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Xmen Fic, Persuasion, Chapters 1-4 - Sophie and Sionnain's Fics

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August 29th, 2005


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04:54 pm - Xmen Fic, Persuasion, Chapters 1-4
Title: Persuasion
Authors: Sophie Richard and Sionnain
Fandom: Xmen, Movieverse, following XMen2.
Pairings: Magneto/Rogue, Logan/OC, Charles/OC
Rating: MA
Warning: D/S elements, though not overt. Hot usage of a dildo? We'll let you decide if that is a warning or an enticement. *G*

Summary: After finding a way to touch her, Magneto kidnaps Rogue in an attempt to teach her how to control her powers. Rogue finds herself similarly frightened of--and attracted to--her enigmatic new teacher, the only one who is able to give her what she has always wanted.



Chapter 1: Rogue finds herself a prisoner of a man she remembers all too well.

Rogue was kicking, fighting mad as she was unceremoniously shoved through a door into a cool dark room lit with low lights. “Get off me!” she snarled, wildly twisting her body in a futile effort of escape.

"Stop that," came a quiet voice from the shadows, in unmistakable tones of authority.

She didn’t want to obey the voice, but it was one that Rogue knew far too well for comfort. “You,” she snapped, eyes flashing fire. “I should have known.” She tossed an utterly disgusted look towards the shadows.

Erik Lensherr stepped forth, smiling. "Perhaps." He waved a hand and the minions released her, reluctantly, then left the room.

“What, is there some other death trap you need me to pilot?” Rogue’s Southern drawl was always more pronounced when she was angry. “I’m afraid I retired.”

"My dear girl." His smile widened. "I've not brought you here to hurt you. I've brought you here to teach you. Think of it as...your very own school. Magneto's school for gifted children. And you're my very first pupil."

“Well, thanks very much, but I’m afraid I’m enrolled elsewhere,” she snapped, trying not to look at him, the man who’d once tried to kill her. “And I’m not interested in transferring.” Her fingers touched the white streak in her hair lightly.

“Ah, but I'm afraid you're already enrolled. This is what you've been waiting for all your life, Marie. Real, pure knowledge. I can teach you to control your power, you know." His voice was a caress.

“Uh huh. Before or after you try and kill me?” Her voice was disbelieving. “And my name is Rogue.” She didn’t like Magneto knowing anything about her.

"No." He shook his head. "Rogue is the name you took when you thought of yourself as such, something uncontrollable, unacceptable. I can teach you, Marie."

She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head slowly. “Ain’t nothing you know that I want to learn, Erik.”

"Really?" He stepped forward very slowly, and then, with the tips of his fingers, touched her just as he had that night on Liberty Island. This time, with a noticeable lack of results.

Oh, goddamn him! “What—“ she shook her head, refusing to allow it, the horrible spark of interest that he aroused with his brief touch. He knew what would tempt her, the clever bastard. “What kind of trick is this?”

"Mmm. I could tell you how I did it, but 'ain't nothing I know that you want to learn.'" He began pacing around her. "Hmm...now what would Charles do with such a recalcitrant young lady? Probably some hideously dull, character-building punishment."

She gritted her teeth and glared at him. “Look, what do you want? You were pretty honest last time telling me you were going to kill me. Didn’t work, of course,” she said with a slight smirk, “but you told me. I’m not good enough to get the straight story anymore?” She asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes obnoxiously.

"Ah, my little Southern belle," he said, chuckling. "There we are. A pampered young lady...perhaps you should learn what adolescence was like for some of us." His voice became as harsh as a whipcrack.

He was so infuriating that she really did wish he’d stayed locked up in that damned plastic bubble. “Why should I care what happened to you?” she asked thoughtlessly, the bravado of youth making her careless. “I don’t want to end up evil and soulless, so I think I’ll pass.”

His face hardened. "Really? I don't believe you will." He caught her hand and led her to a vast titanium kitchen. It was messy, strewn with the crumbs and stains of minion meals past. "Start cleaning."

Rogue was suddenly, horribly conflicted. No one touched her, no one—and here, somehow, the one person in the whole world whom she didn’t want anywhere near her was the only one who suddenly could touch her. The injustice of it all fired her blood. “You must be crazy if you think I’m going to clean your kitchen.”

He looked rather bored. "Tell me, you are quite certain that I am a very bad man, are you not?" His eyes glittered a bit, and it became quite easy to see past the rather inoffensive façade he had been putting forth until now.

I still dream about you, sometimes, and I wake up afraid. “I’m pretty sure,” she said, bravely, though she took a step away from him and became the slightest bit frightened at the look on his face.

“Then do you really want to imagine what I might do to you if you do not clean my kitchen?" He smiled again, in a thoroughly predatory manner.

She couldn’t help it—he was frightening, and he’d tried to kill her once before without the slightest hint of conscience about it at all. “I don’t like to spend any time thinking about you, actually. I had enough therapy trying to get over almost being murdered, thanks.” She picked up a sponge and began scrubbing the kitchen counter furiously.

He moved to pour himself a glass of wine, then easily levitated himself up to sit on one of the counters, watching her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

Rogue tried to think of everything she’d ever learned, about how to survive being kidnapped. Lulling him into a false sense of security was a good way to start, so she forced herself to relax and do the chore he’d given her without so much anger behind her motions. “So you kidnapped me to clean your kitchen? Interesting curriculum you have at the school of yours. Will your next student have to wash your car?”

He laughed. "Charles would say that this is a lesson like any other. I shall merely say that we shall continue thus until you are in a more...tractable state of mind."

Rogue snorted. “How many messy kitchens you got, oh evil overlord? This is kind of ruining your image,” she muttered, then tensed. Was she insane? He was a sociopath and it was probably not a good idea to taunt him like that. False sense of security.

He laughed once again. "Ah, but then, you can't tell anyone, can you?" With that, he knocked over a pan of something that had once been dinner onto the floor. "And I believe we can continue indefinitely."

