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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Chapter 8: Over the Rainbow

Hour by hour, Jean’s arousal ebbed and flowed like the waves crashing ashore. After the initial sunscreen replacement, the nearly-nude redhead managed to make small talk with St. John – inconsequential subjects like the inverted seasonal pattern, the indigenous wildlife, and such cuisine preferences as vegemite, fairy bread, and kangaroo meat – which doused her ardor before it flared out of control. She switched between lying on her stomach with her arms as her pillow and lying on her back with both arms folded, obstructing the view for anyone who might look.

By the time her arousal had faded, though, it was time for more of the skin protector. His hands on her back and hers on her breasts stoked the embers, reigniting them to full intensity. Not even reading her book could prevent the cycle from repeating; in fact, the steamy scene – despite the book not being a bodice-ripper – right before lunch kept her primed between SPF doses.

Lunch consisted of plain ham-and-cheese sandwiches with sodas. St. John offered her a ‘stubby’ – a short bottle of beer, which he claimed came from a friend’s batch of homebrew – which Jean declined with the (entirely true) excuse that she didn’t drink beer. Eating while unimpaired proved difficult enough, since she had to focus on keeping one arm in its obfuscatory place at all times.

After lunch came more reading and more small talk – and, of course, more sunscreen. As the day wore on, Jean caught more and more stray glances in her direction and many more stray thoughts, primarily from the gymnophiles just down the beach. Fortunately, thanks to the presence of St. John, who seemed content merely to keep her company, the military men kept their distance.

Inevitably, the mundanity of the afternoon wouldn’t last. Around three or so, St. John leaned over to ask, ‘Care for a swim?’

Cheeks immediately flushing, Jean shook her head. “I don’t think I’m comfortable enough to try that.” She snorted. “On the other hand, if you’d asked me yesterday if I’d ever spend a day at a nude beach with a near-stranger, topless under the clear blue sky, I’d have thought you were crazy.”

‘You do keep yourself pretty tightly wound,’ he observed. ‘Why is that? You’ve got beauty to spare, and – far as I can fathom – heart and brains to match.’

“Call me old-fashioned,” she answered with a subversively flirty smirk. “I’m also just… used to people judging me based on labels,” she continued more somberly. “It’s made me wary of opening up, outside of a few select individuals.”

‘Especially after that one smeg-head manipulated you.’ Here St. John fidgeted, as if he wanted to reach for her hand but didn’t dare to.

Jean simply smiled. He does get it, she thought with elation. Maybe I can include him in that select circle…

A question from St. John cut into her inner monologue: ‘Mind if I ramble a bit?’ With her nod of permission, he began: ‘I don’t know what labels you’re judged by – not lesbo, as you’ve been married. Unless that was just a front… which would explain why you hate blokes drooling all over you…’

Noting his floundering, she interjected, “I’m not lesbian. Nor am I bi, for that matter.”

His response of ‘Bollocks’ garnered only an eye-roll. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘I, for one, like what I see… inside as out. I think, though, you’re holding onto some things you’re better to jettison – some chains you need to toss aside so you can fly.’

Jean shuddered. Freedom beckons, echoed the line from St. John’s poem through her mind. Become the raptor and soar.

‘What’s more, I think there’s something you aren’t telling me about yourself,’ he added, his tone more matter-of-fact than accusatory. ‘I can’t lock it down quite, but it brings in more tension somehow. Maybe it goes back to the label; I’m not sure.’

“There’s something about you too,” she interrupted, “something familiar I can’t quite put my finger on.”

‘Right, and it’s part of being human to have those hidden facets. Yours just happen to keep you grounded, as it were – chained yourself to your mistakes so you can’t move past them.’

Jean sighed. “It’s not that simple. The mistakes I made… they hurt a lot of people.” And almost destroyed the galaxy, she added silently. “They can’t just disappear.”

‘Of course not,’ he answered, ‘nor do I suggest they can.’ Here he paused as if carefully choosing his next words, which Jean let him do. ‘I’ll just say that to begin the journey to healing, you mustn’t fear the first step – forgiving yourself. I’m not sure you’ve taken that first step yet.’

