Tartarus

The endless sheets of papers, exams and tests and spot quizzes, flowered red symbols as Scott marked them off. Right or wrong, or halfway right or mostly wrong or whatever was needed to show the student where the path had diverged off what was correct. The results he circled on the top sheet of each paper, an A, a B, mostly Cs, and a few Ds. No Fs, not recently, and he was sort of proud of that. He hadn’t meant to be a teacher, it wasn’t something he felt he did well.

Leader, fighter, soldier. Those, he could do. They were roles he could manage, they didn’t require much of him. Clearly defined and concrete, one step removed from actual community as they were. A teacher had to be involved on a personal level with their students. But recently, lately, he hadn’t been doing so well at those simple roles either. There was just this one thing that stopped him from being the perfect example, and he drowned in his addiction to it, there wasn’t a way he could see to stop himself from grabbing onto what was almost a savior. He was weak. Or perhaps only human, all too human. Even as a mutant, that only addressed what he could do that the general populace couldn’t. His mind, his soul...only all too human. With all the weakness and frailty, the errors and lapses in judgment that that implied.

Jonothon was his one weakness.

It was insane, he couldn’t imagine why he was doing what he was doing with the teenager, even when he was doing it. But somehow, that reverberating telepathic voice filled up all the emptiness and silence inside his head. It made it easier to live. Not that being without Jean was anything that he would want to forget or have made easier, it was just that...it was as if he’d had a limb amputated, and now he had a way of being helped with getting around. A prosthesis, a crutch. Jonothon helped keep him sane and he knew that. He had the feeling that the professor knew that too, when he caught him looking at him with that inscrutable gaze.

The man seemed to know everything. It was not inconceivable to think that he had engineered the entire thing...no! Xavier was an honorable man. But the thought remained, shrieking paranoid though it was. Why else had he not put a stop to it? He could have. Easily. One word, one thought, any pressure to put the unseemly liaison aside, and Scott would have. Wouldn’t he?

Now, with the boy laughing into his head and leading him by the hand to the garage in what was almost the dead of night despite his protests that this was far outside the bounds of proper behaviour, the thought of letting him go was almost too much to bear. The telepathic voice reverberated against his thoughts, filling his mind and making him feel not quite so alone. He’d always found it hard to relate to people, to connect even in the most basic way. Jean had saved him from that, with her sweet smile and her telepathy that reached into all of him. Seeing every part, loving all of it and letting him realize he was not quite as alone as he’d though, because she was with him. Now, without her, it was hard to find his anchor. Jonothon provided one. Without it, he’d be so empty he’d drift away because he wasn’t sure that there was anything real in the heart of him. Nothing solid. Nothing that could last. Nothing that could stand up to the pressure of being Cyclops.

“Jonothon, what are you doing?”

*It’s more what we’re doing, so c’mon, Mr Summers. We won’t get caught...unless you keep being so loud. Nobody’s up this time of night, unless they’re an insomniac.*

That wry emphasis on ‘Mr Summers’, what Jonothon had to call him in school. He’d been about ready to sleep when the student had woken him up, coaxed him out of bed with a snicker and a leer that lost none of its effect despite the lack of half his face. Not that he’d been that unwilling to follow, not with the promise that glittered in the back of dark eyes. A sensual erotic promise of forbidden things.

“What exactly do you have in mind, anyway?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Sometimes, he knew it was better just not to ask. Jonothon’s hand was strangely heavy around his wrist, tight and hot, dry palm rough against the soft skin on the inside. Where the blue vein ran, from wrist to elbow, outlined like a stroke of ballpoint pen. The door to the garage creaked a little as Jonothon pushed it open, pulled him inside. Concrete and the smell of petrol, darkness and just a little bit of light. Just enough to catch the gleam of a dark eye, the light pink off the metal of a fender.

*What every hotblooded American dreams about, guv,* and the laughter rung through his head like a peal of church bells on a Sunday morning. Jonothon sprawled across the bonnet of one of the cars – the professor’s Alpha Romeo Spider. Something from before the wheelchair. No one drove it. No one touched it. And now one grungy Brit teen was sprawling all over it in denim and a flash of wicked eyes from behind a veil of hair.