“Oh, nice,” she hissed, leaning down to pick up the plate and put it in the sink. As she straightened, she got a good look at his face and the chill of his eyes. In a flash it came back, the helplessness of being strapped in that machine, and knowing she was going to die, and not being able to stop him…she was trembling, the panic overwhelming her, and she couldn’t look away from his predatory gaze.

He could tell he'd gotten to her, and he pressed his advantage. "I can be much more pleasant to those who do not willfully anger me, Marie..."

This must be what rabbits feel like when they’re staring down a hawk. She wasn’t a helpless rabbit…but he’d been able to touch her without it affecting her. Stomping her foot in ire, she made a little growling sound and turned around to finish the dishes. His idea of pleasant was equally frightening. “You can hire maids, you know,” she muttered, unable to hold her tongue. It made her feel less—trapped, somehow.

"I can," he said, calmly. "But it's so good for you. And once you've learned your lesson...Marie, do you understand how powerful I could make you?"

“Don’t want any of that,” she said honestly. And she didn’t. Promises of power alone would never interest her—she’d seen what it did to men and even women, and wanted no part in it. It was this ability he possessed to touch her that was the allure, and surely he knew that.

"No? Not even the power to touch anyone you want, at any time?" He smiled knowingly.

“I don’t want it if it makes me like you, don’t you understand that?” She whirled on him, looking comical with the dishrag in her hand. “I don’t want it for power or evil or ambition. I just want…” she made a sound of disgust and turned around again.
“You want intimacy. You want not to be afraid of yourself," he said quietly.

Yes. Rogue stubbornly kept her mouth shut as she scrubbed.

He leaned back. "Do let me know when you find civil discourse preferable to menial labor."

“I will when I find someone worth talking to,” she snapped, finding a dry towel and drying the bowl vigorously.

Not at all dispirited, Erik waited. He was good at that, and even her young body would tire sooner or later.

Marie managed to hold her tongue as she finished cleaning the kitchen. It was messy in the sort of way that led her to suspect he’d purposefully done it so she’d have something to do—he seemed to rigid to ever have a mess around him. “There. Done. Can I go home now?”

With his mind, Erik opened the titanium refrigerator door and began flinging various pans of rather desiccated food about the floor. "Do be a dear and just get that first?" he said with a smile.

“Guess you couldn’t have had a plastic kitchen,” she muttered dangerously, then started picking up the pans and trying not to cry as she saw the stains on the floor she’d just cleaned. Determined that he wouldn’t win, she started cleaning again.

He waited, sipping his mersault, watching her as she fought to control her reactions.

Marie tried desperately to pretend she was anywhere else, that he wasn’t staring at her like some sphinx with his glittering eyes and the ability to throw innocuous kitchen items at her until she was bludgeoned to death. “Is everything in your house made of metal?” Her voice sounded incredibly petulant.

“Much of it. I do have a pillow," he said, smiling.

“Filled with metal shavings?” she asked sweetly, finally cleaning up all the mess he’d made by throwing the pans on the floor. She put her hands on her hips and blew a strand of hair out of her face.

He raised a hand and the garbage can rose in the air, then upended, littering the clean floor with all the debris she had cleaned up.

“I think I hate you more for that than the whole trying to kill me thing,” Marie said, and was horrified to hear her voice was choked with tears. “I’m not cleaning it again. Go ahead and kill me. You’re going to anyway, I just know it.” Unfortunately, without anger to buoy her, she was just very afraid.

"This would be rather a time-consuming way of leading up to it, don't you think?" he said, amused. "Come, Marie. Beg pardon, and I shall let you go to bed."

“You expect me to beg you for anything?” She was trembling, exhausted, and no longer caring that she was crying.

"I do," he said, calmly, not gloating, but with the simple, ineluctable control he seemed to radiate.

“For what?” She looked at him incredulously. “You’re the one who brought me here. You should be begging my pardon.”

"I have done you a great kindness. You have repaid me with impertinence and defiance, for which you will beg pardon before leaving this room, Marie." His eyes were fixed intently on her.

“You kidnapped me!” She was practically shrieking, all sense of Southern manners completely obliterated.

"I wouldn't have had to if you had come willingly," he said calmly.

“Are you mad?” She stared at him with her mouth slightly agape. “I think you must be.”

If he hadn't been intent on making her associate touch with pleasure, he might have slapped her. "I see you remain obdurate," and the words echoed oddly in his head, in his native language. He fought a shudder.

“Yeah. Seems so.” Rogue stared at him, chin lifted imperiously.

"Sleep well, then." He walked out of the room, titanium doors slamming and locking behind him.

“Ooo!” Rogue stomped her foot, wiping angrily at her tears, glaring at the doors. For a good ten minutes she shouted and hit things, until she finally worked her rage out by cleaning the kitchen until it shone. With a sharp smile, she opened the fridge and disposed of every single item of food she could find.





Chapter 2: Erik discovers Marie’s claustrophobia, which does not bode well.

Erik left her there all night and returned in the morning, looking fresh and well-rested. "Well, I see you're beginning to take your lesson to heart," he said, in a ridiculously avuncular tone.

She’d spent an almost sleepless night curled up on the floor, a loaf of bread smashed under her head for a pillow. “Yeah. Guess your evil plan worked.” She thought of his empty fridge and smirked a bit. Childish, but it made her feel better.

He opened the refrigerator and clucked his tongue. "I had been going to ask if you'd like some breakfast, but I suppose the answer is no." He began making coffee. His boots, caked in mud, tracked a filthy trail across the floor.

Perversely, she’d begun to think of the kitchen as hers in the few hours she’d been locked in there. “Do you sleep in a swamp?” Tired and cranky, she found yet another dishcloth and went to clean the floor before stopping herself. What was she doing?

He smiled down at her, rather amused. "Not as such, no." The scent of coffee brewing filled the kitchen, and he began making porridge, which, being in the cupboard, had been left untouched. He cooked deftly, without a hint of self-consciousness.

Marie had helped herself to some food before she’d emptied his fridge, but she should probably try and eat as much as possible before he decided it would be fun to starve her. She tried to kick the bread she’d used for her pillow under the island in the kitchen—if he locked her in again she could at least eat that. She eyed the coffee with ill-disguised longing.

