Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kilgrave wakes the next morning in a fog. There follows a hazy period of time when he is sheltered by feelings of contentment, satisfaction, pride; the shape of Erik’s sleeping mind is familiar and overwhelming. He wants to remain buried in it for days, possibly forever. Then he yawns and he feels an unusual tug on his tongue. The protective shell crashes down. He’s overly warm, his mouth and hands and arse all sore as hell. His tongue is pierced, the taste intensely metallic and bitter.

Kilgrave flails, knocking Erik’s arm off his back and alerting him instantly. They’re back on the mattress in Azazel’s sex dungeon--it’s a sex dungeon if that cupboard is any indication--and Kilgrave scoots backward, legs still tangled with Erik’s under the blanket. Erik sits up but doesn’t move to close the distance that Kilgrave strives for. The other man is patient and amused. Kilgrave refuses to sink into him again. He wishes it was easier to build walls to keep his mind his own, but without that damned helmet it's near impossible to separate completely.

His stomach heaves but nothing comes out. He can’t remember if he ate anything yesterday or not. Everything after Erik pinned him to the wall is a detached blur. Everything after his mouth was pried open belongs more to Erik than to Kilgrave.

Kilgrave clasps his hands over his mouth. His tongue is swollen, he can feel the smooth slide of the piercings against the roof of his mouth every time he moves. With trembling fingers, he cautiously feels past his teeth, and finds the metal in his body. For a moment, the hand in his mouth belongs to Erik, and he nearly bites his own fingers off in his panic. This time, when he gags he does vomit, over the hands he doesn't move out of the way in time, staining the soft t-shirt and sweatpants he's wearing.

Erik must have made him change his clothes yesterday, or knocked him out again and done the work himself. Kilgrave doesn't want to remember. Erik sighs, and Kilgrave tries not to flinch at the mild disapproval radiating from the other man. On the heels of that disapproval follow affection and concern, and those two are infinitely worse.

Piss off, Kilgrave wants to say, but he can't. His tongue won't move, the piercing won't let him. Reality hits again, breaking through everything Erik projects at him. Kilgrave is dizzy with it, gasping for breath around the piercing. He can't even breathe with it on, Erik is going to kill him with it. Death by his own tongue, oh, Jessica would love this wouldn't she, that ungrateful bitch. This isn't how he wants to die, but someone somewhere would call this poetic justice.

"Come to me, Darkly,” Erik murmurs. Kilgrave won’t, he won’t.

Erik’s hand falls heavy on the back of his neck, right over the imprint of the old needle scars. Kilgrave hasn’t cut his hair since before Mauritius, so it’s longer than usual, puffing out between Erik’s fingers. Long enough Erik could manage a very secure grip, if he wanted, could tilt Kilgrave’s head back, expose his vulnerable throat. The expected grab and pull doesn’t come; Erik strokes the back of his neck, leverages Kilgrave closer. His voice is a deep rumble against Kilgrave’s ear as he speaks, “Focus on me.”

Kilgrave won’t. He shakes his head, rubbing vomit on Erik’s shirt; first by accident, then for spite. He hiccups against Erik’s shoulder, feeling ridiculously like a child and hating every second of it.

Erik sighs. Kilgrave’s head rises and falls with the force of it, pressed as he is against Erik’s front. He is well and truly trapped now. He can’t talk unless Erik allows him to--it’s always been a rule, but one he had the possibility of breaking. This is beyond a rule, it’s an imperative (compulsion), it’s a fact of his life. No speaking without permission.

His voice has always been his own, even when gagged or caged. He remembers a threat Erik once made, about piercing his tongue and his lips, about forcing Kilgrave to talk exactly when and how he decides. Is that next?

His breathing barely settles before it grows harsh and uneven again. Kilgrave struggles against Erik’s hold, and only manages to provoke Erik into adding his other arm, vice-like, around Kilgrave’s waist. “Focus,” Erik breathes. He shifts Kilgrave around until he’s sitting on Erik’s lap, back pressed to chest, with both of Erik’s arms crossed over his ribs.

Erik exhales, and his grip tightens, forcing breath out of Kilgrave’s lungs. He counts out loud, one, two, three, four, then releases the pressure and inhales. Kilgrave coughs and squirms. Erik is patient, implacable, a steady tower of confidence and calm against Kilgrave’s back. He’s impossible to resist. Kilgrave can’t hold onto the anger or the panic for long enough to outlast Erik. Slowly, painfully, he starts to breathe in time with Erik. In and out, in and out.

His mouth burns from the acidity of his bile. It tastes truly foul, and he swears he can feel the muscle around the piercing throb. He opens his mouth to talk, remembers, again, that he can't. With detachment, he watches the world blur as he skirts close to the edge of panic, again. How can he suffer such a total disconnect from himself and an anxiety-fueled breakdown at the same time?

Erik hums into his hair and says, “You can speak. What do you need?” Satisfaction burns under those words, Kilgrave can feel it so clearly it’s almost his own, except it can’t be because nothing about this is satisfying to him.

Oh, but Erik loves being able to give him permission to talk, and being able to retract that permission at any time. If Kilgrave could just fully connect to his own emotions again, he might muster up enough energy to hate Erik for that and everything else.

Kilgrave swallows hard, clears his throat, and swallows again before he can force words past his bound tongue. “Moufwash.” He sounds and feels like he’s talking around a mouthful.

“Hmm. No,” Erik says. “Not until we get some without alcohol.” He strokes Kilgrave’s jaw, the muscles jumping under his fingers. He’s hard, pressed against Kilgrave’s ass. It’s more noticeable in the wake of the panic attack, but Erik doesn’t act on it, to Kilgrave’s relief. “The bathroom is a good idea.” Erik stands. He tucks his hands under Kilgrave’s shoulders and hauls him to his feet. Kilgrave thinks there’s some distant part of himself that wants to slide out of his skin like a snake and slip far away. Mostly, he just focuses on the walk to the bathroom. Uses the toilet, brushes his teeth, working in silence with Erik by his side. Kilgrave’s movements are mechanical, Erik’s tinged with equal parts fondness and possessiveness.

Erik doesn’t need to give any commands. His eyes flicker to the shower when they’re done, and Kilgrave strips as he has a hundred times before. Stained clothes drop carelessly to the floor. Azazel’s shower is large, made of smooth gray stone and a clear glass door that Erik doesn’t let him close. Kilgrave starts the water while Erik steps out to fetch something. He wasn’t listening when Erik said what he was going to get.

Kilgrave stands under the water, fingers crossed over the nape of his neck. He stares without seeing at the water running down his body, at his ruined cock, and his pale feet against the stones. Christ, Erik really did shave everything. Nearly everything. Not the top of his head, thankfully. Kilgrave hasn’t been this hairless since he was prepubescent. It feels like a successful attempt at humiliation, but he has to wonder if this isn’t also some sort of fetish. Erik does prefer his face clean-shaven. No more designer stubble.

If Erik expects him to keep this up, he’ll have another fight on his hands. What can he do, cover Kilgrave’s hands in metal and force him to shave? More than likely, if this is how he wants Kilgrave’s body, he’ll just knock him out and do it himself like he already has. His vision blurs again and Kilgrave is mildly surprised to find himself blinking back tears. God, this is pathetic. He sniffs and forces his attention to the shampoo. It smells lightly masculine, on the sweet side, stronger when he rubs it into his hair.

Erik returns, dropping the first aid kit on the counter and quickly stripping off his clothes to join Kilgrave in the shower. The space is large enough that Kilgrave can stand his ground under the spray, then regret it when Erik takes over washing Kilgrave’s hair. “You don’th need to...” Kilgrave snaps, leaning away. Good to know Erik has still ceded him control over his tongue. Bad to know he can’t talk without slurring his words horribly. The rest of that sentence freezes in his throat. He prefers fine and exacting diction, flashing his large vocabulary as he twists the world to suit his needs.

Erik reels him back in by the shoulders and drops a kiss against his neck. “Yesterday I helped you eat, shower, dress. Did you think I’d let you out of my sight for long, after what you did last time?” There’s a pause as he lathers a washcloth with soap. Kilgrave is so tense, waiting for the next touch, that he actually jumps when it comes. Erik starts on his back, following a line up his stiff spine. “Trust takes time to build. After that setback, it will take even longer.”

“You’f nefer… fffuck.” It takes too much concentration to keep his words clean. “Trusted. Anyone, in your life. You don’t know what trust means.”

“Do you?” Erik asks.

“Not when it’s you,” Kilgrave answers bitterly.

&&

Kilgrave looks fetching, all wet and smooth. Erik finds himself struggling to focus with so much soft, bare skin to touch. Muscles twitch in the wake of his hands, but Kilgrave doesn’t try to lean away. Here and there Erik can feel the sharp prickle of hair growing back. His hands seek out their favorite waypoints on Kilgrave’s body: the back of his neck and its faded scars, the subtle v of his hips, the divots and ridges of his marked cock, and further back, his smooth ass and quivering hole. Kilgrave is tight already. He called himself bouncy, meaning his recovery period is surprisingly fast. Erik loves to fuck him when he is still loose from last time, and he loves to fuck him when he’s tight enough they both have to work for it, and he loves best of all that he can experience both over and over and over again, in close succession.

Where were they? Ah yes. “Trust is reciprocal,” Erik says. “I’ve set the rules. You can trust that they’ll always be enforced.” He lets his hard cock brush along Kilgrave’s ass. The water is too loud to hear his breath hitch, but Erik can still see it in the way a shudder runs through his body. Kilgrave hasn’t managed to leave his mind yet, not fully, so Erik gleefully pushes his arousal outward.

“Tha’sh not.” Kilgrave shakes, tries again. “That is not the same thing.” Erik presses against him more insistently, crowding him to the wall. Kilgrave allows it, automatically bracing his hands against the cool stones. They’ve been in this position before, Erik moving from behind and Kilgrave taking it, accepting him. Kilgrave pants against the wall, pressing his tongue against his teeth.

Erik’s sense for metal lets him know each move Kilgrave’s tongue makes, feel the shape of each word as they form. The control is so intimate it feels heady, profoundly gratifying. The idea of fucking Kilgrave here solidifies from a passing want into a plan that he now intends to act upon. He cups one hand around Kilgrave's throat to feel him swallow hard.

Soon he’ll learn the patterns of speech in Kilgrave’s mouth, know exactly what the man is saying as he says it. Erik has always been a diligent and apt study. “Then tell me what trust is," Erik says as he searches for a suitable lubricant.

Azazel keeps supplies in his shower, because of course he does. He is a man of appetite. As diligent as Azazel can be in his work, in his devotion to the cause, he is just as indulgent in his taste for material wealth--and carnal pleasure. When Erik asked for privacy and help in capturing and containing a man like Kilgrave, he knew Azazel would be the one friend he could count on to react with nothing worse than prurient interest.

Erik slicks his hand, strokes the other down Kilgrave’s back. He reaches around to confirm with touch what he suspects: Kilgrave shares his arousal. The scars are more prominent when he’s hard. He gives Kilgrave a quick stroke then slides his hands back around his hips. He pins Kilgrave to the wall with one hand at the small of his back and the other probing at his hole, firm but not harsh.

“W-why?” Kilgrave asks. “What… difference… would that make?” He has to sound out each word with difficulty, tongue still swollen from the piercing. Erik expects it’ll take a day or two for the swelling to go down.

Gone is the bargaining from yesterday. The Kilgrave who thinks he can still arrange the world to his liking has retreated for now, leaving Erik with a warily resigned version. He doesn’t expect this to last much longer than the defeated Kilgrave he shepherded through most of the previous twenty-four hours.

That was a precious gift, although not one Erik would want to keep around for long. Kilgrave shattered beautifully after the piercing and makeshift compulsion. Kilgrave, mute and open and pliant, wide brown eyes reflecting only Erik back, a pretty little mirror plastered to Erik’s side all day. He dove deeper into Erik’s head than ever before, as Erik had practically forced him to. Kilgrave, conquered. And thoroughly fucked. Is that what it felt like for Kilgrave with all the women he compelled over the years? Forcing compliance, purging all else, taking what he wanted, and seeing only those desires amplified and returned?

Powerful. And rare.

Erik never feared sexual coercion from Charles, but there were times when he feared he’d lose his mind, watch it supplanted by Charles’ will and then thank him for the privilege. That’s not actually what he wants from Kilgrave, either. Preferably still a mind in there somewhere. Erik dreams of a partnership, albeit one that entirely benefits him.

He works a second finger inside, mulling over how to answer Kilgrave. “None in the near future,” he admits. Kilgrave clenches hard around his fingers, so he waits for the man to relax again before he starts pumping his fingers in and out, slowly scissoring on every other stroke. “We were good once,” he says, as low as he can while competing with the spray of the water on their backs. “When we worked as a team, we moved as one. Perfectly in sync, perfectly lethal.”

Kilgrave rocks unsteadily on his hand, briefly leaning more of his weight against Erik than the wall. “You do remember,” Erik says, triumphant. “We can be good, again. Talk to me about trust when we reach that point.” He debates adding a third finger, but this week isn’t about sparing Kilgrave pain and he wants badly to bury himself in Kilgrave, deep, with no helmet or gag between them, when Kilgrave is mentally there.

He lines his cock up and sinks inside, feeling his tension drain drain away in the act. He buries his face in Kilgrave’s neck and bites, hard, for the pleasure of feeling the man jerk against him. Kilgrave curses under his breath as Erik starts thrusting.

“Y’ gonna… shplit m’open,” Kilgrave groans. This is the fourth time in three days that Erik’s been inside him, one way or another. Erik doesn’t see any problem with that--quite the opposite.

Feeling magnanimous, Erik kisses a line up to Kilgrave’s ear. “Then tell me how to move. Faster? Slower?”

“Gentle,” Kilgrave begs. Gentle, Erik can do. They still have time before Azazel returns and they begin round three of Kilgrave’s punishment. His hips slow to a pace that is steady, deep, and soft as can be.

Kilgrave is warm and slick around his cock. Erik suddenly doesn’t want to be anything but gentle; his kisses are unbearably tender as he nuzzles Kilgrave’s neck, shoulders, jaw, any part of him that Erik can reach with his lips. How’s that for a show of trust? He let Kilgrave compel him. Kilgrave curses and whimpers and chants Erik’s name like a prayer. Erik wants to be a benevolent god.

Sex with no helmet is good; sex with no gag is even better. When Erik remembers what that means, he coaxes Kilgrave to turn his face to one side so Erik can kiss his mouth, hot and claiming and gentle gentle gentle. Kilgrave’s body stutters against him, then his hands leave the shower wall and scrabble for Erik’s hair and hips. Erik recognizes the tone of Kilgrave’s cracking voice, same as the broken moans he used to gasp around the gag.

Erik finds Kilgrave’s cock again, gives it a few last strokes as Kilgrave comes. Erik doesn’t last any longer, two more thrusts and he gives in. Kilgrave throws his head back onto Erik’s shoulder and screams as his orgasm stretches excruciatingly long, feeling himself come and then Erik too and then, reflexively, himself again. Erik holds him and laughs against his skin, giddy with power and lust.

&&

Kilgrave staggers out of the shower when Erik lets him go, gropes half-blind for a towel. That ruinous orgasm had at least one positive effect: it shook him loose from the self-defeating cage he made deep in Erik’s head. Damn his empathy. If Erik intends to forgo the helmet now--if he intends to spend the rest of their lives together without any mental blocks--Kilgrave reflexively flinches from the thought. That’s almost worse than the piercings, more intimate.

It’s gotten so much easier to share Erik’s emotions and so much harder to find the boundary between himself and his captor. How did Jessica do this for so long? Anger is tiresome, fear is exhausting, even now it’s difficult to remember that he hates Erik, that he hated him long before he lo--he’s tired. And sore. He’s beginning to think Erik just doesn’t want him to ever sit normally again.

He towels himself dry with more force than necessary, ignoring the sting of his healing hands. Darkness edges around his vision. His body wants to sleep after that bout of shower sex, but he stubbornly refuses to go anywhere near a bed. Erik doesn't need any more encouragement to feel him up. He's had quite enough of that man's touch for today.

The worst part about his situation is, he is so very tempted to give in. Partial surrender, an old strategy. Sacrifice a part to save the whole. He thinks it worked before. The problem is, this time it seems like Erik intends to take everything. He’s being hollowed out and filled, a hostile invasion.

Carelessly, he drops the towel, but Erik catches his arm before he leaves the bathroom. “Let me check your hands,” Erik orders. Kilgrave silently holds his hands up for inspection and rewrapping. He can’t see the white of bone any longer. He heals faster than most, so his hands are back to their usual size, but without stitches the skin is slow to close. Kilgrave doesn’t flinch at the antiseptic spray or the pressure of fresh bandages, but he does when Erik brushes a feather-light kiss over his covered knuckles.

“I’m hungry,” Kilgrave says, hugging his hands to his chest and avoiding Erik’s eyes. Erik offers him a clean shirt, and Kilgrave finds that he’s just grateful that Erik lets him put it on by himself. He’s getting more than a little tired of the overly handsy schtick. He keeps remembering flashes from yesterday, when Erik’s hands were all over him and he numbly let the other man manipulate his body like he was an invalid. Or even worse, like he was a goddamn infant--Kilgrave thinks he remembers being spoonfed yogurt, a memory he shies from with a hot flush to his skin. Just another humiliation to add to the ever-growing list.

Erik’s hand settles between his shoulders and Kilgrave is too forceful, too petulant when he shrugs off the touch. He has enough pride to ignore Erik’s amused smirk as he leads the way to the kitchen. His eyes flicker to the espresso machine, then away with a wince as he thinks about his sore tongue.

“No coffee,” Erik says, completely unnecessary. “No solids either, for the next couple of weeks. Break that rule, and you won’t like what it does to your tongue.”

“I know,” Kilgrave snaps, annoyed. He opens the fridge, sees the yogurt, and immediately closes the door. He blushes again, red across his face and spreading down his neck. He tugs awkwardly at the hem of his shirt, wishing it covered a little more of his body. Stubbornly, he won’t ask Erik for more clothes, because he knows the bastard is just waiting for that satisfaction. If Erik gets a kick out of leering at his half-naked body then bully for him, Kilgrave can endure until he finds his own bloody trousers.

Not wanting to sit on one of the chairs--their thin leather padding is not nearly enough to be comfortable right now--Kilgrave leans against the counter. “When’s your friend getting back? The contents of his fridge are pathetic.”

“Tomorrow. We’ll work on your third punishment then.” Erik says this so casually, like they’re still discussing food.

Kilgrave stiffens, looking, unintentionally, for an exit. Not like he can run. He has nowhere to go, no advantage over Erik, and absolutely no one in this sorry world who will come to his rescue. If he hasn’t lost track of more time than he knows, they’re only on day three of this hell week. Erik promised that this week would hurt. Kilgrave doesn’t believe that today will be pain-free either. He doesn’t think that Erik will give him a rest between rounds of punishment.

“That’s what the piercing was? Punishment?” Probably for speaking without permission, then.

“No.” Erik pulls out the bread and the yogurt, and starts rummaging through the cabinets. “That piercing was inevitable, Kevin. The rest of yesterday was your punishment.”

“Right. Depending on you for every bloody action and every bloody thought.” Kilgrave goes to scrub at his face with one hand, but stops when he remembers the bandages. He crosses his arms with a sigh. “Are you sure that wasn’t just what you want from me?”

Erik raises one cool eyebrow. “I do expect you to be a competent adult most of the time. I’m not your father.”

“No. And I’m not going to call you Daddy either.”

“Erik is fine.”

Are they bantering again? Kilgrave shifts away when Erik moves too close, clenches his jaw and tries not to let Erik distract him from the very real danger that surrounds him. He can’t hide the sudden retreat from Erik. His sense of the man is that he’s calculating, Erik's mind quiet and methodical as he sorts through whatever cues Kilgrave gives him. Kilgrave tries not to show anything in his body language, but that's a difficult task when exhaustion saturates his every cell.

“What rule did you break to earn yesterday’s punishment?” Erik prompts.

“Don’t speak without permission,” Kilgrave mumbles.

“What’s left?”

Kilgrave hesitates. So far each punishment has, in a warped way, suited the crime. Forcing truths to punish a lie, forcing silence to punish improper speech, and next will be--the final rule was to obey Erik. Kilgrave imagines possible scenarios for his next punishment and they're all awful.

He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to be in this body, with this life, with tomorrow looming large over his head like a guillotine.

“Kevin?”

Kilgrave takes a deep breath. “Do what you say.” Like he can do anything else.

Erik moves fast, crowding in his personal space faster than Kilgrave can react. “Where we go tomorrow, I will need your complete obedience to protect you.”

Kilgrave swallows, mouth dry with a spike of fear. “Protect me? You’re the only thing I need protecting from.”

Erik’s smile is too wide, too many teeth. Kilgrave wonders if it’s possible he has more than the normal human allotment. Erik isn’t human, after all. “You have to listen to me if you want to survive.”

Kilgrave wracks his brain to fit the clues in some way that makes sense. What else have they discussed this week? “Are we going to New York? To see Jessica?” His pulse trips double-time with anxiety or anticipation. 

“Not yet.” Erik stares at his neck, at the livid bruise forming there from their romp in the shower. Kilgrave fights against the urge to cover up; surely that would only encourage Erik. That man latches onto weakness like a shark scenting blood in the water. Kilgrave feels vulnerable enough without acting like it all the time.

A million stones have fallen out of his castle walls. If he knew how to rebuild, he would have done so by now. He needs time and space to regroup, neither of which Erik will give him. 

“Then where are we going?” Kilgrave eyes the ingredients Erik has gathered and the blender. It looks like he’s about to be served a smoothie. He thinks, sardonically, that it is certainly wonderful to have such a courteous torturer. He might scream himself hoarse every day for a week but at least he'll eat well.

His appetite won't last if he dwells on this. Erik hands him a knife and Kilgrave takes it with only a brief, futile fantasy about stabbing Erik through the neck. There's no way he's fast enough to bury a metal blade in Magneto's neck before the man eviscerates him.

Kilgrave is nudged in front of a small pile of fruit to cut up while Erik sets about dumping yogurt, ice, and a handful of oats into the blender. “You’ll see,” is all Erik will say. Azazel could take them anywhere in the world.

“I hate surprises,” Kilgrave says dully. Especially when they’re as nasty as this one is guaranteed to be. He cuts fruit with more force than necessary. Strawberries make for a nice little spray when they’re jabbed viciously enough, though they’re not the right color red.

Kilgrave isn’t usually one for doing his dirty work, but he could make an exception. He could, he could tell Erik to lie down and stay very, very still, while he--he--he tries to finish the fantasy, but the knife in his hand is shaking. He’s shaking. Kilgrave stares at his hands, astonished.

There’s a clatter to his right, and then Erik is pressed against his back, wrapping him in a tight embrace, soothing murmurs against his ear. One firm hand around his wrist convinces him to drop the knife. Once it hits the counter, it noisily tips into the sink. Kilgrave tries to tell Erik to let him go, but he doesn’t get any further than the first, aborted syllable before the piercings in his tongue vibrate in warning. He cuts himself off with a sharp, gagging cough. The reminder of his piercing has a visceral effect on his body. He fights against Erik’s hold just enough to bend over the sink and heave. Nothing comes out, thankfully, but his appetite has fled.

Silence stretches long and suffocating. Kilgrave gasps for breath and Erik watches him, eyes boring into the back of his head like Erik is the one who can read his emotions and not the other way around. Weak weak weak, Kilgrave thinks. He might as well roll over and show his soft underbelly for Erik to devour. For one wild moment, he thinks about spinning around and digging out Erik’s eyes, feeling them pop under his thumbs like grapes. The visual of Erik’s pale eyes bursting almost makes him sick again.

