah, that’s good. Maybe clean it up for your parents.

You stand and bounce. Now it might actually be a fight. Finally, you find your courage. Hazel always says your brand of bravery is better deemed as stupidity. You can’t agree more in that moment.

You get to the top of the stairs and feel your heart racing. Why? You can’t work for that jackass. It’s physically impossible. And he broke Fiona. Fiona! Oh, you almost forgot. You narrow your eyes and stomp down the steps, stopping short at the archway into the front room.

Your brief moment of determination fizzles as you see Mr. Hansen perched on the armchair as your mother preens over him and your father stands by the mantel with a similar posture of gullibility.

This is just like that time Marge from down the street claimed you stole her bird feeder and you had to do a summer of yard work. No one believed when you told them it was that scamp Tina. You were a witness, a bystander at most.

“There you are, honey,” your mother chimes, “we had no idea you were even home!”

“Early day,” your father remarks.

“Uhhhh…” you peer around in confusion, what has he been telling them? Why isn’t he yelling? Why is nothing broken? “Well, I–”

“Like I said, sent her home early to get a head start on her new position,” Hansen intones, “you should be proud, three days and she got herself a raise. Hard worker, that one.”

You gape. Your parents watch you expectantly. You feel the walls closing in. This is your chance. You either confess that you let them down again or you take this olive branch. You’re fairly certain that branch will be used to beat you down but you highly doubt serving Blizzards at DQ is going to have your makers proud.

“Um,” you inhale, “Mr. Hansen, can we chat, er, not here?”

“Sure,” he pushes himself up, “sorry to drop in unexpectedly but you left before I could get the new contract sorted…”

You stride away, keeping distance before you, leading him to the front door and sweeping through. You don't trust him and his fake ass.

For a moment, you think of just running for it. Off into the distance forever. Leave it all behind.

You face him as he shuts the door. You stare as he crosses his arms and puts on a smug smirk. Your hands ball as you hold back your fury.

“Why are you doing this?” You hiss.

He tilts his head and clicks his tongue, “because I can, sweetheart, and I want you to understand that.”

“I don’t want to work for you. You’re rude and nasty and—”

“Come on, get it over with, I heard it all before,” he drops his hand to his hip, his other brushing over his mustache, “you should be flattered, there’s a hundred women lined up with resumes but you got the job, kid.”

“I don’t want it,” you grit through your teeth.

“Ha,” he snorts, “that’s the thing,” he steps closer and you lean away from him, his long finger hovering before your face, “you don’t make that call. I told you, you don’t say when this is over. I do.”

“Buddy, I’m being real honest with you right now, I am not interested in being your wage slave. No amount of money can make you, er, what’s that word, oh, tolerable.”

He shakes his head and scoffs, “ah, so, then who’s breaking the news, bumblebee? You want me to make a show for the parents? Fire you, right here, loudly.”

“Please, I don’t– you know I busted my ass for you, I don’t get why you’re being such a jerk.”

“You’re acting like I’m not doing you a favour. Looks like good ole dad is just waiting for the other shoe to drop and mom, she tries to hide it but I can hear it in her voice. The absolute surprise on their faces when I said actual good things about you,” he chortles, “I didn’t get to where I am without some sense of people. I can read ‘em, head to toe. Them, you, I know exactly how it goes and I know you’re terrified to the bone to admit you’re just the same disappointment you’ve always been.”

You clench your jaw and fight back the heat behind your eyes. He can yell, call your names, and break Fiona, but this has you close to tears. Because everything he says is true.

“So, what’s it gonna be?” He kicks a foot out and pulls a pair of sunglasses from his front pocket, “I got a date and I can’t wait around forever–”

“Fine,” you cross your arms and pout, “fuck, okay, fine… sir.”

He pops the sunglasses on and claps his hands. “Amazing, bumblebee. So, let’s say… take the night to calm down and be in at six.”

“Mmhmm,” you grumble as you glare past him.

“Remember, no crying in the office–”

You want so bad to tell him to shut up. And for the first time in your life, you want to hit someone who isn’t your brother. You ground your heel into the porch mat and hold it all in.

“I’ll be there, sir,” you utter, “good night.”

You turn to the front door and he snickers, “you’re kinda cute when you’re mad, you know?” his weight shifts on the top step, "and don't forget a pretty little skirt, bee."

You don’t snap back that he’s kinda an asshole all the time. You quickly hide behind the door and let out a long breath. The moment is spoiled as your father peeks around the doorway and you tamp down your anger.

“He gone?” Your dad asks.

“Yeah, uh, busy guy, ya know,” you shrug as you push away from the door.

“Ah, didn’t realise it was that Mr. Hansen,” he comments, “hell of a gig, kiddo. Pretty damn decent if I do say so myself.”

“Yeah,” you drag your feet to the stairs, “I’m hanging with the big dogs, now, huh.”

“I’m so proud of you, honey,” your mother chimes as she peeks out past your dad, “it’s going to look so good on your resume.”

You murmur some agreement and continue up the stairs. Hansen knew exactly what he was doing and you’re embarrassed that he read you just as clearly as he proclaimed. You were never going to tell your parents. You’re just the same coward you always were.

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