He settled down with a large bowl of porridge, heaped greedily with sugar, and a cup of coffee. "Are we ready to beg pardon yet?"

She sprawled in the chair across from him, trying not to look at his coffee. “If I don’t, will you lock me in the bathroom next?”

"Not until you finish cleaning the kitchen," he said, cradling the cup in his hand, inhaling the aroma delicately for a moment before sipping. He ate and drank like a man who found the experience infinitely precious. "And not until you learn not to throw away perfectly good food."

“I really hate you.” She stood up and found the paper towels, placing them on the mud tracks he’d made on the floor. She stepped on them and scooted around the kitchen like some demented ice-skater. The mess only increased.

"Not accustomed to such work, are you?" he said, rather coldly.

“Not accustomed to being forced to do the same thing over and over again by a sociopathic murder,” she snapped. She tried to scrub at the mud, but the paper towel was completely ineffective and all the dishtowels were dirty. She looked around wildly.

He was amused. "Do you even know what a sociopath is, Marie? And if you'd rinsed and dried the cloths last night..."

“Yes, Erik, do you?” She snapped, then faced him with her hands on her hips. “I’m not doing it. I’m not apologizing to you and I’m not cleaning your goddamned kitchen again.”

He rose and went over to her, stroking her cheek. "You're being very difficult. But I have seen them break, strong women, proud men. You are no different." He raised a hand and the pantry door opened. Roughly, he pushed her inside and closed the door behind her, sealing her in perfect darkness.

His touch disconcerted her—it was such a novelty that she was transfixed by his caress even though she hated him more than anyone else she’d ever met, and that was terrible. What was worse, though, was the choking and pressing darkness she found herself in—Marie was horribly claustrophobic. “Let me out!” She yelled, pounding on the door in fright.

He glanced up at the clock. Five minutes, then, if it was as horrible to her as all that. He could always put her back in.

She was screaming in two, tears pouring down her face, choking on rage and fear.

When five minutes had been counted off, he raised his hand again and opened the door, standing tall and proud and remote before the terrified, shaking girl

Marie had never hated anyone as much as she hated him right then. It was even worse than trying to kill her. Because he wasn’t trying to kill her, he was trying to break her, and that was much worse. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

He walked over to her, holding up the cup of coffee to her lips, cupping the back of her head in the palm of his hand.

Unfortunately, the comfort of touch in the midst of fear made her forget who he was, and she sipped at the coffee gratefully.

He let her drain the cup, then took it away, stroking her like a frightened animal. And then, he stepped back. "Clean the kitchen, Marie," he said, in a cool voice.

She hated herself, absolutely hated herself, but she dried her tears and did as he’d asked, while remaining completely and utterly silent. She couldn’t look at him.

He was pleased. "Now then. Are you ready to behave like a young lady and beg pardon for your rudeness?"

“I’m sorry I was rude.” There was no more life in her voice than the dishrag she was holding in her hand.

"Good girl." His voice was warm and caressing. "What would you like first, Marie? A bath? Some breakfast?"

Since she was covered in tears and mud and God knew what else, she said quietly, “a bath, please,” still entirely in shock and ridiculously polite. Her mind felt like it was asleep.

He took her elbow in an almost courtly fashion and led her through the fortress into a large bathroom. All in stainless steel, naturally. He stooped and began running a bath for her.

She stood there and waited, boneless, hoping he’d drown her so she could escape the shame of her submission.

In the cupboard, he found a bathrobe and laid it out for her, along with a thick, fluffy towel. "Enjoy your bath, Marie." He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, then left the room.

She sucked in a breath as he came towards her, but had not the energy to pull away. Instead, she waited until he was gone and methodically stripped her clothes away and sank gratefully into the bath. She was shivering so hard that even the warm water could not calm her.

Erik waited patiently outside the bathroom for her to be done.

Marie slowly came out of her stupor and washed herself, then dried off with the towel—rather luxurious, really, but was the point of being evil if you didn’t have decadent things?—and wrapped herself in the robe. She stared at her reflection, at the circles beneath her swollen eyes, and sighed. She sat on the edge of the tub, thinking.

After hearing the bath drain, Erik knocked politely on the door. "Marie? Are you ready for breakfast?"

He seemed pleased with her, that she’d given in. It made her burn with shame, but she knew what she had to do now. “Yes,” she said in an even voice, and pulled the door open to face him.

She ate quietly, though the bath and the food did much to revive her spirit. “How’d you get this food so fast? There a bad guy supermarket down the road?”

"Of course," he replied, deadpan. "There's a Walmart everywhere."

Marie giggled, then clapped her mouth to her hand as if she was horrified she’d laughed at his joke.

He lifted an eyebrow and looked rather triumphant. "Have you eaten all you wish?" he asked, kindly.

“Yes, thank you,” she said politely. She was a Southerner, and they were nothing if not polite. Besides, it appeared to mollify him, and he was much more pleasant when he wasn’t being scary.

"Very well. Now, then, if you will condescend to learn, perhaps you would like to know how I can touch you?"

Every instinct in her body screamed at her to say no—that this was worse than having a bath, or eating breakfast, or even laughing at his jokes. But she was exhausted and drained, and sleepy, and above all—curious. “Yes,” she said, ashamed, unable to look at him. “I want to know.”

He picked up a heavy, metal platter and placed his palm to it. "Touch it."

“The last time you wanted me to hold onto something bad things happened,” she reminded him, but obediently placed her hands on the platter.

“Nothing, correct?" He set it down and picked up a sheet of tinfoil and wrapped it around his hand. "Now, take my hand."

Reaching out slowly, she placed her hand in his, tensing at the contact.

He smiled, then withdrew his hand and took the foil off of it. "Now, once more," he said, holding out his bare hand.

She stared at his hand for almost a full minute before placing her own in his larger one. He had callused hands.

He smiled at her. "A layer of metal, one molecule thick. Your power cannot breach it."

Oddly, she didn’t let go of his hand. “Why would you do this?”

"To prove I can?" His face became serious. "But you must see that with this level of control, I can teach you to control yourself."