The young woman pondered her companion’s words. Have I forgiven myself for what the Dark Phoenix and I did? Since my… return… I’ve done nothing but hide and push away those who love me…

< Her friends circle around her lifeless form. She sees them through the eyes of the Phoenix.

“The flame has been extinguished,” says the Cosmic Raptor. “To rekindle it will require the flame from another.”

Predictably, Scott volunteers. Predictably, Logan volunteers. Predictably, they bicker about it. Their offers, and even their bickering, break her heart.

Quoth the Phoenix: “The flame need not come from one alone. All may contribute a portion, but their own flames will diminish.”

Her friends, her family, her X-Men – Rogue, Remy, Hank, Ororo, Logan, Scott, the Professor – circle around her mortal coil. The Phoenix withdraws a fragment of vitality from each. She fuses the fragments into one whole.

Jean draws breath. She lives once more. >

… enough to give a piece of themselves, she realized. They wanted me enough to forgive me.

Tears flowed freely from her eyes as the roiling emotions overwhelmed her self-control.

‘Jean, I… I’m sorry,’ stumbled the usually-eloquent St. John. ‘I, ah, didn’t mean for you to spring the plumbing.’ Unable to refrain, he wiped the tears from her cheeks as well as he could, which earned him a grateful smile from his redheaded companion.

The Aussie smiled back, encouraging her with his hushed voice: ‘Now you’re at it, don’t hold back. You don’t have to tell me anything. Let the tears flow as they will.’

The young American, far from home, did just that. For nearly half an hour, Jean let her tears fall copiously yet silently. Her tears fell for everyone who had been affected by recent events: for her family by blood and by bond, for all the innocents she’d harmed, for Empress Lilandra and the Professor her consort and all the strain in that relationship thanks to her, for the Imperial Guards forced to battle the X-Men – fire-forged friends from the battle with D’Ken – with her own life at stake, for the Phoenix and the taste of humanity’s worst attributes inflicted on the cosmic entity by its fusion with her.

Ultimately, in a moment of clarity like the sun appearing through a break in the clouds, she wept for herself. Jean forgave herself. Struggling for daylight, finding only ruin, she chanted to herself in paraphrase of St. John’s poem, I stretch my wings, become the raptor and soar.

On impulse, she rested her face against St. John’s shoulder, her gaze cast out to sea. Not knowing what else to do, he wrapped her in his arms and held her to him. Once she picked up on the comfort and calm he exuded, Jean slowly responded in kind. Both of them, lost in the moment, ignored that her breasts pressed against his chest.

They stayed that way for several long, comfortable minutes, quiet but for the occasional sniffle from Jean. Finally, though, St. John murmured, ‘I feel like I owe you for putting your emotions through the wringer. How ‘bout we ditch the beach?’

“Where will we go?”

‘I was thinking I could take you to my flat –‘

“I’ve forgiven myself, and I may even start anew,” Jean interrupted, “but I am not a one-night-stand kind of girl!” To emphasize her words, she pushed her Aussie companion to arm’s length.

St. John’s expression seemed to Jean a curious mix of exasperation and amusement. ‘Actually, I’d meant to offer you dinner and a pro-grade massage – I used to serve as a masseur, before I got serious about writing,’ he explained. ‘Besides,’ he added with a rakish wag of the eyebrows, ‘you told me you’ll be in Oz several days yet.’

“St. John, shame on you!” shouted Jean as she shoved him, half-playfully and half-seriously. For a moment she leaned back on her hands while St. John caught himself. The poet merely smirked at her, enjoying the view from his position – a beautiful, uninhibited woman and her beautiful, uninhibited breasts.

A wolf-whistle from down the beach slew the moment. ‘Bout time ya gave those bouncers some daylight!’ called one of the buff-in-the-buff private-baring privates. Belatedly clapping her hands over her breasts again, the embarrassed young woman’s face burned, glowing as bright red as her hair.