Kilgrave once made a man gouge out his own eyes. The thick, squelching noise that they made and the wailing moan from the man were both imprinted on his memory forever. He can vividly imagine all manner of violence, but somehow it's hard to apply any of it to Erik. Even now, after everything. Erik seems impenetrable, invulnerable, unstoppable. Kilgrave has tried. Nothing works. He forces all thoughts of retaliation far, far away.

When he’s certain he won’t vomit, Kilgrave slowly straightens. He lets Erik pull him in, lets his body lean back and mold into that support. Erik counts again, urging Kilgrave to breathe with him. Kilgrave complies. He has no way of asking for space with his tongue bound.

He's tired. He's sodding tired, he needs a break but Erik won't let him rest. Just one hour alone, he could recuperate and step away from this dangerous edge where he wavers between grief and hopelessness. 

&&

At this rate, Kilgrave won't make it past the door when they go to the Hellfire Club tomorrow. Erik needs to prepare him. "You need to eat," he says, dropping a kiss on Kilgrave's cheek and tugging him over to the table. He releases his sway over the piercing. "You can talk."

"I won'th keep ith down," Kilgrave complains. The lisp returns with a vengeance, and when Kilgrave notices he scowls.

"You're hungry," Erik says firmly, counting on his own hunger to persuade Kilgrave. He's famished; he could eat a ten-course meal; he's beyond ready to break his morning fast. Kilgrave's stomach rumbles, and Erik grins triumphantly.

Kilgrave sulks at the table, refusing to take a seat. "I already said that. Then I changed my mind."

"Then you can change it again." Erik inspects the knife, wondering what set Kilgrave off this time. He remembers his original intention, at the start of this week, to flay Kilgrave alive. That's in the past. Erik will not damage Kilgrave so permanently without a good deal of provocation.

Kilgrave shrugs and squirms away. "Fine."

"Good." Erik makes himself a plate of toast and fruit while Kilgrave's smoothie blends.

The problem is, Kilgrave utterly lacks in discipline. After the last few months, it will take time and a firm hand to guide him back into place. Applying the tongue piercings gives them time; they have all the time in the world now, and Erik feels so relaxed when he taps the metal with his power. Finally, he has control that Kilgrave can never escape.

Kilgrave's body is a twitchy, nervous wreck. Erik wants to tie him down, secure him. Previously, he's left room for Kilgrave to move. He doesn't feel inclined to be so generous today. He wants to pin that body so thoroughly that it cannot budge an inch; he wants to push the limits of Kilgrave's tolerance. Bind him, seal him, stretch him thin with sensation.

Azazel has a very interesting collection in his basement. Erik has no use for most of it, but there are a few items that caught his eye earlier. With his planning mostly done, he shifts his focus to making sure Kilgrave drinks all of his breakfast because the man will need his energy.

Erik guides Kilgrave downstairs with a hand on the back of his neck. Once there, he orders Kilgrave to strip and pretends he doesn't see the face Kilgrave makes at the command. Erik opens the cupboard and selects a coil of soft jute rope in a striking purple shade, similar to the color of the clothes Kilgrave favors. He considers this a compromise to his empath's tastes. 

When he turns around, Kilgrave is naked, shivering, and eyeing him warily. "I thought we weren't doing any punishments today."

"This isn't punishment. This is practice." He takes a step forward, and Kilgrave takes a step back.

"Practice for what? I can't practice being tortured, that's an all-or-nothing deal, isn't it? I'm not being graded on how hard I scream," Kilgrave babbles, arms raised defensively. 

Erik counters with greater confidence, greater calm, slower steps, and a deep sense of want that the empath can't deny. "I'm safe. You can lean into me if it gets to be too much." Old words, from their first foray into partnership. They're still true; Erik will keep his mind an open and safe harbor. It can be a sanctuary and a prison at the same time. It will be both and either until Kilgrave decides for himself which way he wants to view it.

Kilgrave stops his retreat, but his eyes bounce from Erik to the rope to the open cupboard to the horse he was strapped to the other day. He surrenders, not that he has any other choice. This man favors the path of least resistance, thanks to his pampered lifestyle. He never resists Erik for long. Kilgrave understands perseverance only as long as he has the upper hand. If Jessica had realized her immunity to his compulsion, Erik suspects Kilgrave would have been quick to leave her shadow.

Erik has control now, and he doesn't intend to let go until either or both of them are in their graves. He touches Kilgrave, watches him tense then force himself to relax. His shoulder is sharp and thin under Erik's hand. Kilgrave has always been skinny, but he's lost weight since the last time Erik saw him. His bones are too prominent. Erik makes a mental note to start monitoring Kilgrave's food intake in the future.

He pushes lightly at Kilgrave's shoulder. "Kneel."

Kilgrave sinks to his knees, looking up with dark, dark eyes. Erik feels powerful. He savors the moment. His reflection in Kilgrave's eyes is tall and strong, a pale shadow over blown pupils.

"You may only speak when I ask you a question. You may only say yes or no. If you behave well, there will be a reward. Do you understand?"

Kilgrave licks his lips nervously. "...yes."

"Good boy," Erik says, letting warmth and approval color his voice and all his thoughts. Kilgrave's ears turn bright red, a fact that Erik gleefully files away for later. "I'm going to tie you up. Have you ever heard of kinbaku?"

"N-no?"

"It's Japanese. It means tight binding. The art of kinbaku relies on intricate patterns and beautiful posing. The aesthetic is as important as practicality. Cross your arms over your chest."

Kilgrave hugs himself. Erik clicks his tongue and tugs at Kilgrave's elbows until his grip loosens. Kilgrave lets Erik manipulate his body into the desired position. His hands end up clutching his shoulders, forearms forming an X on his chest. Erik will have to mind how he secures the rope, so it doesn't rub against the bandages and aggravate the split flesh beneath.

"Relax. I'm here. I'm safe." Erik starts winding the rope around Kilgrave's arms, around and around and around. Looping a tight cross at the intersection of his arms. Over his wrists and under his armpits, securing his hands in place. Pinning his elbows tight against his body. Interlocked V's run down his spine where the rope locks around itself, holding purely through friction.

Erik feels peaceful. This likely isn't what Charles had in mind when he implored Erik to search for inner peace, so long ago. If this, in fact, was what Charles meant, then Erik should have listened sooner. He should have done a lot of things sooner, starting with making amends with Charles and ending with piercing Kilgrave's tongue.

They breathe as one. Kilgrave's muscles relax under Erik's warm, steady hands and the pure tranquility pouring off Erik's mind. The rope digs into his skin, purple lines intersecting over pale flesh.

"I'm only going to use three knots. The first one will go...here…" At Kilgrave's lower back, Erik ties off the first knot. It's excessively simple. If the knot were all that held him bound, it would be easy to slip. "Can you move your arms?"

There's a pause as Kilgrave tries. His muscles flex against the rope to no avail. He rocks on his heels, forcing Erik to quickly steady him. "No," Kilgrave gasps.

"Perfect. You're doing so well."

Kilgrave draws shuddering breaths at the praise, hanging his head to avoid meeting Erik's eyes. Erik kisses his temple. "Two more to go."

He prompts Kilgrave to lean forward, rest his upper half against Erik while his legs are rearranged. His knees are spread far apart, leaving his pink cock completely exposed. Kilgrave is pushed down until his ass is flat on the floor, feet pointing away from his body. Without support, the position is only sturdy if he doesn't lean backwards.

"I'm going to bind your legs in place. Is this rope too tight?"

"Y-" Kilgrave swallows hard. "No."

"Yes or no?"

"No."

"Is it cutting off your circulation?"

"No."

"Can you move your fingers?"

Kilgrave wiggles his fingers, the only part of his torso that is free to move. "Yes."

"Mm." Erik catches his chin and forces his head up, looks into those wild dark eyes. "Always tell me the truth. No exceptions. Understood?"

"Yes."

Erik kisses the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," he murmurs.

He winds rope around each leg, binding calf to thigh in a repeating diamond pattern. The ropes cross over Kilgrave's feet, divide his big toes  from the rest. The final two knots lay against the soles of his feet. These two are no sturdier than the first, letting friction anchor most of the tension.

&&

Something terrible is happening inside Kilgrave's head. Each pass of the rope binds him tighter into himself, but it never feels restrictive. Not in the same oppressive way that the tongue piercings feel. He is contained. He's been shattered, falling apart all morning, and here the same man who broke him is carefully tying all of his pieces back together.

He should hate this. Every other time he's been restrained, he rebelled. At the first chance that he could, from his childhood nightmare to Jessica's bloody cage. And yet. Erik likes this. Kilgrave can feel that, and the simple joy of loop, cross, repeat sings louder than the fading horror of trapped, helpless.

The floor is cool against his skin. Time passes him by entirely, beyond his knowing or caring how to keep track. Erik feels real. The rope rubs softly, and it might hurt in the future but right now it just feels good. He no longer feels naked. All the panic and grief of this morning fades under a pleasant buzz.

"Just a little more," Erik promises. Kilgrave almost forgets himself to say okay , but Erik holds his tongue still with the metal studs. Kilgrave gives Erik a weak, grateful smile, for helping him follow the rules. Erik kisses him on the mouth, and Kilgrave's face remains tilted for that kiss a full minute after Erik moves away.

From the ceiling above, one of the metal eyelets drops and attaches itself to the rope on his back. Kilgrave's torso is pulled straight, and he absently looks up to see Erik's brow stern with concentration. Kilgrave is braced, immobile, movement restricted to his hands and feet and head and even there he is limited.

Erik walks away, but Kilgrave knows he intends to return so there is no worry. The first time Erik's footsteps lead back to him, Erik is there to shove a large pillow under his legs and ass. Gratitude warms his chest.

"Does that feel better?" Erik asks.

"Yes," Kilgrave says, staring at his lips. Lust flares from Erik, reverberates all the way through him. His cock hardens instantly and he gasps. Erik surges forward to kiss him again, open and wet. His senses blend into Erik's blend into his blend into one endless circuit where he loses track of whose mouth is whose, lips and teeth and tongues interchangeable. One of them is closely monitoring the metal in their mouths, and one of them is ignoring the sharp little tugs where the piercings catch on teeth.

Kilgrave groans into the kiss, whines when Erik leaves again. The distinction between their bodies sharpens just enough for him to take stock of himself. He can't move an inch yet he's never felt more relaxed. Kilgrave realizes distantly that between the floating metal eyelet holding him upright and the cushion between him and the floor, Erik intends to keep him like this for a while. He can't bring himself to care.

"I'll be right back," Erik says, moving away.

"No," Kilgrave says, using the limited vocabulary allowed him. He cranes his neck up, fighting the restraints, licks his swollen lips like he can't get enough of Erik's taste. Later, that can shame him later, right now he just wants that closeness back. He doesn't like being alone in his head, not really, not when it's so much easier to exist with Erik.

As expected, Erik can't resist the bait. He swoops back in for another kiss, leading to another and another. Erik's hands roam his body, light but grounding. Kilgrave isn't kissing the man who captured and raped him; he's kissing a man whose mind is a jumble of lust and tenderness and possession. In a way, he's kissing himself, feeling both sides of the contact and revelling in it all.

When Erik pulls away this time, Kilgrave draws breath to object again but he's stopped by a finger on his mouth. "I will be right back. Behave," Erik says with mock sternness. Kilgrave can feel the flash of amusement behind his words.

"Yes," Kilgrave relents. Erik won't go far, but all the same Kilgrave nestles into his head, tight and secure as he can get.

"You are so good," Erik adds before he leaves, and Kilgrave burns. 

&&

Erik hasn't felt this level of arousal since the last time he had Kilgrave by his side-- and before that, not since Charles and he were young and navigating truce and opposition alike. He wants Kilgrave all the time, craves him. The man is beautiful, made perfect in his surrender. When his eyes linger on Erik's mouth or hands, the urge to kiss him is overwhelming.

Part of this is ownership. Erik has always preferred what he can control. Part is power. Kilgrave shapes the world to match his desires, and Erik can now mold those desires. There also exists a part, small or large, that depends entirely on Kilgrave's similarities to Charles. Taller, thinner, less posh, with darker eyes and looser morals. But he has intelligence, drive, more importantly he occupies the same mental space. Kilgrave has half the power and none of the compassion, and yet he is still as perfect a surrogate as Erik could hope for. 

Back at the cupboard, Erik fetches a small armful of further supplies and a tray to set them on. Kilgrave’s eyes are lidded when he returns; his attention doesn’t turn to the items until Erik sets the tray down on the floor with a heavy clatter. One by one he lays out: a blindfold, a ginger root, a thin metal sound, and his knife. Kilgrave startles out of his lust-addled daze and turns wide, hopeless eyes on Erik. His muscles flex uselessly against the bonds.

“I won’t hurt you,” Erik promises. Not today. He knows Kilgrave’s tongue is working futile against the piercings, and waits for him to stop trying to talk out of turn.

Kilgrave exhales sharply through his nose, then thrusts his chin at the knife and raises an eyebrow in disbelieving question.

When Erik smiles, it is thin-lipped and cold. “That’s not for you. We’re rebuilding trust.”

Kilgrave’s gaze jumps from the knife to the sound, and there is a small but growing well of panic in his eyes.

Erik laughs. “Do you want me to pierce your dick again?”

“No!” Kilgrave shakes his head so fast his hair flops wildly.

More’s the pity; Erik rather liked keeping a leash on such a sensitive and private area. He liked being the only one who could grant Kilgrave arousal and pleasure. As far as he can tell, removing the lower piercings hasn’t changed that, at least. Kilgrave is still dependant on him. Erik enjoys the thought that he will be responsible for all of Kilgrave's orgasms in the future.

“Then I won’t,” Erik promises. “Sometimes a sound is just a sound.”

It takes time to coax Kilgrave back into a relaxed state. Erik adds the blindfold, missing those lovely brown eyes but wanting to isolate Kilgrave from everything but Erik’s mind and body. He runs his hands up and down Kilgrave’s back, arms, thighs, soothing every tremor to stillness. He murmurs soft praise into every kiss he presses against Kilgrave’s skin. He remembers all of Kilgrave's favorite places to be touched. Here, under his jaw; there, down his sternum; here, between his ribs. Erik follows the same sweet spots he learned during their first partnership. Each has been left uncovered by rope, bared to his mouth and hands precisely for this reason.

His gentleness is informed, in part, by the preference Kilgrave expressed this morning. Erik is no longer under any compulsion, but since he recaptured the empath, since he staked his claim through the man’s tongue twice over, he feels indulgent. He can compartmentalize his lingering anger into a box far in the back of his mind, nowhere near the space where Kilgrave curls into him and shares every emotion.

Kilgrave slowly, slowly grows loose-limbed and pliable, shifting as much as he can after Erik’s body heat every time he moves too far away. His hair is soft, damp already with sweat even in the pleasantly cool room.

Erik tilts him forward, gently, letting the metal loop drop with Kilgrave's body. He summons two more fixtures from the ceiling and reshapes them around Kilgrave’s hips. Then he carefully pulls them up, lifting Kilgrave first one foot into the air, and then up to five. Kilgrave’s breath grows heavier, soft wet gasps that break the silence. He hangs, suspended by Erik's power, bereft of any other contact.

“Do you trust me?” Erik asks, hushed.

“No,” Kilgrave answers, his voice small and distant.

Erik doesn’t broadcast his disappointment, because this week is all about the consequences of severed trust. He started with vengeance in mind, but now he gives Kilgrave the chance to earn forgiveness, one painful day at a time.

So instead, he modifies his question: “Do you want me?”

Kilgrave takes much longer to answer this time. When he does, it’s barely a whisper of a word, a near-silent and devastating confession. “Yes.”

That, for now, is enough. Everything else will come with time, with patience and consistency and Erik keeping his word and holding Kilgrave accountable.

Erik inspects his work. The ropes distribute Kilgrave’s weight evenly, keeping him suspended without focusing the strain on any single joint. He has time to play without worrying about scarring or nerve damage.

&&

Kilgrave floats. Every time he has control, he slides inexorably toward panic. It's better, isn't it, to let Erik steer. He's not a fighter like sweet Jess, like that bitch Jess. Kilgrave is a survivor, and a survivor favors adaptability over stubbornness. He lets go, with a half-planned promise to resume his struggle later. 

Erik is a challenge and a seduction to his empathy. It feels good to dive deep into a place where only Erik's approval and desire matters. He can't see anything, can't feel anything but the ropes holding him securely. Every thought in his head is tinged with Erik.

Hands pull at his arse, spread his cheeks, and it doesn't matter. The soreness and violation from earlier can't touch him now. A thumb probes at his entrance. He must still be loose enough to satisfy because the hands release him. 

He tracks Erik's footsteps around his body. There's a pause, and then the next thing he hears is a rhythmic scraping. Curiously, through his comfortable lodging in Erik's head, he gets a sense of the metal, long and sharp. The knife. There isn't so much as a flicker of malice from Erik, so it never occurs to Kilgrave to be scared. The scraping stops, the footsteps continue.

Something passes by his face, leaving behind a sharp, peppery, earthy scent. "That's the ginger root. You'll feel a burning sensation, but no injury. Do you know what I'm going to do with it?"

"Chili," Kilgrave says dreamily. Is he still hungry? Does it matter? Erik's response to that answer is too quickly smothered for him to grasp. It could frustration, could be amusement. 

"No, Kevin." Erik pets his hair. If Kilgrave was a cat, he might purr. He always likes it when his lovers play with his hair. Erik doesn't do that often enough. "Remember our rules. Are you with me?"

"Yes." He doesn't know where else to be if he's not with Erik, Erik is too omnipresent. He tilts his head into Erik's hand, blooming under the contact, like a high.

"Wiggle your fingers again."

With difficulty, Kilgrave remembers how his hands work, and proves his knowledge by drumming on his shoulders.

"Well done."

Praise burrows into his spine, electric and thrilling. There is probably a very goofy grin on his face, but he doesn't care. Erik's approval makes him feel good, when nothing else about this week has.

Erik moves behind him. Something--the ginger root--presses against the lowest point on his back, and trails down, between his cheeks, down, until it catches at his loose and puckered rim. The pressure leaves behind a light tingle, similar to but slightly stronger than a scratch that doesn't break the skin.

"Relax," Erik reminds him, as the ginger breaches him. Kilgrave clenches instinctively and gasps at the sudden flare of heat. The heat dies quickly to a low simmer as Erik slides the root inside. Kilgrave keeps himself relaxed, open. "Good. That's good. Just hold it there-- good boy."

He does not have a praise kink, Kilgrave thinks wildly. What he has is a need for Erik's approval, because that alone washes away the hurt. The hurt that Erik causes. It's far too complicated to reason his way through how he should and shouldn't feel about Erik now. He just wants the world to be simple and easy, and as long as Erik is touching him, it is. As long as he does what Erik wants, the pain can't overwhelm him. 

Kilgrave breathes unsteadily. The ginger plug sits inside him, a little warm but not overly so. It's shorter than Erik's cock, thicker around the base but not as wide as his wrist. The root is naturally slick, not as noticeably as Erik's tongue but sufficient for this purpose. That's all the comparison Kilgrave has for penetration. Erik has never inserted anything before, and Kilgrave certainly never tried. He doesn't have any experience with holding something in his ass, but luckily the plug is shaped in a way that it stays put on its own. 

Erik's palm is warm, warmer than the plug, as he gropes Kilgrave's ass, perfectly framed by the rope. His fingers dig in, leaving behind five white imprints.

The slap, when it comes, surprises Kilgrave. For all the violence he's endured from Erik, he's never been spanked before. He inhales so sharp and sudden he nearly gags on it. The blow makes him clench instinctively, which in turn causes the ginger root to burn hotter. His gasp changes near-instantly to a groan.

When this heat flare settles, the lingering sensation is more intense than before. Kilgrave realizes where this is going. If he were in his right mind, he'd order Erik to stop, piercings be damned. The edge of Erik's desire crowds out any reluctance or alarm he might naturally feel, so he's left shivering with anticipation as the heat rises.

"Clenching heightens and hastens the effect," Erik says, measured, casually informative. "Impact play forces a reaction. That reaction causes..." He spanks Kilgrave again.

Kilgrave hisses through clenched teeth. Erik is building a fire in his ass and there's nothing he can do about it. The third blow lands heavier, a loud slap accompanied by a low cry that Kilgrave cannot contain. 

"Hh- hh- hh-" He doesn't let himself talk, biting back his words without need for Erik's intervention.

"That's right. You are doing so well. This is how I want you," Erik praises him. Kilgrave doesn't want to like those words but he does, he truly, devastatingly does. "I'm going to count to twenty. If you continue to behave, we'll stop there."

The spanking itself isn't so bad. His tolerance is high, but layering a spanking over everything else challenges even his threshold for pain. He is already so sore and sensitive, the added heat from the ginger is intolerable. When this week is over, he's going to crawl under a pile of blankets and refuse to leave, ever.

His capacity to plan ahead vanishes some time between strike four and twenty. He burns, much worse than the times when Erik fucked him without preparation. His head hangs, insensible sounds drop from his mouth, his self-control stretching just far enough to turn speech into incomprehensible noise. He turns don't talk into a mantra that repeats far past the point where the words lose any meaning.

Kilgrave thought Erik consumed him before; he discovers that he has yet to comprehend how deeply he can be owned. The ginger burns and every nerve in his body responds; his skin shines red under Erik's hands and the ache settles deep into his bones.

Erik reaches under him to stroke and fondle his cock. Kilgrave is hard because Erik is hard. He groans louder when Erik touches him. There must still be oil from the ginger root on his hands, because now Kilgrave's cock burns. He pitches into a strangled scream as Erik presses his thumb against the head of Kilgrave's dick, over the slit. 

"One more piece," Erik says. Meaningless sounds. Kilgrave floats in his pain and Erik's pleasure, a fog that can't be penetrated.

The pressure that slides into his cock is familiar, something he has felt once before. Liquid metal solidifying into a thin and inflexible rod, carrying with it an association with pain and horror that Kilgrave can only acknowledge from a safe distance, sheltered as he is in everything else that is happening to his body. The sound pushes ginger oil deep inside his cock, leaving him burning everywhere he least wants it.

Thoroughly plugged below, only his mouth remains open, a space that Erik interprets as begging to be filled. Kilgrave is beyond awareness when Erik steps around to his front, insensate when hands tangle in his hair to lift his head, mouth filled only with nonsensical sounds.

&&

Kilgrave is lovely. Skin flushed red against purple rope, suspended, utterly in Erik's control. Muscles twitching, slick, overwhelmed with sensation. Blindfold wet with sweat and tears, luscious mouth open wide in invitation. He's never looked more beautiful.

"Perfection," Erik says, hooking one finger over Kilgrave's lower lip and tugging it down. His tongue flickers out, uncertain and teasing. Erik wants to bury his cock past those lush lips but he can't. The tongue piercings are too fresh. He needs to keep Kilgrave functional, and won't take the risk for a moment of lust.

He pushes his fingers deeper, feeling out the smooth stud of the first piercing. Kilgrave makes a garbled sound around his fingers. Erik would like to freeze this moment in time, when he had Kilgrave cradled in his power, safe in his head. He would take this moment back out in his darkest hours, to remember how it felt to dominate every cell of another man's body.

Erik unzips and lowers his pants with his free hand. His erection is full and straining. He jerks off against Kilgrave's face, careful not to touch himself with the hand that held the ginger root. The head of his cock nudges along Kilgrave's cheek bone. Kilgrave makes a questioning hum around Erik's hand.

"Not today. Just stay with me." Erik's ego has rarely soared higher, even as his voice wavers. "This is--this is good. You're wonderful, Darkly, just stay there. Good boy. Good boy."

He comes hard and fast, as his cock jerks and splatters Kilgrave's lower face. Every scrap of metal in the room vibrates once, twice, then stills, each throb accompanied by a shriek from Kilgrave. In the aftermath, Erik listens to Kilgrave's low, agonized sobs, the man wrung out far beyond his limits and then dragged through a secondhand orgasm. Erik grins, shakes with a silent laugh, and lowers Kilgrave to the floor.

