#the grey man

LIVE

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, violence, Lloyd is a jerk. My tags are not exhaustive, proceed 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:Your life is inexplicably and irrevocably changed by a mysterious man.

Characters:Lloyd Hansen

Note: I tried to resist writing this stachehole but here we are and I’m gonna have one more part to this. (at least)

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. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care.

The parking lot is desolate as you tuck your work lanyard in your purse and fish out your keys. You yawn as you near your beaten up Volvo, half concealed in the shadow of the singular working light pole. The streets are empty as eleven o’clock ticks by, another night wasted closing up the shop.

You unlock the car and pull open the door, dropping into the seat as you toss your bag in the passenger side. The door whines as you pull it shut and struggle to get your keys in the slot, feeling blindly in the darkness. You turn the engine and it groans before it putters obediently.

You pause as you gather the dregs of your energy. You rub your eyes and drag your fingers down your cheeks. The silence suddenly snaps as the back door opens and has you reaching for your glove box. A click, followed by the slam of the door, keeps your hand an inch from the latch.

“No,” the voice says decisively, the barrel of a gun catching the stray light from outside, “whatever you’re doing, stop.”

“My purse is in the seat, take it,” you put your hands up.

Small towns aren’t immune from crime, however, knives are more common than firearms, not that you’d prefer either. He rests the gun against the back of your seat as his figure looms closer.

“Your phone in there?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply, breathily.

“Hand it over, slowly,” he snarls.

You keep your fingers open and wide, cautiously moving your arm and clutching the leather beg without looking. You lift it and he snatches it gruffly, plopping it in his lap.

“Good, put the car in gear,” he wiggles the gun.

“Wha– just take it and go–”

“Put your foot on the pedal or I can pull the trigger and take the car,” he warns as he angles the gun against your head, “the next time I have to repeat myself, well, I won’t.”

You nod and tremble as you bring your hand to the wheel and reach for the stick with your other. Carefully, you put it in drive and ease onto the pedal. You steer around the vacant lot to the exit. You stop and look both ways into the barren streets.

“Where do I go?”

“You got a place, we go there,” he orders as he sits back, “you drive the limit, no faster, no slower. No tricks.”

“Okay,” you say pliantly, “okay.”

He’s silent as you hear him shuffling around. You glance in the rearview as you drive out onto the street. A streetlight catches his features but you only get a quick glimpse; his eyes are caverned with darkness and you only get the sharp line of his jaw and the thick mustache over his lips.

You squint and focus on the road. You stop at the redlight. You grip the wheel, palms sweaty on the vinyl. You realise your breaths are shallow and stunted. You try to even them out as you shift in the seat.

You see a flash and peek back again. He has your phone but you can’t see much else. Focus. You’ll do yourself in if you crash.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Are you asking me questions?” he snaps as he continues to jostle around.

“Sorry, I–”

“Shut up and keep driving…” he finishes with your name, “hmm, someone’s looking for you. Gabe? Sounds like a loser.”

You don’t reply as you lean into the wheel. You check the street and hover your hand thoughtfully over the blinker; you could head to the precinct. He doesn’t know where you live.

“Don’t think about it,” he intones and snorts, “you think I don’t know where the station is? What are the odds you live next to it, sweetheart?”

You retract your hand and squeeze the wheel again, carrying on past the turn as the lights of the next plaza flicker over you. What are you doing? What can you do? Coward!

“Aw, sweetheart, take a breath,” he leans forward again, the gun against the other seat, “I don’t need you passing out behind the wheel.”

You exhale and he clicks his tongue as another bright glare edges your vision.

“Gabe just keeps on going, doesn’t he?” He scoffs, “and not one answer from you. You get into a tiff?”

You swallow and wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, “ex.”

“Ex?” he muses, “and he’s still hung up. You must be something special, huh?”

You shrug as you let habit guide the car. Your eyes are blurry with unspent tears and you desperately try to flick them away with your lashes. He laughs again and once more disappears into the shadows.

The grey building is dark as you pull into the lot, vines twisted around the eaves and across the roof. You shift into park and he tuts before you can wiggle the keys out.

“Give ‘em here, sweetheart,” he says.

