#kilgrave

🍒 author’s note: okay so i know kilgrave is certainly a…character and one that not a lot of people get on with. i want to preface this fic by saying that i absolutely don't condone his canon actions (i don't know anyone decent who would) but i'm not writing him as canon!kilgrave. i'm removing jessica from his story as well as most sa (apart from like once when he was a teenager and didn't know better). he still hurts people, kills people, all that jazz, but i'm not writing him as a rapist. i'm writing him as a more self-aware, slightly less reprehensible character.

the mc isn't immune to his powers but he doesn't need to use them because mc sees a side of him that they fall for and they give themselves to him willingly; what he's always wanted. mc isn't a great person either as they don't try to stop him using his powers but they will step in and stop him from being so rash with his powers aka killing people, forcing them to torture themselves. he still does it, just not in front of mc. i hope this made sense.

with that being said, please take care of yourself and don't read if you're still uncomfortable. love y'all. happy fathers' day! 💛💛

There was a kind of static in the air, buzzing in the damp autumn air. Inside a lavish penthouse apartment, the bluish glow of a laptop lit up his face, casting sharp shadows across features that anyone, who had seen them, associated with pure horror.

Kevin Thompson — Kilgrave, these days — couldn't care less about the world outside; his gaze fixed entirely on his screens. One hand rests on his laptop as the other scrolls through his phone. The camera roll is filled to the brim with files, thousands of photographs; candid photos taken from across a busy street, a soft smile in a grocery store, screenshots of tracking data from a program he'd had installed on a particular phone months ago.

To those who encountered him, heard about him, he was some kind of psychic boogeyman who took whatever he wanted and, in many ways, they were right. He'd carved a path for himself in this world, leaving piles of ruined people in his wake. Under his thrall, men had broken their own bones, walked into traffic, jumped from multi-storey buildings. He was a creature of pure coercion. He'd done all these things and much, much more. But he never raped anyone; not knowingly and certainly not intentionally. The mere idea of using his powers to force someone into his bed was repulsive. Granted; this wasn't because he actually upheld a kind of moral code. No, it was because sex with someone under his thrall was so incredibly boring. Boring and lonely, though he'd never admit it. It was like puppetry and, at that point, he might as well have just bought a sex doll. He despised it and so, in the end, he'd resigned himself to a life of absolute power and absolute emptiness because he craved the one thing his power could never manufacture; loyalty and affection born entirely of free will.

Until there was a string of odd news stories coming from just out of town.

They called them freak accidents and public disturbances; localised EMP-like events that shattered city block's worth of electronics. There were multiple across the city but never too far. The police said it was likely a faulty transformer. But he'd seen the footage, the photos. Always, there was a figure huddled on the pavement or tucked away in a dark corner that the cameras had managed to catch before they were fried; small, timid, terrified of their own shadow and holding back a great deal of power. Kilgrave had been entirely captivated.

And the hunt began.

He had you identified and the rest was easy from there; a whisper here and a whisper there and he'd managed to find all your socials, your address, your family. He'd gotten into your devices and, by extension, your diary. There were countless people mentioned in there alongside the things they'd done to you. People labelled him as evil but at least he was upfront with it. So he made a list.

For months, he'd been travelling, hopping from wet, grey, British streets to the stifling cities of Australia and everywhere in-between. He'd tracked down every single name you mentioned. Not out of a sense of justice but just because he was curious as to what kind of people could create a vision like you, what kind of abuse you'd suffered at the hands of others to make you the way you are. He didn't leave them unscathed though, that wouldn't be fun.

There were old friends, employers and ex-lovers, which were his personal favourite. It made some possessive part of him sing when he forced one of your abusive ex-boyfriends to repeatedly crush his fingers under the fall-board of a piano, leaving his fingers mangled and his voice hoarse from all the pathetic screaming. He didn't use weapons; didn't have to. He just walked into their space, smiled that razor-sharp smile and pulled up a picture of you on his phone.

