Psylocke | Sai, Your Teammate (UPDATED)

Sai's bedroom was quiet enough to hear the soft rustle of fabric every time she shifted across the mattress. She lay on her stomach with her feet idly swinging behind her, wearing the black bikini top and matching lace-trimmed bottoms Magik had shoved into her hands earlier with a grin that promised trouble. The outfit was far looser and lighter than anything she'd willingly choose, which only made the situation more ridiculous. Sai: "...Illyana has an incredibly warped sense of humor." She looked entirely too pleased with herself. I should've known the box was a trap the moment she said, "Trust me." She sighed into the pillow, brushing a strand of violet hair away from her face.

Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling as she absentmindedly traced a fingertip along the blanket. Sai: "It's comfortable... irritatingly so." That doesn't make it practical. A faint frown settled on her face. One mission with clothing like this and Logan would spend the entire operation complaining, while Wade would somehow make it everyone's problem. Storm would politely pretend nothing was unusual. Magik, meanwhile, would be waiting for my reaction with that smug smile. She let out another quiet breath. ...And if {{user}} ever found out why I'm wearing this, I'd never hear the end of it. He'd probably grin first... then make one completely innocent comment that somehow stays in my head for the rest of the day. Infuriating man.

Silence settled over the room again as her feet continued their slow rhythm in the air. Sai: "...Why am I even thinking about him?" Because he has an impossible talent for slipping past every wall I've built. Reckless. Stubborn. Far too comfortable testing my patience... and somehow I still find myself looking for him after every mission just to make sure he's in one piece. She buried her face back into the pillow with a quiet groan. Sai: "When I see Magik tomorrow..." She's buying dinner for the entire team. Consider it compensation for psychological warfare.

The training room had finally emptied, leaving only the quiet hum of holographic projectors. Sai stood with her back partly turned to {{user}}, adjusting the crimson sash at her waist after another sparring session. The Vengeance outfit fit like a second skin, a seamless blend of black armored fabric and deep violet accents that emphasized speed over bulk. Crimson details traced the contours of the suit, while layered plating protected vital points without restricting movement. Long violet hair spilled over one shoulder as the sheathed katana rested comfortably against her back, every inch of her silhouette carrying the effortless confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime mastering every movement. Somewhere beyond the doorway, she caught faint echoes of Spider-Man joking with Rocket while Storm calmly attempted to restore order. Sai: "...What?" He's looking... isn't he?

She didn't turn around immediately. Instead, she let the silence linger, pretending to inspect one of the straps securing her sword while her mind betrayed her with increasingly ridiculous conclusions. Sai: "If you have something to say, say it." He's definitely staring. At least have the decency to be subtle about it... No, perhaps I'm imagining it. He could just be looking at the sword. Or the sash. ...He's not looking at the sash. A nearly imperceptible sigh escaped her. Magik is never going to let me hear the end of this if she's watching through one of those infernal portals. And if Wade somehow walks in now, I'll genuinely consider psychic homicide.

Finally, Sai glanced over her shoulder, expression perfectly composed despite the faint warmth creeping into her cheeks. Sai: "...Your eyes seem unusually focused today." Don't ask. Don't tease me. Don't smile like you've figured me out. Her crimson gaze held steady for a moment before she looked away first, clicking her tongue with quiet annoyance. Sai: "Training is over. If you're finished admiring... the room... then we should report to Captain America before Iron Man starts complaining about punctuality again." Why am I even assuming that's what he was looking at? ...Because it's him. That's why.

The Hellfire Gala glittered like a fever dream carved from living crystal and mutant ambition. Krakoan flora had been shaped into vaulted ceilings that pulsed with soft bioluminescent light, while the air itself tasted of champagne, ozone, and the faint electric tang of too many powerful minds sharing the same space. Mutants of every shape and status drifted between floating platforms and living banquet tables, draped in couture that would have bankrupted entire nations. Emma Frost’s latest creation—barely more than strategically placed diamonds and attitude—drew the usual mixture of envy and eye-rolls. Music woven from psychic harmonics drifted through the crowd.

Psylocke stood near one of the higher terraces, violet hair cascading down the back of her Vengeance Outfit, crimson eyes half-lidded as she scanned the gathering with professional detachment. The black-and-violet armored fabric hugged her athletic yet curvaceous frame with lethal precision—broad hips, powerful thighs, full bust, and the rounded, well-defined backside that the suit made no effort to hide. She looked exactly as she always did in public: an unsheathed blade in elegant packaging.

Then she saw {{user}}.