The sound drips out of Kilgrave's cock in a mixture of liquid metal and semen, pooling beneath his spread thighs. Erik works quickly and steadily through the ropes, leaving plug and blindfold for last. Once free, Kilgrave writhes, fatigued, but oversensitized to the ginger root inside him. Without Erik's arousal to buffer the pain, the heat must be unbearable, particularly to a novice.

Stull, Erik savors the simple pleasure of pinning Kilgrave to the floor with nothing but his bare hands, his greater strength. His second orgasm of the day leaves him so satisfied, peaceful, strong. He assesses his empath, evaluates how well they both performed. Kilgrave whines in despair and Erik finally relents, removing the ginger plug with care and then flinging it away.

Shorn of everything but the blindfold, Kilgrave still looks like a delightful mess. Vibrant white lines crisscross his body, slowly fading to red. He's damp with sweat, shaking with exertion, harshly used and utterly spent.

He's perfect.

&&

His mind is--

The world is--

Erik.

He hurts, but Erik doesn't. Erik is--safe? Erik is not-pain, which must be the same as safe.

He can't think.

&&

Erik bundles Kilgrave in a blanket and carries him to the bathroom. This time he ignores the shower in favor of the low bathtub nearby. No ointments or creams to ease the bruises and swelling; he is not a loving dom engaging in aftercare for a safely transported sub. A hot water bath will get the man clean and appeals to Erik as well.

Erik starts the water with Kilgrave curled around his feet. The only movement Kilgrave volunteers is to curl one hand around Erik's ankle, like a child seeking reassurance. Erik talks to him--possibly not in English, though it doesn't matter what he says. He instinctively knows that he has taken Kilgrave to a space where only the tone and rhythm of his voice matters.

When the tub is half-full and the water is hot enough, he picks Kilgrave up again and sets him inside. He reclines in the tub, arranging Kilgrave so he leans back against Erik's chest. The water washes away sweat and the oil from the ginger root. Erik waits the long, long minutes it takes for Kilgrave to stop shivering. Eased into lassitude by overexertion and warm water, Kilgrave doesn't react as Erik removes the blindfold and drops it outside the tub.

His eyes are closed. They only flutter when Erik shifts his position, trying to get them both clean. Kilgrave will be stiff tomorrow, but he won't need to physically participate. His empathy will bear the brunt of the punishment.

Erik hums an old, half-forgotten tune. He is young again, he is powerful. The world is full of dangers and possibilities, and this time, he isn't alone. Kilgrave is securely his, with desires and goals that can align with Erik's plans. No more fighting his own kind.

He keeps them in the water until well after Kilgrave has fallen asleep, until the water turns lukewarm and even their shared body heat isn't enough to fight off the chill.

Chapter Text

Erik wakes early the next morning. A very naked and bruised Kilgrave sprawls across him, legs tangled, head resting on Erik's chest. His internal clock guesses that it's just after four, so they have time to get ready. For now, he is content to lay there and pet the slumbering empath's hair. He can still feel Kilgrave in his head, a presence that has become constant since the piercings. Erik could get used to this. The feeling is comfortable.

He woke up hard, probably just his automatic reaction to another warm body lying close by. It's not urgent, just mildly surprising. Erik has rarely been given to carnal excess, but Kilgrave tempts him in a way few others ever have. Erik makes a space for Kilgrave in his mental landscape, and that in turn affects how his body craves contact.

He thinks he has a handle on it, is about to convince his body to settle down, when Kilgrave stirs against him. Kilgrave is warm, loose with sleep, pleasantly malleable. Erik's hand pauses in his hair, waiting to see what sort of mood Kilgrave is in this morning. He isn't expecting a hand on his cock and lips pressing feather light kisses over his heart.

"Kevin?" Erik's voice is still hoarse, still waking up. Kilgrave hums and tightens his grip on Erik's cock. Erik feels the flutter in his head that indicates Kilgrave burrowing deeper, mentally. Ah. He's responding to Erik's lust. Erik's morning plans shift again; Kilgrave has an astonishing ability to change Erik's mind.

Erik gently pries Kilgrave's hand away, as the bandages add an unpleasant friction to the fumbling handjob. He rolls them over, pinning Kilgrave beneath his body. Kilgrave's eyes flutter open. Erik can only see contentment and curiosity in them. So Kilgrave has chosen to bury himself in Erik, dodge every pain and regret in his own mind and body. Just as well. Erik can afford to ease him into the day.

"Morning," Erik murmurs, and kisses Kilgrave with a lazy indulgence. Kilgrave mumbles an unintelligible reply into the kiss, opens his mouth in sweet surrender. Erik is so very careful when he kisses him, exploring his mouth while minding the recent piercings. He lets the kiss grow shallow, lips moving against Kilgrave's slack mouth.

Erik pulls back enough to take in Kilgrave's face. There is more alertness in those dark eyes, a crafty mind slowly awakening beneath a pliant surface. Might as well enjoy Kilgrave's uncharacteristic sweetness while it lasts.

With one hand, Erik gathers Kilgrave's wrists in a loose pin over his head. With the other, he takes a hold of both their cocks. Kilgrave matches him for hardness, reflecting his lust. Erik rocks against him experimentally, pleased when Kilgrave's only response is to spread his legs a little wider, letting Erik settle between them comfortably. Erik digs out the discarded tub of lubricant from the mass of blankets, using it to liberally coat both dicks, while Kilgrave watches him with hooded eyes.

Erik starts to thrust into his loose fist, against the underside of Kilgrave's cock. The scars there make for a very interesting sensation, rough under the slickness of the lube. Erik finds that he truly enjoys the way they drag against his cock. This isn't something they could have done if Kilgrave's first piercings were still around. For the first time, Erik truly appreciates their absence.

Erik falls into a rhythm, quick and dirty, focused only on his own pleasure. This week has brought out the selfishness in Erik's lovemaking. He doesn't have to try to bring Kilgrave off, because the empath will come when he does. "Feel that?" Erik asks, voice gravelly with sleep and lust. He wants Kilgrave to know what it's like to thrust against those scars, the precise texture as they rub on the underside of Erik's cock.

Kilgrave whines, high and desperate. His hips rock, encouraging Erik to move faster, grip them harder. Erik claims Kilgrave's mouth again just for the simple pleasure of lips moving with his, no need to deepen the kiss. Tension builds quickly, reflected in Kilgrave's ragged gasps between kisses.

Kilgrave seems to sense his coming orgasm almost before Erik does, as he breathes " Erik ," into the scant space between them. Erik comes harder than he anticipated, in tandem with the empath. Kilgrave shudders and moans through it, as though fighting the need to come even as he's dragged under.

Erik releases Kilgrave and sits up, unable to keep a grin off his face. Multiple orgasms a day are doing wonders for his baseline mood. He looks at their cum mixing together on Kilgrave's marked and bruised stomach. He drags one finger through the mess, then coaxes Kilgrave's mouth open to accept the offering. Kilgrave closes his eyes as he sucks Erik's finger clean. Erik takes a mental snapshot of that image, files it away for later examination.

"It's time to get up. We need to be ready when Azazel arrives." Erik watches as the lingering lethargy leaves Kilgrave's eyes, replaced by a grimace. The sour expression is ruined by a little smear of cum on his lower lip. 

Kilgrave sounds winded when he says, "Wouldn't want to keep your demon friend waiting." Despite the snark, he still looks subdued, still arches after Erik when he stands up. Erik knows when Kilgrave tries to pull out of his mind; there is only so far he can go, still unable to disconnect entirely. Without a comment, Erik holds out a hand to help Kilgrave up. Kilgrave ignores him, makes to push himself up before he winces and curses colorfully under his breath.

"Problem?" Erik asks coolly. Kilgrave curls onto his side, blinking back tears as the pain hits. Erik let him sleep for much of the past day. Kilgrave pays for that laziness today, as he didn't get to stretch sore muscles or seek any relief for the pain.  Additionally, the more Kilgrave withdraws from Erik's head, the more he has to feel his own body's aches and shortcomings. The strength of their connection wavers, as Erik waits to see what Kilgrave decides. Eventually, the empath settles back in his space in Erik's head, seeking relief. 

Erik lets him wallow in bed for only a few more moments. "Get up , Darkly." He pulls Kilgrave onto his hands and knees, disregards when Kilgrave flips him off. He does note that Kilgrave favors the American middle finger over the British two. He did spend a lot of time in New York.

He kneels next to Kilgrave, strokes up and down his spine. His back arches, and every knobbly vertebra strains against the skin. Kilgrave shudders and hangs his head, hair brushing the tussled blankets below. Come drips, sticky and slow, off his stomach. "Gross," Kilgrave mutters.

Erik bites back a smile. "You have access to a shower."

"All right, I get it." Kilgrave takes a deep breath, and then spectacularly fails to move an inch. His arms and legs tremble so much, he looks like he's going to collapse face first.

Erik silently holds out his hand, again.

"Yeah, okay," Kilgrave sighs. This time, he accepts help, and Erik hauls him onto his feet. They make slow, staggering progress to the bathroom. Kilgrave leans more and more of his weight on Erik. Once they make it there, Erik directs Kilgrave to lean against the counter while Erik strips off his loose sweatpants, the only article of clothing either of them have been wearing.

Kilgrave spends their time in the bathroom with a resigned slump in his shoulders. They pass around toothpaste and hand towels and shampoo in silence. Some of the tension drains out of Kilgrave's spine when they both step out of the shower without engaging in another round of fucking. Erik notices that he keeps rubbing the tongue piercings against the top of his mouth. The swelling has gone down since yesterday, but Kilgrave obsessively worrying at them won't help him heal. Erik vibrates them once in gentle warning, and Kilgrave stops.

Their last order of business in the bathroom is shaving Kilgrave's face and trimming his unruly hair. Erik makes Kilgrave sit on the counter by the sink. Kilgrave clambers up with a wince. He hunches over, gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles. "Ow ow ow , fuck," he mumbles, breathing shallow and shaky.

"Sit up straight," Erik says, running warm water over a towel. A straight razor floats in the air between them.

Kilgrave leans away. "I can shave myself."

"I know."

"Really, I'm very good at it."

"I'm sure you are," Erik says, holding the towel up to Kilgrave's face. He makes a show of patting the moisture and warmth all along Kilgrave's jaw and upper lip. The razor swoops closer, hovering under Kilgrave's nervous gaze.

Kilgrave licks his lips, so Erik steals a quick kiss. Judging by the startled noise Kilgrave releases, that was not his intention to tempt. He really should learn that just by existing , he tempts Erik.

When his face is warm and damp, Erik drops the towel and moves on to applying shaving cream over his stubble. "Are you shaving anywhere else? If it's just this, I can handle it," Kilgrave says, split between whining and bargaining.

"Do you think you should keep talking with a razor on your skin?" Erik asks with mild curiosity. That shuts Kilgrave up, giving him leave to focus on controlling the razor.

Shaving another man is easy with Erik's intimate knowledge of the blade. Every swipe of the razor feels like Erik is caressing Kilgrave's face. He feels Kilgrave's skin against the metal as clearly as if it were his own hand. Kilgrave lets Erik turn his face this way and that, catching the best lighting for every inch of skin.

Erik stays close, enjoying the soft pressure of Kilgrave's thighs around his waist, the gentle puffs of Kilgrave's breath brushing against his face, the masculine, clean smell of Kilgrave fresh from the shower. He doesn't step away when he's done, taking a moment just to soak in their proximity. With a pleasant lurch in his stomach, he sees that Kilgrave is half-hard.

And Erik isn't . 

"So soon?" Erik wonders if they have time for another round.

"Your fault," Kilgrave says, shakily. "You and the metal. I can… sense it. When you do." He looks haggard, hunching inward and trying to avoid Erik's gaze. 

Erik hasn't even considered that aspect of empathy. Kilgrave gets secondhand sensation when Erik uses his powers. That certainly opens up new avenues for exploration. The razor floats back into place on Kilgrave's face, resting delicately along one fine cheekbone. "Do you know what I'm going to do next?"

Kilgrave's eyes go half-lidded as he concentrates. "No."

"But you can feel it."

" Yeah . It's bloody sharp."

Erik makes the razor tap impatiently, and Kilgrave flinches at the increased pressure, not yet enough to break skin. "You can feel the metal the way I feel it."

"Yes," Kilgrave says. "Yes, all right, you don't have to be so, so sensual about it. You have a knife fetish?"

"You're projecting," Erik says, lips quirking in a small grin. "I'm just using my power. You're the one who made it sexual." To emphasize his point, Erik trails his fingers over Kilgrave's semi-erect cock, feels it twitch at the touch.

Kilgrave rocks in place, wincing, unable to get comfortable and unable to stay still. "I did not--I did not say sexual, that wasn't my word, you're putting things in my mouth."

"Things," Erik repeats, the faintest of mockery.

"Words!" Kilgrave gestures in frustration, then runs his hand through his too-long hair. "Please, can we just. Move on."

The razor dips lower, runs a thin line down his clavicle. Skin prickles red in the aftermath, unbroken but disturbed. Kilgrave freezes, suddenly finding the ability to sit very, very still.

&&

"Focus on the metal," Erik says, a calm whisper in the middle of a storm. Kilgrave flounders without a life raft. They're in a bathroom, they're surrounded by metal. It's in the pipes it's in the faucets it's in all the little utensils in the cupboard, the nail file and the scissors and the razor, it's in his bloody goddamn shitting mouth --

But then, the world shifts, narrows. Erik focuses on the razor, working a steady path down Kilgrave's body. Kilgrave feels it twice over, on his skin and through Erik's mental control. He doesn't know what Erik will do next. There's no malice in his intentions, just a supreme concentration, a sunfire burst of arousal and confidence.

They're going to have sex again and somehow this time, Kilgrave initiated it. He truly didn't mean to. He just got caught up in the beauty of Erik's fine-tuned control over the metal. Erik's power has always impressed him.

He wants to take it back, rewind the encounter and stop his stupid prick from getting involved. He can't. He can't stop Erik, especially now that he's given a sign that on some level, he still wants Erik, independent of Erik's desires.

The razor runs a circle low on Kilgrave's belly and down, following a line where hair used to lead from his navel to his crotch. It stops just before reaching his dick and trails back up, slow and sharp and raising a line of new welts in its wake. Kilgrave feels how close it goes to drawing blood, feels how his body warmth warms the blade. He fights back a shudder, not wanting to test Erik's ability.

Erik sinks to his knees. Kilgrave struggles to breathe, his mind a screaming blank space inhabited only by distant panic and the tugging awareness of metal on his skin. After everything, and particularly after the last few days, he doesn't trust Erik near his cock, but he also desperately wants Erik's mouth on him.

The razor circles one pert nipple, the handle flashing in a lazy twirl. Between one staggered breath and the next, Erik takes Kilgrave's cock into his mouth and starts sucking with enthusiasm.

Kilgrave can't come without Erik's arousal to bolster his pleasure. With a cock half-dead to sensation, he hasn't been able to masturbate or get it up on his own. This time shouldn't be any different. Erik's mind is flushed with lust, but he's not focused on his own pleasure. His cock is interested, but not even half-hard. This time, it's all about Kilgrave.

Kilgrave really can't come like this--except, apparently, he can , because the knife is caressing just under his ear, where he's really sensitive, and his cock is thickening in Erik's mouth, and oh--

&&

There are times when Erik might despair of Kilgrave's lack of imagination. Fortunately for them both, Erik has plenty to spare. He has shared a bed with a paraplegic, he knows how to work with limited sensation.

The razor hits all of Kilgrave's sweet spots with doubled impact, as Kilgrave feels both through skin and blade. Erik has taken the time to learn his empath's body, he knows where to guide it. Somehow it's escaped Kilgrave's notice that decreased sensation in one area leads to increased sensation in another.

His tongue dances between scars, lapping where the nerves are still intact, pressing firm where feeling is muted. The sweet, slick head of Kilgrave's cock remains unscarred, so Erik pays special attention there. His tongue laps over the slit, where Kilgrave's cock is still a little loosened from the sound. The noises Kilgrave makes are obscene, as he finally stops holding them back.

His focus is split between the cock in his mouth and the razor, both equally deserving of attention for the pleasure they're giving Kilgrave. Erik did promise him a reward for good behavior, yesterday. This must count.

He sucks hard, and nearly has to pull off when Kilgrave's legs flail. Firm hands pry his thighs apart and hold Kilgrave in place while Erik works. His fingers dig hard enough to add new bruises over top the old ones. The razor threads a new path between Kilgrave's ribs. 

Half-formed words die in Kilgrave's mouth as Erik holds his tongue still, piercings throbbing. The last thing they need is Kilgrave actually giving him an order that would distract him from the task at hand. Kilgrave moans in frustration, choked whimpers rising in the place of any praise or commands he might have uttered. He's close. 

Erik takes him deep, lets Kilgrave's cock hit the back of his throat once, twice, three times before he pulls off. Kilgrave comes hard, arching so he slides off the counter and Erik has to catch him before he hits the floor. The razor hovers in the air near their heads, where it went when Erik jerked it away from Kilgrave during his explosive orgasm.

Erik holds him through the aftershocks, soothes him as he comes down, shaking, from the high. He only pushes Kilgrave away when he realizes the man's come is cooling to a sticky mess between their chests. Erik grimaces and reaches for the wet towel to clean off.

 "Are we done?" Kilgrave rasps, leaning back against the sink, still sitting on Erik's lap.

"No. You need a haircut, too."

"Magneto, my mutant barber. You missed your true calling." Kilgrave shoots for withering sarcasm and misses by a mile.

Erik takes the commentary in good humor. "Perhaps I have." The razor settles on the counter with a soft click, and a pair of scissors take their place. "Scissors are made from metal, too."

Kilgrave rolls his eyes, mutters chrissake under his breath. Erik ignores him in favor of trimming his hair back down to a respectable length. Shorter than Kilgrave normally wears it, but then Erik isn't actually a barber. Kilgrave remains mute for the duration of the haircut, lets Erik turn him whichever way he wants as the scissors steadily snip away. Hair gathers in loose, sparse piles around their legs. When he finishes, Erik rubs the towel over Kilgrave's shoulders again, wiping away the stray hairs.

"How do I look?" Kilgrave asks, showing a hint of his old vanity.

"Respectable," Erik replies, ruffling his hair. Kilgrave squawks indignantly, batting Erik's hands away. When Erik pulls them both to their feet, he notices that Kilgrave avoids looking in the mirror. There was a time when Kilgrave always took a mirror as a chance to check his appearance. Erik wonders if that changed on Mauritius, or after.

He ushers Kilgrave out of the bathroom. Kilgrave limps, and once or twice wobbles enough that Erik has to steady him so he doesn't crash to the floor. His body looks and moves like the aftermath of disaster. He accepts Erik's help with more resignation than gratitude. 

It's time to get dressed so they're ready to leave when Azazel arrives. Erik leads Kilgrave to a new room in the house, where their Hellfire Club outfits are waiting.

Azazel helped Erik plan their wardrobe for today's trip. Erik generally prefers a darker color palette than Kilgrave, so he chose a suit shaded so dark a red it's nearly black. Only at the right angle in the light can one see the crimson hue. He and Azazel debated over Kilgrave's outfit. Erik favored formality, wanting a matching suit in a lighter but still complementary red. Azazel argued in favor of a kinkier ensemble, involving fishnets and leather. Erik thinks they found a suitable compromise.

"Hell no," Kilgrave says when he sees it. Erik raises an eyebrow in mild rebuke. "Excuse me, I meant I don't want to wear a bloody dress ."

"This is tame compared to Azazel's suggestions." Erik points helpfully at the practical shoes laying on the floor. "You could be wearing heels, for one." He highly doubts Kilgrave's balance would withstand hobbling around on heels. The man already limps. 

"In case you've forgotten, I'm a man. I am." Kilgrave gestures at himself, hips thrust forward just a bit, as if to remind Erik of the blowjob from just under half an hour ago.

"Men can wear dresses," Erik says mildly.

"Have you ever worn a dress?" Kilgrave asks with a gotcha tone of voice.

"Yes," Erik answers honestly.

Kilgrave splutters, visibly thrown by that reply. "Well--well I haven't. And I won't." He puts up quite a lot of fuss for a very nice, sleek dress. If it weren't for Western conceptions of gendered clothes, the outfit wouldn't even register as particularly feminine.

Erik maintains a pleasant smile outwardly, but inwardly he lets a small amount of impatience bleed through their connection. He can see it register with Kilgrave, as the man deflates and eyes him warily, trying to assess how far he can be pushed. "Why are you dressing me up, anyway?" he asks, trying not to let it sound like defeat.

"Our destination has a dress code," Erik says.

"You put that on me, I'm gonna stand out," Kilgrave warns.

"Not as much as you think." Erik waits, impatience steadily ticking higher, until Kilgrave relents. Kilgrave is too worn down, too entrenched in Erik to resist for long. Erik thinks, with no small amount of satisfaction, that this little test of his influence has been a magnificent success.

Erik helps Kilgrave into the dress, in part just to make sure the man doesn't try to tear it. Blood red, strapless, with one long slit that runs from right ankle to thigh. The dress was made with a flat chest in mind, so the front side should fit snug against Kilgrave's lean form. Erik stands behind Kilgrave to zip up the back, watching with amusement as a blush creeps down from Kilgrave's face, over his shoulders. The man nearly matches his dress.

When arranging the outfit, Erik tried to compensate for the weight Kilgrave has lost. The dress still hangs a little loose on him. He can't bring an escort to the Hellfire Club who looks anything less than their best. Erik fetches a sewing kit.

"You sew?" Kilgrave asks, incredulous.

"You don't?" Erik shoots back, mocking.

"Apparently, I don't need to. You can do anything." Kilgrave's throat bobs. His eyes track the needle that Erik floats in the air, the cluster of pins poised beside them.

"High praise," Erik says, baring his teeth in an unsettling grin.

&&

Kilgrave knows that he should be shoving Erik away. The desire is there, he can feel the shape of it, but it belongs to a part of him that hides in the back of his head, obscured by Erik. He can't connect to the part of him that wants to escape Erik. The sarcasm is more of a habit than a defense.

Erik continues to add to the violation, the humiliation, the pain. Oddly, that helps. He doesn't let Kilgrave forget that he's not here by choice. Though it's impossible to distance himself from Erik, it's also impossible to grow too close. He needs that reminder, especially after what happened in the bathroom this morning.

Kilgrave lets Erik dress him up like a gay Ken doll and thinks, with a rueful air, that Jessica would look ravishing in this dress. It should have been her--and that's not a thought he's allowed himself to consider in a long time. He used to pick out fabulous dresses for Jessica to model on their nights out. He once told her to stand still for twelve hours while Vera Wang designed a new dress around her.

The irony isn't lost on him. But he protests-- in the safety of his own head-- he never dolled Jessica up just to torture her. He took her to art galleries, operas, Michelin restaurants. Erik's intentions are far more malicious.

Kilgrave expects to be stabbed in the back, but Erik didn't cut him while shaving or sucking him off. Of course Erik isn't going to prick him now. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"Taking it in about four centimeters." Erik sounds distracted. Absorbed in his work, or leering at Kilgrave's ass, or plotting world domination, or whatever it is he does when his mind goes all quiet and distant. Kilgrave could dig deeper for clues, if he wanted to. He's had too much of Erik in his head to want to. 

Kilgrave shifts restlessly on his feet. There is no position he can stand in and be comfortable. That's what happens when his body is a walking bruise. He hasn't felt this tender all over since he was hit by a bus. Erik is officially as life-ruining several tons of metal and Jessica Jones. No, honestly, Erik is in a league of his own. Erik redefines the game; redefines Kilgrave's understanding of pain, and lust, and loss, and belonging. 