She shook her head, eyes intent. “No. If you could do something like this, something so smart, why would you waste your time trying to kill people?” She pulled her hand away from his, face screwed up with unhappiness. “You could be a great man, you know.” Her voice was accusatory.

"Great men do terrible things, Marie," he said quietly. "Perhaps far more terrible than I."

“You tried to kill every human being in existence,” she reminded him, unconvinced.

He turned away from her. "It wasn't my first choice. And still is not."

“Why did you bring me here? I can’t be of any use to you,” she said, wondering why he wouldn’t look at her.

He smiled at that. "Do you truly not understand how powerful you are?" he asked, amused.

Marie shook her head. “I’m no different than any mutant. We’re all gifted.” Her words echoed Charles’ teachings.

"Yes," he said intently. "We are. But you...like a clay that can be molded to any shape..."

He was scaring her again, and she pulled back a little bit. However, there was something…rather fascinating about him. Like a panther, she supposed. “I’m not yours to mold.”

"No," he replied calmly. "But if you choose to give yourself to me, then you will be." He stepped away from her, placing the dishes in the sink as though he had said nothing unusual.

Marie was nervously chewing on her bottom lip. “You tried to kill me.”

"Would you feel better if I said that I regretted it?" he asked mildly.

“I still hate you for that. I had to go to therapy and I—sometimes I have nightmares. I didn’t sleep for weeks, and you think ‘regret’ will make me forgive you? Trust you?” Her voice was thick with mistrust.

He shrugged. "And that would be why I avoid apologies." He smiled at her.

“Maybe it should be why you avoid trying to kill people and then kidnap them when it doesn’t work,” she suggested.

"Marie," he said, rather sharply. "You can either harp on the past, or you can focus on the present and on what you are being offered."

“What if I say no, Magneto?” It was hard to call him by his first name; it made him human, somehow, and she didn’t think he deserved that. “Will you finish what you started and kill me?”

"I have never killed a mutant except in strict necessity, which this, I can assure you, is not." He brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead. "If you proved completely unassailable, I could easily return you to Charles. The most interesting information that you would have to remark is that I have an odd cleanliness fetish, which I assure you he already knows."

She gave him an intent stare. “Tell me exactly what you want of me.”

"For now, I ask only that you remain here with me and let me teach you to control your power. Is that so unpleasant?"

A smile hinted on her mouth. “Closet wasn’t so pleasant.”

"If you do not willfully defy me and refuse to benefit from my milder punishments, you will not return there." It was promise and threat both.

“I—don’t you understand? I would be betraying everything I am, if I did this.” She looked at him with pleading eyes; though she knew it was hopeless. “I can’t promise you anything, but I can’t leave, can I? So I may as well learn. It’s what…Xavier would tell me to do.”

"Perhaps in time," he said calmly, "you will be something more malleable. Come. I'll show you to your room."

“I’ll use this knowledge against you, if I can.” She spoke very honestly as she followed him out of the kitchen. “Just so you know that.”

"What knowledge?" he said airily. "That I have a bedroom?" He led her through a vast bedroom made of iron and into a smaller room that adjoined it. "Your dormitory," he said with a smile. It was a pleasant, small room, with less metal than most of the rest of the fortress. A bed, a comfortable chair, and a desk were all in evidence.

Marie hopped up on the bed and tossed him a very Rogue smile. “Even bad men sleep, Magneto.”

"So they do." He moved over to a door and opened it, revealing a small closet which had a few dresses in it. "I took the liberty of guessing at your size." His tone carried a menacing double meaning.

She sauntered over and looked at the dresses, then laughed. “I usually wear jeans, but these will fit.” Marie looked up at him. “Do they teach you this in would-be overlord school?”

"I wouldn't know," he said smoothly. "I have no such aspirations. Think of me as...a liberator."

“I’ll see if I can fit it on the list,” she said, then went back away from him to sit on the bed. Despite her attempt at gallows humor, being near him made her nervous. “So I’ll probably try and escape.”

"You won't like the consequences," he said, still pleasantly. "Would you like to try now?" His expression was almost eager.

“Nah. I could use a nap first. You’re not an idiot, even though you’re evil, so I need all my wits.” She flopped back on the bed. “You’re not going to try and rape me or anything, are you?”

He chuckled. "Child, given that I can easily foresee the time when you will beg for my touch, that seems a little premature. Sleep well, Marie." He left the room quietly.

“I think you need to foresee something else!” she called after him, then lay back on the bed and frantically tried to retrace the route they’d taken in her head. Somewhere in the middle of it, she fell asleep. To her surprise, she did not dream of Liberty Island.





Chapter 3: Attempts at escape brings frightening ramifications, and Marie learns what happens when she pleases her new teacher.

Marie tried to escape right after she woke up from her nap. She was pleased that the door was left unlocked, but that was probably not a good sign. Still, how could she possibly respect herself unless she tried? Moving carefully, she found her way back to the kitchen and thought she saw a light on. Slowly, she moved past it, trying to get back to the room where she’d been dumped by his minions.

Erik used the steel walls to levitate easily, following her soundlessly.

She arrived in the hallway easily enough, but there was no way she could figure out where the steel doors led. “Too much to hope evil overlords have exit signs,” she muttered, realizing this entire attempt was futile. Still, she was nothing if not determined, and she kept going. The hallway had to end sometime.

At last, he levitated over her head and landed directly in front of her, smiling. "Someone has been a very naughty little girl."

She gave a little shriek, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Creepy. You’re creepy.”

He didn't answer, merely caught her wrist and began dragging her back towards the bedroom. He was surprisingly strong.

“Well you can’t have thought I wasn’t going to try,” she said huffily, struggling to keep up with him.

"And you," he said, taking her into the bedroom and opening the closet door, "can't have forgotten where we put naughty little girls." He pushed her in, then closed and locked the door behind her.

Don’t scream, don’t scream…Marie tried to think of this as some way to conquer her unfortunate claustrophobia, but only lasted about two and a half minutes before the panic set in.

"You'll beg pardon on your knees this time," he called through the door, almost trembling with excitement. He sat down, glancing at his watch. Fifteen minutes this time, he thought.

