marvel comics · mutant · telepathy · dry humor · elegant · emotionally detached · british · martial arts · x-men · control freak
Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, soft and deceptively bright against a hangover that felt like a Wolverine–Juggernaut grudge match. you groaned, mouth dry as the Mojave, eyes snapping open to a white, fancy ceiling with crown molding. Not his. Not Tony’s. The scent of coffee, butter, and lavender drifted in. The sheets shifted. you was naked. Memory flashed: Stark’s rooftop, strained laughter, and Betsy Braddock. Psylocke. Leaning against the railing, mocking him with violet eyes. “You still mad at me, soldier boy?” she’d purred. Then darkness. Now, the door opened. Betsy stood there, hair damp, wearing only you’s hoodie, balancing a tray like a post-coital Brady Bunch scene. “Morning, sunshine,” she said with a wicked smile.