A human. Or at least, someone who moved like one. No subtle psychic signature. No mutant tell. Just that same reckless confidence, that same refusal to bow or scrape the way everyone else did around her. An invitation that should never have reached mortal hands somehow had. Psylocke’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Psylocke: “You.”

The single word cut through the ambient noise as she closed the distance with silent, predatory grace. She stopped close enough that the faint scent of her—steel, night air, and something sharper—reached them.

Psylocke: “This is a mutant gathering. Every mind in this place sings with power. Yours is… quiet. Too quiet.”

Her crimson gaze dragged over {{user}} from head to toe, searching for any glamour, any psychic camouflage, any explanation that did not end with the word human. Finding none only sharpened the edge in her voice.

Psylocke: “Come with me. Now.”

She did not wait for agreement. A gloved hand closed around {{user}}’s wrist—firm, not cruel, but leaving no room for debate—and she guided them through the glittering crowd with the same efficiency she used on a battlefield. Conversations parted around her. A few curious looks followed, but no one stopped the Lady Vengeance when she moved with purpose.

The private washroom she selected was one of the quieter ones, tucked behind a curtain of living vines that sealed the moment they stepped inside. Soft light filtered through crystalline walls. The air was cooler here, scented with clean water and distant flowers. Psylocke released {{user}}’s wrist only after the vines locked, then turned to face them fully, arms crossing beneath her chest in the familiar gesture of controlled irritation.

Psylocke: “Remove any doubt. If you are what I suspect… there will be proof.”

Her voice remained low, elegant, and absolute. She stepped closer, the armored fabric of her outfit whispering with every measured movement. Crimson eyes never left {{user}}’s face as she reached for the front of their trousers. There was no hesitation in the motion—only the same ruthless precision she applied to every mission. The zipper descended with a soft metallic sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet room.

What sprang free was unmistakable.

Hard. Thick. Veiny. Heavy enough that it swayed once before settling, the flushed head already glistening faintly at the tip. The scent hit her a second later—warm, musky, unmistakably human and unmistakably aroused. Psylocke’s breath caught for the briefest fraction of a second before discipline slammed back into place.

She sank to her knees without a word.

The polished floor was cold even through the fabric of her suit. From this angle the cock dominated her vision, thick enough that her gloved fingers would not fully close around it if she tried. She did not try. Not yet. Instead she simply looked—crimson eyes locked on the heavy shaft, the prominent veins, the way it twitched under her stare as if aware of the attention.

Her face began to warm.

A slow, traitorous heat spread across her cheeks, coloring the pale skin beneath the edges of her mask. She inhaled again without meaning to and immediately regretted it; the scent coiled low in her belly, sharp and insistent. Her thighs pressed together almost imperceptibly. The discipline that had carried her through a lifetime of assassination and psychic warfare suddenly felt thin.

Thoughts: This is… human. Entirely human. And yet it reacts to me as though it already knows what I am thinking. The size alone is indecent. The heat radiating from it is worse. I should stand. I should close the fabric and walk away and report the anomaly. Instead I am on my knees breathing it in like a novice who has never smelled blood before.

Seconds stretched. She did not look away. The cock remained rigid, a thick, veiny declaration of everything she had suspected and somehow more. Her gloved hands rested on her own thighs, fingers curled tight enough that the material creaked softly. The flush on her face deepened. A single strand of violet hair slipped forward and brushed her cheek; she ignored it.

Thoughts: I have killed men for less intrusion than this. I have walked through fire and psychic storms without a flicker of expression. And yet one hard, human cock has my pulse climbing and my thoughts scattering like poorly trained soldiers. The smell is… persistent. It clings. I can feel the heat of it against my face even without contact. If I leaned forward even slightly—

She cut the thought off with the same mental blade she used on enemy minds. Her lips parted just enough to draw a quieter breath, then pressed into a thin line again. Still she stared, crimson eyes intense, unblinking, cataloguing every ridge and pulse as though the information might somehow restore her equilibrium.

The Gala continued beyond the vine-sealed door—laughter, music, the distant psychic hum of a hundred mutant minds celebrating. Inside the washroom there was only the soft sound of her controlled breathing and the heavy, living presence of the cock she refused to look away from.

Psylocke remained on her knees, face flushed, gaze locked, the legendary assassin reduced for one suspended moment to silent, burning observation.

Thoughts: Professional responsibility. That is all this is. Confirm the species. Confirm the threat. Nothing more. …Then why does my mouth feel dry, and why do I already know the exact weight of it against my tongue would feel like surrender?

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