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Down Under	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > Het - Male/Female Views: 6656 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the various incarnations of the X-Men, or any characters appearing in any of their titles appearing herein. I make no money writing this.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Chapter 6: Horse of a Different Color

Passion beckons. She heeds its call.

She kisses her lover fervently, feverishly. He returns her kisses in kind. Need wakes within – raw, untamed desire – and soon courses through her veins. She sees no reason to resist.

“My love,” she purrs, “tonight I am yours. Show me the pleasures of the flesh.”

The handsome man favors her with a small smile. His eyes smolder with delight and desire. “Of course, my dear,” he murmurs while his lips descend her neck, “I should strive to fulfill your every want.”

“That will take some doing. My wants are many, my cravings deep, my yearning as great as the cosmos.” A smirk graces her lips. “Can you truly sate them all?”

He unpins her hair so it falls free, cascading waves of ruby flame descending about her face. “A man can but try.”

Layers upon layers of clothing tumble to the floor. She will permit no impediment between her hands and the contours of his flesh. Her own contours feel his firm caresses, savoring every touch that further stokes her furnace.

She lies on the bed to offer her lover a glimpse of her proffered delights: her flawless fair skin glistening with perspiration; her generous bosom heaving with every breath she takes; one lean leg lying at full length, the other up in an inverted V; both open and revealing the crown of crimson curls between them, just above the nectared petals of her sex. She reclines on her elbows. The unbridled desire in her eyes beckons him.

Her lover beams at the goddess on display before him. His hands climb her legs and part them further. The furnace burns hotter still.

Her eyes roam where once roamed her hands. Her lover’s chest, stomach, arms and shoulders – especially his shoulders – undulate with his every move. She eyes his standing member. She anticipates it. She craves it.

“Make me wait no longer,” she cries – half pleading, half commanding. “Take me! I need no more preparation! Take me now!”

Her lover climbs atop her, the hard of his chest against the soft of hers, skin on bare skin and flesh on bare flesh. His lips meet hers. His hands steady her hips.

He enters her slowly, inch by glorious inch. Her moans escape to the ceiling, to the dome of the sky, to the heavens. Soon he fills her fully with his iron-hard member. She gasps for air, waiting… waiting… waiting.

Her lover rocks his hips back and forth to move his member within her. The furnace can no longer contain the flames as they leap through her body to the heavens. Starlight beckons, convinces the flames to coalesce, to birth a new celestial lamp.

Their bodies writhe together. Their flesh and movements, this oldest of dances, brings her untold rapture. Her arms clasp his neck, her thighs his waist, her sheath his rod.

The star burns hotter. Once large and red, it now condenses until it glows white. Intense in its new glow, she knows such bright stars burn out swiftly. She knows its end approaches.

Her lover slows his thrusts. She matches his tempo. Finality, expectation, release – all hang in the ether around them, above them.

Her moans echo throughout the bedchamber, throughout the void of space, throughout time eternal, throughout all Creation. Her lover beams at her wanton cries, her shameless abandon. Without restraint, freedom beckons. Soon, very soon, she will heed its call.

The small white star burns hotter… hotter yet… impossibly hot. It cannot hold – she feels its grip loosening, weakening. The inevitable supernova nears.

The star erupts. So does she. She screams her lover’s name.

“Ohhhhhh… Jason!”

Consciousness struck Jean Grey like a thunderbolt, jolting her out of her sleep. Her eyes shot open, and her lips shaped the name of the man who’d deceived her. She’d awakened in the throes of an orgasm she didn’t want, her whole body shuddering with the memories of Mastermind’s tryst – violation? rape? – with her and the Phoenix.

“Stop it,” she hissed through clenched teeth. Tears of frustration coursed down her cheeks as she fought in vain against the involuntary muscle contractions and against the knowledge that she had been remembering, rather than dreaming. She clamped her thighs tightly together, begging her own body, “Please… please stop.”

Mercifully, the orgasm subsided. The sour taste of bile in the back of her throat forced her to suppress her need to cry, so she could instead dash to the bathroom. This time, though, her heaves were relatively dry.

The sobs that followed, however, were not.