Marie, however, screamed every foul obscenity she’d ever heard Logan mutter when he didn’t know she was listening at Magneto and invented a few Logan would have been proud of. It helped to drive the panic back, but eventually, as she knew she would, she fell to pleading with him and sobbing again.

He waited precisely fifteen minutes, heedless of her pleas, then opened the door, looking down at her. "Well?"

Marie was too hysterical to say anything coherent.

He stooped down, drawing her into his arms and sat down on the edge of the bed with her in his lap. "Hush, child," he whispered, resting his cheek on top of her head. "Hush..."

Marie had never had the luxury of being comforted like this when she was upset, and she hardly knew what she was doing as she clung to him, burying her face in his neck as the sobs tore through her.

He stroked her hair. "You're going to be a good girl for me now, aren't you, Marie?" he said, in a gentle tone, controlled and controlling.

All she could feel was that horrible choking darkness pressing in on her, and she sobbed something that sounded like a yes and trembled in the arms of the man who had once tried to kill her.

"Good..." He kissed her forehead and loosed his grip on her. "On your knees now, child."

It was too much for Marie, who just wanted all of this to stop, who wanted to be home where people didn’t force her into closets…who can’t touch you, can never touch you, and yet he can…the seduction of it was a horror, and yet she fell to her knees exactly as he’d commanded.

He smiled triumphantly. "Now, beg pardon like a good girl, and we'll pretend this never happened."

Away from him and his treacherous touch, she started to recover and then realized what was happening. She went to protest, to run again, and then she remembered the closet. “I—” it was too hard. “Please don’t make me do this,” her voice was softly pleading, almost broken.

In approximately two seconds, he had her back in the closet. Ten should do the trick this time.

If she thought prolonged expose to the closet would make it less frightening, she was wrong. “Fine, sorry, sorry, please!” she screamed at him, stomach heaving from the nausea until she retched, sick all over herself, utterly miserable.

He made a little face as he heard her vomiting, but left her there for the full ten minutes. When it was done, he opened the door and looked down at her. "Disgusting," he said coldly. "Properly now. Beg my pardon for your disobedience."

Marie might have vowed right then to kill him, if she had proper command of her senses, but she didn’t. In a shaking voice she choked out, “please forgive my disobedience.” Or at least, that was what she tried to say.

Slowly, he lifted a hand, then brought it to rest on the top of her head, forcing it to bow, watching her for any sign of fight.

Marie remained still, though she was still shaking, dragging in great gulping gasps of air as she knelt there. He was crazy, but she would survive. Even if this was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to her….

When he was satisfied, he removed his hand and said, "Good girl," caressing once more. Stooping, he helped her to her feet.

Though she hated herself for it, Marie arched towards his caress and then allowed him to help her up. She looked up at him as if he were going to toss her out the window; she no longer knew what to expect from him.

He led her to the bathroom and sat her down on a padded bench there, filling the massive bathtub with water. "I shall be waiting outside," he said, then turned to leave.

Though he was the cause of all her troubles, the thought of him leaving was too much. She could barely make herself sit up straight on the bench, and if he left her in there she’d just fall apart again. “Please—Erik—“ she lifted a hand towards him, no longer seeing him as a monster, but a human with the capacity to touch her—which she so desperately, desperately needed.

He stopped and turned. "Yes, Marie?" he asked, sympathetically.

Why didn’t he just…? “I can’t do this m-myself,” she stuttered, pulling at her stained and ruined clothes.

He smiled. "Very well." He helped her to stand again, then began drawing off the pretty, fouled dress. When she was nude, he helped her into the tub.

Marie had never hated whatever it was about her that made her a mutant more than she did in that instant. He was the cause of all her troubles, but he was the only person in the whole world who could comfort her right then. If she were stronger she’d make him leave, but she wasn’t, and so she relaxed back in the water and silently begged him to touch her, though she was too frightened to ask.

He cleaned her efficiently, almost clinically, wiping the vomit from her with a facecloth, helping her lean back so that he could wash her hair. "Such a good girl," he murmured gently, letting the back of his hand brush her cheek.

She pushed her face against his hand, glaring at him at the same time. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you,” she said, recovering a bit from the combination of the bath and his caresses, as much as she hated it.

"And I," he said, withdrawing his hand, "cannot fathom why you insist on insulting me and behaving rudely when you have brought all of your troubles on yourself."

“Because I’m a teenager,” she told him, a small smile fighting through the misery on her face. She almost reminded him again that he’d kidnapped her, but decided to try and not annoy him again. She was not terribly fond of the closet.

"You're meant to be growing into a young lady," he said, sounding stern. He lifted a pitcher and poured the water over her head, rinsing away the shampoo.

She choked a bit on the water and ignored that, staring straight ahead. If there was just a way he could touch her without…well, being him. That would be nice.

"I should think you'd had enough of my punishments," he continued. "Wouldn't you like to try for a reward?"

She crossed her arms over her breasts, shielding her body from him even though she didn’t think he was even paying attention to her nakedness. “What kind of reward?”

Erik brushed his fingertips across her lips. "What you crave..."

Her eyes remained on his as a flush stained her fair cheeks. “No…” but it didn’t sound very convincing, not even to her. She was so starved for what he offered…it would be worse than the closet, but oh… “I don’t know if I should have that.”

"Oh, well, then." He stood up and dried his hands and moved to sit on the bench. "Just continue as you have, then, if you prefer what happens when you anger me."

Miserable, she pressed her flush face to her knees in the bath, hating him. Though she had a sinking suspicion she hated him more for leaving her right just then than for the closet. “Was no one ever nice to you?”

"Rarely," he replied with composure.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and oddly, she was. Maybe he wouldn’t have become what he had if someone had just been decent to him. “Can I get out of here now?”

He nodded. "Do you require my assistance?"

She shook her head slowly. “No, thank you.” Perhaps if she was distant and polite he would become bored with her and let her go.

He rose and left the room silently.

Marie cried silently in the bath as she splashed her hand in the tub to hide the noise of her tears.