“I, um, think I’ll take you up on that, St. John,” she muttered.

He nodded, and Jean detected that, while he enjoyed seeing her, he now felt rather embarrassed on her behalf – even sorry that he’d accidentally caused her to expose herself. ‘Sure thing, Jean. I promise I’ll make all this up to you.’

Dinner, as prepared by St. John, consisted of chicken fettuccine alfredo with a light, fruity Riesling. Jean found both food and wine exquisite, but kept herself from indulging too freely. However, she regretted not partaking of more “liquid courage” as she undressed in St. John’s bathroom while the Aussie set up his massage table.

En route to his flat – which in New York would have been called a “studio apartment” – he had assured her that he had given numerous ‘pro-grade’ massages, and that she could expect his conduct to remain professional throughout. A telepathic scan had verified his story. Neither his assurances nor her own measures, however, prevented her from feeling a certain… anticipation.

I certainly enjoyed the way he touched me on the beach, Jean finally admitted once she stood fully nude, her rosy nipples standing at full attention. Briefly she entertained the idea of a “once-over” before the massage, but she didn’t want to keep St. John waiting.

And why not? Jean asked herself. He’s certainly handsome, and he’s definitely attracted to me. She smiled thoughtfully. If I’m going to embrace this second chance, St. John seems like a decent man to roll the dice on. Polite, charming, roguish, he’s also so… free with his thoughts about me and my body – unlike Scott, who’s always so guarded.

Jean suppressed a giggle. Granted, St. John doesn’t know I can read minds. Closing her eyes, she extended her mind to do just that.

Oiled hands, lit candles – aahhhh, that aroma! I hope she likes the massage much as dinner or the sunscreen earlier. I hope she can trust me enough to relax and enjoy.

Maybe she’ll show me those grand tits again so round and full. I wonder what size? They look like C’s maybe maybe on the edge of D’s in any case she’s got nothing to shame herself over.

Best not dwell too much, mate. What happens happens. Focus on her relaxing and breaking the albatross she’s wearing for jewelry.

Retracting her thoughts, Jean arrived at a decision: she would trust this St. John Allerdyce, this poet-masseur from Sydney, and she would allow herself to let things happen between them naturally. Wrapped only in a towel, she exited the bathroom. When her Aussie host saw her, he couldn’t help how his eyes scanned her, toe to head, and Jean caught him imagining her simply dropping the towel.

Instead, she merely stretched out on the massage table on her belly. Politely St. John turned away so she could move the towel down, fully baring her torso. Jean slipped her hands between her breasts and the surface of the table, and she readied herself with steadying breaths. “I’m ready,” she told him softly.

As soon as the words departed her mouth, St. John spun and began the massage. Gently he moved her hair away from her back. Beginning with her shoulders, his hands kneaded her tense muscles, rolling and pulling and pushing and pinching. Studiously he ignored the sensual sighs he started to hear from her lips.

Tension evaporated under the gentle onslaught of his hands, which moved slowly but steadily down Jean’s back. Clamping her thighs together, she battled the growing heat of her arousal. However, upon recognizing the futility of resistance, she soon surrendered to the sensations, even pinching and rolling her nipples discreetly.

The massage continued for another five minutes, during which St. John remained professionally stoic and Jean grew progressively hotter in her nether regions. The beach was nothing compared to this, she noted – an island of lucidity within a sea of dazed pleasure. Her thighs had long ago parted, and she could feel her privates throbbing with desire.

“St. John, stop,” she blurted.

Complying immediately, he asked, ‘Did I hit a nerve?’

“Y-You could s-say that,” she stammered. “I, um, need to… well, um, borrow your bathroom… for a few minutes.” An ill-timed nipple-pinch brought a soft moan from her unwilling throat.

St. John didn’t respond for a long moment. ‘Rather than, ah, work through this alone,’ he began tentatively, ‘why not… let me help? I’ll give you no more than you’re comfortable with. You have my word.’