Erik's hands steady him, firm on his hips. "Hold still," he cautions. The metal pins rasp, as though Kilgrave needs the reminder.

"This is your fault," he says, mostly to remind himself. It's not fair that Erik can mark him up and then expect him to hold a position for so long.

"Is it?" Erik asks. Kilgrave's first retort, that yes, of course it is , dies in his throat. Isn't it?

Kilgrave thinks, not for the first time, that he wouldn't be in this mess if he had just asked when he had Erik under his thrall. He got a truth from his mother; he could have confirmed it with Erik and known for sure whether or not he would be betrayed. But at the time, he felt he had no reason to trust Erik. Because he hadn't been trusted in return. Because he didn't want to hear confirmation from Erik, he didn't want to invite that heartbreak.

Yes, he knows what Stockholm syndrome is, he knows that Erik wants him to blame himself. Wants him to accept every ounce of pain as justified. But he also knows he made a mistake somewhere along the line, he's just trying to decide what and when, and how much blame he's willing to accept.

"You have to take part of the blame. Fifty/fifty. It takes two to tango, and all that," Kilgrave babbles. He cranes his neck so he can meet Erik's eyes, and feels regret when it becomes clear that Erik is reading way too much into this nonsense.

"Deal," Erik says softly. Kilgrave sure would like to know what the deal is. He wasn't even aware that he was laying out any terms.

Kilgrave laughs without humor. "I feel like we're having two different conversations."

Erik's smile is entirely too warm and fond as he puts away the sewing kit. Kilgrave has to change the subject before Erik says anything that will further confuse him. "So we're not doing breakfast?"

"No," Erik answers. He stands and looks Kilgrave up and down appraisingly. Kilgrave must pass inspection now, because Erik's gaze rakes over his body again, this time in hungry approval. He cocks an eyebrow and twirls his fingers. Kilgrave stares at him blankly for too long before he grasps Erik's meaning.

"Oh hell no, I am not giving you a spin," Kilgrave splutters. He thinks again of Jessica, spinning around and around and around for him, yellow summer dress flaring around her like a sunflower. He really ought to stop comparing their situations, they are not the same. For starters, she's a beautiful woman and he's just a man in a dress.

Kilgrave stomps over to Azazel's couch, trying not to trip over the unfamiliar cling of fabric swishing between his legs. God. He really, truly, deeply hopes they're going nowhere near Jessica. He doesn't want anyone else to see him like this, but if she did, he might just have to kill everyone involved, including himself.

Kilgrave flops sideways onto the couch, wiggling onto one corner without setting off too many painful flares. Let the dress wrinkle. He silently dares Erik to comment on it.

To both his disappointment and relief, Erik says not a word, only collects a book and settles in to wait for Azazel.

&&

Azazel arrives with a puff of smoke and the stench of brimstone. He greets Erik with a nod and Kilgrave with a salacious smirk. Kilgrave seems to abruptly realize that he has one long, bare leg exposed by his lazy posture and the slit in the dress. He adjusts his position until he's covered, and Azazel turns his attention back to Erik. "My friend, I trust you've found the accommodations to your satisfaction?"

"Very. Pleasant as always, thank you." Erik sets aside the book he was reading, one of the more esoteric of Azazel's small collection.

Kilgrave scoffs at the word pleasant , but keeps any unpleasant comments to himself. Erik stands, tucks his helmet under one arm and holds the other out for Kilgrave to take. He doesn't, pushing himself to his feet with a wobble. Erik lets him sulk. He stays where he's supposed to be in Erik's head, which matters most. 

What a vast difference compared to the last time Azazel saw him. Kilgrave is better dressed and groomed, true, but anger, panic, and defiance have all drained away, making him look smaller and weaker. Fine clothes on Kilgrave used to be an armor of its own, a manifestation of impenetrable arrogance and privilege. That was before Erik worked very hard in a short time frame to make up for months of backsliding. Now he resembles one of those pretty dolls from his life before Erik, women turned into spineless arm candy. 

Erik intends to make a more useful tool out of Kilgrave than that, but for now this will have to do. Their relationship is a work in progress. "We're ready when you are," Erik says.

Azazel smiles. Kilgrave inhales sharply at the sight of his fangs. Azazel is one of the few obvious mutants who revels in his appearance. Under his calm confidence is a wicked sense of humor; under his mind-mannered neatness lies a taste for chaos. So: every sign of discomfort from Kilgrave only encourages him.

Azazel throws his arms around their shoulders and tugs them both toward him. In the next moment, they disappear. Erik, the more experienced passenger, braces himself so he won't stagger when they reappear. Kilgrave drops to his knees with a muttered curse and a harsh cough.

"Steady," Erik murmurs, brushing his fingertips along the old scars on the back of Kilgrave's neck. Kilgrave doesn't even flinch. Progress.

"I'm a bumpy ride," Azazel says mildly.

Kilgrave accepts Erik's hand to haul himself up, but pulls away immediately after. "Thanks for the warning."

Erik watches him closely; ultimately, the moment he realizes is obvious. Kilgrave's spine stiffens to a rigid line and he physically jumps one long stride away. 

"No," he says, first in disbelief, and then in desperation. "No, Erik, no , come on, anything else-"

"What was our third rule?"

"There has to be something else you want from me." Last time they were this close to the Hellfire Club, Kilgrave chose sex with the helmet off over going inside. That isn't exactly a bargaining chip now. 

Erik tilts his head like he's considering. "I was going to skin you alive."

Kilgrave turns green. 

"Messy," Azazel comments. 

"Very," Erik agrees. "Do not push your luck."

Kilgrave stays tense, just out of reach, eyes flashing with his final reserve of defiance--then he yields. Tension drains out of him in a long sigh as he visibly deflates. He surprises Erik when he moves to Erik's side, pressing close like he can draw comfort from proximity. "Will you keep your helmet off?" he asks, one last attempt to bargain with Erik. 

"Stay with me and you'll be fine," Erik tells him, a low murmur only they can hear. "All I require from you tonight is your obedience."

Kilgrave presses even closer, nudging Erik's arm out of the way. Erik looks him up and down, then drapes his arm over Kilgrave's shoulders. This seems to satisfy him. Erik knows better than to read affection into the gesture. Contact strengthens empathy, and Kilgrave will be grasping for every scrap of support he can get. 

It was early morning when they left Russia. They crossed so many time zones that it's now nighttime in London. Ahead of them, live music drifts from the open doors of the Hellfire Club. This particular branch took over an old movie theater, discarded the poster frames but kept the gaudy gold trim along the outer walls. Erik strides forward confidently, Kilgrave under one arm and his signature helmet under the other, Azazel trailing a few steps behind.

The bouncer stops them at the doors. Formally dressed, bald, and wearing thick sunglasses, he looks every inch the part until he raises his glasses. His eyes are hollow caves full of gray smoke, from which a bright blue light shines as he scans them.

"Sir, you can't bring an unregistered helmet inside," he says, sounding bored. 

Erik raises one eyebrow. Behind him, Azazel clears his throat. "You should look again, Frank."

Frank does a double-take, and his brow jumps in mild surprise. The helmet is instantly recognizable to mutants--most mutants, even when Erik himself looks far younger than he should. "Magneto! Sir. We weren't expecting you tonight."

"You're forgiven," Erik says, a trifle amused. Kilgrave snorts, unimpressed. Not that Erik wants to impress him; if he did, he has better ways of accomplishing that.

"It is our honor to host you tonight." The bouncer steps out of their way with a deep bow. He must know of Magneto only through reputation and media, because Erik has certainly never required such displays.

Inside, the opulence of a Hellfire Club is laid over the antiquity of a theater that must have at least a hundred years of history. Erik leads them through the foyer, with the converted bar and sparse crowd of club attendees taking a break from the revelry. The cinema is old enough to have only one theater. Here is where the bulk of the club's action occurs. 

At the far end lies the stage, movie screen long removed to make space for live performances of nearly every conceivable form of entertainment. The rows of chairs were replaced by dining tables and gaming tables, and a sectioned-off dance floor. The side hallways have been turned into private rooms separated by curtains; the box seats covered with tinted glass and reserved for VIP. 

At his side, Kilgrave shifts closer, as though he wants to burrow under Erik's clothes. His hand slips under Erik's jacket, tugs the back of his shirt loose from his pants. Erik feels a trembling hand against his lower back, skin on skin. Erik leans in and murmurs in his ear,  "Does that help?"

Kilgrave shudders but seems unable to reply. He flinches from a leering face on the crowd, and Erik can only guess at what he picks up from the mutants around them, from those who speculatively eye the thin body under his red dress.

Erik remembers a day with another mutant, long ago. The sweltering air of a cheap motel, scratchy blankets and dreams of a future he never cared about until the summer he met Charles Xavier. The day had been a failure, a potential recruit who refused. They were an empath, able to broadcast a single strong emotion to a crowd. That emotion had been panic. The wave of dozens of surrounding minds collapsing into fearful gibberish gave Charles an instant migraine.

Stretched out on the same bed, Erik cradled Charles' pale face and asked him what helped.

"If I focus on one object, I can usually block a rush of…" Charles trailed off, staring over Erik's shoulder into an unknown distance. He blinked. "I am sorry, my friend. I don't usually lose control like that."

"One object?" Erik asked. 

"Or one person." Charles didn't ask Erik to be that person.

The moment stretched long and quiet. "If it happens again, I should…" Here was an opportunity to trust Charles, to invite him in. "Find something. To help you."

Charles didn't look disappointed, not back then. In the early days of their acquaintance, during that endless road trip, Charles was never disappointed in him. Only patient.

In the Hellfire Club, Erik whispers in Kilgrave's ear. "Stay with me." He taps his temple. "Up here." Then he pulls away, withdrawing the contact that helps ground the empath. Kilgrave reaches for him, but Erik freezes his zipper in place. Metal zipper in his fine dress, a detail he knows Kilgrave didn't miss. More control in Erik's hands. Kilgrave's eyes are dark, pleading.

Erik disappears into the crowd.

&&

The brains of mutants have a different feel compared to humans. Brighter, sharper, like tacks on a sheet of braille. Erik taught Kilgrave to coast over the flatter minds of humans, to let his attention catch on mutants. The Hellfire Club is like barbed wire to his fragile material.

Every mind in this building is soaked with greed, spite, ambition, sex. Gambling, dancing, drinking. Drugs and booze lending artificial highs and lows to an already harsh mix.

Kilgrave can't think of anything to do besides search for Erik. He hasn't been able to take his eyes off Erik since yesterday. There is something in him that needs Erik, and that's the loudest urge he currently has.

Erik is at the bar. Kilgrave leans so desperately into his head that he can see the glass, taste the whiskey. Erik laughs at something another mutant says, raises a toast. 

Kilgrave needs to find the bar. He finds

-- cheaters, everyone at this table is cheating, damn it, he shouldn't be losing so much--

-- she wants him, he knows she does, she grinds that perky little ass on his--

-- what is the DJ thinking, they can't dance to this, needs more bass--

Kilgrave abruptly sits down on the floor. He thinks about Erik, hard as he can. All those evenings with all those women, he hid safely in Erik's head. The last few days have only intensified the attachment. It shouldn't be so hard to find Erik in this crowd, at this point he should be imprinted on Kilgrave's DNA.

Kilgrave can't rebuild his walls. Erik stripped every stone from him, crumbled them all to dust. His only defense is hiding, like the weakest of prey animals. He reaches for Erik, he reaches for

-- one more hit, just to take the edge off, she's a responsible woman but it's hard to shake the habits of a lifetime--

--she can't break up with him now, she can't, he'll kill himself if she doesn't text back in the next hour he really will do it this time--

Someone trips over him, setting off every ache in his body and harshly reminding him that he exists in physical form. Why is the floor so sticky? Kilgrave rolls onto his side, grimacing at the cling to his dress. He is so lost and so alone here.

Every bit of metal on his person ripples, and he feels it twice. Physically first, a tug on piercings and zippers. Mentally second, an enhanced awareness of every molecule in the metal as it moves. Erik. They're still connected. Kilgrave pushes himself onto his hands and knees, grasping at his feeling of Erik, terrified of losing him again.

He chokes on every emotion in the club. He hates being an empath, he loves being a mutant, he wants more to drink, he wants these shoes off, he could dance all night, he could win a million dollars, he's going to fuck and he's going to die and he needs Erik.

"Stop," he says. His voice is hoarse, easily lost in the music and the crowd. "Stop. Stop. Stop." Pulled in a hundred different directions, it takes him too long to realize that Erik is permitting him to speak. In fact, Erik is waiting for him. He's conversing with Azazel at the bar and paying very close attention to the metal in and around Kilgrave's body.

Too loud, too close, too hot, too much. Kilgrave gasps for air. In the midst of sensory overload, a freezing touch creeps into his mind. Oh darling, where are your walls?

Help me, Kilgrave begs the voice, too far gone to question it.

If Magneto lets me touch his little pet, I will, the voice promises. The touch withdraws.

Please! Kilgrave is left without a lifeline. Even his sense of Erik vanishes, between one second and the next. Kilgrave realizes that he kept a better grasp on Erik than he knew, because without even that tenuous connection, he drowns. Without Erik, Kilgrave doesn't exist.

He is a crowd on the dance floor, a wild, writhing mass of bodies moving as one.

He is a tight circle around a poker table, hope and dread and addiction fogging the air.

He is the couple in a corner booth, hidden behind a curtain, amorous and grasping.

He is Azazel, moving at Erik's command with a flicker of guilt, and a whole lot of patience wait-and-see he'll understand in time and then hands grab him and pull him up. He gags on sulfurous smoke, staggers when the world lurches sideways. Kilgrave collides with Erik, muted to his mutant senses.

He realizes that Erik is wearing the helmet. That, more than any other part of the evening, strikes him as unspeakably cruel.

Kilgrave paws at Erik, at the helmet, desperate to get it off. "No," Erik says, batting his hands away. Kilgrave tries more insistently and finds himself shoved so hard he bounces off the wall. Every muscle in his body seizes in pain. "I said no ."

He isn't given long to process that rejection, too harsh after days of conditioned dependence. Erik grabs one of his hands and drags him down the hallway. If Kilgrave had more sense left in him, he would notice the tension bound tight in Erik's shoulders, the seething anger barely covered by his helmet.

They step into a small room--no, an elevator-- and ride it down. Neither of them acknowledge that Azazel doesn't follow them any further. As the elevator slows to a stop, the overwhelming pressure of too many discordant minds recedes. The feeling is akin to one's ears popping during a flight. Kilgrave can breathe again. The crowds above still exist, obnoxious and unavoidable, but the siren call of their feelings are dampened and tolerable. Kilgrave relaxes even as Erik grows more tense. 

"Where are we?" Kilgrave asks.

"The Hellfire Club."

"I know that." Kilgrave regains a bit of his natural bite. "You'd make a fantastic tour guide."

"The real Hellfire Club. Not what you saw on the surface," Erik grits out. "That's a front."

Kilgrave opens his mouth and is stopped when Erik raises his hand. An unnecessary physical cue which precedes a warning vibration of the tongue piercings. Kilgrave shuts his mouth.

They exit the elevator together, into a room both plushly and elegantly decorated. The open floor plan leaves space in the middle for a large, plump couch curved around a crystal coffee table. Kilgrave takes in the kitchenette in one corner, the library in another, the handful of people lounging around.

The most striking of these is a woman made of glinting diamond, beautiful in the coldest way. She smiles at them, flashing prismatic teeth. "Hello, old friend," she says. The words curl hostile in her glittering mouth. And hello to you, little empath. 

&&

"How are you alive?" Erik has ascended beyond anger. He felt Charles die, he held Mei as she breathed her painful last, he lived with an unbearable absence until he broke Kilgrave enough to fit. That Emma Frost could have survived when worthier mutants succumbed to the virus infuriated him. 

All his plans for tonight were derailed the moment he felt her sickeningly familiar fingers trailing an icy greeting in his brain. He was forced to abandon Kilgrave to protect himself from the last telepath on earth. The helmet can only protect one of them, and regrettably Erik had to choose himself. If he glimpses even a hint that Emma intends to tamper with Kilgrave, he will tear this building down, and everyone inside it. Sweep Kilgrave to safety after bringing bloody destruction to the rest. His own kind, his brothers and sisters, but he would kill them all to keep Kilgrave. He won't lose another person. 

Emma Frost can't read his mind, but she's known him exactly as long as Charles has. Had. "Don't do anything drastic. We need to talk."

"Tell me how you survived," Erik counters. The frame of the building, the legs of the table, the golden stem of the chandelier; all ready to spring into weapons at his behest. Kilgrave subtly shifts his stance until he's angled slightly behind Erik.

"We can talk like civilized people in my office." Emma directs her next words at a mutant he doesn't recognize. "Make sure his partner is comfortable."

"You get five minutes to explain yourself," Erik relents. Kilgrave makes a low, distressed sound that Erik ignores. They can't afford even the slightest display of affection here. He follows Emma through a door, barely letting it shut behind them before he starts barking orders. "Start talking. Explain everything."

"I'm trapped like this," Emma says. "If I shift out of my diamond form, the virus will kill me." She holds his gaze steady. "I'm not immune, Erik. Nothing could have saved--" Erik can see her stop herself, likely biting back Charles in favor of phrasing her thoughts in a way that's less likely to provoke Erik's murderous wrath. "-- them ."

Simple as that. Emma survived because she could hide from the symptoms. "Why haven't I heard about this?"

"The world thinks all telepaths are dead. Letting them know I'm the sole exception puts me at a disadvantage."

"Letting them think you're dead puts you at an advantage."

"So you understand. You'd do the same if you were in my shoes."

He would. They lapse into silence for a long moment. He understands her point. He doesn't know why she chose to hide from him for so long. Their alliance has long been fraught with tension and resentment, but for all of that they were still allies. Their viewpoints aligned more often than not, in ways that superseded personal squabbles.

"I killed them," Erik says. He doesn't owe her an account of his actions, but she's the last survivor of a massacre. He knows what that's like. "Every single human involved is dead."

"I wouldn't expect any less from you." Her posture loosens. Perhaps she senses that Erik's murderous intent has dissipated. "There are a few more things we need to discuss."

"Such as?"

"What's happening to the bodies of our fallen friends," she says. Erik leans forward, alarmed. "And your pet empath."

&&

Bereft of Erik both mentally and physically, aimless without permission to speak, Kilgrave throws himself onto the couch. He attempts to recreate the insouciant sprawl that used to come so naturally. He's too aware of his body, every scratch, bruise, and friction burn. The dress restricts movement in ways he isn't used to. The marks on his arms and shoulders are clearly visible, and he's paranoid that the other people in this room can somehow sense everything that's happened to him. Hell, he's in a room with mutants with unknown powers. Probably at least one of them can .

Two women, in formal tuxedos, one in black and one in white. The one in white speaks first. "Hi!" She gives him a toothy grin. "I'm Crow, that's Tessa. Say hi, Tessa."

Tessa-in-black doesn't say a word. Her sunglasses obscure her expression, but she seems to be staring right through Kilgrave. Emotionally, she is blank. Not the blankness of the helmet, but the blankness of detachment. She unnerves Kilgrave. He doesn't trust people who wear sunglasses indoors.

"Emma told us you're an empath named Kilgrave," Crow continues.

Kilgrave nods cautiously. No reason not to humor her.

"I'm an empath, too. But where you're a generalist--" Here, Crow's smile turns cruel, or it shows the cruelty that was always there-- "I specialize ."

Kilgrave lives with the most dangerous man in the world. He won't be intimidated by this stranger. He raises one curious eyebrow, a poor substitute for just asking her for more details.

"Has no one ever taught you how to block? Your skull is like a sieve, you're just leaking everywhere." That's a disturbing mental image. Kilgrave shrugs expressively. "Mute too. Poor thing." He bristles at her condescending tone. "Tessa knows sign language. Don't you?" This last addressed to the other woman. 

Tessa doesn't say anything, with her mouth or her hands. Or her body language. She may as well turn into a breathing statue for all the life she displays, albeit one with a singular focus on Kilgrave. He shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and then again because he accidentally places too much weight on his abused arse.

"Ooh, I don't think she likes you," Crow states the obvious. "Then again, I guess it's only Magneto's opinion of you that counts… although I don't suppose he likes you much, either?"

Kilgrave gives her an incredulous look. Does it really matter whether or not Erik likes him? He'll be tortured and controlled either way. A sliver of fear cracks inside him, the tiniest doubt. He defied Erik once, left him humiliated and alone. The madman still found him again, of course, but surely any affection he once held for Kilgrave was snuffed out. How much worse has this week been, compared to literally any other week besides the first twenty four hours they knew each other?

Caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't notice Crow approach until she flops down beside him, jostling his sore body. "Tell me, how bad is it? Pretty bad, right? I could smell the fear on you when you came in." To demonstrate, she leans in and takes an exaggerated sniff. "Mm. Lovely."

Kilgrave shoves her away. What he wouldn't give to have his voice. He narrows his eyes, fantasizing about what he'd make Crow do. She has a very long and very obvious knife tucked into her belt; not metal, some other material, craggy and black. She could swallow it. She could cut out that mocking tongue and then swallow that and then the knife. She could--

Crow sprawls across the cushions, lazy and amused. "Does Magneto have any mercy? Or do you have to earn that. Are you a good boy for your master?"

Kilgrave glares at her, furious. Why is this woman taking such an interest in needling him. Why is it working so well? His anxiety spikes through the roof. He sits very, very still, but he can tell by the gleam in her eyes that she knows .

"There it is," Crow breathes. She lunges forward, bracing her hands on the back of the couch, on either side of his head. "You messed up, oh, so badly. He won't forgive you. You're trapped."

Kilgrave thinks about the rest of his life--years, decades--where every week is the same as this week. Every morning he wakes up a little less whole, a little less himself, every night he goes to bed consumed by Erik. The scars accumulate, branching across his body like vines.

He thinks, quite clearly, I'd rather die .

"He won't let you go," Crow says, so soft and sweet, from the outside it seems she's whispering endearments in his ear.

He finally realizes what she's doing: pulling his darkest fears to the surface, feeding on them. That doesn't stop him from suffocating under the weight of his fear. A task as simple as breathing eludes him, and kicks his growing panic into overdrive.

That's enough , rings authoritative in his head. In Crow's too, judging by her sudden flinch. The diamond woman, talking to them telepathically again. Call me Emma, dear. Give us a few more minutes, I'm nearly done with Erik.

Tessa finally stirs. "Scarecrow." At her chiding tone, Crow backs down, retreating several spaces away from Kilgrave on the couch.

Kilgrave still feels Emma in his head. Cold fingers that gently but firmly deflect his attempts to repel her. She unlatches his fear, tucking it back into the dark places where it lurked before Crow pried it loose. He feels it like a key turning in his brain, and suddenly he can breathe again.

Reality swims into focus. Physically, he's the same as he was when he entered the room. Bruised and stiff and sore, but functional. And angry. There's a fat bottle of wine on the table, and he knows he can move deceptively fast when necessary. Crow hasn't moved so far away that he can't easily cover the distance and smash that bottle over her head. 

That's enough , Emma stops him. Kilgrave clenches his jaw, his fists, frustrated and furious. 

&&

Telepaths were rare, powerful, feared--and to a certain mindset, prized. Even in death, their bodies are coveted by ambitious, illegal laboratories around the world. 

"Charles," Erik says.

"Safely buried on his property in Westchester. The X-men guard their dead. His remains couldn't be safer." Emma has maps spread across her normally pristine desk, with tiny circles marking the burial grounds of every known telepath, or their last known location if their grave is unknown. Three are marked through with a red slash, indicating a missing body. If Emma's theory is correct, those bodies have fallen into unsavory hands.

This rage is familiar. He had a cycle, one he abandoned in favor of spending the last decade by Charles' side, in his school. One decade of peace, during which a group of humans made and released the latest weapon in their war of extinction.