He smiled, waiting outside the door. So easy. It was so easy...

She was composed as she came out, wrapped in a towel. “I guess I need another dress.” She wasn’t surprised to see him there, but she didn’t trust the look on his face at all.

He led her back to the bedroom and thoughtfully went into the closet for her, retrieving the dress and closing the door to it afterwards.

Marie’s face went a bit white as she saw the closet, but she said nothing as he passed her the dress save a terse, “thanks.” She waited patiently for him to leave.

He bowed slightly, then moved to the door. "We'll begin lessons in one hour, Marie," he said, then left.

“Too bad it’s not the kill you in your sleep kind,” she muttered peevishly, and dressed. She pulled her hair back, and stared at herself in the mirror with a grimace of distaste. She touched the white shock of hair, and she remembered him smirking at her on the X Jet. Scowling, she put her boots on—they looked silly with the dress—and left the room. Suddenly, she wondered if she was going to be locked in the closet again for attempting to find him, so she shouted, “Magneto!”

He appeared quickly. She was learning. "Ready to begin lessons, then?"

She just nodded. “Do you have any soda around here?” That was sort of a forbidden luxury, soda. She might as well enjoy being here as much as she was able, right?

"I believe so," he said indifferently and led her to the kitchen, then levitated a can out of the cupboard to her.

For some reason, she grinned at that. “Do you do that just because you can?”

"Habit, actually." He sat down at the table. "Now, then, your lessons." He smiled at her.

She opened the soda and leaned back in the chair, feeling an odd and completely traitorous thrill at suddenly having lessons from Magneto. Bad guy lessons. Maybe she was going crazy, because Marie was suddenly giggling.

He lifted his eyebrows. "Do I need to convince you to take this seriously?" he asked coldly.

When he reverted back to scary, it killed her amusement entirely and her face tightened. “No.”

"You seem to be leaning towards the disrespectful again. And I believe that should be 'No, sir.'" He glanced at the pantry with elaborate casualness.

Maybe he’d show her how he made that death trap, and she could strap him in it. “No, sir,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even.

"Good girl," he said warmly. He laid his hand on the table, palm up. "Now. Take my hand."

She reached forward, eyeing him nervously, and laid her hand in his. The moment her skin came in contact with his, she flushed and had to look away from him.

"I will take away the barrier briefly, and you will attempt not to draw. Do you understand?" He gazed at her intently.

She hesitated only a moment. “Yes, sir.” Whatever he would do to her would not be worth trying to steal his powers and escape.

He slowly dissolved the barrier on a small patch of skin, gasping a little as she began to pull.

She sucked in a breath at the rush of power that danced over her skin, shivering, fighting the urge of both her instinct and her desire to flee.

He only let her continue for a second or two, then replaced the barrier. "Rest for a moment, and we will try again."

She took a sip of the soft drink, then concentrated at a spot above his head and nodded when she was ready. “Okay.”

She leaned forward slowly and placed her hand on his; but the odd jolt she seemed to pull from touching him made it very hard to resist the natural surge of her powers. She pulled away quickly. “Sorry. Let me try again.”

He nodded. He was being astonishingly patient.

As she practiced, Marie forgot that he was the enemy, forgot her curious reaction to his touch, forgot that he’d just locked her in a closet. She concentrated all her effort on her task, and finally, finally, she succeeded for the briefest of moments to resist what all her innate talent urged her to do. Delighted, she turned a dazzling smile on him and clapped her hands together. “Oh!”

"Very, very good," he said, giving her a genuine smile.

Marie grinned. “Thanks.” She yawned; it was tiring, this practice, even though she’d not moved from the table.

"Now, then. Do you want a reward, or would you rather be defiant and rude?" He asked as though it were a matter of complete indifference to him.

Her heart started to slam very hard against her ribs, and before she could stop herself, she said in a husky voice she barely recognized as her own—“I—I want a reward.”

"Good girl." He stood up, moved towards her and offered her his hand again.

Warily, though still breathing a bit too fast, she extended her hand and looked up at him with wide eyes.

He led her back to her bedroom, then stopped, looking at her, stroking her hair gently off her face. "You're tired, aren't you?"

Marie, not trusting herself to speak, merely nodded. She avoided looking at the closet.

He moved to open the closet door.

Marie made a terrified noise and backed up, pressing her back against the wall. “Why—”

He looked back, then paused. "Marie, I need to fetch your nightgown," he said quietly. "I promise that I will never put you in the closet as long as you are good."

She would have liked to have assured him she’d never be bad again, but that probably wouldn’t be quite truthful. Instead, she sat on the bed and watched him like a hawk, chewing on her bottom lip as she did when she was anxious.

He drew out a finely sheered batiste nightgown. "Come here," he said gently.

Marie approached him, hands fisted at her side, moving slowly towards him as if he were some kind of monster. Of course, he was, but that was beside the point. Whatever he was going to do to her was supposedly a reward, which meant she’d like it, and then probably hate herself afterwards.

He began gently unbuttoning her dress, letting his fingers caress her collarbones as he did so.

A small, tiny gasp escaped her, and she was shaking again, but not from fear. She watched him, wondering if he felt any remorse for what he was doing.

He continued until she was nude, then drew one hand just lightly across her stomach before saying, "Arms up."

Her arms felt curiously heavy, and it was very hard to keep eyes open because they wanted to slide shut and just…feel this extraordinary thing, enjoy something withheld for so many years. “Oh,” she exclaimed softly, staring at him, wondering if he would leave her and then laugh at how easily she gave in to what she knew was wrong.

"Arms up," he repeated gently, patiently.

She complied, swaying slightly.

He slid the nightgown over her head, then eased her arms down and guided her to the bed.

She let him lead her, trying not to push back against his hand at her back.

He tucked her beneath the covers, then knelt beside the bed. "Do you want more?" he asked softly.

Ashamed, she nodded, eyes downcast.

He stroked her cheek, then tugged lightly at her lock of white. It pleased him, that, how she was already marked as his own. He began sliding the hand down slowly, over her throat.