Slumped against the side of the tub again, Jean wept. She wailed, the eerie sound reverberating from the walls, wrapping her in a cocoon of her own sorrowful cacophony. Her eyes ran dry, and her voice hoarsened; but still she cried.

Jean’s mind spun. Such detail… ugh, those sensations, she retched inwardly. Too detailed for a dream, I think… must have been a memory. Picking herself up from the floor in a daze, she prepared for another long shower. Mastermind dealt in illusions, she comforted herself. Maybe the memory is just the remnant of one of those illusions.

Somehow, though, the assurance rang hollow.

Closing her eyes while the warm water cascaded down her body, Jean probed the recesses of her mind, seeking answers. Did Mastermind… did he violate my body as well as my mind? That star I saw – did it exist as a real star, or merely a metaphor? If it was real, did I… did the Phoenix cause its supernova, or merely witness the event at some point during the untold eons?

She cleaned her body, hoping once more that the symbolic action might make her spirit feel cleaner also. The hot water ran cold. Jean could find no answers to her questions.

Minutes later, Jean sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the telephone on the nightstand. Beside it, the clock showed 6:30 in crimson digital segments, eliciting a sigh from the young woman. I need to talk to someone, but right now everyone at the Mansion will be busy with their daily activities – most likely the Danger Room.

Resolving to wait an hour or two before calling the Mansion, she cast about for methods of temporal murder. An idea came to her: Since the other X-Men are training, I might as well train too. Concentrating on the contents of her purse, Jean began juggling the assorted items telekinetically – pens, wallet, chewing gum, spare panty-liner, travel-sized package of tissues, and a cosmetics touch-up kit, among other oddments.

Too easy,she thought. She pulled the contents of her souvenir bag into the loop, which added Beast’s postcard, her daily itinerary, and St. John’s poem. Jean counted twenty items total, proud of her control – though I think this is my limit, she realized as she felt her mind fatiguing with the effort. We’ll see how long I can keep this up.

Jean surprised herself when a glance at the clock showed that nearly an hour had passed – so much so that she fumbled and dropped everything. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she began collecting the items and returning them to their proper locations. When she came across “The Legend of the Phoenix” folded up and marked with the poet’s contact information, she paused.

Maybe I could talk to him? About what? I can’t tell anyone else the whole story, especially a man I just met.

Jean unfolded the sheet of paper and read the poem, a shiver climbing her spine. This St. John seems to get what I’m going through, somehow. Maybe I can tell him part of the story? I just hate to hide things. She chewed her lip fretfully.

She read the final stanzas, the recent eruption of memory flashing once more across her mind’s eye. “’Freedom beckons,’” she quoted. “I have to throw off those chains of the past, if I want to ‘soar’ again.”

Thus emboldened, she picked up the phone and punched in the digits the poet had given her.

After only one ring came a drowsy-sounding ‘Ello? Allerdyce.’

“St. John? Oh God, did I wake you?”

‘No worries – I only burn up at blokes who wake me up before nine, never sheilas.’ He chuckled lightly, sounding less drowsy by the word.

“I’m so sorry. I was just thinking about calling home, and it’s mid-afternoon there, and forgot–“

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa – where’s home? Mid-afternoon? That’s gotta be the other side–‘

“Yeah, New York. Jean Grey, remember? From the reading?”

There was only silence on the other end. For one dreadful moment, Jean feared that he didn’t remember her, that he’d been putting her on, that he hadn’t really expected her to call – ever. Her cheeks ignited with agonizing embarrassment, embarrassment which spread throughout her body like a wildfire.

‘Oh, yeah, the ginger Yank, right?’

Jean laughed aloud at that. “Yeah, I guess that’s one of my defining features.”

‘One of a few,’ St. John replied, a note of teasing in his voice. For a moment Jean thought he was referring to her often-obnoxious, hard-to-ignore bosom, but he surprised her by instead adding, ‘There are your eyes too. Don’t often see that shade of green.’

“Hm, well, I’m glad you remember me,” she responded her stomach seemingly chasing its own tail. Suddenly unsure of herself, Jean hesitated. “You said if I wanted to, I could call. I guess I just… needed to hear a friendly voice, and everyone back home is busy.”

On the other end, St. John sounded as if he were sitting up or shifting position – Jean could only hear mattress springs creaking and sheets rustling. ‘Sure, no worries,’ he assured her. ‘What’s on your mind?’