“Oh no - no,” Scott hissed between his teeth, horrified and knowing exactly what Jonothon wants. And this? This was not happening, this was too far. Some part of himself falls over in helpless lunatic laughter at the thought. This was too far? After all they’d already done? “Jonothon, no - ”

He got closer, to try and drag Jonothon off the antique car. Jonothon let him pull him forward a little, then latches on. Skinny legs writhing around his waist, elegant hands pulling on his shoulders as the teen leaned back, bringing their crotches together in a sensual grind that made Scott stutter and pause. Enough for Jonothon to grab and pull even harder, rubbing that scrap of cheek against Scott’s neck and there was a soft thump as a bandaged back met the metal of the hood and Scott’s hand flew out to catch himself from falling completely on the teen.

It’s this beautiful fantastic vintage car, he’s been told it’s coloured a dull metal silver, but everything is shades of red to him. The glasses make everything red. Even the pale of Jonothon’s skin and sometimes he almost, almost remembers what it was like before he had the glasses. Before the blindness. When he could still see colours, when opening his eyes on the world wasn’t a catastrophe waiting to happen.

*I want you to fuck me, here, like this,* Jonothon gasped into his head, all liquid and writhing underneath him. Quicksilver movements, fluid and erotic as his hips grind and swivel upwards, rubbing them both off through the material of their pants. Denim rasped against softer cloth, and it almost hurt and Scott choked on something in his throat that caught and hurt and pushed forward again. This time without Jonothon’s prompting.

And felt himself fall a little more.

*I want you to fuck me hard...leave a bloody imprint on the metal, yeah.* A rough scramble to get their pants down, Scott palming Jonothon’s cock and making the teen grunt and groan, head flinging backwards, limbs all akimbo while his skin shone in the little light there was. The black bandages made him look like his arms and head weren’t connected to anything, almost floating against the dull pink shine of the car. *Oooh, Christ!*

So wanton underneath him and suddenly Scott can’t wait. He can’t stand it. And just as always, Jonothon has a tube of lubricant and he’s pressed it into his hand with that dirty little laugh that was just one step away from a snigger. This teenager, this fucking child, he knows better then Scott what he’s doing and he knows exactly what he wants and how to get Scott to do it and for one blinding all consuming moment, Scott hated him for it. And hated himself. A wretched stomach churning feeling that welled up a lot like a sob in his throat, burning. It’s bleak and it’s despair, and he wants to die, and then Jonothon arched and all of a sudden everything was good. Heat and motion and the sticky slick feel of lube on his fingers, and the blazing heat of Jonothon’s body. That burning furnace, trapped behind black bandages that made a simulacrum of a chest and an intact body.

*Fuck me,* Jonothon murmured. *Fuck me, Mr Summers, fuck me hard, so hard, I want yer to…*

A burning scrabbling rush, Jonothon’s fingers slid-screamed on the paintjob of the car as Scott thrust up and in. Lean thighs closed tight around his waist in a convulsive rush, and the breathless sound echoing in his head is something like a scream. A wail, loose and thready as it rolled around his mind. Something that he can’t grab onto, that he can’t really hear. He gasped hoarsely and thrust again, feeling Jonothon almost convulse as he did it. And again.

“Oh God -“

*Bugger my brains out, I – oh fuck! – oh yes!*

And he can’t stop himself. Can’t stop himself moving, can’t stop himself from slamming his hips forward against the inside of Jonothon’s thighs. So pale, he knew that they had to be since they showed up in his visor as the pinkest palest shade of rose. One of his hands fisted in Jonothon’s hair, pulling him back like he could expose that stretch of throat that he kept expecting to see. Even now. Other hand clutched tightly at a sharp edged hip, bone pressing out at the palm of his hand like a handle he could hold onto. Like Jonothon’s body was made for this, to be open like this, spread like this, heat and sex and dirty. So fucking dirty.

He half expected to see dirt come off on his hands. Some physical taint to show what he was steeping himself in morally and ethically. Something ugly. Something corrupted. Jonothon’s mind surged into his, irritated that he’s thinking about this while they’re fucking and it’s like the teen scrubbed it out with a brush. Cleaned out his brain just for now, so that his pleasure wasn’t interrupted, wasn’t played around with. He knows exactly what he wants Scott for, and it isn’t thinking.

It’s more like a blur across his mind then having it scrubbed out though. A brush to bring in cobwebs instead of getting rid of them. A whisper.