Her back arched off the bed, hands grabbing at the sheets beneath her. Her face was flaming, and she was whimpering, but she didn’t want him to stop.

His breath caught in his throat, and slowly, he drew his hand further down until his palm covered one of her breasts.

Marie had never been touched like this, and she was helpless to resist the combined pleasure of touch with intimate touch, and her head was thrashing on the pillow. She was beginning to forget who he was, who she was…

"More?" he said softly, squeezing her breast gently.

She couldn’t speak, held prisoner by the pleasure of his hand on her breast. She just nodded, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

He moved his hand lower, rucking up her nightgown for the pleasure of feeling her soft thighs.

Marie was biting her lip and finally gave a sort of keening cry, her body on fire. She opened her eyes finally to look at him, though she dreaded it—he’d look triumphant and coldly amused and then she’d be even more humiliated, because despite all that, she didn’t want him to stop.

Almost roughly, he pressed his palm between her thighs. Too delicate a touch would madden her, he feared. She needed release, and quickly.

She was completely a slave to her body, and her hand flew down to wrap around his wrist—but she didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, she pushed her hips up towards him, rather shamelessly riding his hand as she mindlessly searched for release.

He caught her hand, prying it away from his wrist to pin above her head. "No," he said sternly, even as he continued rubbing at her, wanting to see her come.

She arched against him one more time and came, almost sobbing as the pleasure of it washed over her. She held herself up for one long moment, then fell back against the bed, breathing very fast. Her eyes were dazed as she looked at him.

He withdrew his hands and pulled the covers up over her. "Sleep well, Marie," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She gave a small sob as an answer and rolled away, curling herself into a ball, as the shame at what she’d done finally started creeping in. Unfortunately, she didn’t think it would stop her from letting him do it again, and she found she was more afraid of him now than when he’d strapped her into that chair on Liberty Island, intent upon killing her. Oh yes. This was much worse.

He paused, slightly distressed. "Marie...look at me," he said, softly.

Turning her head, she gazed up at him, fear and restless desire evident on her face.

"I am a man and not a monster," he said quietly. "And it is no sin to crave touch."

She took a breath before she answered. “I don’t think it’s a sin. I think it’s dangerous. I think you’re dangerous.”

"I am," he replied. "But not to you." He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it in an odd, courtly gesture.

She was still giving him a rather intense look, but this was more speculative than frightened. For some strange reason, she believed him, and actually gave him a small smile before turning back to go to sleep.

He stroked her hair once, briefly, then rose to leave, well-pleased with the day's work.

Marie fell asleep immediately, absurdly pleased he’d not laughed at her or looked as coldly triumphant as she’d feared he might.





Chapter 4: In which Marie angers Erik, again.

The next day, she found in an attempt to chase away her lingering shame at what she’d allowed—wanted—him to do to her, she was behaving in a fashion guaranteed to annoy him but not to make him throw her in the close. He was patient, she’d figured that out, but her snappy little comments about him being evil obviously annoyed him. Instead of trying to comprehend that, as she normally would have, she was goading him slightly as they sat at breakfast.

"Amazing how restorative a good night's sleep is," he remarked mildly.

When he mentioned sleep, she thought of bed, and then she thought of him and what had happened, so she searched for something to say that would distract him. Though she was the one dwelling on it, actually—“Yes. I remember how much I missed it after I nearly escaped death.” She forked up some eggs and smiled at him brightly.

"Did you? I wonder how much you'd miss it if you spent the night in the closet?" he asked coolly.

She glowered at him, then fell silent again as he leveled an unpleasant look at her. Oddly, she wasn’t quite scared of him when he wasn’t being remote, but she was still so confused… “Do you have any family?”

He looked at her with cold, dead eyes. "Do you?"

She couldn’t answer him; that look in his eyes was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen. All the blood drained from her face and set her fork down, unable to eat, but perversely unable to look away from him. “Stop, please,” she whispered, frightened.

"Why, Marie?" His face had gone wholly remote and frightening now, and he stood up, looming over her.

He wasn’t a cruel man, Erik, not really. But this—he could be, and she could only think of the closet, and right then she chastised herself for saying whatever it was that made him so mad. “I—you’re—what did I do?”

"I'm evil, remember? Perhaps I don't need a reason to make you tremble, girl..."

It was very hard to breathe—how he did that she didn’t know, but all the air seemed to be gone and her lungs constricted painfully. There was something about him—he looks hurt. The thought was so ridiculous she laughed a bit, which in hindsight was probably not a very smart thing to do.

He grabbed her arm and threw open the pantry. "You may stay there until you are prepared to be civilized."

For some very odd reason, Marie rather felt she deserved this one. She concentrated very hard on open fields and blue sky and tried not to think of where she was…unfortunately, it only helped for about a minute. This time, though, she was determined not to make a sound and she swallowed her sobs and forced herself to be a bit quieter. It would serve no purpose—he’d let her out when he wanted.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, but the time stretched endlessly out before her and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She let out a wail and then started pounding on the door with her fists, swearing she’d make it through at least one day without ending up in an enclosed space. She had a sudden image of him burying her alive, and she started screaming again.

That was better. He began timing ten minutes from the time she began screaming.

Marie sank down in the pantry, irrationally pressing her mouth against the crack in the door and trying to suck in air as if she were suffocating. “I—c-can’t b-breathe!” She shrieked, though it probably didn’t sound like much of anything except hysteria.

He waited patiently until the ten minutes was up, then opened the door and began to walk away silently.

She was relieved when the door open, and caught up in that panic that came from her fear of closed spaces she waited with something like relief for him to pull her up. But he didn’t. “W—where are you going?” Her voice was dangerously close to a whine.

He turned around and just looked at her, loathing on his face.

That look pushed her past all sense, and she instinctively reached out to him, seeking comfort.

He stepped back, his face twisting in a sneer, and he felt pleasure rise in him at hurting her like this, like she had hurt him...

She was so confused at what she’d done—wasn’t it over, her punishment, when he let her out of the closet? Her hand reached up towards him again. “I—please I need you to—”

"Touch," he said deliberately, "is for good girls. Which you, Marie, plainly are not." He evaded her grasp again, continuing to stare at her.

