The X-Mansion was rarely quiet, even in the dead of night, but the sound that ripped Psylocke from her slumber was neither a telepathic distress call nor the distant rumble of a Danger Room session gone awry. It was closer—too close. Heavy, labored breathing paired with an odd, furtive rustling near the foot of her bed. Her violet eyes snapped open, her body tense and coiled like a predator, one hand already reaching for the psychic blade she kept under her pillow.
With a flick of her wrist, she hit the bedside lamp, flooding the room in harsh light. There, sprawled on her polished hardwood floor like some kind of oversized, orange-skinned raccoon, was Brain Brown. Four arms, each one awkwardly positioned as if caught mid-crime, and in one of his grubby hands, a pair of her silk panties—black, lacy, and definitely not his.
“Are you bloody kidding me?” Psylocke’s voice cut through the air like a whip, her British accent sharpening every syllable. She sat up, the thin strap of her violet camisole slipping off her shoulder as she glared daggers at the mutant intruder.
Brain froze, his wide, guilty eyes darting from her to the stolen lingerie and back again. “Uh… mornin’, Betsy,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head with one of his extra arms while the other three tried—and failed—to discreetly hide the evidence. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Just, uh, crashin’ again. No spare rooms, ya know?”
Psylocke’s gaze flicked to the clock on her nightstand. 7:45 AM. Her alarm hadn’t gone off. “Bollocks,” she hissed under her breath, throwing the covers off and swinging her long, toned legs out of bed. Her silk shorts barely covered anything, but modesty was the least of her concerns right now. “You’re late for class, Brain. Again. And I’m not your bloody landlord.”
Brain winced, still clutching her panties like a lifeline. “Yeah, I know, I know. I was just… gettin’ comfy. Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Mind?” Her voice dripped with venom as she stood, hands on her hips, towering over him. “You’ve got four hands, and yet not one of them seems capable of knocking on a door. Get up. Now. I can afford to stroll in late—I’m the damn teacher. You, on the other hand, are on thinner ice than a polar bear in July.”
Brain hesitated, his orange cheeks flushing a deeper shade of tangerine. His eyes, all four of them, were glued to her, roaming over the barely-there sleepwear clinging to her curves. “Uh… I can’t. Not yet. Kinda… stuck.”
Psylocke rolled her eyes so hard she nearly pulled a muscle. “Don’t tell me. Your ‘second mutation’ again?” Her tone was mockingly sweet, but the ice in her stare could’ve frozen hell over.
He nodded sheepishly, shifting uncomfortably on the floor. “Yeah. It’s, uh, actin’ up. Seein’ ya like that—panties and bra and all—it’s like a damn trigger. I can’t help it, Betsy. You’re a freakin’ vision.”
“Oh, spare me the poetry, Brain,” she snapped, folding her arms across her chest, which only seemed to make his situation worse. “You’re not the first mutant with a inconvenient quirk, and I’m not your personal bloody therapist.”
Brain’s lips curled into a cheeky, lopsided grin, and he dared to push his luck. “Speakin’ of therapy… how ‘bout lettin’ me use them thighs again? Like last night? C’mon, Betsy, you know it’s medicinal.”
Her glare could’ve melted steel. “You’ve got some nerve, you four-armed git. Last night was a one-time deal—a moment of weakness I’m already regretting. I’m not a charity for your weird little urges, and my thighs are off the menu. Permanently.”
He pouted, all four arms drooping in exaggerated disappointment. “Aw, c’mon. How ‘bout just the panties then? I’ll be real careful this time. Promise I won’t ruin ‘em like the last pair.”
Psylocke’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Careful? Brain, you turned my favorite lace set into something I had to burn. I’m not running a laundry service for your overzealous mess. You’ve got ten seconds to get your orange arse out of my room before I telepathically lobotomize you.”
Brain’s eyes widened, but there was a glint of desperation in them. “Please, Betsy. I’m dyin’ here. Just… help a guy out?”
She sighed, rubbing her temple as if warding off a migraine. “Fine. But we’re doing this my way, and you’re going to haul ass to class the second it’s done. No dawdling, no excuses. Understood?” Her tone was pure steel, leaving no room for argument.
His face lit up like a Christmas tree, all four hands clapping together in awkward excitement. “Hell yeah, I’m in! You’re the best, Betsy!”
“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, dropping to her knees with the grace of a panther, her expression a mix of irritation and absolute control. She was still half-dressed, her sleepwear leaving little to the imagination, but her demeanor made it clear who was in charge. “And keep your hands to yourself—all four of them. I’m not in the mood for surprises.”
Brain nodded frantically, barely able to form words as she took over, her movements precise and commanding. It was over faster than she’d expected—hardly a challenge. When it was done, she sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shooting him a look of pure disdain.
“Pathetic,” she quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “If your stamina in class is anything like that, no wonder you’re failing. Now get out before I change my mind and psi-blast you into next week.”
Brain stumbled to his feet, flustered and dazed, his orange skin practically glowing with embarrassment and satisfaction. “R-right. Class. Goin’ now. Thanks, Betsy. You’re… uh… amazing.”
“Save it,” she snapped, already turning away to grab her clothes from the chair. “And don’t come back sniffing around my room unless you want to lose a limb. Or four.”
He mumbled something incoherent as he scrambled out the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. Psylocke shook her head, muttering to herself as she pulled on her tight leather pants and a fitted top. “Bloody mutants and their bloody mutations. I need a raise.”
She snatched her teaching materials off the desk—combat manuals and psychic training guides—and bolted out the door, her boots clicking sharply against the mansion’s polished floors. Brain was still visible down the hall, shambling toward the classroom wing, and she wasn’t about to let this morning’s chaos throw her off her game. Psylocke was many things—telepath, warrior, teacher—but a pushover wasn’t one of them. If anything, this rude awakening only sharpened her edge. Today, her students were in for a reckoning.
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