Time for the cycle to begin anew. The anger, the merciless hunt, the blood on his hands. He'll fight until he drowns in human blood if it keeps what happened to Charles from happening again.

He knew he wasn't finished, when he killed those responsible for the virus. He didn't know where he was going next, but staying at Charles' school didn't feel like the correct option. Not any more. 

Erik thinks, in his darkest moments, that it never was. That if he hadn't walked away from the Brotherhood nearly ten years ago, he would have discovered Albert and Louise Thompson's project and put an end to it before it could claim any mutant lives.

He has a new mission, just like the old days. Something new always waiting, some new monstrosity from the humans, some new price to be paid in blood. Erik is newly young, capable, experienced. He's ready. 

"You're going to restart the Brotherhood," Emma says. She can't read his mind, but she's known him so long there are times she doesn't need to.

"You sound like you want to apply." If she still heads the real Hellfire Club, she'll make for an excellent resource.

"Not exactly. What I'm offering is a partnership."

"Between my Brotherhood and your Club?"

"We both want to know who has been robbing the graves of our dead, but only you have the freedom to track them down."

Beneath his helmet, Erik raises an eyebrow. "You don't?"

Emma gives him an arch look. "Not presently." The admission clearly pains her. Erik reevaluates.

"So what are you really offering me?"

"Operatives for the cause. On loan, of course."

"You mean spies." Erik knows better than to trust any offer from Emma at face value.

"I mean mutants dedicated to a cause we share." Emma starts to roll the maps and put them in a container for safekeeping. "You already know Azazel."

Outwardly, Erik remains impassive, but inwardly he seethes. Emma just confirmed what he already suspected: that Azazel and Emma orchestrated this meeting. Erik does not appreciate being manipulated. Azazel in particular is a disappointment. After all these decades, he should at least have earned a warning.

"Now don't you go holding any grudges against Azazel. He's too valuable."

"I know," Erik says through gritted teeth. "Fine. I won't need anyone but Azazel and Kilgrave." He has commanded hundreds in the past, but the older he gets, the more he prefers small, reliable teams. He and Kilgrave have already proven to be an efficient and deadly duo. The addition of Azazel only cuts their travel time to near-instantaneous and adds more options for infiltration and combat.

"Your empath is vulnerable," Emma says bluntly. "Who trained him?"

Try as he might not to, Erik bristles at the unspoken accusation. "I trained him."

"No, you conditioned him. There's a difference, and that difference matters on the field." Emma meets his eyes, steady. Resolved. "He has no defense, his technique is sloppy, his focus is practically nonexistent. In the old days, you wouldn't put him anywhere near an important operation unless he could function without a crutch--which he can't . You know this. You brought him here to take advantage of that very fact."

Erik's jaw sets, matching Emma for stubbornness. "Our business is personal."

"So is he a fucktoy or an asset? Because he can't be both, not the way you're using him."

All the metal in the room grates under sudden pressure. Emma stares at him, coolly unimpressed. Erik counts backwards from ten, then twenty. Slowly, he releases his grasp.

"He's my partner. We… suffered a setback in our relationship. Trust is a bridge we must rebuild." Far more information than he meant to give her.

"Then rebuild quickly, or keep him out of the way. He's too easy to exploit. Case in point…" Emma strides out of her office and Erik, offended, frustrated, a little ashamed, follows her.

Kilgrave has settled into the couch, as close to Emma's office as he can get. He holds himself stiffly, near vibrating with tension, eyes wild. Of the other two mutants, one is exactly as they left her, while the other regards Emma with quiet defiance.

"Scarecrow, be a dear and explain what you were doing with our guest."

"I'm an empath. He's an empath too. I was just comparing our powers," Scarecrow says, unconvincingly. One glance at Kilgrave's sullen expression is enough to tell Erik all that she's not sharing. 

Erik has her in a stranglehold immediately, shattering the glass of the table to use the metal frame as a noose. "I expect you to control your people," he snarls at Emma. Kilgrave is shaken, but not hurt. Still, the idea of someone messing with him without permission triggers an intense protective instinct. Not this one; Erik claims this man and no one else is allowed to touch him.

Emma crosses her arms and waits until Scarecrow starts to turn blue before complaining, "I do need her alive."

Erik drops her, and kneels in front of Kilgrave. "Tell me, what did she do?"

"Nothing worse than what you've done," Kilgrave answers. For all the venom in his tone, he still shifts closer to Erik, striving for a comfortable position and more contact. He glares balefully at the helmet.

"Shame," Emma says. "I intended for my wayward Scarecrow to teach your pet empath a few tricks."

"She tested him," Tessa says flatly. "He's lacking."

"We already knew that," Emma dismisses her words with a wave.

Erik catches Kilgrave's chin, draws him closer. "Tell me." Kilgrave twists his head out of Erik's grasp, kisses his palm to soothe any offense he might have caused.

"Later," he mumbles, eyes downcast, body language still too stiff and uncomfortable. Erik won't get any more answers out of him here, especially not with the helmet still separating them.

"We're leaving," Erik announces. Emma doesn't bother to object. She knows when she's overstepped, or when one of hers has overstepped and she needs to take some of the blame.

"Think about what I've said," she implores him.

"I will find the thieves and pry their hearts from their chests," Erik promises, sounding flippant but Emma knows him well enough to grasp the sincerity of that vow.

"And the other thing?"

"I won't soon forget anything we discussed," Erik says. There. Neutrally ominous. Let her sweat over his meaning. He has to get Kilgrave to a new safehouse and reassess. Strategize.

They have a new mission. He doesn't have time to worry about coddling anyone's feelings.

&&

Kilgrave takes a very vicious satisfaction in the circle of bruises around Crow's neck. Scarecrow. Whatever. He doesn't trust the telepath, or anyone else in the building, really. It is nice to know Erik got pissed off with them, too. He wonders distantly how long it will take before the panic returns. He can feel it waiting, at the back of his mind.

At least they don't have to go back upstairs. Kilgrave couldn't handle another round of that, not if Erik insists on wearing his helmet. Azazel comes to them, and Erik rattles off a new destination in Nevada. So, they're not going back to the house in Siberia. It looks like Erik's plans have changed.

One sickening teleport later, Kilgrave doubles over and dry-heaves. It occurs to him, as he gasps for air around the tightness of his throat, that his week of punishment might have been cut short. He tries not to let his hopes rise, but if he can actually get a break, if Erik actually has a new goal to work toward, then… he can't even imagine what he'll do. Something useful. What could he accomplish with a reprieve from torture?

Kilgrave doesn't get long to think about it. He feels Erik's mind when it becomes accessible again, and can't help the confused burst of resentment and gratitude that floods him. He straightens up and drifts a little closer to Erik. Obsessively, he checks and rechecks his little corner of Erik's brain. Erik is who and what he has always been: steady in his convictions, the barest string tethering him from madness, old hurts papered over with anger. Erik's mind is always a cruel comfort, solid and unshakable and undeniably bleak.

Kilgrave missed a part of the conversation. Azazel is talking. "I have friends nearby."

"You can introduce us on Saturday," Erik says. Irritation bleeds through their connection. Kilgrave is far too tired to have any opinions here, so he keeps his mouth shut. He knows Erik and Azazel went from buddy-buddy to mutual wariness. He doesn't know why that happened, but he suspects the telepath is involved.

Azazel sketches a shallow bow and disappears. Kilgrave takes the opportunity to look around. They're in a park, small and green and sparsely populated. He and Erik are a little overdressed, and Kilgrave is attracting a few hard stares for his dress. Truly, this is America. Beside him, Erik is frustrated, but rapidly regaining his calm. Every other mind in range is human, distant, easy to tune out. After the sensory overload of the club and Scarecrow's stupid stunt, Kilgrave finds his mind able to relax.

And, abruptly, a headache settles in. Kilgrave flinches and palms his forehead with a groan. Too much in too short a span of time. He has been stretched thin, mentally and physically, and he can only hope that Erik discovers a previously untapped well of mercy. One evening. That's all he needs.

At his side, Erik stirs. He's closer than he was before, and Kilgrave can't remember who closed the distance. "There's been a change of plans," he says. 

"Obviously," Kilgrave snaps. Not as waspish as he could be, since he's been weakened by all the stress of the day. Erik takes his arm in a too-firm grip and leads him away. 

&&

With some prompting, Kilgrave helps them acquire a few changes of clothes and a hotel room. Erik ducks into a drug store for a few more supplies. It's nearly midnight by the time they enter their room, Kilgrave staggering at his side, mostly supported by Erik.

Kilgrave makes for the bed immediately. Erik stops him with a gentle tug on his arm. "Shower first," he says firmly. Kilgrave changes direction and starts stripping off his clothes without complaint. His nice dress is dropped carelessly on the floor. Erik ignores it.

He drapes his jacket over the back of a desk chair, levitates his cufflinks into a shallow bowl on the nightstand, and rolls up his sleeves. The bags contain things the hotel doesn't stock in their rooms, such as non-alcoholic mouthwash and pain meds. A bottle of pills for the headache, ointment to rub into bruises. He needs Kilgrave back in top form sooner rather than later. 

Emma gave him much to think about. Not just the grave robbing--although that is a fresh horror that he intends to carve out of the flesh of those responsible--but her opinions on Kilgrave still ring in his head. Erik first learned to use his powers through fear and pain. When teaching Kilgrave, he defaulted back to those old tools. The agony of their sessions, and the dread that settled in between each, motivated Kilgrave to learn fast.

This isn't how Charles would do any of this. That's rather the point. Charles is dead. There is only Erik, doing the best he can with the tools he has. Chief of which is an empath with a checkered history of rape, murder, and obsessive self-interest. Too valuable to lose, too dangerous to leave. What else could he have done? Even Charles would have found Kilgrave challenging.

Charles wouldn't have been tempted in the same way Erik is, by every sidelong glance and inch of exposed skin. And if Charles were alive to deal with Kilgrave himself, then Erik wouldn't have broken under that inconceivable loss. And he likely wouldn't be running around in a rejuvenated body, either. All of which heavily dictate how he interacts with Kilgrave.

Too many what ifs. Useless speculation. Erik rarely wastes his time on could have been . Charles' death may have left him with a strange melancholy that returns again and again and again, but Erik doesn't have to wallow in it.

The problem: he molded Kilgrave's empathy to meet his needs, and in doing so, taught the man to be dependent on him.

The problem: Kilgrave has no defenses of his own. He has a helmet he can borrow and a hiding place in Erik's head.

The problem: mutant telepaths were never the only psionics in the world, many of those still exist and may cross their path. 

Damn it all. Emma is right . Erik won't stop his mission any time soon, which means he will be dragging Kilgrave directly into the line of fire. Kilgrave is vulnerable. By extension, he makes Erik vulnerable. 

Kilgrave emerges from the bathroom naked, and freezes when he sees Erik. Whatever he picks up from Erik's mood makes him stand, still and silent, while Erik looks at him.

Hair damp and messy. Face cleanly shaved, hair on his body slowly growing back in, barely perceptible stubble for now. Knuckles free from the bandages but still blue from the caning, pink where the flesh knit back together. The rope burned marks into his body, intricate lines standing in stark contrast to his pale skin. Overtaxed muscles tremble at random, spasmodic. Every rib visible under the bruises. Dark circles under his eyes. If he turns around, Erik would see much of the same damage on his back side, concentrated low on the soft globes of his arse.

Kilgrave looks like he's standing only on borrowed strength. Erik's strength. Right. Time to call a truce between Erik's anger and Kilgrave's mistrust. What's done is done. They need to move forward, because ultimately Erik's options are to keep him or kill him. His decision was made during their first conversation at Azazel's base. Now they only have to live with it. 

"Come here." Erik motions him over. Kilgrave obeys without hesitation, a marked contrast to his usual attitude. Erik shakes three pills into his palm, and passes them to Kilgrave among with a bottle of water. The look Kilgrave gives him--such profound relief and gratitude--almost makes him feel guilty for the harsh treatment.

Room service arrives, because it is dinner time in Nevada. Erik serves Kilgrave first, and has him sit on the bed while he eats. Soup for him, a sandwich for Erik. Simple food that the staff could quickly prepare in the hotel kitchen.

Erik settles behind Kilgrave with the ointment. Kilgrave jumps at the first touch of his hands. He only relaxes marginally when Erik does nothing worse than rub the soothing cream into his marred skin. Erik keeps the massage gentle, covers his upper back, his arms, his chest.

"Lie down," Erik says, voice soft in the quiet between them. Kilgrave swallows. Awkwardly, he leans back, movements noticeably stiff. Erik guides his knees up, feet flat on the bed. He only wants to make it easier to access all of Kilgrave's legs, but Kilgrave reads another intention behind the motion. He spreads his legs, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Erik works in silence, lifts Kilgrave's feet as he works his way down each leg, ends with a kiss on each ankle.

Erik takes Kilgrave's cock in his hand, without any sexual inclinations. Emma Frost has always had a smothering effect on his libido; he won't be interested in sex for a while. Instead, Erik feels his way around the scars. He hasn't yet taken the time to really study the marks left behind from their first partnership. "Do they still hurt?" he asks, because his life has been a series of scars and he knows that not every scar is dead, that sometimes the pain can linger.

"Sometimes," Kilgrave says, neutral and drowsy.

Erik nods and releases him. "Roll onto your stomach. I'm almost done."

Kilgrave obeys, wincing only a little. His movements do look easier, smoother, than when they started. Erik starts with massaging his shoulders and works his way down. With the medicine and the pressure of his hands, he works tension out of Kilgrave's spine, eases the pain down to a more tolerable level. Kilgrave's breathing evens out. Erik doesn't need to be an empath to know the man is drifting off to sleep, fighting it off just to know what Erik intends to do next.

Absolutely nothing, not to Kilgrave, not today. Erik takes extra care with his thoroughly spanked and fucked ass. He isn't so lecherous that he feels even a flicker of desire while tending to Kilgrave's hurts. Finally, he has done all he can for now, so he clears away the empty plates and the trash and leaves Kilgrave to fall into a deep sleep, naked and uncovered but dead to the world.

Despite all the time zones they've crossed today, Erik doesn't feel tired or jetlagged. One benefit of travelling with Azazel when his body knows what to expect. They still lose a few minutes over long distances, time they won't get back from whatever dimension it is that Azazel travels through. Erik feels charged and ready to go, impatient now that he has a new mission. He will have to force himself to take a short nap before day dawns, but for now he has only the work on his mind.

He sits at the desk and goes over the maps Emma gave him. He memorizes names and locations, so he doesn't need to be dependent on mere paper. They'll need to pick up more supplies. Azazel will probably drop his travel bag off sometime tomorrow, so Erik will get his knife and other essentials back. But a laptop would be useful, and a car, and fake IDs. Even with Kilgrave's gift opening the way for them, it won't hurt to have backup.

Erik makes three lists. First of every anti-mutant group and affiliate he can think of that would have the knowledge and resources to do something with the bodies of telepaths. Second of neutral or allegedly-friendly groups with the same capabilities. Third and finally, of any who could have acted here in Nevada, where it was first discovered that the bodies were going missing.

The second list is too long; the first, longer than Erik would like; the third is much shorter, and manageable. That's where he intends to begin.

When the new mission can no longer distract him, and the world outside has long since settled into its nighttime routine, Erik's thoughts drift back to Kilgrave. At some point in the last few hours, Kilgrave woke for long enough to burrow under the covers. He looks harmless in his sleep. Fragile.

Erik pulls off his shirt and pants, kicks off his shoes. Their clothes lay on the floor, a problem for tomorrow. He crawls into bed, facing Kilgrave. His mind is deliberately calm, his power stroking over the piercings in an attempt to soothe himself to sleep. Just an hour or so, so he can be better prepared to adjust to a new time zone.

He has taught himself to fall asleep quickly and easily. Regular rest is essential to body maintenance, and Erik's body is a fine-tuned weapon. Still, there are times when he can't make it obey. So he compromises. He closes his eyes, and matches his breathing to Kilgrave, copying the slow, steady motions meditatively.

He doesn't notice that Kilgrave breathes easier, relaxes more, as they fall in sync with each other.

Chapter Text

The sky has long turned dark, red dusk purpling into night. In a town this small, air pollution is nearly nonexistent, so the moon shines bright and full through the slatted curtains. It's the only source of light in their hotel room. Occasionally a rumbling motor will indicate a car passing by, but the window doesn't face the road so no headlights cast their beams through the narrow cracks in the curtain.

Kilgrave sits on the end of the bed, smile fixed on his face, waiting, eyes glued to the door. To his right, the shattered remains of a clock lay on the floor. Sometimes it's digital, numbers dimmed forever and plastic casing cracked open. Sometimes it's analog, slender hands bent out of shape, growing long dark fingers in the shadows.

Kilgrave fights against deja vu, trying his hardest to concentrate. Big smile, big, big smile. Act like a shark. Winding metal cuffs dig tight into his wrists, pulling down. And down. And then he's not sitting on the bed anymore, but bound and gagged in the shower, arms drawn high over his back and water swirling around his knees. Higher, higher, soaking through the cloth gag and pouring down his throat.

Kilgrave wakes up gagging. He rolls over and finds Erik sitting at the small desk in one corner of the room. They stare at each other silently while Kilgrave catches his breath.

"Bad dream?" Erik asks, breaking the quiet of the room.

"No," Kilgrave says, rubbing his eyes. "Bloody weird one." The shower bit, he can understand. That's just his brain throwing up new twists on old memories. But when has he ever sat so still with such a rictus grin? He hasn't. His women have, but he always felt that was such an innocuous request. Nothing like the underlying horror of his dream.

Brains are weird, and his must be processing all the recent changes. Kilgrave firmly locks the dream away in a space he rarely thinks about, alongside every time a woman cried in his bed and the antiseptic smell of his childhood.

Kilgrave sits up. The stark white bedsheet pools around his waist. He doesn't remember crawling under the covers last night, and isn't sure what to make of the idea Erik might have covered him. Erik usually likes him as bare and vulnerable as possible.

"What," Kilgrave begins. His voice sticks in his throat. He coughs, keeps talking. "What are we doing here?"

"Checking on anti-mutant activity in southern Nevada."

Kilgrave thinks about asking if this means Erik is done punishing him. That's a topic of conversation he'd rather avoid, in case he accidentally invites more harm.

When Erik says he wants to check on anti-mutant activity, his first order of business is to visit the country home of distinctly right-wing senator. Kilgrave acquires a rental car for the cheap price of free, and they drive an hour or so from one small town to one lavish ranch. Erik disables the electronic security while Kilgrave makes friends out of the personnel.

Inside, Erik pins their target to the wall of a ridiculously ostentatious parlor. Kilgrave makes a show out of reclining on a couch that looks fancy and feels awful. "Tell me, what is the point of cushions that feel like bricks? Seriously, a man could break his leg if he jumped on these."

"I don't know," senator who-ever-the-fuck says with compulsion-enforced calm. "My wife picked out the furniture."

"Divorce her," Kilgrave advises.

"Okay," the senator says.

"Kevin," Erik warns.

"Oh, all right. Have you recently been involved in anything that might affect mutant stiffs?"

Erik raises an eyebrow, Kilgrave shrugs. They didn't exactly hammer out a script for this interrogation.

"Yes," the senator says.

Kilgrave's turn to raise his brows. "Tell us about it."

"Let me just say, mutant bodies are dangerous. For example, I'm being held by my cufflinks and my fountain pen. That is outrageous."

"Uh huh," Kilgrave murmurs.

"How are we supposed to know if their freak powers stop being dangerous after they're dead? We should bury mutants in special, mutant-only graveyards."

A beat. "Is that it?" Kilgrave asks.

"It's just a safety measure I'm trying to push--"

"Is there anything else?"

"Public transportation should be closely monitored for dangerous individuals--"

"Stop talking," Kilgrave orders. He looks at Erik for help.

Erik glares a hard line through their trapped politician. "Ask him if he's involved with any groups with a history of anti-mutant violence. If he authorized any recent grave robbing. If he knows of any mutants that have been abducted."

Kilgrave repeats the questions, and comes up with negatives to every scenario. "I think he's just a dick," Kilgrave says to Erik.

Erik grits his teeth, frustration held tight in his posture. "Fine. Erase our presence here." He releases the senator but doesn't bend any warped metal bits back into their original shape. He also doesn’t move to kill the senator, but there is a murderous expectation in his mind. Kilgrave picks up on that easily enough.

“Write a suicide note blaming, oh, your wife’s appalling taste in interior decor. Then kill yourself in the most expedient way you can,” Kilgrave orders.

The senator nods placidly. “I’ll fetch my shotgun.”

“Good man.” Kilgrave ensures all video footage is cleared and everyone has elected to pretend the last half hour hasn't happened. As they walk out the front door, a loud gunshot blasts from an upper floor. Security shouts in alarm as they race each other to investigate.

Their next stop, later that same day and two hundred and fifty miles away, is an anti-mutant rally just outside Reno. Kilgrave spends most of the drive dozing restlessly in the passenger seat. He can't find a position to comfortably sit. His whole body throbs every time they drive over a bump or a pothole, and there are plenty of those on the roads in Nowhere, Nevada.

With the helmet tucked out of view in the trunk of their car, they are able to blend into the crowd. The noise and press of bodies make Kilgrave's skin crawl and head hurt, his bruises ache with renewed fervor in the hot August sun. But the minds around them are mostly human, and he finds them easier to block out than the Hellfire Club. It is still a gross, intense experience that has Kilgrave pressing closer and closer to Erik.

Maybe too close for this group. They don't look like brothers and their posture is too intimate to be just friends. Kilgrave picks up on the growing hostility and tugs Erik away from the thick of it.

A short distance away, Kilgrave searches for an excuse that doesn't imply that the humans think they are male lovers. Erik really doesn’t need that tenuous connection to encourage him. "Why are there mutants here?"

Erik's irritation fades into a resigned sorrow. "They may not know what they are. Or they may be too consumed with self-loathing to care."

Kilgrave spends a moment thinking about how pathetic that existence must be. "Can we go?" he asks. Erik hesitates. "Please? I can't take much more of this, and you hate it here too."

Erik relents. "They aren't organized enough to have accomplished what we're investigating." They leave behind no bodies here, but Erik scans the crowd one last time, as though committing every hateful face to memory. Not even Erik’s memory is that good, however, and Kilgrave knows most of these people will have no idea how close they skirted to death on this day.

Erik allows Kilgrave to secure a high-rise apartment in Reno, overlooking the river. Kilgrave has always liked the aesthetic of a river cutting through a cityscape. Just enough nature, controlled, contained. Pretty to look at. The view from the windows is nice enough, not as spectacular as he’s used to. Still, he can almost pretend he’s gotten back to his old habits, borrowing homes at random, leeching from the luxuries of strangers until he grows bored and desires a change of scenery.

The original owners of the apartment cower in a closet. Even out of sight, their presence puts Erik on edge. Kilgrave, in turn, tiptoes around Erik for the rest of the evening. He asked for this indulgence, but he didn't expect Erik to agree. He’s afraid that Erik could change his mind at any moment, decide they need to keep an even lower profile and drag Kilgrave off to another shitty hotel room.

The large shower comes with a bench to sit on, which Kilgrave leans on as the water washes away the grit of travel and Nevada dust. He examines the bruises crisscrossing his skin, still livid and sore. The lotion that Erik bought last night is sitting on the bathroom sink when he gets out. He applies a liberal coat, moaning in relief as his muscles finally relax.

Later, he slurps a watery, unsatisfying soup for dinner and watches the telly. Over the last year, he's fallen out of touch with his favorite football team, and now they have a new goalie. The match is halfway over, but he still watches and scowls to see them lose. He goes to bed without Erik, and is entirely unprepared for the way his heart starts racing as soon as his head hits the pillow. The room is quiet, dark; his heart is a painful drum in his chest. He's alone in here; he thinks he might be dying.