You slide them from the slot and offer them over your shoulder. He takes them gruffly and lets himself out. He opens your door and points you out with the handgun.

“Come on,” he adjusts the thick strap of a bag, “inside.”

“I don’t have anything,” you insist as he swings the door shut, “only what’s in my purse–”

“I don’t need your pennies,” he grabs your arm and yanks you away from the car, “now, get moving.”

He shoves you ahead of him and you lead him to the side door. Your unit is just inside, the converted heritage home renovated to house more than it should. You stand back as he hold up the keys and you pick out the one for the apartment. He unlocks the door and kicks it open, nodding you inside.

“Light on,” he instructs.

You flick on the switch as he enters and twists the latch back into place. You cross your arms as you watch him. He’s tall, his hair shaved on the sides and combed back on top, a bushy mustache across his lip, and stormy blue eyes set in a steely scowl.

He pokes his tongue into his cheek and looks around your place. He puts his bag down and holsters his gun. He furrows his brows as he thinks. You flinch as he grabs you, spinning you around as he pulls your wrists together.

“I’m gonna have a look around,” he grabs a scarf from the overladen coat rack and winds it above your hands, tugging it until your hands throb, “I don’t need you trying anything funny so you sit,” he pushes you further into the apartment and turns you to sit in the armchair. He stands and holds a finger up, “stay,” he says to you like a dog, pointing at you, “stayyyy,” he smirks, “good girl.”

You lower your eyes, irritated by his tone, and sit back against your arms. He walks away and retrieves his bag from beside the door. He hooks it over his shoulder and paces the perimeter of the room, checking each socket and behind the television. He goes into the kitchen then comes back out, down the hall as you hear him in the bathroom then your bedroom.

He comes back out and drops his bag on the couch.

“Needs some rearranging but this’ll have to do for now,” he says.

“What do you mean?” you say, “what do you want?”

“A moment’s silence would be a good start,” he sneers.

He unzips his bag and slides out a laptop. He puts it on the arm of the couch and boots it, typing rapidly as he bends to read the screen. The light reflects in his eyes as he slides his finger over the touchpad. He moves it to the coffee table and sits, pulling out your phone as he connects it to the computer.

“What the– whoever you think I am–”

“You’re nobody, I know that,” he snaps, “which is perfect for me.”

He alternates between the laptop and your phone. You frown and shift in the chair.

“Can you untie me?” you say.

He glances up as he hits a key hard. He tilts his head as his mouth slants.

“Once we get some things straight,” he says, “you go anywhere near the police and I burn this place down. Preferably with you inside. I have a tracker on your phone so I will know every move you make. You buy a new phone, I’ll know,” he speaks as he reaches into his bag and pulls out your wallet, “I’m flagging every single card you have.”

You frown, confused.

“All I want from you really is this place,” he looks at the ceiling then the walls, “not for too long. I just need somewhere to keep low. Somewhere no one will look.”

“What– I–” you sputter.

“And I’ll even let you stay,” he taunts, “I mean, I did think about throwing you in the gutter but I’ll need someone to do the cooking, cleaning, all that shit.”

“Who are you?” you utter at last.

“You don’t want to know that,” he stands and nears you, “but you can call me Lloyd, sweetheart.” He pulls you forward by your shoulder and unknots the scarf, his fingers tickling your arm as he steps back and moves in front of you. He bends and puts his hands on the arm of the chair. He gets in your face as his eyes search yours, “you just keep living this shithole life and act like I’m not even here… unless I say otherwise, got it?”

You blink and lean back, away from him, “got it,” you croak.

“Great,” he pushes away from you and claps, “you got anything to eat around here?”

Lloyd, if that’s even his real name, takes over your life in a matter of minutes.

You resign yourself to the couch as he claims your bed for himself. It isn’t done without some presumed generosity. He says he’s more than willing to share and gets the reaction he expects. Another wordless grimace and surrender.

You pass by the kitchen as you carry extra bedding into the front room. His laptop is on the table amid a dozen different gadgets you couldn’t name. Whatever he’s doing, you prefer not to know. You can only hope he does it quickly and leaves you be.

He has his gun with him. You watched him place it on the nightstand. Not like you would know what to do with it anyway.

