DISCLAIMER: Characters and settings contained herein are not mine, they are Marvel's. All bow to the power of the CYA statement.
There wasn’t anything he could do or say to excuse what he was doing. So utterly unlike him, in every way. What he stood for and the man he was, despite everything. Unethical. In the extreme, a teacher taking advantage of a student like this. If it had been anyone else, he would have gone to the police. So wrong, So utterly, completely depraved. And the only excuse he could offer was that when that raspy British voice moaned and whispered lust-filled obscenities into the hollow spaces of his head, he didn’t feel so empty. So utterly alone. The way he had ever since his and Jean’s link had broken.
Head full of echoes and a dead man walking. That’s all he was. When he thought, his thoughts bounced back in dreamy reverberations, and he didn’t feel quite real. Jono was real. Chamber. Jonothon Evan Starsmore, and he knew exactly what sort of situation they’d picked the boy up from and how old he was and it didn’t make him feel bad enough to stop. The disappointment he could feel radiating off the professor. The withdrawal of Ororo from their usual talks, and her indefinable sadness and regret. The wary, afraid, confused looks from the students who’d managed to pick up on it. The outright righteous anger of Logan, and wasn’t that a kick in the teeth? The mass murderer, the man who couldn’t remember more then fifteen years of his own past was the one looking down on him.
And it wasn’t enough to stop him.
After all, the boy had seduced him not the other way around.
Opening his door, and seeing palely pink alabaster wrapped in black sprawled out across his sheets – where Jean had done the same and there’d been red hair laid out against the white pillowslip – one elegant hand holding up something metal, and the sense of rough laughter rocketing through his skull. Pure shock. The door closed with a gentle click behind him and Scott went forward, letting the hands pull his shirt over his head and throw it somewhere away. Dark eyes full of malicious lust, taking as much advantage of his deadened state as Scott was taking advantage of the boy in his youth. God, had he ever been young? Really? And he should have backed straight out again, but the telepathy...it was so close to Jean. He couldn’t turn away, drawn in like a moth to a flame.
*Yer not as good at shielding as yer think yer are, Mister Summers...or at least you’re not shielding from me...*
“Call me Scott,” he said, forcing down the frisson of shameful pleasure at being reminded of his status in regards to this almost androgynous teenager. In his bed. And showing no signs of leaving it, pale body looking like a bondage wet dream wreathed in those bandages. And he knew exactly what lay behind it in all its dreadful awe-inspiring glory. A shell of a body that held fires and flame, rippling and beautiful even though convincing Jon of that was a thankless task. And it was dangerous, but it wasn’t ugly.
Another raven’s caw of laughter rippling through his head, and it didn’t feel quiet so empty now there was another mind in there too. *Nah, yer like it...Mister Summers. So teacher...* A cold press of metal into his hands and Scott sat back for a bit to study whatever it was. Handcuffs. And Jonothon was jerking the tongue of his belt out of the buckle, scrap of cheek above the bandages grazing across his chest, and oh god... *Yer wanna teach me a few things that just aren’t in the textbook?*
Scott held the handcuffs in his hands, looking at Jonothon as the teen lay back, hands above his head and fey eyes looking at him down the long, aristocratic nose. Victorian youth. Someone Lord Byron would have written erotic sonnets over, praising those long, long legs that just seemed to stretch out to infinity. So very naked, even with the bandages. And the handcuffs...glittered at him, promising. Something reassuring about the fact that he could take back the control, snapping one bracelet around a thin wrist and looping the chain through the headboard and then closing the other one as well. And that laughter filled up his head again, rough as cigarette smoke and the burn of whiskey...which he’d been drinking far too much of in an attempt to numb the grief.
*Why wot? Does it matter? I’m horny, you’ve been gagging for it since day one when I spoke to yer and now we’re here.* A slow sinuous writhe against the sheets, and Scott’s libido told his ethics to take a hike, shaking hands picking up the small tube of KY from the bedside table where Jonothon had so thoughtfully left it and flipped the lid. *Ah, fuck yeah...* Moaned into his head as he penetrated the tight pucker with a finger, remembering how to do this from the days before he’d met Jean. When it hadn’t been about love and just about feeling something for one moment. So hot. Blazing feverishly hot inside and Scott pulled out for a moment, ignoring the faint whimper ricocheting inside his head as he got rid of his pants.
So *hard*, like he hadn’t thought he’d be able to manage again. Hard and aching. But here he was, lying down between the artfully sprawled legs of this British streetkid who he was meant to be *teaching*, god dammit, and running his fingers down the cleft before easily once more slipping inside. Scott turned his head slightly and bit the prominent hipbone near his face and ignoring the erection the teen had, gnawing on it and *punishing* Jonothon for doing this, making him think about doing this and the shuddering moan in his head told him Jono was just fine with being bitten. So he bit a little harder, leaving feral toothprints, and *twisted* his fingers, making slender hips buck up, nearly smashing him in the face because he wasn’t quite expecting that violent a reaction.