When Jean only nodded, he continued: ‘I need to wash the oil off. It’ll lend you a minute to think, make sure you want this.’

While he cleaned his hands, Jean scanned him once more telepathically. She found that he meant it when he promised to respect whatever boundaries she set – a welcome change compared to her previous Australian adventures. Encouraged by the revelation, she removed her towel and waited.

Upon his return, St. John was greeted with a phenomenal view: Jean on all fours, arse curved upward, towel cast aside to display her moistened cunt. He noted that the unshorn curls of her groin matched the intense shade of her head, bringing the smile of satisfied curiosity to his face. He’d be a liar if he told her he wasn’t excited at this opportunity to touch her, to pleasure her, to make her feel good about herself.

‘What’ll it be, Jean?’ he asked. The only sign of his excitement came from a slight hitch in his voice.

“Touch me, St. John,” she moaned, “touch me in all the ways I would touch myself.”

He obliged, hands gliding up her calves and thighs, his tactile neurons appreciating the firm muscle beneath the skin. His hands continued along the curve of her hips to slide underneath, enveloping as much of her voluminous, voluptuous breasts as they could. They pulled gently on the swollen tips, and Jean moaned in response.

“St. John,” she murmured, “your hands feel wonderful.”

The Australian merely continued exploring, returning his hands to her back. He raked his fingertips along either side of her spine, which arched ever so slightly the further down his hands traveled. Next he caressed her shapely rear, with his thumbs slipping along her labia.

With his thumbs St. John spread the lips glistening with arousal. Jean’s engorged clit, which had previously remained partly-hidden by her labia, now seemed to beg for attention. The redhead panted in anticipation.

The jolt of pleasure from her clitoris when it was stroked nearly made Jean jump out of her skin. St. John’s thumbs caressed the sensitive nub, coating it with her juices. More moans escaped her lips, and her hips bucked wantonly.

Waves of pleasure washed over her, one after another, as St. John’s gentle fingers worked. Fingers gripping the massage bed, toes curling, eyes rolling back in her head until they shut of their own accord, Jean found herself rapidly approaching orgasm. She buried her face in the small pillow to muffle the coming screams.

St. John knew the signs. Not content to merely bring her to climax, he moved his hand so the palm faced the table, two fingers at the vaginal aperture. The tips teased the area as if requesting permission for entry. To grant permission, Jean only nodded.

He slid his paired fingers into the depths of her cunt. The burning-hot walls twitched around them. Her whole body shuddered, from head to toe.

“Mmmm-Mmmph! Mmm-hmmmmmm!” came the stifled squeals. Orgasm, with all its attendant bodily spasms, burned like wildfire through Jean’s consciousness. It was, she could tell, but the first of many.

Curling his fingers down toward the inner wall of Jean’s cunt – surprisingly tight, St. John mused, given that she’s been married – he focused on the sensory information coming from his exploratory fingertips. Finally he found what he sought: a small patch with a spongy texture. Smirking triumphantly to himself, he began pressing the spot firmly.

Muffled shrieks emanated from where Jean’s mouth was buried. So intense was this orgasm, she couldn’t even rock her hips, able only to lie there and bask in the pleasure. So intense was this orgasm, tears ran from her eyes down her cheeks.

For his part, St. John savored the twitches around his fingers, the slurping of his fingers as he thrust in and out, even the musky aroma wafting through the air. He relished the suppressed noises of utter, wanton abandon, wishing that she didn’t feel the need to dampen herself thus. What a privilege this beauty’s bestowed on me, he marveled.

Once her second orgasm arrived with even more subdued squeals, he started keeping count. Finally, she lay still, passed out from the pleasure. ‘Fifteen!’ he remarked with a chortle.

*****************************************

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter thoroughly - I know I did! Feedback, both positive and negative, will be much appreciated as always.

Cut-and-paste from previous chapter - the Muse strikes as she pleases, usually when I'm most stressed: This will be the last chapter for a while, because the month of June is going to be insanely busy for me - showers, parties, wedding, honeymoon (hopefully in that order).
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