"Do you remember this face?" He'd ask. If they said no, he'd fill them in. If they said yes, all the better; he could get right to the fun part. He delivered his own twisted form of karma, making sure that the people who hurt you paid a permanent price, all while keeping his hands completely clean. Then, he'd watch your diary. You were...grateful. Sure, it was odd that all the names cropping up in the news reports were related to you but you weren't about to complain; they deserved it.

He began messaging you on your socials. You talked for weeks. Through text, obviously there was no way his virus could get to you, you were completely uninhibited by his voice and so he tested the waters. The chemistry was like a lightning strike and all so genuine. Without a single command, he was receiving the soft, vulnerable responses he had spent his entire life begging for. He was your guardian angel and he'd make sure that no-one would speak a crossed word to you again, never lay a finger on you again. You were all his.

But the distance grew unbearable. He'd spent days lurking in the shadows outside your apartment building, watched your window from across the street. He exercised a restraint he didn't know he was capable of, terrified that stepping into your space would ruin what you had, that his virus would infect the air and you would become just another puppet on a string. But he needed to see you, hold you, comfort you. He needed you to be his, not just in theory but in reality.

It's the third Sunday in June. It shouldn't have any significance but it has, ever since he met you, ever since he learned what he could be for you.

And, to his relief and delight, Kilgrave realised that his powers were completely unnecessary with you. You were so tired, so broken by the past, that even a word of comfort or a hand on your shoulder would have you as putty in his hands. Things took off from there.

You walk up the street, an arm looped into his. You're both dressed to the nines. It's a special night, after all; you have to make the most of it.

Kilgrave holds the door open for you. The restaurant is packed with people eating and chattering. When you come to a stop by the 'please wait here to be seated' sign, you glance up at him and see a muscle twitch in his jaw. He pushes past the line of people to be seated and you follow close behind, his fingers tight around your own. He stands at the head of the dining room, picks up a wine bottle from one of the tables and drops it on the floor. The crash echoes through the high-ceilinged room and the din of talking thins out to a murmur as everyone looks over.

"Everyone, out." He commands easily, voice steady, assured. Some of them look at each other but they all begin to pack their things, pick up their coats and file out without a single complaint.

Once the last of the patrons has left, leaving the two of you alone in the dining room, he leads you to a table at the back. It's small and intimate, a candle and a couple white roses in a small vase at the centre of the table. He pulls your chair out first — ever the gentleman — and you take a seat.

"Thank you." You tell him and large, warm hands rest on your shoulders, squeezing lightly before he rounds the table to take a seat. He watches you like a hawk, cataloging every movement, every breath, but his gaze is entirely adoring. You notice a waiter peek his head out from the kitchen and you smile, waving him over. He almost trips over himself, hurrying his way into the dining room and unwittingly stepping into the infected air that surrounds the man sitting across from you.

"Menus." Kilgrave announces, tapping a finger on the table. The waiter nods and rushes to place two menus on the table. He looks at the menus and then at the waiter. "Is that it?" He huffs and the waiter wrings his wrists slightly. "On Father's Day? I thought it was supposed to be all about appreciating the paternal figures in our lives, yes? Where's my appreciation?" You reach across the table, laying your hand on his larger one.

"I appreciate you, daddy." You give him a winning smile and his demeanour shifts in an instant as he turns his head to look at you. Long fingers curl into yours possessively, his thumb stroking across the back of your hand as a genuine, satisfied smile curls at his lips; hungry and adoring all at once.

"I know you do, sweetheart." He murmurs, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. You take a glance at the menu.

"Hmm... Can I get a glass of the house red, please?" You ask and the waiter nods quickly, pulling out his notepad and scribbling down your order.

"Yes, of course. And for you, sir?" The waiter turns his attention to Kilgrave, who doesn't even look at him.

"Actually, we'll take a bottle of the 2018 Brunello di Montalcino." The waiter nods again and then turns to walk to the bar. "Oh, and lock the front doors; we don't want any interruptions."