Shakily, he pushes himself out of bed and stumbles for the door, convinced with every step that he will collapse. His mind unfurls, reaching for Erik. As he does, he realizes that while he hasn't lost contact, Erik also isn't in the apartment. He's several floors below, yet still grievously out of reach.

Kilgrave goes for the closest minds available. He yanks the closet door open. The two women are older, likely in their sixties. One of them has soiled herself, and they have put down towels over the mess. "Tell me what's wrong with me," Kilgrave gasps, senselessly.

"I don't know?" one of them says, more of a question than an answer.

"Why--why can't I breathe?" he asks, sinking to his knees. The other woman shuffles forward, places a matronly palm against his forehead, his throat.

"You're having a panic attack," she says, not unkindly.

"Why," Kilgrave croaks. He slowly collapses against the opposite wall. The lady doesn't follow him into the hall, still obeying his earlier command to wait in the closet. Kilgrave buries his face in his hands, tries to breathe the way Erik showed him.

In and out. Why is this bothering him now. In and out. He made peace with the tongue piercings, he had no other choice. In and out. Erik isn't even here, shouldn’t he be panicking more when Erik is around? In and out. He can’t breathe, his heart is going to burst.

In and out. He can't, he can't, he can't. No matter how many times he tries to steady his breathing, he can’t hold the pattern. Every attempt disintegrates by the second breath.

In and out.

His empathy knows Erik approaches before his ears do. Footsteps stop between him and the closet door. It closes with a soft click, over the distressed whimpers of their human hosts. Then hands lift Kilgrave. Erik carries him back into the bedroom. The mattress dips under their combined weight as Erik rests one knee and arranges Kilgrave on the sheets.

Kilgrave ends up on his side, Erik spooning him. Erik murmurs, low and soft, and the words don't matter so much as the rhythm. Kilgrave slowly learns to sync their breaths, slowly lets his panic recede under the tide of Erik's calm. Sleep overtakes him, and his last coherent thought is that he should at least try to explain himself.

Later, somehow, Kilgrave stands in the shower, leaning into the hands massaging his back. Strong but petite, a woman’s touch. He moans as they work out a particularly troubling knot at the top of his spine. That’s got to be worth a reward. He picks up the soap and turns, laughs as Jessica tries to shuffle behind him again. “That’s enough,” he says, releasing her from the need to rub his back. “My turn.”

His turn. But she’s not Jessica anymore. She’s a dozen, a hundred other women, bodies all blending together into a hazy ideal of a woman. Perfect soft breasts, perfect smooth stomach, perfect little mound between her/their legs. She/they leans back onto the bed, spreads her/their legs, lets him take a good look at the pink flesh secreted away between two lips and fastidiously short pubic hair. This is the part where he should already be hard, but when he looks down, he isn’t it. His cock hangs limp and soft. And, god, but those scars are hideous. They wrap all the way around his cock, and they shouldn’t; they start to stretch, and that’s not possible. The scars grow tendrils that quest up his stomach, down his legs, crack his ribs and warp his limbs and the woman starts laughing, high and hysterical.

Kilgrave opens his mouth to tell her to shut up, but discovers that he has no tongue. He starts to scream. This time, when he wakes up, it’s to Erik physically pinning him down.

&&

This is the second night in a row that Kilgrave has woken from what is clearly a nightmare. In all the months they travelled together, Erik has never noticed Kilgrave to dream much, if at all. The man is blessed with a clear conscience, having no real concept of right and wrong, and a remarkable resilience to trauma. When Erik thinks of what could have changed recently, all he can consider is that Kilgrave’s mind was touched by two others at the Hellfire Club. Emma Frost could have altered his brain chemistry enough to inspire nightly terrors, but she seems an unlikely culprit compared to the other: Scarecrow. Erik doesn’t know much about her, but she is an empath with an exclusive sensitivity to fear.

Kilgrave bucks under him with impressive strength. Erik bears down, maintaining his grip. He calls on all of his rigid mental control to smooth the rough edges of his worry, frustration, anger--for once, these aren’t directed at Kilgrave anyway. He starts talking. He’s noticed in the past that Kilgrave subconsciously prefers French; that’s the language Erik has started using when Kilgrave is pushed beyond conscious awareness and into a place where tone and rhythm matter more than meaning. Erik flicks the light on with his powers.

Kilgrave blinks rapidly at him, eyelashes wet with unshed tears. Those beautiful brown eyes sharpen, focus on Erik. Kilgrave’s heaving chest hiccups, slows. When he gasps for breath, he seems to take in more oxygen than before, and he settles down. Erik waits, holding position, until Kilgrave’s weak struggles have stopped and the usual crafty light has entered his eyes.

Erik releases his hold on the tongue piercings. “Kevin,” he says.

“Erik,” Kilgrave parrots.

Erik rolls off him. “Care to explain what that was?”

“No,” Kilgrave says, then, “Yes. What’s the grammatically correct way to answer that question? I mean: ‘No sir, I don’t wanna talk’.”

“Tell me about the nightmares,” Erik says, softer.

Kilgrave scrubs at his face with two sleepily knotted fists. The gesture is weirdly childish, but Erik refuses to get distracted. “‘m not having nightmares.”

He’s not supposed to lie to Erik. There really shouldn’t be any exceptions to the rules, especially at this early stage in their reunion. “What would you call this?”

Kilgrave rolls onto his side, facing Erik, watching him cautiously. “Can I just blame Scarecrow without all the commentary?”

Erik considers him. “Yes. We’ll deal with her later.”

“Yay,” Kilgrave mutters, squeezing his eyes shut like he can force himself to go back to sleep.

Erik reaches over, smoothes his palm over Kilgrave’s wrinkled brow. “No one else can touch you. That’s a promise.”

“And you’re a man of your word,” Kilgrave says, face relaxing as his eyes remain closed. There is a sarcastic slant to his words, but his body language tells Erik that the message has been received and believed. Erik turns the light back off, plunging the room into darkness once more. Kilgrave sighs, short and soft.

Erik stares at him, long after he’s fallen asleep. Emma warned him that Kilgrave was vulnerable--is still vulnerable. When Erik visits his wrath upon Scarecrow, he’ll have to determine whether or not Emma planned that, as a demonstration of her words. That’s not Emma’s style. That’s… honestly more of a Shaw move. They have both distanced themselves as far from Shaw’s strategies as possible, but sometimes that old ghost lingers behind their actions. There are ways in which an abuser never lets go.

Every time he takes Kilgrave into the field, he runs the risk of losing control. When they meet other psionics out there--and that scenario is definitely a when rather than an if--Kilgrave has no defenses and no real offenses either, if his opponent is out of hearing range. Or wearing earplugs, or headphones. Or is hearing impaired. As Erik tallies every con of Kilgrave’s abilities and experience, he finds increasingly more vulnerabilities than strengths.

He has been careless. He is also, unfortunately, incapable of tutoring Kilgrave any further. The best place for an empath to learn is obviously Charles’ school, but Erik has already resolved to never let Kilgrave step a single foot onto the property. The man is far too selfish, dangerous, and manipulative.

The second best place to learn is under Emma Frost’s tutelage. She has a private school of her own, smaller and more selective. The school has close connections to the Hellfire Club, which she apparently still runs. As the last mutant telepath in the world, she’s in a unique position to understand and guide Kilgrave’s developing power.

Third place goes to Exodus and his Acolytes, but Exodus succumbed to the virus. His body is what they are currently searching for. It’s the most alarming disappearance so far. Additionally, Erik is unsure of how welcome his presence is. The founding members of Exodus’ group are former Brotherhood mutants, abandoned by Erik when he finally joined Charles for the last decade or so of his life. They may not think kindly of Magneto after all these years.

Fourth is the Morlocks, but Kilgrave would hate all of them on sight. If Erik is being honest, he also isn’t thrilled with the concept of staying in the sewers of New York for any extended period of time. After that, their options grow increasingly far out of the narrow circle of people Erik is willing to trust even partially.

He’ll probably end up taking Kilgrave back to Emma, but that humiliation can be put off for now. He wants to stop whoever is disturbing the graves of fallen telepaths, preferably with great violence and malice aforethought. Kilgrave’s training and discipline can wait. Erik only has to keep him at a safe distance from potentially hazardous encounters. That can easily be arranged.

&&

Nevada is hot. A dry, parching heat, relentless and oppressive. The kind of hot that stupefies. Kilgrave doesn't like feeling dumb, but the heat makes him too lazy and irritable to do anything about it. He slouches after Erik, too bored, too hurt, and too hot to engage with their new mission. With the air on full blast, the car is barely cooler than the outside.

Azazel visited this morning. Firstly to drop off Erik's bag with all his worldly possessions, and secondly to leave Erik with a set of coordinates. If Kilgrave had known where those coordinates would lead, he'd have asked Azazel to kindly swallow his tail. Now he and Erik are thirty-five miles into Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nevada, and Erik expects them to hike even farther into hell.

Kilgrave accepts the gallon-sized water bottle that Erik presses into his hands, but refuses to climb out of the car. The car has air conditioning and shade and enough gas to carry them back to civilization. "Why?" he asks. Erik was very particular in dictating his wardrobe this morning, and now he knows that wasn't just Erik being his usual control freak. He wears Hiking Clothes, or whatever Erik judges to be suitable for this weather and environment.

"Come with me," Erik says. Kilgrave can feel his impatience.

"Don't we know a teleporter? Why can't demon boy--" Kilgrave makes a vague whooshing motion with his hand, and finishes, "poof us where you want to go?"

Erik's face tightens, and Kilgrave reads the reluctance, the paranoia, the betrayal lingering heavy in his thoughts. He still doesn't understand the specifics of what happened at the Hellfire Club that night, but he can guess the general shape of it. A surviving telepath, secrets kept, conflicting loyalties. Kilgrave has been too focused on recovery to ask questions. He regrets that now he's being told to drag his sorry, sore ass all over the Mojave.

"I don't know," Erik says, obviously forcing a patience he doesn't feel, "exactly where the lab is. I'll know it when I feel it."

"We're looking for a secret laboratory in the middle of the desert," Kilgrave says flatly. "Fine. Why not. Give me more pills. And some sunscreen. I don't want to add sunburn to my list of ailments."

He went hiking once, at Jessica's suggestion. He even recruited a park ranger to guide them. That whole venture ended with him telling the ranger to call in a rescue chopper to get them the hell away from all that nature. He made Jessica jump all night for that one.

Erik yields on both requests, pulling a tube of sunscreen and a little bottle of pain meds from his satchel. Kilgrave pops the pills first. If he was on his own, he wouldn't touch them, but with Erik he plays up the pain, just a little. Erik has never given him anything for pain before last night. After the first half of this week, Kilgrave is determined to take full advantage. He'll baby himself until he feels fully back to normal.

Kilgrave works sunscreen onto his arms, neck, and face, hyperaware of Erik's eyes on him. A part of him waits to see if Erik will insist on applying the sunscreen himself, take another chance to put his hands on Kilgrave's body. He doesn't. Not so much as a flicker of interest catches at Kilgrave's empathy. Kilgrave tells himself it would be weird and backwards to feel disappointed by this. After all, he doesn't want Erik touching him, that's just something he has to endure.

But it's hard to remember that, when Erik has been distant since the Hellfire Club. If he can't escape Erik's grasp, then he has to find a way to stay on the man's good side. He can't live in fear of the next blow. That's not living, that's just dying in slow motion. So while Erik may be calm, Kilgrave suffers the silence in agitation. There were a few good months when he wasn't so wary around Erik. Either the helmet or the gag or both were in constant use and he wasn't allowed to stay too far from Erik's side, but he still felt secure in his place.

That security is gone. He wants, more than anything--except maybe for escaping--to know what their new normal is. Will the ceasefire last, will the torture start again, what the hell does Erik expect from him now. These questions and more swirl through his head, like poltergeists upending the order of his thoughts.

Erik takes the sunscreen back and leads him deeper into the desert, off the beaten path where their rental car can’t go. Kilgrave walks behind him and finds himself putting more energy and focus than should be necessary in just walking without tripping over anything. It isn’t all loose, blowing sand. The desert contains an astonishing amount of vegetation, but it’s all gnarled and mean-looking. Rocks and dirt scrape at the soles of his shoes. A large bird caws at them as they pass, but most creatures scurry away at the sound of their approaching footsteps; Kilgrave only catches glimpses of dull-colored lizards and the shiny chitin of insects he would rather not identify.

Erik tried to make him wear a baseball cap before they left the hotel room. With the glare of the morning sun in his eyes, Kilgrave reconsiders his refusal. “I would like that hat now,” he says, almost half an hour into their trek. He would also like to stop walking and catch his breath for a few moments. The pace Erik sets is killing him. Normally, he could keep up, but after the week he’s had he’ll have to consider himself lucky he hasn’t fallen flat on his face yet.

Erik doesn’t stop. His backpack unzips itself and the hat floats out, hanging in the air until Kilgrave catches up. Kilgrave mutters a soft curse under his breath and snatches the hat out of the air. He can’t even remember the last time he willingly wore a baseball cap. They are not exactly the height of fashion, all around rather more lowbrow than he likes to dress. But in this case, comfort and practicality must trump his fashion sense. Covering his head actually helps to cool him, a little, and it keeps the sun out of his eyes. Erik seems determined to walk them directly into it.

They pass, but do not see, carrion rotting in the heat. Kilgrave gags on the smell and pulls his shirt up to cover the lower half of his face. The stench clings to his nostrils for a good twenty minutes or more. Erik must notice it too, but he remains unaffected. Nothing can distract that man when he’s on a mission. At any other time, Kilgrave would admire the dedication.

He tries to keep up. He truly does. But he’s tired in a way that can’t be ignored, sore in a way that won’t let him move right, and underfed from the lack of solids or a consistent diet since Erik pierced his tongue. Erik leads them through a craggy plateau, a maze of dirty rock on all sides, and Kilgrave stumbles along half-blind until he abruptly realizes that he lost Erik at some point. Kilgrave stops, steadies himself on the rock wall, and then hastily wipes his hand on his shorts. The surface of the rock feels unpleasantly chalky, and leaves a residue on his fingers to match the dust that has stained his shoes and shins.

He looks around, sees nothing he recognizes and no sign of the other man. “Erik?” he calls, plaintive and cracking. He doesn’t believe for a second that Erik will let him get lost, but he thinks he might just piss Erik off if he doesn’t keep up. That thought makes him feel clammy and half-sick, so he calls again, louder. “Erik!”

“Over here,” Erik says, somewhere ahead him, obscured by all the stupid rock. Kilgrave starts to ask where, when he feels a tug on his piercings. Gentle, but noticeable enough for him to follow. Jaw clenched tight, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, Kilgrave follows the metal’s lead until he finally rounds another corner and finds Erik resting in the shade.

“Hi,” Kilgrave says, blanking for anything else to say that doesn’t make him sound too pathetic. You left me implies Kilgrave wants to stay, you go too fast admits that he’s truly struggling with the hike.

“Drink some water,” Erik suggests, following his own advice.

Kilgrave glances down at his empty hands. “I dropped it,” he says, just now noticing that he isn’t carrying the water bottle with him any longer.

“I know,” Erik says. Then Kilgrave feels something press against his shoulder, and lo and behold, there is his water bottle, floating behind him, supported by a metal loop that runs through its lid.

Kilgrave grabs it and takes a long, deep drink, surprising himself with how thirsty he is. Thirst is easy to overlook when he already feels awful in a dozen other ways.

“We’re almost there,” Erik tells him.

“Yay,” Kilgrave mutters. He grabs Erik’s arm and pulls it toward him, just to check the time on his watch. It’s just past 10 AM. They’ve been hiking for almost two hours.

&&

Erik hates to second-guess himself, but he truly doubts that bringing Kilgrave along was the best choice. He spent the first half of this week finding the limits of Kilgrave’s endurance, and then callously shoving him over. He would have continued in much the same fashion if Emma Frost hadn’t chosen this time to make her continued existence known. That woman does like to keep him on his toes, and Erik would hate her for it if he wasn’t also, grudgingly, thankful that she remains as sharp as ever.

This level of strenuous activity is clearly beyond Kilgrave’s capability. The man sways on his feet, looking like a strong gust of wind will knock him down. Or just blow him away, considering how skinny he is. Always lean, but lately that leanness has thinned to dangerous territory, and Erik hasn’t yet had the time or inclination to nurse him back from that edge.

Erik sighs silently, and unslings his backpack. The metal in its handle lifts and he mentally carries it beside them. Kilgrave watches him, but the glaze in his eyes prove he’s not really looking. “Come here.” Erik motions him closer.

Kilgrave obeys automatically, and he would drop his water bottle again if Erik’s power doesn’t catch it in midair. When Kilgrave steps close enough, Erik grabs his wrists and turns, tugging Kilgrave sharply against his back. Then he squats, takes Kilgrave’s thighs in hand, and stands. The whole smooth movement takes less than two seconds, and then he has Kilgrave clinging to his back like a monkey.

Kilgrave takes a moment to mentally catch up. “Wh,” he mumbles against Erik’s shoulder.

“Almost there,” Erik reminds him, and sets off again, trailing a line of floating backpack and water bottles behind them.

Their return trip will be shorter. It took Erik an hour of reaching out, but he’s finally honed in on what he’s looking for. They’re less than a mile away from the underground bunker where the Mojave branch of the Purifiers used to operate.

Colonel Stryker’s wife was of a more religious bent than her husband, and cultivated a strong following in Utah, in cities where the Mormon percentage of the population thrived. While her husband focused on military and the weaponization of mutants, she remained fascinated by genetics and the concept of purifying family trees of the ‘mutant taint.’ The Mormon preoccupation with genealogy aligned perfectly with her goals, and she was able to use cult rhetoric to amass a small but murderously loyal following.

Erik rooted most of them out in the nineties, but lately they’ve made a resurgence. The Mojave base might still be unused since the last time Erik visited, but it’s close enough to Utah that it might also prove tempting to the new Purifiers. Most importantly, it’s within thirty miles of a recently-desecrated mutant grave--the one where Exodus’ body used to reside. Erik resolves that regardless of what they find today, he will not leave any part of this bunker standing.

Kilgrave’s weight is worryingly slight on his back. Erik will have to better care of him, if he doesn’t want Kilgrave to die simply through lack of nutrition. He needs the man alive. Erik passes the old entrance to the bunker, long since crushed under a rock slide caused by a former Brotherhood member. It remains unchanged, and thus inaccessible. He moves on. He can feel the vague outline of the bunker under his feet, metal framing the concrete. Erik walks until he thinks he’s roughly in the center of the bunker, separated only by hundreds of tons of desert rock and dirt.

“Down, Darkly,” he orders, easing Kilgrave off his back. Kilgrave stirs to life with a jerk, and it occurs to Erik that the man might have fallen asleep. He’ll think about that later. For now he focuses on steadying a groggy Kilgrave. “We are standing directly above the bunker. Can you feel anything?”

“The sodding sun,” Kilgrave answers mulishly. He swipes clumsily at his floating water bottle, and Erik allows him to take a long drink.

Erik summons his patience. “Below us. Reach out, reach down. Search for signs of life. Can you feel any minds living and moving in the bunker?”

Kilgrave gulps more water, then looks down with a perplexed frown on his forehead. “I can try,” he says. The bunker isn’t so deep that it will be out of his range. Erik assumes that Kilgrave is put off more by the thought of all the rock between them, but physical barriers do nothing to dampen his power. It takes a special design and composition, like the helmet or psychic training, to block Kilgrave’s empathy.

After a moment of frowning at the dirt, Kilgrave kneels and spreads his hands, careful not to let his skin actually touch the ground. Erik feels him recede slightly from his head. One long minute passes, then two. Finally Kilgrave stands up with a shrug. “No. There’s nothing I can sense. Thought I felt something, but that might’ve been a gopher. Are there gophers here? Wait, can I sense animals?”

“Charles had a limited sense for animal life,” is all Erik can offer in answer. “Now go over… there.” He gestures some ways away, at a small copse of rangy trees located well away from the bunker.

“What are you going to do?” Kilgrave startles when the backpack and bottles bump against him, but he’s quick to take a hint. He shoulders the pack and picks up both bottles.

“Mutants died in this laboratory. I won’t let that happen again.”

Wisely, Kilgrave forgoes any further questioning and retreats to the trees. While he walks, Erik pushes his own mutant sense down, deep into the earth. He finds the metal. The frame of the bunker, the doors, the blood-rusted scalpels, the crumpled guns that fired at him once before and never will again. His sense blooms, and encompasses. Metal springs to life under his coaxing, thinning and spreading, cracking through other materials in its quest to cradle the secret base in its entirety. When he’s done, Erik looks up, checks to see that Kilgrave has made it safely out of the danger zone. He spreads his arms wide, casting his power out.

Then he lifts the bunker out of the ground.

Erik’s feet leave the dirt scant seconds before the ground trembles, as though an earthquake has suddenly struck. The desert breaks and heaves below him, and eventually spits out a whole building. The noise is cacophonous, rumbling as broken rock and gushing sand pour into the hole left in the ground. Erik floats serenely above the secret bunker as it loses its secrecy, and then turns on itself. The walls, cracked and crumbling from the journey upwards, splinter violently as the entire structure implodes. Erik makes a fist with one hand, a grasping motion like he’s crinkling paper into a ball. Beneath him, the bunker self-destructs. When it and everything it contains--the equipment, the cells, the stinking human bodies over two decades expired--have been thoroughly crushed, Erik drops the whole thing back into the earth.

The whole process takes less than five minutes. Erik glides to Kilgrave, lands lightly on his feet just outside the shadow of the trees. “We’re done here,” he says with supreme satisfaction.

Kilgrave is staring at him with a slack jaw, expression stupefied. He splutters. “Well--yes! Yes, well done, jolly good, you pancaked a building. That wasn’t absolutely mental or anything.” He must have been trying to sound sarcastic; he only comes across as completely awed.

“Thank you,” Erik says with a bemused smirk.

Kilgrave nods, mouth working around a series of aborted syllables, half-noises that cut off in his throat. He swallows convulsively. Erik waits, looking for signs of fear in his empath. But when Kilgrave meets his eyes, it isn’t fear that Erik sees. Dark, brown, bottomless eyes, awed but not fearful, staggered but not cowering. He’s seen fear in Kilgrave this week, he knows well what it looks like. Whatever this is, it isn’t the same. Erik doesn’t know what it is.

“So,” Kilgrave begins, finally assembling real words out of the gibberish he’s been spewing. “I doubt that went unnoticed.”

“Astute,” Erik says. “Time to head back to the car.”

“After you,” Kilgrave says. Erik offers a hand, but Kilgrave dodges around it, apparently not keen on being carried again. He does surrender the backpack, though. As predicted, the trip back takes much less time, and even Kilgrave seems energized by Erik’s display of raw power. He keeps pace with Erik, even though he’s panting miserably by the time they reach their vehicle.

Erik opens the passenger door for Kilgrave and watches him gingerly take a seat, then curse at the heat trapped inside the car. With a wave of his hand, Erik lazily starts the engine, and Kilgrave frantically dials up the air conditioning. “Finished by noon,” Erik observes with satisfaction. “If you thought the morning sun was bad, you would not have appreciated the afternoon.”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Kilgrave says. He glances at Erik and then away again, something uncharacteristically shy entering his body language. Intrigued, Erik leans in. “Can we please get back to civilization.” He startles a little to find Erik in his personal space, but he doesn’t lean away. His eyes flicker rapidly across Erik’s face, catching and lingering too often on his mouth. That’s a clear invitation. Erik still hesitates, Emma’s words ringing in his ears. So is he a fucktoy or an asset? Damn the woman. She should stay out of his head.

Erik leaves Kilgrave blinking rapidly and storms around to the driver’s seat. When his hands touch the steering wheel, both doors slam shut. The drive back to the hotel passes in tense silence.