Jean tried to steel herself and forge ahead; but no matter how she disguised it, talking about this was guaranteed to be difficult. “I, um, had a dream – a nightmare, really,” her wavering voice explained.

‘About the person you lost?’ came St. John’s immediate guess.

“Indirectly,” Jean admitted. “I dreamed about… about someone else, someone I ran off with.” She paused – both to collect her thoughts and to suppress the feelings of shame and guilt welling up inside her. “At the time,” she continued as evenly as she could, “I’d just seen my, um, husband with another woman.”

‘That’s not cricket,’ he replied. Jean could hear the wince in his voice. ‘No one deserves that. No one.’

“Worse – I found out later… she’d come on to him, and it was all just a misunderstanding.” Those memories – that ill-fated night when she’d sought out Scott, found him kissing the mutant pop-star Dazzler, her physical introduction to Jason Wyngarde – were some of the first to return after her resurrection. She’d been so furious with Scott – this time without the Phoenix’s influence – that she’d not talked to him for a week. It had taken Remy’s explanation – that Scott’s presence at the club had been due to the Cajun’s recommendation, as a distraction for Scott, and that Dazzler had initiated the kiss at just the wrong moment – for her to resume speaking with her ex-husband.

‘That’s always the way, right?’ St. John exclaimed, voice soft, calming, sympathetic.

Jean sniffled, the rush of emotions as raw now as it had been in that New York nightclub. “Another man reached out to me. He deceived me into thinking… into thinking I loved him. J-Jason… he only wanted–“

‘You poor sheila,’ came the Aussie’s soft voice, thankfully cutting her off. ‘If there’s one thing burns me up, it’s blokes who make a move when a sheila’s hit for six.’

“If that means I didn’t know which way was ‘up,’ then yes,” she answered, “and I wish I’d never listened to him. He never loved me; he just used me. By the time I could think straight again…” This time, Jean simply trailed off.

‘Irreversible damage to your marriage?’ St. John asked in an attempt to fill in.

“No, actually,” Jean whispered, a small smile forming on her face as she remembered her conversation with Scott the previous day. “Things just got complicated.” That’s the understatement of the century, she mused.

For the next few moments, only silence – or rather, ambient electronic noise – was transmitted along the phone lines connecting them.

Eventually St. John broke the silence: ‘You’re on holiday, right?’

“That’s right,” she responded, unsure where he was headed with the question. “I was planning to–“

‘Cancel your plans; I got a wacky idea. I’ll pick you up at your hotel in twenty. Where’re you lodging?’

“Whoa, whoa, whoa – why do you want to pick me up?” Jean asked, her whole body tensing. Her mind began to focus, seeking out St. John’s mental signature to scan for ill intent.

His response forestalled her: ‘I thought you might like to relax, unwind a bit. I thought a day at Obelisk Beach might cheer you.’

Caught off-balance by the offer, Jean merely blinked. “A day at the beach? No way – I don’t want to deal with more scumbags ogling me and chatting me up on this trip, and certainly not in a swimsuit.”

‘That’s why I’m volunteering to join you,’ he replied, an earnest hue coloring his voice. ‘Blokes’ll be less inclined to approach with me at your side; if one bothers you, say the word and I put his candle out.’

Intrigued, Jean mulled over the idea. “You promise you’ll behave yourself too?” she asked warily.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he promised. ‘If there’s even an iota of ogling on my part, you’ll have to just forgive me for not being blind.’

Cheeks scarleting at his compliment, Jean gave St. John the hotel address. Once the receiver had been returned to its place, she chose and donned a swimsuit. Her hair she corralled into a ponytail. Next, she applied sunscreen – can’t let my skin match my hair, she joked to herself.

Within fifteen minutes Jean sat in the hotel lobby, ready and waiting for this latest wrinkle in her vacation to arrive.

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A/N: Sorry for the wait on this one - things have remained as crazy as ever, and I've also been battling a bout of apathy towards everything. Given how hectic things are going to be for the foreseeable future, I have no clue when I'll post the next chapter. I will try my damnedest to work on it, though.
I hope everyone enjoyed, and please R&R. Till next time!
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