You spread a sheet over the cushions and toss the pillow down before throwing the quilt on top. You peek down the hall and shake your head. It’s surreal. Like a walking nightmare. In a town like this, it’s the last thing you expect. No where, no body, whatever he’s doing is way beyond you.

You turn and shimmy out of your work pants, the stiff black fabric dusty from kneeling on the floor to stock. You pull on the pair of sweats you snatched from your dresser and replace your button-up with a loose tee. You stretch and reach back to unhook your bra, pivoting to face the couch.

You squeak as you see him along your peripheral. How long was he there? You don’t think about it as you cross your arms. He’s still in his black polo, untucked from his pants as his belt dangles open.

“Your phone,” he offers it to you, “all cleared for action.”

You accept it from him as you avoid his gaze. You back away and sit on the couch as you cradle your cell.

“Better tell Gabe good night,” he teases, “don’t think he’ll sleep otherwise.”

You withhold as sigh as he snickers. He turns and reaches under the lamp shade, shutting it off and setting you into dark.

“Get some sleep, sweetheart, I start early and breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” he says before his footsteps fade back down the hall.

You unhook your bra and slip it out from under your shirt, then pull your legs up beneath the quilt. You settle onto your side and stare at the obscured forms of the furniture around the room. A slat of light streams in from down the hall, the bedroom door not fully closed. He’s listening and you know he’ll hear anything you do.

You wake up to the blaring of classical music. You snort and shove your head under your pillow. What in the lord’s name!

The pillow is snatched from your grasp and you push yourself up furiously. Your head is quaking from the cacophony. Lloyd throws the pillow across the room and snaps his fingers.

“I have neighbours!” you say.

“What’s that?” he yells, cupping his ear, “I can’t hear you over the music.”

“Jesus,” you get up and look around for the source of the noise. It’s coming from the kitchen.

You storm around the couch and through the door. A small but mighty speaker sits behind his laptop. You reach for it but find no switch, putting it back as you stomp around the table and hunch down to look at the screen. Suddenly, you’re taken off your feet as Lloyd wraps his arms around you and pulls you away from the computer.

“Hey, get off!” you grasp his wrists, “hey! Turn the damn music off!”

“Eden, lower volume forty percent,” he calls out and the music relents, receding to a hum. He spins you away from him and you hit the side of the counter. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“I… I was only trying to turn the music down,” you argue, “I’ll get a noise complaint–”

“Not my problem,” he says nonchalantly, “rule one, hands off. Rule two, ask nice and you might just get what you want.”

You hold back a sneer and nod. You notice how he rests his hand on the gun holstered at his belt. You chew your lip and stare at him.

“I could go for some pancakes, sweetheart,” he says, “you slept in so late, my stomach’s growling.”

“Slept in,” you look at the clock on the stove, “it’s nine.”

“I usually eat before eight,” he remands, “you’re fucking up my whole thing here, sweetheart.” Make your own pancakes, you think. He laughs and wags his finger at you, “you brave enough to say it or you just gonna look at me like an angry kitten?”

Your nostrils flare and you turn to the counter. You open the cupboard as he steps closer, his warmth seeping through your cotton tee. He puts his hands on the laminate and his broad chest rests against you. His mustache tickles you as he lowers his voice.

“I expect an answer when I speak, sweetheart,” he rasps, “I like to know that I’ve been heard.”

You go rigid as you stare at the bags and boxes inside the cupboard. You shudder at his proximity and the razor edge of his timbre.

“I’m making pancakes,” you say sharply.

“Wonderful,” he pronounces darkly and shoves himself away, jostling you as he does, “I like blueberries. Oh, and a bit of icing sugar on top.”

“I don’t have blueberries,” you say over your shoulder.

“So go get some,” he strides to the table and sits, “your wallets back in your purse, just by the door.” You glance at him as he leans back and checks his watch, “you can make it to the store and back in, oh, fifteen minutes.”

You hesitate as you turn completely. He watches you smugly, a smirk beneath his bristly mustache.

“Better hurry, I don’t wanna go lookin’ for ya,” he says, “and trust me, you don’t want that either.”