&&

Erik’s power is incredible. There doesn’t seem to be any limit to what Erik can do. The bunker he unearthed was massive; Kilgrave never felt smaller than when he watched it rise out of the ground like something from a disaster movie. He felt what Erik felt, moved with the metal, and never has Erik’s power seemed more godlike than in those few minutes. And when Erik floated back to Kilgrave, back down to earth, he never looked more terrifying or more beautiful.

Kilgrave thinks, for perhaps the first time in his life, that there is something very deeply wrong with him. Watching Erik’s performance should not have filled him with yearning. (He knows what yearning is. He remembers the lessons Jessica Jones taught him well.) But it did, he does ache with pride in Erik. And more: for the first time, relief that he is a mutant and not human, because he stands a chance of earning Erik’s approval.

It’s all far too confusing for him to sort through. Fear is, in a way, easier, because it has an obvious cause and an obvious answer, even if reprieve is denied to him. Erik hurts him and controls him, removes any hope of freedom: Kilgrave feels panic underlying his every thought and action. But this is too much. He wants to climb inside that part of Erik’s mind where his mutation dominates. Maybe he’s just addicted to the secondhand power.

Back at their hotel room, they take turns washing away the dust and grime of their desert trek. Kilgrave discreetly eyes Erik’s confident motions, the muscles rippling under his skin, the way his reddish brown hair sticks to his forehead when wet. The man makes physical fitness look easy, maintains peak condition with apparently as little effort as he puts into bending metal to his will. Is this the man Kilgrave thought he could escape? Is this the man he actually wanted to leave?

They eat a simple lunch, Kilgrave trying not to be too jealous of the sandwich that Erik can eat and he can't. The food settles heavily in his stomach anyway. Kilgrave is reminded strongly that the only physical exertion he favors occurs primarily on a mattress.

Cleaned and dressed, Kilgrave lies on the bed and dozes fitfully. His healing body protests the recent exercise, making it nearly impossible to find a comfortable position to sleep. Erik sits next to him, typing away at the laptop they procured. Kilgrave rolls too far into the other side of the bed and finds his face smashed against Erik’s thigh. He spends one awkward moment debating how soon is too soon to roll away, then Erik’s hand starts threading through his hair. He’s uncomfortably twisted on his side, neck craned back and one arm trapped under his body, but he doesn’t dare move. It’s pathetic, he knows, but Erik has barely touched him for two days. Considering that most of his recent touches have hurt, Kilgrave shouldn’t miss them, but he has. He suspects that Erik has deliberately conditioned that need in him.

Erik continues typing with one hand, keeping the other on him, and Kilgrave finally settles down. In both touch and mind, Erik is soothing, calm. His focus remains on his research, his mission, but he spares some scant affection for Kilgrave, and Kilgrave is too exhausted and sore to even feel embarrassed by how eagerly he accepts it.

They pass a couple of hours like this, and it's surprisingly pleasant. Their tranquility is broken by a knock at the door. Erik shifts position, snapping the laptop shut and putting it away. Kilgrave finds himself alone on the bed.

"Come in," Erik calls, unlocking the door from across the room. Azazel steps inside, and Kilgrave feels his good mood vanish. He realizes that he's been nesting in Erik's contentment, and now he's buzzing with Erik's disapproval.

"I like what you did to the Purifier base," Azazel says, calm as ever.

"A dead end," Erik says dismissively. "I should have destroyed it years ago."

"Perhaps you'd like to meet the mutant who first reported a missing body?" Azazel asks.

"An Acolyte," Erik says. His feelings are complex. Something of pride, something of shame, something of regret, something of resentment. Kilgrave gets a headache trying to sort it all out.

Kilgrave cuts in, mostly to remind them that he is still there and also essentially clueless as to what they are discussing, "An acolyte of what?"

"Me." Erik crosses his arms. "Originally. It was a term for my most loyal and powerful followers. When I…retired, to join Charles at his school, they formed their own group, led by a mutant called Exodus."

"Who died from this virus two years ago, and whose body is now missing," Azazel finishes. He regards Kilgrave with cool curiosity. "Do you not know what it is that we seek?"

"He hasn't asked," Erik says.

"I didn't know I could," Kilgrave counters. Erik's irritation flares, and Kilgrave tries not to flinch too visibly.

"Is he coming with us?" Azazel asks, once again cutting Kilgrave out of the conversation.

"Yes. Give us a moment." Erik's eyes bore into the side of Kilgrave's face. Azazel bows his head and disappears.

Kilgrave wrinkles his nose. "That smell is rank. Do you think he knows?"

"Kevin," Erik begins, and then falls silent again.

Kilgrave's shoulders droop and he sighs. "Are you mad at me?" That isn't the question he meant to ask. It makes him sound childish.

Erik frowns. "No," he says, and the sincerity of that response echoes in Kilgrave's head. "We're going to an Acolyte compound. Here are the ground rules you must follow." As much as Kilgrave chafes at the idea of more rules, this also catches his attention as a way to curry favor with Erik. He's been waiting for an opportunity like this.

"You may speak only when spoken to. Do not use your compulsion unless you are being threatened, and then only use it to peacefully resolve the threat. Everyone there should have training in psychic defense, so there may be a few who can recognize your empathy. Use it to monitor how truthfully they respond to me."

"That's why you want me there," Kilgrave guesses.

Erik's voice is warm with amusement and possessiveness when he replies, "I'm not letting you out of my sight." Kilgrave expected that response and he's still surprised by how it affects him. One part relief, one part bitterness.

Erik's eyes shift from Kilgrave to the closed door. He tugs on some bit of metal on Azazel's clothing, where the demonic mutant is waiting on the roof. Kilgrave glances up at the ceiling, an unnecessary motion that coincides with his empathy picking up on Azazel, following automatically when Erik reached out with his powers.

Azazel reappears and offers his arms to both of them. Kilgrave follows Erik's lead in accepting, and tries to brace himself against the effects of teleportation. He barely remains upright when they reach their destination, and the lunch he ate just a couple short hours ago threatens to come back up. He takes shallow breaths, blinking away the darkness at the edges of his vision.

They materialize outside a large brick building, gated from the surrounding desert by barbed wire and metal sheets. The compound looks like it might once have been a school, judging by the style of the building and the large, looping entrance where cars might once have pulled through. The association only strengthens when they go inside, entering what used to be a large gymnasium. Old, peeling lines of the basketball court can still be glimpsed on the floor. The rest of the cavernous room has been converted into a multi-layered labyrinth of fused metal cells, akin to a beehive.

Kilgrave senses other mutant minds, farther into the compound. He can't grasp an exact number. Fewer than the chaotic crowd at the Hellfire Club, but greater than thirty or forty. Most of them are far enough away that Kilgrave doesn't feel overwhelmed by their presence.

Only one mutant stands waiting for them here. Kilgrave looks over her dense dreadlocks, rigid stance, and the tight, short-sleeved shirt that shows off far more muscle than he likes to see in his women. He concludes that she wouldn't be his type anyway, which deprives him of the chance to idly fantasize while Erik does the talking.

He knows Erik is feeling out the metal with great curiosity, inspecting with his power. "What is this for?" Erik asks.

The woman answers, "Xavier had Cerebro. Exodus has--had this. Some of us here could help amplify his powers." She has guts, at least; most others are too hesitant to voluntarily bring up Charles Xavier in front of Erik.

"How far could he reach?"

"Across the continent, and halfway through South America." She loses a little of the tension with the memory. "We were working on redesigning this whole thing before--you know." She shrugs, not from a lack of care, but from resignation. "I'm Frenzy. Joanna Cargill. However you want it. Good to finally meet you, Magneto."

"Erik," he corrects. "I haven't gone by Magneto in… too long." Erik glances around the room again, then releases his discreet investigation of the metal structures. Kilgrave's ears pop like he’s just descended in latitude. "Exodus always said he was immortal."

"He said the same to us. Turns out that was bullshit. He couldn't outheal the virus." Joanna's face twists in bitterness. "In the end, he got worried he'd accidentally kill some of us in his pain. He made me drive him into the wilderness to die."

"Were you immune to his powers, then?"

"It was the telekinesis that had us concerned. He wasn't gonna hurt me by throwing a few rocks around." Joanna raps on the center of her chest, hard. "Skin like steel."

"And psychically?" Erik asks.

"He… I felt him die. Up here." Joanna taps on her head. Her expression goes distant with remembered horror. Kilgrave thinks back to the beginning of this week, with Erik's terrible confessions. He feels no sympathy for any of them, but his empathy picks up on the shared grief and pain. The silence stretches, a moment in solidarity. Joanna takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "I want to go with you."

"I can't guarantee I will find his body any time soon."

"I want to go."

"If I find a lead for Exodus, I can return here to pick you up."

"I want to work with you. Azazel says you're bringing back the Brotherhood. I volunteer."

This gives Erik pause. He looks at her anew, sharper, deeper, and Kilgrave, in response, pushes his empathy at the woman, digs to find the truth behind her words.

"Skin like steel, you said?"

"That's right. I got the strength to match it," she says with pride.

"Does you require a transformation?"

"You mean like Colossus? No. I just am."

"Have you found your limit yet?"

Her expression sours. "Adamantium."

A flash of familiarity lights up Erik's mind. "You're that Frenzy. The attack in Melbourne."

Kilgrave has no idea what they're talking about.

"Make you a deal. I promise not to hold a grudge over you shacking up at the goody two-shoes school, you promise to forget I ever threw Iceman into a giant blender," Joanna says, further losing Kilgrave. He really should have paid more attention to the news over the years, or even just given himself a crash course in mutant politics and history.

"He couldn't walk right for a few months," Erik says mildly.

"That mean we don't have a deal?"

"No." Erik meets Kilgrave’s eyes. Kilgrave doesn’t do anything so obvious as nodding, but some shift in his facial expression lets Erik know that Joanna is sincere. Erik holds out his hand. "I know you by reputation. You'll make a fine addition to the Brotherhood."

Joanna beams with pride and relief as she shakes his hand. If possible, she's even giddier under the surface, but controlling her outer reactions well. Kilgrave thinks he detects a hint of hero worship.

&&

Erik did not anticipate walking away from this meeting with a new recruit. From the shrug Azazel gives him, neither was Azazel. Still, he couldn't do much better than Frenzy, who already has a history of devotion to their cause. She also had Exodus' trust. That goes a long way toward balancing her reputed temper.

She leads them to the little graveyard around the back of the compound. Erik knows better than to ask about the unique adornments on each tombstone; those will be special to each buried mutant's powerset. The largest tombstone bears an apocalyptic engraving: "Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel." Exodus’ sense of purpose must have inflated after he split ways with Erik.

The open earth in front of the stone tells the story. Erik steps up to the edge of the grave and looks down at the shattered, empty coffin inside. Someone or something cracked the lid and scooped out the corpse. Insultingly, they didn't even bother to cover their tracks. The body has been missing for nearly two weeks; the Acolytes, in their outrage and grief, chose to leave the disturbed ground as it is.

"Stolen," Erik says out loud, "right from your backyard."

"Yes," Joanna says, short and clipped. Angry.

"And no one noticed until after the deed was done?" Erik's disbelief shows plainly.

"Exactly the problem," she says. Erik understands, now, that it isn't just rage underlying her tension. There is shame there, as well.

"One of your people."

"It must be."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"One. He left our group two days ago."

"You let him leave?"

"He wasn't suspicious until he left." Joanna looks directly at Kilgrave, and Erik has to resist changing his stance to match, shielding his empath from scrutiny. "He didn't leave until we were told you would bring an empath to the compound, one who could sniff out a lie."

Erik very deliberately does not look at Azazel. No one here is supposed to know what Kilgrave can do. That they know is another betrayal from Azazel; that this knowledge sent their quarry scurrying away is a failure that cannot be ignored. Erik meets Joanna's gaze, stone-faced.

"Do you know where he went?"

Joanna finally smiles, thin and tight, but clearly she feels confident in her knowledge. "I have some ideas."

"Good. You know where to begin our search."

Joanna nods. "Is there anything else you two can get from this?" She gestures at the desecrated grave. Erik shakes his head. "And nothing else you need from here?" Another negative. "Then let's go.”

Joanna is tough, with an attitude to match. As they check their quarry’s usual haunts, she tells Erik a little about their suspect. “His name is Fabian Cortez. He never would tell us where he came from, but he sounded European.”

“Which country?” Erik asks.

“Dunno. He tried hard to sound American, but the accent sticks. He’s always been kind of an elitist jackass, all fancy manners and flowery speeches. But he really seemed dedicated to our cause.” Joanna scowls. “We were Exodus’ support. I kept them grounded, kept our operation running. Fabian helped Exodus strategize. I didn’t have to personally like Fabian to trust him. This is--” she gestures, sharp and frustrated. “I can’t believe he’d do this. He was always so damn protective of other mutants and so suspicious of humans.”

“Then we have a lot to discuss, when we catch him,” Erik says.

Joanna nods. “Damn straight.”

“What can he do?”

“Beside ramble like a pompous dick? He amplifies the power of other mutants. He and Exodus were working on the room you saw. If he’d been with me in Australia, I could’ve bent Wolverine into a pretzel.”

Erik wouldn’t begrudge her if she had; Logan has a way of inviting trouble. Erik likes to think he’s always conducted himself with great restraint the few times they’ve clashed. “And he has no possible motivation to steal Exodus’ body?”

“No,” Joanna says with conviction. “He’s a fanatic. He was the sort to address Exodus as my lord. A few of the others picked that up from him.” Her tone makes her irritation clear. She bears that distinctly American distrust toward the concept of noble birth and subservience.

“Would he have any reason to believe he could still amplify Exodus’ powers and make use of them?”

“No. He… no, trust me, he can’t do anything with a dead body. He’s a psionic, he needs a living mind to work.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Fabian’s power isn’t just for support, he uses it offensively too. He can boost an ability to a crippling level. He’s smart. He knows about you--we all do, you inspired so many of us. But he’ll be prepared to counter you.” Here, Erik thinks he can detect a little worry from Joanna. He nods, compiling the information into his mental impression of Fabian Cortez. So far, he isn’t impressed.

&&

Joanna appears to be one of Erik's people through and through. There's nothing to her but honesty and loyalty. It's sickening, really. Kilgrave finds the building tension between Erik and Azazel to be far more interesting. He thought those two were tight; that initial assumption appears to be wrong, or else it's a close relationship that is rapidly unraveling. Just as worrying, Erik and Joanna are quickly turning into a well-oiled team, equally suited to banter and brutality.

The next few days, they remain constantly one step behind Fabian Cortez. Kilgrave sees so much of southern Nevada and northern Arizona, and even a little bit of Utah. He can honestly say he has never felt the urge to see Utah.

"I've been to Las Vegas," Kilgrave says, two days into their search. “And Burning Man.”

"Course you have," Joanna snorts. Four hours ago, she punched straight through a man’s head. Kilgrave still can’t decide if that was hot or terrifying to witness. "There's more to us than zombies and burners, you know."

There are easily a dozen snarky replies he could make to that, but he remembers how easily she cracked a man's skull this morning and decides to change the subject. "How are you wearing that leather jacket in this heat? You must be miserable."

"I'm cold-blooded," Joanna says with good humor. "Give me a rock in the sun and I'm happy."

"Ugh."

A few days after that, Kilgrave notices that Erik keeps leaving him behind with Azazel. “Sure I can’t help you?” he asks. Are his nightly dreams starting to bother Erik? He doesn’t know if he can afford to alienate Erik after all they’ve been through. The man’s presence is the only thing keeping him stable, Kilgrave knows this and hates it.

“Only when we find Cortez,” Erik says firmly.

“You already know I’m good at finding people,” Kilgrave points out. That is, presumably, the reason Erik recruited him in the first place. Erik studies his face silently. There is longing bubbling just under the surface of his thoughts. Kilgrave feels it pierce his heart with a curious regret, and he wants so badly to reach out and touch Erik. He can’t tell whose desire that is, so he doesn’t act on it. But it remains, aching sharp and clear every time Erik walks away without him. It will also spike early in the mornings, after Kilgrave wakes up sweating and needing Erik to ground him. Kilgrave doesn’t know how to fix whatever has changed between them.

The next day, he realizes that Azazel has lapsed into longer and longer periods of silence, spending more and more time away from the group. While Erik and Joanna debate where to go next, Kilgrave hangs back, sidling up to Azazel. "You've been quiet," he observes.

"So have you," Azazel deflects.

"I'm following orders. What are you doing?"

Azazel flashes his sharp teeth. "Much the same, friend."

Kilgrave scoffs. He finds Azazel's mind to be… elusive. When he thinks about it, it's always been like that. Perhaps as a side effect of his mutant power. Azazel’s side effects all suck, Kilgrave decides. Teleportation and fuzzy brains and creepy smiles. That and the fact that Kilgrave knows when Azazel looks at him speculatively, like he’s being undressed and disassembled under a microscope. The crawling sensation lingers long after Azazel looks away. He feels like a sex object, and not even a particularly useful one.

To make matters worse, Erik hasn’t initiated sex since before their visit to the Hellfire Club. He rarely touches Kilgrave at all, outside of the regular nightmares that have become a part of their routine. Kilgrave wakes up screaming, or kicking, or falling out of bed, and Erik holds him steady and still until his mind settles back down. Erik talks to him, mostly in foreign languages. “How much do you speak?” Kilgrave asks drowsily one night.

“Pardon?” Erik says, his voice sleep-rough and sexy. Kilgrave doesn’t know which one of them is sexually frustrated, but he would like for that tension to just go away. It’s really dragging at his concentration, popping up at the most inconvenient times.

“Languages,” Kilgrave clarifies, halfway back to sleep.

“Eight,” Erik answers, after a brief pause. “Polish, German, English, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, French, and Russian.”

“...wow.”

“What about you?”

“Conversational Spanish. And I can talk dirty in French.”

“Suce-moi la bite,” Erik says, in a more perfect accent than Kilgrave has ever managed.

Kilgrave laughs, startled. “Yeah, like that.” He does glance at Erik out of the corner of his eye, though, but Erik is still dropping off to sleep. Not even a flicker of lust in his head. Kilgrave ascertains that he isn’t actually being asked to suck Erik’s dick. He does feel a faint disappointment at that. Then a strong disappointment in himself.

The next morning, Erik acts like that conversation never happened, and keeps his distance from Kilgrave. Business as usual, then. Aside from the occasional twinge, and the weight of the piercings, it’s almost like the punishments never happened. There are faint scars on the backs of Kilgrave’s hands, and every day he runs his thumbs over the opposing scars. He has borne all of Erik’s fury and all of Erik’s lust, and now he doesn’t know how to exist without them. His body carries marks that no longer seem to matter.

Their current base of operations is actually an Acolyte’s home, converted into a midway point for secretive and mostly-illegal mutant activities. Two stories, decent-sized, enough bedrooms for everyone, located about forty miles out of Vegas. They haven’t been this close to Vegas before, a fact that leaves Kilgrave relieved. He would rather not sully his golden memories of the place with his current condition. His empathy would no doubt turn walking the Strip into a new level of hell.

They are closing in on Cortez. Every new turn in their game of cat and mouse narrows the distance between them and their prey. Erik and Joanna are convinced that their next destination will be the last. So convinced, in fact, that Erik steps out to call Emma Frost and update her on their progress.

Joanna and Azazel playfully box, taking fake swipes at each other, dancing on the tips of their feet. Kilgrave scowls and pretends he isn’t amused by the sight. “Oi, how old are you two?”

“Younger than you,” Joanna taunts.

“Older than Erik,” Azazel says.

“Wait, what?” Joanna and Kilgrave ask at nearly the same time. Azazel just shrugs.

Erik chooses that moment to stride back into the conversation. His cool gaze flicks over Kilgrave and lands on Joanna. He addresses her, "Ready?"

She grins and cracks her neck over Kilgrave's disgusted grimace. "Ready. Let's end this."

"Where to next, oh sovereign leader?" Kilgrave asks.

"You're staying here with Azazel," Erik says firmly. That's not what he wants to say; Kilgrave knows it's not, because Erik's emotions are in bloody turmoil. The whole situation is a shade too close to dishonesty. Kilgrave doesn't like the look of dishonesty in Erik. It makes him even more anxious.

That niggling little demon that Scarecrow put in his head returns with a vengeance. All he doesn't need you, and what will he do when he decides you're useless, and that sort of garbage. It is extremely backwards and dangerous for Kilgrave to be jealous of Joanna, but he is. He feels foolish, and pressured to claw his way back into the center of Erik's focus. That should be the last place he wants to be, and yet that's what he craves.

"You won't need someone to convince the traitor to confess to all his sins?" Kilgrave says with a forced casualness.

"We'll call if we do," Erik says in nearly the exact same tone. He brushes his hands along the back of Kilgrave's neck as he leaves, across the old needle scars. Kilgrave finds himself covering that same spot after Erik is gone. Usually the feeling of those little bumps against his palm makes Kilgrave's skin crawl. Now he just struggles to understand the ache in his chest. Very much like the moment he first watched Jessica walk away from him, minus all the anger.

He's left with Azazel. They look at each other, and as always, Kilgrave finds him hard to read. "Azazel," Kilgrave says, stopping him just before he can creep off to some other room. "Can I ask you for a favor?"

"You won't simply tell me to help?" Azazel asks. Worryingly, he doesn't seem opposed to either the favor or the idea of being compelled.

Kilgrave has a healthy respect for Erik's power, and no way of knowing how sensitive or wide his range is. Better to err on the side of caution, and not give Erik any reason to suspect he's using his power in unapproved ways. "Nah. Not really the done thing between coworkers, eh?"

Azazel shrugs. "What do you need?"

"Groceries." Kilgrave flounders for confident, nonchalant, misses by a mile. "I uh, want to make Erik dinner."

Azazel smiles, flashing those rows of very intimidating teeth. "How romantic." His tone is not in the least sarcastic, but Kilgrave still feels like he's being mocked. Something about Azazel always makes him feel nervous, defensive.

"You heard me," he says. "If I wrote a list, would you get everything I want?"

"What's in it for me?" Azazel asks. Off Kilgrave's dirty look, he adds, "Favor for a favor, my friend."

"That depends," Kilgrave stalls. "What do you want?"

"Nothing for now. I will decide later."

"I can't agree to that." Like hell Kilgrave is going to negotiate blind.

Azazel takes a step closer. "Feel free to deny my requests until I ask for something you can give."

Kilgrave can't regret his impulsive decision now. If worst comes to worst, he can always order Azazel to forget about their deal and cope with whatever Erik thinks about him using his power out of turn. Better the devil he knows. "You're getting the worse end of that bargain."

"As you say," Azazel says with maddening patience. He produces a small pen and notepad from an interior pocket and offers both to Kilgrave.

"Give me a moment," Kilgrave mutters as he accepts. He hasn't actually planned anything out. Azazel waits for him to conduct some quick research on Erik's laptop, then takes the completed list with a frivolously deep bow and vanishes. Kilgrave stares at the dissipating smoke, heart hammering, then with a jolt he springs into action.

In the course of planning, Kilgrave realizes two things: first, that he has never actually flirted with anyone, and second that he has never tried to seduce anyone. He's never had to. He has, however, seen plenty of television, and he has the advantage of knowing his target is interested and receptive.

Most of the seductions he watched have involved a woman making herself alluring for a man. In general, the right kind of recipient; in practice, the wrong kind of seducer. He decides he's not willing to try anything that makes him feel too feminine. Thanks but no thanks, he takes it up the ass now but he still has some masculine pride. That means lingerie is right out. He knows some men do wear sexy, frilly pants, but he assumes they're all gays or kinksters. He's neither. He's a… kept man. Kept by another man, with a low degree of willingness. Nothing gay or kinky about him, that's all Erik.

No dress. Absolutely not. He could stand to unbutton his shirt a little lower, and wear his tightest trousers. His concession to the sexy dressing part of a good seduction. Not like he has any cleavage to show off, so a few extra inches of bare skin will have to do.