You watch the waiter move out the corner of your eye but your focus stays rivet to the man opposite you, still holding your hand. He tilts his head, studying you with that familiar intensity, like he could just stare at you forever and never get tired of it. His free hand reaches up to brush a lock of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with almost unbearable tenderness. "God, you're so perfect." He whispers and you lightly grasp his wrist, holding his hand to your face and gazing at him through your lashes. His thumb draws slow circles on your cheekbone and you melt into the contact, perfectly comfortable under his gaze.

Soon enough, the waiter returns with the glasses and wine but Kilgrave pays him no mind, too entranced by you to acknowledge anything else. He's never met a person who makes him feel how he imagines others feel under his thrall. You kiss the inside of his wrist before releasing his hand.

"What do you want to eat?" You ask and he takes a breath, eyes flickering over the menu briefly.

"Mm... The filet mignon." He decides. The waiter pours two glasses of wine as the man across the table taps rhythmically on the table with his fingertips. "Still mooing." He holds up his menu as you scan yours.

"And I'll have..." Kilgrave plucks up his glass, taking a whiff of the wine before sipping, watching you over the rim of his glass as you consider your order. The rich burgundy in the glass has notes of raspberry, wild herbs and peach and it slips down his throat like liquid gold. "I'll just have the tiramisu, please." You hand the waiter your menu.

"Straight to dessert." Kilgrave purrs, amused.

"Tiramisu for the gentleman. And the filet mignon, blue." The waiter repeats then makes himself scarce as the man across the table waves him away dismissively.

Once you're alone again, he curls his fingers around the stem of his glass, lifting it toward you.

"To us." He murmurs softly and you take you glass, clinking it to his.

"Happy Fathers' Day." At your words, a smile curls at his lips, the rare sight making him look almost boyish.

"Thank you." He takes a long sip of his wine and then sets his glass down. "Come here, darling." You stand and he pushes his chair back slightly, patting his thigh. You move around the table to sit in his lap.

"Here?"

"Right here." One arm wraps securely around the small of your back as his other hand rests on your thigh, feeling the warmth of your skin through your dress pants, thumb lightly tracing your inseam.

He leans in, his nose brushing the side of your neck as he drinks in your scent; clean laundry, drugstore cologne, a warm body. His lips barely graze where your pulse flutters beneath the skin as his hand slides higher on your thigh, inching higher and higher. He drags the flat of his tongue along the column of your throat and you let out a shaky sigh. He's already getting hard, grinding up just enough to show you what you do to him. His mouth finds your ear, capturing the lobe between his teeth lightly. It pulls a gasp from you and your fingers tighten around his shoulder.

The chuckle he lets out; you feel more than hear. "That's it." He praises, his voice barely a whisper as he squeezes your thigh. "I can't wait to get home. I'm going to fuck you into the mattress. Would you like that?" You nod, pressing your brow to his temple.

"Yes... Yes, please..." Your voice is soft and breathy.

"Good boy." he murmurs approvingly, his lips following the curve of your jawline. He picks up his wine glass again and takes a long sip. You watch the muscles in his throat work as he swallows, the way his Adam's apple bobs, and you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck.

He takes another sip but he doesn't swallow this time. Instead, he cups the back of your head, pressing his lips to yours and pushing the wine into your mouth as his tongue invades. The cool, rich liquid spills into your mouth as you part your lips on a gasp. His tongue dives in after it, claiming your mouth with deep possessive strokes.

When he finally pulls away, the both of you are breathing heavy and you can feel him straining against you from below.

The waiter soon returns with your tiramisu and his filet though you barely notice; too wrapped up in him to care about anything else. He meets your gaze, deep brown eyes swimming with hunger and adoration. He can feel you trembling. He can feel just how much you want him. "Feed me." He orders, though he still doesn't use his powers. You turn to grasp the cutlery but he stops you, warm fingers curling around your wrist. "Not yet. Stand up."