*Uh, yeah, *fuck* yes. Ah. Do that again.*
Crescendos of telepathy, breaking through his head like water through a breach. So good. Warm and wanted, and he was such an addict to it. The professor was calm, still, quiet. Detached. Nothing like Jean, but there was something like her in the blaze of thoughts and images that came from this boy. So young. Heartbreakingly young, and he shouldn’t be doing this. Really shouldn’t. But now he couldn’t not. So. Lave a long lick across the not even red toothmarks (no blood circulation, his analytical mind whispers to him, and the vaguely animal side of him is disappointed because they’re not red), and then nuzzle briefly at the boy’s balls, tongue darting out to lick a path up the slender cock. Slide in another finger, making three, and press down on the hard nub to make the thin hips jerk, making a necessity of holding them down with his free hand so he doesn’t get smashed in the nose. Listen to the voice in his head go mad, the sense of rapid panting in there even if he doesn’t have lungs to breath with anymore.
Because when there’s a voice in his head, filling up all the empty spaces, he feels something close to half alive. Something more then dead. Jono tastes like salt and bitter on his tongue, and there’s a faint wonder at how he can manage to produce precum when so much of his body just isn’t *there*, but it’s not worth worrying about now. And something he will never, ever mention to their new doctor lurking downstairs. The man was entirely too astute and spoke like a thesaurus and was nothing, nothing like Jean in any way. Which was good. But he needed this sense of connection, otherwise he was going to curl up and die from the inside out. Needed this. So badly.
*Je-esus,* a half-sob echoed in his mind as he nipped at the oh far too prominent hipbone again, and had the boy been starved before he manifested? No way he was going to put the weight back on now, when he couldn’t eat. Just. Lean. Starved lean and everything non-essential pared off, and pretty. He wasn’t really used to thinking like that about his students, but yes. God, so pretty. Eyeliner streaked on thickly underneath his eyes and usually so fuck off don’t pity me you wankers in his angry little strut and so. Pretty. Scott moaned softly, hips arching and rubbing himself against the sheets for a moment in search for some momentary relief.
“I’m going to...” Scott paused to swallow and breathe, raising his head to look at the long lines of Jonothon’s body stretched out above him, curl of fingers clutching at air above his head. The handcuffs. Jesus God. “Going to fuck you now...”
*God, *yes*, fuck me hard.* Snarled into his mind, without any echoes. Solid and real. *Sodding tease, ah god yes, bite me again...* Scott obliged as he moved up the trim body, leaving another sucking biting kiss behind on that pale hip and digging his fingers into the smooth curves of Jonothon’s ass. Gorgeous. The boy was just...he must have lost so much when the psionic fires had come raging into being, leaving him something utterly unmundane and wholly different. His cock slicked moisture across the shallow dip of Jonothon’s stomach, burying his face against the black bandages and hearing laughing moans rasp across his brain. Bit there too, right on the curve of the kid’s jaw, and rode the buck of Jonothon’s hips with a thrust of his own.
Not alone. Not empty.
Knees spread wide around his hips and long legs entwined with his as a breathless gasp enjoins him to just get *on* with it. A sort of whine, but not quite because begging isn’t something Jono can do well. Too much stiff-necked pride in some things, but strangely it’s perfectly acceptable to strip down naked in his teacher’s room, his very male teacher’s room at that, and sprawl across the bed with a pair of handcuffs and ask to get fucked. Utterly confusing contradictions to Scott’s mind. He’d have never, ever crawled into Xavier’s bed...and Jean had let him into hers, no hiding about it.
Scott tried to take it slow, feeling the head of his dick nudge the slightly stretched hole, face turned into the black, so black, bandages and tasting latex under his tongue before Jonothon made a sort of irritated, lust-filled *hiss* inside his head. One foot brought up to the back of his legs and pushing just as the teen tilted his hips and oh god, Scott was in. Warm, and hot, and Jesus...so *tight*. So tight, sinfully pleasurable and almost like a vice around his cock, knees tense around his waist and fingers clenching hard on the headboard. The handcuffs make a rattling sound.
*Oh FUCK, give it to me hard, you bastard,* Jonothon’s moaning voice filling up his head, and Scott started to move. Hard, and *in*, oh god, fingers digging into the muscled spheres of the ass he held cupped in his hands. Leaving some sort of bruises, as he’d see later, darker blotches of red against the very pale pink. Eyes wide and brown, somehow wet and the impression that there should be a gasping mouth beneath the nose, but just the blankness of the bandages. The eyeliner made his eyes look even wider then they were, and Scott kissed them closed for a moment, hips moving in the relentless rhythm that Jonothon demanded. Hard and punishing, sweat running down his bare back and he just had to. Bite. Again. Fix his teeth into the bare shoulder past the bandages, and taste ashes in his mouth.