A smudge on the glass, and Scott gasped, feeling Jonothon’s heat wrap around him, his mind slide into his and there’s something there that feels like home. Something. Sort of like it. And it made him desperately kiss the slide and arch of Jonothon’s shoulder as he fucked him, tasting the latex shine of the bandages in his mouth. Finally relax into the surge and thrust of sex, fucking the teen hard on the bonnet of the car while the denim makes a scraping noise and Jonothon yowling into his head like he’s getting hurt but he really likes it anyway.

Scott knows that’s exactly what it is.

It’s intense and he doesn’t want it to end.

There’s something about the way Jonothon gasps for breath without breathing. The way he moans without a voicebox. A throat. Lungs. Missing so many things and somehow he fits into the places where Scott is hollow. Why? He’s asked himself the question a million different times in a million different ways since the first time, and he’s never managed to answer himself. God wasn’t listening and speaking down from on high about it either.

Jonothon’s fingernails scrape down his back, a stinging pain that makes him cry out, thrust harder. Bear down on Jonothon and press him back even harder against the metal of the car. And he can’t think about being quiet anymore. The edges of orgasm tickled at his senses, building in his stomach, in his cock, all over his skin. Everywhere that Jonothon touched. Everywhere their skin slid over each other with the slickness of sweat and precum and lube. The wet tacky dirty slide of sex. Hard sex. Good sex.

It always is – almost mindbendingly good. He can use Jonothon and fuck him hard and not worry about hurting him. Jean had been too precious. Too loved. He could still feel the softness of her hair against his cheek sometimes, in his dreams. While he slept. The warmth of her body in his arms, red red red hair tickling against his cheek and throat as she slept tucked against him.

*Don’t think about her,* Jonothon snarled into his mind, grabbing his hair and thrusting up hard, so hard he can feel his hair coming out as the teen pulls him down while their hips grind against each other. *Don’t you dare, not when you’re doing this. I’m not her and I don’t want to be – I’m not anyone’s fucking replacement.*

Lies. Lies. And they both know it, but Scott turned off the thoughts somehow and lost himself in the wasteland of the body. Where it was nothing and everything, where the slide and the thrust was all there was. And it felt great, it felt fantastic, and oh God – Jesus –

And he came, can’t help himself as his hips shudder and push in on those last frantic moments. Jonothon cursed at him, long and fluid while Scott panted for breath, hands posted to either side of his skinny shoulders, fingers flexing against metal while the teen reached down between them to jerk himself off. Elegant long fingers closed tight around the aching hardness of his cock and Scott watched, almost drifting in the aftermath of his own orgasm until Jonothon grunts, arches and it’s over, it’s finished in a rush of liquid heat.

He can feel his heart beating fast inside his chest, almost thudding against his ribs as the cool and quiet of the deserted garage closes in again around them. And he can’t believe they did this. That they actually did this. That he fucked Jonothon Starsmore – codenamed Chamber – on the bonnet of the professor’s prized vintage Alpha Romeo Spider.

And he laughed, unable to stop himself, and it hurt and ached even when Jonothon’s knuckles brushed the arch of his cheekbone. A soft touch, softer then anything that Jonothon has let him do to him, almost tender.

*Sodding loony. Get off me.*

It nearly always ends like this. Jonothon’s all feline aloofness and grace, all strut and teenage bravado. Always confident and always one step away from what anyone, including him can touch. When they’re done, when they’ve caught their breath, Jonothon slaps him away with a word and a glance, something in his glance like the curl of a lip. But there’s always a trace of sweetness to it, like the almond taste of cyanide. And he knows every time that he’ll welcome Jonothon back when he decides he wants this again. And that hurt.

It had never been like this with Jean.

He fixed his pants, pulling them back up and ignoring the way Jonothon slipped out of the room. The garage smelt like sex now, just a waft of musk over the dead scents of metal and oil. And Scott’s eyes burned behind his visor, but he hasn’t cried in years. Years. Not since he’d been a kid.

Oh god, he was going to hell. Maybe he was already in it. He didn’t know, he couldn’t decide, and there wasn’t any way out. Because he just couldn’t say no to something that made him feel whole, even if it was only for a heartbeat. It was better then feeling empty. It had to be.