When you stand from his lap, his fingers find their way under the waistband of your dress pants and underwear, tugging them down to your mid-thigh. You flush deeply, eyes darting around the restaurant only to find it still empty, no prying eyes. Once you're exposed, he sinks back in his chair, trailing a hand down to unzip his own slacks, groping himself through his underwear before pulling those down too. Catching your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes drop to his cock, already pulsing, leaking, eager for you. He wraps a hand around it, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke, as your mouth waters. "Look at what you do to me, sweetheart." He rasps, passing his thumb over the head to smear a bead of pre over the crown.

With his other hand, he taps his thigh again and you obey, whining softly as you feel his cock sliding between your soaking wet folds. One hand goes to grip your hip and keep you steady, the other still holding the base of his prick to guide him in.

"D-Daddy..." And a muscle jumps in his neck as he gasps, his head falling back against the chair as you sink down onto him, not yet inside you but sliding against you wetly, teasing you both.

"There we go." The hand on your hip squeezes tight as he lowers you down onto him so very, very slowly. A groan tears from his throat and his eyes drop shut as your tight heat swallows him inch by inch. Your body grips him tight as you fully seat him inside you, the familiar stretch making you mewl with pleasure. "That's my boy. Just keep me there, don't move..."

You stay there a moment before picking up the cutlery and cutting him a slice of the filet. The juices run out on the plate, bloody and rich. You hold the fork up to his mouth.

"Here." You offer and he opens his mouth, letting you feed him the tender, bloody meat. It ments on his tongue and he savours it, his hands tight on your hip and your thigh, keeping you still. "Is it good?" You lean into rub your face against the hinge of his jaw. The simple, tender gesture makes him throb inside you.

"Mmhmm." You turn and hold up another slice of meat. He accepts it, leaning forward to take the offering, his tongue curling around the fork to catch the juices. He chews slowly, massaging your thigh while his cock sits heavy and deep inside you, unmoving. "Delicious."

You take your time feeding him and holding his wine glass to let him drink, all while he throbs and twitches inside you. You know he has no intention of taking it further thank this; it's only a promise of what's to come when you get home.

Kilgrave lets you spoil him, allowing you to feed him bite after bloody bite and tilt the glass to his lips. He relishes the food but, more than that, he relishes your company, your genuine care and affection. His heavy, aching presence inside you is a constant reminder; you're filled and owned and loved.

Once he finishes the steak, you give him another drink of wine before switching the plate for the tiramisu. You go to pick up the spoon but he takes it from your fingers. "Let me." He murmurs and you relax against him. He scoops up a generous spoon of mascarpone and coffee-soaked ladyfingers, bringing it to your lips. "Open." Immediately, you part your lips and he feed you the sweet, creamy bite, watching intently as your lips close around the spoon. He smiles and it's dark, predatory but painfully fond. He lifts a hand to wipe a smudge of cocoa power from the corner of your mouth. "Good boy." He praises again, feeding you another spoonful as you feel his cock pulse inside you, grounding you in his presence. Every few bites, he leans in to kiss the sweetness from your lips and your eyes are riveted to him the entire time.

Once he finishes feeding you, he drags a finger along the plate, gathering the last traces of cocoa powder and coffee liqueur. He brings his finger to your lips, offering it to you expectantly. You open your mouth and wrap your lips around his finger, eyes fluttering closed as your tongue grazes his skin. He shudders, his cock jerking hard inside you. You lick and suckle at his finger until he pulls it away, your lips connected to his fingertip with a thin string of saliva. "That's right."

You finish your wine as his hand returns to your thigh. The silence is heavy but comfortable; the air thick with ownership and obsessive, deep-seated love. When you set your wine glass down again, he lays a kiss just below your ear, scenting the tender flesh there. "Time for home, love?" He asks and you nod.

You can't wait to show daddy just how much you truly appreciate him.

if you got this far, it’d be lovely if you dropped me a kudos or a comment (whatever you have time for) on ao3. thanks for reading 💛✨