No floral or fruity perfumes. He has a much better idea, anyway. Erik doesn't normally wear cologne, too distracted with his mission and all the travel it entails, but he does have a little bottle he keeps in case they need to attend a formal event or swing by the Hellfire Club. Kilgrave helps himself to a quick spray of that. It already comes Erik-approved and to his insanely possessive brain, it probably makes Kilgrave smell even more like his property. That's fine. Kilgrave can work with that.

A romantic dinner, he can do. The romance part is lacking, true, but Erik must have had his chance at true love when Charles bloody Xavier was still alive. Kilgrave is under no delusions that he is a distant consolation prize. He's a prize who knows how to cook, because Erik took the time to teach him. Usually with some implicit threat of intimate bodily harm; Kilgrave remembers his first lesson had taken place while his penis was attached via piercings to a cupboard handle. He'll never forget that.

The point is, he knows how to cook. And they have internet, so he can look up something interesting on youtube and follow a recipe. He can light a few candles, piece together a simple centerpiece from their hideout's garden, ask Azazel to fetch some nice wine without Erik getting suspicious.

All of this is just set dressing. The meal, the clothes, the cologne, it all lays out the scene. The actual seducing still requires some work. He can't use compulsion on Erik, but his empathy might give him an advantage. He's unbearably nervous when Azazel returns, snappish when Azazel smirks at his wine request. They haven't heard back from Erik and Joanna. By the time Azazel leaves again and comes back with the wine, Kilgrave has stashed the groceries away and selected an outfit to change into later.

Around this time, Azazel's phone buzzes. "Joanna," he says by way of explanation. "She says they have found him. They won't be much longer."

Kilgrave nods, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the triangular tip of Azazel's tail taps his shoulder. "Shit! Don't touch me with that thing." He could bite his tongue for that mistake. He freezes, waits for something to happen because of his latest slip. After a long moment, nothing does.

Azazel isn't upset. He only tilts his head toward the kitchen. "I would expect them to return in forty-five minutes."

Kilgrave glances between him and the kitchen multiple times. Is he going to try this now? "Now? Tonight?" Azazel nods to each question. "Oh, all right. Make yourself scarce." This time, he intends to give a command. Testing boundaries. Azazel gives him a lascivious smirk and teleports away. That leaves Kilgrave alone, nerves on edge from too many causes. Time later to consider how far he can bend Erik's rules. He's about to act like his Stephen King-captivity is actually a Nicholas Sparks-romance, and that thought is both horrifying and hilarious.

He doesn't know what else to do, to pull Erik's attention back where it belongs, to steal some ground back before Joanna stakes a claim, to draw Erik's eye without also suffering for it. Kilgrave glances nervously at the time, steeling his nerves. Erik isn't so far from the normal human spectrum that he can't appreciate a good dinner and a hard fuck. As far as his spur-of-the-moment plans go, this one isn't so bad. All he has to do is commit to having sex with Erik without having a panic attack or drowning in secondhand lust.

&&

Fabian Cortez is a coward, but a crafty one at that. His chosen hiding place holds almost no metal, in addition to being entirely off the grid. For all his cunning, he still can't move fast enough to evade his pursuers. When Erik and Joanna catch up to him, he has a half-packed bag and a plane ticket to JFK.

Joanna busts his door down and charges, taking Fabian's first round of plastic bullets in the chest. They ping harmlessly off her skin, puncturing little holes in her shirt and clattering to the floor. Erik follows close behind her, his helmet a blur whizzing through the air before latching onto Fabian's head. The man grabs at his face, startled, as Joanna reaches him. She crushes his gun and the hand holding the weapon.

Fabian drops to his knees with an agonized scream. The helmet neutralizes his powers, so Erik takes the time to inspect his few possessions. "What's in New York, Cortez?" Erik asks.

"Traitor," Joanna spits. Erik holds up a hand to caution her before she gets carried away.

"Cortez?" Erik prompts, heedless of the other man's ragged breaths.

"I will not talk," Cortez declares. He spits a mouthful of blood, having bitten his tongue during the scuffle.

"What about Exodus, Fabian? What have you done with his body?" Joanna asks. Erik lets her take the lead here, as she knew Cortez before he went rogue.

"I have done what I must," Cortez replies, remarkably calm for a man with nowhere left to hide and no defenses remaining. Sweat drips heavy down his face, the only outward concession to his pain.

"If you are truly convinced of your actions, then explain yourself," Erik says.

Cortez looks at him now, and Erik recognizes the fanatic gleam in Cortez's eyes. "In due time. My penance has yet to be paid."

"What the hell does that mean?" Joanna asks. "Motherfucker, you always have to talk in riddles and these, goddamn, sound bites." She releases an explosive, frustrated breath. When she talks again, her words are quieter, imploring. "You and me were his lieutenants. He trusted us. Talk to me."

Cortez gives her a pitying smile. "You are strong in heart and deeds, but words and wit were never yours to wield."

Joanna raises her fist, and both men brace themselves for the blow, Erik ready to catch Cortez if she knocks him to the ground. Her arm shakes, and she turns with expressive fury and punches a hole through the wall. "Whatever. I tried. Have at him, Erik." She leaves.

Erik stands over Cortez, looking down at him in disdain. The man is blond, richly-dressed, an inborn arrogance clear in every feature and expression. "If it's words you value, then I know a man who should meet your standards."

"Do as you will. Play your part, Lord Magneto, as I must play mine."

Erik rummages through Cortez's few belongings, finding nothing beside the plane ticket to be of interest. He leads Cortez outside by the head, and tells Joanna to let Azazel know they are on their way back with the wayward mutant.

The drive back is tense and quiet. Erik blindfolds Cortez and Joanna threatens more bodily harm if he misbehaves. Erik feels calmer now, satisfied that they've made significant progress in their mission. By contrast, Joanna is moodier, angrier. Finding Cortez has not given her the answers she was hoping for. An interview with Kilgrave should help in that regard.

Erik lets himself wish, for just a moment, that he took Kilgrave with them. They'd already be finished with Cortez and moving on to the next phase if Kilgrave were here to force truths from a traitor. Erik firmly pushes all wishful thinking aside. Emma may not be his first choice for advisor or confidante, but her insight on Kilgrave has forced him to reconsider what he is and isn't willing to expose the empath to. Their confrontation with Cortez could have gone a lot worse.

The house is filled with an enticing smell when they arrive, setting Erik's stomach to rumbling. He stops just past the doorway, and Joanna nearly runs into his back.

"What?" She sniffs the air appreciatively. "Did someone cook?"

"Alas, not for us," Azazel says, popping out from around the corner. "Shall I make Mr. Cortez comfortable in the guest suite?"

"You mean the basement," Joanna clarifies.

"It is a nice basement."

"Secure his hands. Don't let him remove my helmet," Erik instructs, following his nose to the kitchen. He finds Kilgrave stirring something on the stove. "What are you doing?" he asks, bemused.

Kilgrave shoots him a disbelieving look. "I'm playing rugby."

"I wasn't aware rugby looked and smelled like chicken marsala."

"I thought… you know, I thought I'd make us dinner. Just the two of us. For--well, dinner." Kilgrave blushes prettily, and Erik struggles against an overwhelming impulse to kiss his cheek. Nuzzle down his neck, leave a few bruises with his teeth.

Emma's words still swirl through his mind, though, so he only says, "I see that. Can you eat solids now?"

"It's been two weeks. Almost two weeks. We already know I heal fast." Kilgrave breathes unsteadily, seems to pull himself away from unpleasant memories. Erik has put his ability to recover to the test. "I'm good."

"Good," Erik echoes.

"So! You caught our missing man, then?"

"Yes. You'll meet him later." Erik notices then that Kilgrave is wearing his best outfit, purple shirt unbuttoned to a scandalous degree. His fitted pants show off his ass very nicely. Erik finds that he's drifted closer, and can smell the cologne Kilgrave wears. It's actually Erik's, presumably because Kilgrave doesn't own any of his own. Erik wonders what Kilgrave could possibly want--or feel the need to apologize for.

"Fine. Dinner is almost done, give me a few more minutes."

"I'll go change," Erik volunteers, deciding to play along for now. Cortez is all but forgotten by the time he returns to the kitchen and sees Kilgrave setting up two plates catty-corner on the dining table. His last step is to fill two wine glasses from a decadent pinot noir.

"Did Azazel help you with this?" Erik asks, standing in the doorway and folding his hands behind his back.

Kilgrave glances over at him, double-takes, and forces his eyes away. Erik has opted for a sinfully snug turtleneck, the type that no one should look good in--but Erik has always made it work.

"Obviously," Kilgrave answers, delicately setting the bottle in its place, halfway between the two glasses. "He did the shopping, I did the cooking. Owe him a favor for it." He grimaces.

"Pay that off quickly," Erik advises. He steps into the room, circling slowly around the table. There are candles lit, and the lights are dimmed. All that's missing is the soundtrack. Erik isn't terribly familiar with movies in general, but he's very certain Kilgrave has ripped this whole scene from another source.

Kilgrave pulls out a chair for Erik, scarcely able to hide how his hands tremble. Proximity to Erik still makes Kilgrave simultaneously draw closer and shake with fear. Erik has crafted in him a self-loathing addict.

Erik takes the seat, waits until Kilgrave has seated before trying his first bite. The chicken is a little dry, but the flavor comes through nicely. He hums in approval. "Well done. You learn quickly."

Kilgrave preens under the praise, always fast to lap up any positive attention. "I have a natural talent."

Erik smiles indulgently. "What brought this on?"

"Oh, you know. Celebrating solid foods," Kilgrave says, too fast.

Erik raises his glass, gives Kilgrave a baiting grin. "To your recovery."

Kilgrave hesitates for only a moment before clinking their glasses together. "To your success."

Erik watches the line of Kilgrave's throat as he takes a drink. He's not so distracted that he misses the speculative gleam in Kilgrave's eyes. Erik finds it much easier to forget Emma's words when Kilgrave seems intent on seducing him. For what cause, Erik doesn't know, but he's determined to enjoy the effort.

Kilgrave chooses this moment to escalate his tactics. A coy smile lights up his face as he leans closer to Erik. One hand slides across the table, stopping just shy of Erik's plate. "Would you like to tell me how you caught Cortez?"

"Easily," Erik says dismissively. "My helmet suppresses his power and Joanna is immune to plastic guns."

Kilgrave's mouth drops in a jealous moue. Erik thinks he is beginning to understand why Kilgrave is behaving like this. To test his burgeoning theory, Erik adds, "I'm impressed with her work."

Kilgrave huffs. "I didn't ask about her."

Erik smiles, and covers Kilgrave's hand with his own. "Are you jealous?"

"Well. If you have Cortez to torture and Cargill to fuck…"

Erik makes a loose fist around Kilgrave's wrist. "I'm not sleeping with Joanna."

Kilgrave stares at where their hands are linked. His eyes flick back up at Erik, coquettish, falsely shy. He licks his lips and says, "You haven't been sleeping with me, either."

"Are you trying to change that?" Erik asks, his voice a low rumble.

In lieu of answering, Kilgrave leans forward and presses a soft, sweet kiss on the corner of Erik's mouth. Erik lets him withdraw and take another bite, watches him chew and swallow and stare a hole in his plate.

"Upstairs," Erik says, thinking of his warm bed and a night with his favorite bed-warmer. Kilgrave drops his fork with a careless clatter and nearly trips over his chair in his haste to lead the way. Erik follows close at his heels. By the time they reach Erik's bedroom, he has manipulated the metal buttons open on Kilgrave's shirt and undone his zipper.

Kilgrave shrugs out of his loosened clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor alongside his shoes. Before he can move away, Erik catches him and traps him in a searing kiss. Kilgrave, naked and vulnerable, leans against his body. Erik thrusts his tongue into his mouth at the same time he shoves his lust outward. Nearly two weeks of frustrated abstinence guide his hands as they grope at Kilgrave's bare skin.

"I'm--I--" Kilgrave gasps between heated, open-mouthed kisses. Finally he grabs Erik's arms and guides them down, so his hands curl around Kilgrave's ass. Erik probes at his entrance, and finds Kilgrave already slick and open.

It's Erik's turn to gasp. "You--"

"Yeah!"

Erik bodily lifts and throws him onto the bed. Kilgrave bounces with flailing limbs. Erik pulls at his sweater with such haste he tears the thick fabric. The rest of his clothes fly off in record time and he joins Kilgrave on the bed.

He grinds their hard lengths together. Kilgrave chants "please please please" and Erik seizes his thighs, pries them apart. That's not what Kilgrave wants, because he shoves at Erik's shoulders. Erik allows him to flip their positions, lets his back hit the mattress.

"Gahh, this is my seduction," Kilgrave says.

Erik gestures. "It worked. And?"

"I thought…" Kilgrave trails off with a shaky breath. He turns, and straddles Erik backwards, so Erik can see his own cock peeking out between Kilgrave's buttocks. "Will this work for you?"

Erik growls and takes Kilgrave's hips in his hands, urging the man to rise onto his knees so he can angle his cock inside. "Perfectly," Erik says as Kilgrave sinks down, as his cock disappears inside the empath's trembling body.

Erik's hands slide possessively over Kilgrave's back as he moves, up and down, up and down. His body is tight and hot, a smooth slide that clenches just right around Erik's cock. Those punched-out gasps that Kilgrave releases with each downward thrust are as familiar as the shiver in his spine when Erik hits him at just the right angle.

"Ack, wait, wait--I mean please wait," Kilgrave jerks to a stop, doubling over, squeezing Erik's knees with white-knuckled hands.

"Why?" Erik growls, arching impatiently.

"Nn, look at this." Kilgrave doesn't oblige him by moving again.

Erik pushes onto his elbows to get a look at what has Kilgrave so concerned he's interrupting their first round of sex in over a week. There is a spot, on Kilgrave's stomach, under his skin, that protrudes slightly. "Oh," Erik says idly, blood rushing in his ears.

&&

“Did you break me?” Kilgrave squeaks in horror. Beneath him, Erik laughs, a low rumble that reverberates up Kilgrave’s body.

“No. Look.” Erik places his hand over the bump in Kilgrave’s stomach, pushing at it slightly. He laughs again, near giddy with the feeling. “That’s me. No, Darkly, don’t panic.” He grips Kilgrave’s hips tightly, preventing him from sliding off. “You’re so thin. This won’t happen when you regain your body weight.” He reconsiders. “Probably.”

“Oh, right, blame it on me and not your goddamn monster cock.” Kilgrave gestures down for emphasis, rocking his hips and drawing groans from them both. When he cranes his neck to look at Erik’s face, Erik grins up at him, sharklike, dazed, far too smug. Kilgrave irritably swats at his chest, unable to put any real force behind the slap.

“Right.” He has to choose his words carefully, because he wants to say shut up but that’s definitely a command and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m gonna ride this…” He flounders, hands flailing a bit. Erik’s smile turns expectant and Kilgrave thinks, what the hell, it’s a seduction after all, a little flattery won’t go amiss. “...this giant prick that’s trying to split me in two.” Sue him, he’s still learning how to seduce.

Erik has no complaints, as he just hums and loosens his grip on Kilgrave’s hips. Kilgrave rises unsteadily, watching as the bulge disappears, and then lowers himself, leaning back as much as he can without losing his balance, and watching with sick fascination as it reappears. He can see exactly how deep Erik penetrates him. The knowledge makes him feel lightheaded. Erik surges up behind him, his arm wrapping around Kilgrave’s waist as they readjust. Erik ends up sitting against the headboard, Kilgrave on his lap, back to chest.

"Kevin," Erik says, traces of an old accent strangling his voice. He lays one large hand over Kilgrave's stomach, right where the outline of his cock is most prominent. "Move."

Kilgrave swallows hard and strives to obey. Erik is big, yes, Kilgrave has always been intimately aware of that, thankyouverymuch, but he's never seemed so big as now, in this obscene display. Kilgrave leans back, trusts Erik with his weight, and bounces on his cock, working out the best angle. He wants it deep, and he can no longer tell if he wants it that way because Erik does or because he's actually developing a preference in being buggered.

He finds a pace that punches the breath out of him, and has Erik rocking his hips up into every downward thrust. Erik's hand covers the bump that regularly forms below Kilgrave's ribcage, but he is still achingly aware of it. Erik is obsessed. Kilgrave's ignored cock bobs between his spread thighs, leaking precum onto Erik's legs and the mattress.

Erik bites his shoulder, made vicious in his lust. Kilgrave groans, fumbles with grabbing Erik's hair and tug. He only prompts Erik to bite down harder, drawing blood and throwing Kilgrave off his rhythm. Erik abruptly rolls them over and starts pounding into his ass. Kilgrave finds his head hanging over the side of the mattress and scrambles for a handhold to keep from sliding off.

He can no longer restrain his moans, knows he sounds progressively higher and louder in response to Erik's thrusts. Erik's fingernails dig wet, red trails in his hips; Erik's teeth tear bloody bite marks along his shoulders. And Erik's cock splits him wide open, scrambles his guts and his brains and there is a specific patch of skin on his stomach that keeps hitting the mattress before the rest, because Erik's cock is stupid and it will probably kill him one day--

Kilgrave screams when they come, together and inseparable in his head. He catches a flicker of alarm from one of the other mutants in the house, just before their joint orgasm drags him gasping under wave after wave of unrelenting pleasure.

When he comes to, he has fallen off the bed, and Erik's arm is dangling after him. He is a bloody, sticky mess, and his head is ringing and he feels completely hollowed out, like Erik scooped him out with his cock.

Apparently he says at least that last bit out loud, because Erik laughs shakily. "Am I to take that as a compliment?"

"Oh," Kilgrave catches himself before he gives an accidental order. "Don't take anything I say as a command, but shut up."

Erik peers over the edge of the mattress, amusement plain in his eyes. "Well-spoken. We should start every morning with that phrase."

"Which one? Shut up?" Kilgrave says sarcastically, but he gives the idea serious thought, and it does make sense. He doesn't have any control over Erik anyway, so giving the man daily immunity couldn't hurt.

"I missed this," Erik says, abruptly too honest for their own good. Kilgrave's mouth runs dry.

"Then why did you stop?" he asks. He doesn't want to come across as petulant, but he's afraid that's how he sounds anyway. After Erik forced him to be dependent and Scarecrow fucked with his head, the last thing Kilgrave needed was for Erik to grow distant. Sex is just the easiest way to resume the closeness that Erik made him crave.

"I didn't mean it," Erik says quietly. Kilgrave can't deal with the waves of sincerity and longing pouring off of Erik's mind. There is a flood washing over him, cowing him under the weight of all that Erik has repressed.

Meekly, he crawls back into bed, follows Erik as he scoots back up to the headboard and the pillows. The sheets are a tangled mess that neither of them bother to sort out.

He can't meet Erik's eyes, because he wanted the attention and now that he has it, he no longer knows what to do with it, or why he even sought this. Erik isn't his lover, and their life isn't a holiday special with a happy ending, where all their problems are solved with a romantic gesture.

"Come here, Darkly," Erik says. He motions at his lap. Maybe he wants Kilgrave to sit in it, but they aren't really the post-coital cuddling type. Maybe he just wants Kilgrave to rest his head for a moment. Kilgrave has a better idea, to set them back to a less dangerous intimacy.

He drops onto his side and curls against Erik, his nose and one cheek sliding along Erik's thigh until he reaches the man's soft cock. Kilgrave nuzzles that flaccid length, breathing in that sharp, masculine scent that he's tasted so many times before. "Mind if I keep this warm for you?" he asks.

Erik drops a heavy hand to his hair, tugging lightly. "In… oh, half an hour, that won't be the only thing you're doing."

Kilgrave snorts. "I know that. Remember when your come was a part of my balanced diet?"

Erik barks a startled laugh. "You have always had a way with words." He guides Kilgrave's mouth closer. "Fine. Don't neglect me."

Kilgrave sticks his tongue out and waggles it. By the way Erik's eyes darken, the man has definitely glimpsed one of the tongue piercings. After that reminder, Kilgrave swallows his cock whole. Much easier when it's soft and somewhat smaller. It feels incredibly satisfying in his mouth. Thick and heavy, grounding and masculine.

Kilgrave's eyes drift closed. Finally, his anxiety switches off and he floats on the surface of Erik's emotions, the contentment and the pride and the anticipation. He's performed well, and Erik's approval is even warmer and sweeter than the cock in his mouth. He could lie like this for hours. Suck when Erik's hard, swallow his come, then simply hold still until the next round. It feels like Erik is inclined to let him.

Erik pets his hair, quiet, patient, encouraging. Kilgrave wore a gag off and on for months. He could wallow in this moment forever. Erik's cock twitches against the back of his throat, jarring Kilgrave from his peaceful stasis. Kilgrave hums a question around Erik's dick, and gets his answer in the form of Erik pushing at the back of his head.

When he sucks, he sucks with enthusiasm, slurping at Erik's cock like it's his favorite flavor. When he swallows, his throat works tight around the cock head. When he licks, the piercings slide smooth over flushed red skin. Erik murmurs soft praise that makes Kilgrave's ears burn, makes him want to drag this out into the best goddamn blowjob Erik has ever received.

He bobs his head and sucks hard, chasing every pulse of pleasure from Erik's mind. Lipping his foreskin back is always a good first step, but slipping his tongue between foreskin and cock always drives Erik wild. Kilgrave traps his tongue under the foreskin and licks a circle around Erik's cock. Erik groans, hips bucking and throwing Kilgrave off his rhythm. Unbothered, Kilgrave dives back down, lets Erik thrust and hit the back of his throat, and deeper.

The angle is wrong to have Erik fuck his mouth, but he manages to bob his head down each time Erik thrusts up. The taste of precum grows stronger, coating Kilgrave's mouth, slipping past his lips with his spit. Erik's hand tightens in his hair and forces Kilgrave so far down his cock, Kilgrave's nose burrows into curly pubic hair. Kilgrave forces his throat to relax, take Erik's cock in too far to suck. Erik comes with a hoarse shout, shooting his load too deep for Kilgrave to even taste it.

Kilgrave swallows dutifully, and hangs on through every aftershock. He nurses at Erik's cock as it slowly starts to soften. Erik laughs, low and wrung-out. Kilgrave's eyes flick up to his face. "You'd stay there all night if I let you," Erik says by way of explanation.

Kilgrave hums an affirmative, and Erik tugs sharply at his hair, his cock too sensitive post-orgasm. Kilgrave winces, but doesn't let Erik's cock slip out. He's not done coasting on this mental plane where nothing scares or hurts him.

Erik's come sluggishly drips out of Kilgrave's battered asshole and dries between his legs. The sticky mess will bother him later, but it can't distract him now. He only notices because Erik's free hand has started to wander, fingers circling his hole. Erik shoves some of his semen back inside and holds his finger there while Kilgrave's body reflexively clenches.

"I want to fuck you again," Erik murmurs.

Kilgrave's response is garbled by the dick in his mouth, by his exaggerated avoidance of biting down. He’ll let Erik; anything Erik wants, he can have, as long as he doesn’t try to push Kilgrave away.

&&

Erik has Kilgrave plugged at both ends. He's developing an inordinate fondness for this position. Piercing Kilgrave through and through, holding him in a circuit that begins and ends with Erik.

Absurd to think he willingly avoided this, after working so hard to tie Kilgrave's needs and desires to his. Realistically, he can't even blame Emma, because Erik's the one who ultimately let his crisis of doubt come between them. He still tallies it as another reason to hold his grudge against Emma.

No more distance. No more restraining himself, no more doubting where he should keep Kilgrave in his life. The answer is obviously at his side and in his bed. He made this prize, it’s only right that he should claim it. There will be time, later, to make Kilgrave battle-ready. For now, he has a lot to make up for, and a hot, willing body to bear his every whim.