Your morning is eaten up, quite literally, by Lloyd’s insistence on you waiting on him. Like a maid, like his mother. You make the damn pancakes but have none yourself before cleaning up his plate and the rest of your undone dishes.

His demands don’t end there. He wanted coffee, oh and it’s kinda dusty, and these floors need a good mopping. You tamp it all done all while wondering if it’s really preferable to him pulling that trigger.

It’s not often you feel that work is an escape. He’s so vile he makes you appreciate even the customers at the art store. You don’t mind them griping about the limited stock of black canvas or that the tubes of glue just aren’t big enough. You treasure your time free of that man’s presence.

You finish up your closing duties but are in no hurry to leave. You set the security system and lock the cage on your way out. You let out a long sigh that drains you of all your energy. You stop short as you stare at the empty lot. Where the hell is your car?

You run out into the middle of the lined tarmac and spin. Jesus, exactly what you need.

Your phone buzzes in your bag and you curse under your breath. You can’t deal with Gabe on top of this other shit. You dig around and pull out your phone, swiping to answer without looking.

“Look, if I have to tell you again, Gabe–”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Lloyd talks over you, “let’s calm down, I’m like five minutes away.”

“What?” you hiss and put the heel of your hand to your head, “you… have my car?”

“Found the spare keys and had to do some running around,” he replies, “look, I could just let you walk so why don’t you say, “thank you, Lloyd, I’ll be waiting”, and we can both end this night happy.”

You close your eyes and drop your arm. You grit through a clenched jaw, “thank you, Lloyd. I’ll be waiting.”

“Hmm,” he hums, “can I get it with a bit more feeling, sweetheart?”

You inhale sharply and he chuckles, like he does, “calm down, I’m playing with you. You make it too much fun. Now, I gotta go, it’s dangerous to chit chat and drive.”

The line dies and you stiffly lower the phone from your ear. You march back to the store front and sit on the curb. You really don’t know what to do. This man drives you fucking nuts and yet you’re too weak to do anything. Too scared. And what can you do, he has a fucking gun.

Maybe it’s a bluff and maybe you should call it. You wait a few more minutes, swinging back and forth between resolve and reluctance. You get up and cross the lot. You head down the sidewalk towards the intersection. It’s about ten minutes to the station.

You walk fast and glance behind you. The road is dark and quiet. You head down Thornhill and cut behind the public school. Just another block–

Tires screech around the corner and you stumble back from the street as the Volvo brakes in front of you. You nearly trip over your own feet as the door whines loudly and footsteps hammer on the concrete. Lloyd barrels towards you angrily and you try to swat him away as you yelp.

He grabs you by the throat and turns you against the car. You hit it hard as you fall off the curb and all your weight impacts against your shoulders. You writhe as you grip his wrist and his fingertips jab into the sides of your neck.

“Ow, fuck,” you gasp.

“I told you,” he shakes you, “I know where you are and what you’re thinking at all times. Don’t fuck around.”

His other hand comes up as he tightens his hold on you. Your toes dance above the ground as you claw at his knuckles and his thick bicep, slapping against his chest as you cough and wheeze. He rips you away from the car and flings you down onto the pavement as you suck in air.

He kicks your stomach so you sprawl and you heave painfully. Your head spins as you touch your throat and plant a foot on the sidewalk, trying to get your bearing. His sole lands on your chest and he stands over you, his barrel staring you down.

“I…” you cling to his shoes, “Lloyd, I’m so-rry, please–”

He cocks the gun and you close your eyes. A pit of silence forms in the air and you feel as if you’re falling. He pulls the trigger and a muffled gunshot whistles from the silenced tip. You whimper as tears prick.

Are you dead? You don’t feel dead.

He drags his foot from your chest and nudges you with his toe. You open your eyes and turn your head, a crater in the pavement next to you. An inch from your head.

“Get in the car,” he snarls as he hops off the curb, “now!”

You scramble to your feet, legs wobbly and weak, and steady yourself against the car. You pull open the door and lower yourself into the seat as he does the same. You stare at the dash, dazed and shaking. He holsters his gun and huffs as he leans back in the seat, one hand on the wheel as he shifts into drive.

“I just gave you your life,” he bristles, “you owe me, sweetheart.”