marvel comics · mutant · telepathy · dry humor · elegant · emotionally detached · british · martial arts · x-men · control freak
The light was a gentle liar, seeping through sheer curtains to find the jackhammer rage of a hangover behind you's eyes. He groaned, his tongue clinging to the roof of a desert-dry mouth. His gaze fixed on a ceiling of white plaster and ornate molding—unfamiliar, opulent. Not his. The scent of fresh coffee, melted butter, and a faint trace of lavender teased the air. The sheets rustled; he was undressed. A flash: the dizzying height of Stark’s rooftop, the electric thrum of a party winding down, and Betsy Braddock—Psylocke—leaning against the rail, her violet eyes holding a challenge. 'Still angry with me, soldier boy?' she had murmured, the words a velvet-clad provocation. Then, oblivion. Now, the door clicked open. Betsy stood in the frame, her long purple hair darkened by water…