Marie was a strong girl, and a brave one, but right now all she wanted was the touch he’d so easily beguiled her with the night before. It didn’t matter to her that she was begging him on her knees just as she swore she’d never do, because all she wanted was for him to stop staring at her like that. It was the look he’d had on his face before he’d put her in the machine, and she couldn’t believe him anymore that he wasn’t dangerous to her if he kept looking at her like that.

He watched her tears and pleas impassively. "For one so easily distressed by lack of touch, I would imagine you might avoid annoying the only person who can give it to you."

Dropping her head, feeling defeated, Marie waited for whatever he was going to do to her. Slowly she managed to move backwards while staying on her knees, as if she were going to go get back in the closet.

He lifted his eyebrows. "You want me to touch you?" he said, his voice a shade warmer now. "Or do you want to go back in the closet?"

The tension inside her eased somewhat, though Marie honestly believed if she went in the closet she’d not survive it. “I want you to touch me,” she whispered, shivering on the cold floor, her knees hurting.

"And are you going to be a good girl for me, Marie?"

“Yes sir,” she said in that same soft voice, struggling to breathe.

He laid his hand very lightly on the top of her head, waiting to see if she would remember what she was to do.

Her body relaxed and she bowed her head under the subtle pressure of his hand.

"Good girl," he said, his voice just a shade kinder. "Come here, then, Marie, come to me..."

The lure of his touch was too much for her shaken senses to resist; she crawled to him, just as she knew he wanted, despite the shame that blossomed within her as she did so.

"There now..." He began stroking her face tenderly. "You don't want to displease me anymore, do you?"

She shook her head. “No, sir.” Her eyes drifted close as she swayed towards him, body going languid at the deliciousness of his touch.

She barely heard him; merely nodded in surrender and allowed him to do what he would to her.

"Good girl," he said again, making sure she associated that praise with his touch. He sat on the floor and drew her partially into his lap, stroking her hair back from her neck.

She relaxed against him, body unresisting, head resting on his shoulder. Very hesitantly, her hand came up and touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He caught her hand and gently but firmly removed it. "No," he said sharply.

Rebuffed, she drew her hand away, wondering idly why he was so intent she not touch him. That was also something new and heretofore disallowed, but it would appear it was not something he would grant her. Curious.

He continued stroking her. "Good girls don't touch without permission," he said simply.

Marie just nodded, too unused to the comfort of an embrace to argue. She did wonder, idly, if he would ever grant that—and then flushed hot as her eyes met his. At least they didn’t chill her to the bone like before. What had she said that had upset him so much?

"I'm going to make you come, Marie," he said quietly, without any particular emphasis. "And then you will go to bed again, and when you get up, you will be very good for me, won't you?"

Again? Oh, God…Marie nodded, twisting her fingers together, remaining absolutely passive in his arms. Her breathing accelerated and she couldn’t stop from making a small, seeking sound of need as she waited for him to touch her as he had last night.

He slid a hand down, touching the back of her thighs, drawing her dress up.

Unthinkingly, her hands went to his grasp his shoulders, but she pulled them back immediately. She was staring at him with large, unblinking eyes, wondering if he liked this at all.

Realizing that the temptation would be too great in this position, he shifted her until she was face-down over his lap, then began parting her thighs gently with his hands.

That he wanted her away from him suggested to her he did this merely to control her, and while she filed this information away she still wanted it. Like a drug addict, she craved his touch, and she’d be damned if she’d leave without finding out how he did this. He could not be the only one that had this ability, it wasn’t fair…she gasped and wriggled slightly on his lap.

He stroked her face and neck at the same time as his hand slid up to rub at her bottom, cupping and squeezing it...

It was useless to pretend she didn’t want it, that it didn’t make her feel so good she’d gladly give up everything she had for more…writhing again, she was pushing towards his hands and making small, desperate sounds.

He smiled and thanked God for the years that had given him enough control not to make it very clear what he wanted to do to her right then. He let his hand slip between her thighs, drawing his fingers lightly over her wetness. "I'm going to make it hurt, Marie. To teach you a lesson," he said quietly. "But I won't stop touching you or put you in the closet."

She moaned a little at that, not because it sounded frightening, but because—that’s why you like it. She buried her face and arched towards his beautiful, calloused, cruel fingers. “Whatever you want.” She said it so quietly, she wasn’t sure he even heard her.

He smiled at that and found her clit, then pinched it cruelly hard between thumb and forefinger.

Marie’s head jerked up and that, and she tossed him a look over her shoulder and pouted. “Ow,” she said, looking rather more aroused and excited than she probably should have.

Ow?" He began twisting, sliding a finger into her cunt at the same time.

Her body, unused to such a caress, clenched tight around his finger out of reflex. “Well it hurt,” she said, but her hips were pushing eagerly towards his hand, though really, it was rather painful.

"Good," he said calmly, and twisted her clit harder. "I want to see you come and cry for me, Marie." He added another finger.

His voice was as caressing as his touch, and almost as painful. She hated him, but it felt so good, and yet it hurt…hissing a bit, she shuddered in his arms and kept seeking release that was so agonizingly close…

"Cry, little girl," he murmured softly, keeping her on the edge, keeping his touch stimulating but painful.

When she came, she moved her head so she could see him, and her cry of pleasure was in stark contrast to the tears that slowly seeped out of her eyes. In that moment, the look in her eyes was almost worshipful.

He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of her face, then released her throbbing clit and withdrew his fingers. Letting her dress down again, he rubbed her back. "Bed now, Marie," he ordered gently.

She nodded, standing up on shaking legs, trying to walk to her bedroom. She felt…dazed, weak, almost delirious from the exhaustive combination of fear and pleasure.

He watched her, wanting to see that she would obey him without the lure of his touch.

In the aftermath of his drugging touch and addictive pleasure, she wanted nothing more than to make him happy. She knew she’d regret it again, when she woke up, but she felt sated and sleepy…she went to her room and crawled into bed, yawning, pulling the soft blanket up to her chin.



Chapters 5-7
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Caught by the River, the Doves

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