Why he was calling on a divinity he never really had quite believed in when he was engaged in fucking the brains out of his student was something he would never understand. But. It seemed. He always would call on God in the midst of sex, tarnishing the holiness with the reality of sweat, grunts and come. And that harsh breath of laughter ringing through his head again, like tainted church bells as thin hips thrust back to his, just as active a participant as if he wasn’t the one handcuffed to the bed. Couldn’t get away. Just there to be fucked, and filled with Scott’s ghosts and laughing in the face of them, and burning them into shreds and ashes. And Jean, god, Jean! The aching loneliness of life without her assuaged for a little bit as the swiftly building orgasm hit his mind and he whited out in a blaze of shame filled ecstasy. The startling hot splash of Jonothon’s come against his stomach and Scott groaned slightly, letting his weight sag down for a moment.
Utterly mindless and basking in the aftershocks of what had been an extremely good fuck. No matter how disturbing. He could feel Jonothon’s psifires underneath the bandages, somehow pushing them up and presenting the illusion of a whole chest underneath. No heartbeat in his ear. Sort of a whoosh noise instead. Whisper of dark hair against his cheek, catching up the sweat on his face and soaking it in greedily. Scott murmured something softly, not knowing really what he could say, and Jonothon rubbed his knee along the outside of the man’s legs.
*I’d like my hands back now, ta. My arms are starting to hurt.*
Reminded suddenly of where they were, and who exactly it was lying underneath him, Scott sat up. Reached behind Jono’s head to unlock the handcuffs, and resisted the urge to shake in guilt. Repressed the shameful wish to see just how white the boy had to be, if he’d had normal eyes and not been locked behind the necessity of a ruby quartz visor. So pale pink, like the clouds at dawn. A curl of long coltish body on his bed as Jonothon sat up, rubbing at his wrists thoughtfully and sending an absolutely *knowing* look his way. Little prick knew exactly what was going through his head, and Scott felt his lips peel back from his teeth in an unconscious snarl before he smoothed it out into his Cyclops face again.
*’M an unbelievable brat.* A brush of guitar-calloused fingers against his jaw, and suddenly serious eyes focused on him as Scott looked up. Just who exactly was in control here? Jonothon, and it had been Jonothon since he’d stepped through the door, no matter about who’d actually been in the handcuffs. *I wanted this.*
“I should have known better...” then to take you up on it. Should have had enough self-control to kick you out. It wasn’t the first time a student had had a crush on him, but perhaps the first time one had gone this far. Had managed to break down every little aspect of conscience he used to own in regards to fucking his students. But Jean had been there then. And now she wasn’t, and Jonothon’s voice filled all the achingly empty corners of his mind, and he was just weak enough to give into that.
Jonothon stepped out of the bed, and Scott watched him bend to pick up his clothes. Piled neatly next on the floor, and he felt another twitch of guilty lust at the sight of the teenager’s ass, wet shine streaking down the inside of his thighs. Glad he couldn’t actually see what damage he must have done in that rough brutal rut. Ran his fingers through his hair and couldn’t muster enough shame to look away as black denim is pulled up over slender legs and zipped, buttoned around those disgracefully thin and god, so erotic hips. So he went commando. Who knew? T-shirt slipped over his head and pulled down over the black bandages, and Scott wished abruptly that the teen still had a chest. Nipples. He would have loved to see what sort of sound he could get if he bit and tongued them, flicking the hard nub between soft tongue and vicious teeth.
And with a slight stiffness to his steps, Jonothon turned back to the somewhat shell-shocked Scott on the bed and leant past him to pick up the handcuffs and the tube of KY. Where had he got them from? Scott was pretty sure he’d never find out. Fucking *ambushed* in his bedroom by a teenager who wore far too much makeup for a male body, so goddamned *pretty* in his bitter anger and Jesus. There went the strut as he walked out the door, closing it behind him with another quiet click. And Scott tried to remember how to breathe.
Ambushed again, and again. Classroom, bedroom, garage where he fucked Jonothon over the hood of the professor’s Spider and the rough moans reverberated through his head like nothing else. Not even Jean had managed to tangle her way in like this. Violent, lust filled and coarse. Until he finally gave up pretending and Jonothon started spending nights in his room, dorm bed empty and occasion for whispers. Laughing hollowly in Logan’s face when he was slammed up against the door of the Danger Room in response to the barked out questions. Punched, thrown to the ground and still laughing like a dead man who’d been sparked with electricity for a semblance of life as he spat blood onto the floor and heard the hard sounds of bootheels hitting the ground in anger walk away from him. Feeling Ororo draw back, the soft whisper of rain against the window panes as the Goddess wept for her oh so damned friend. Not being able to meet the professor’s eyes when they met for staff conferences.
And knowing he couldn’t walk away from this.
He needed the hum of a telepath inside his head too much, and wasn’t that just the worst sort of addiction? No way to break it. So he lost himself for another night in bandages and black, raven voice thrumming inside the empty spaces in his head. Tried not to think of Jean. And learnt the ways to make the British voice ratchet up into a scream.