S.H.I.E.L.D. HELICARRIER – PRIVATE QUARTERS – RIDICULOUS O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Calling the room "private quarters" was like calling Tony Stark "slightly fond of himself." It was the size of a Hogsmeade inn, decked out in StarkTech luxury: self-cleaning floors, mood lighting, adaptive temperature settings, and a bed that could comfortably fit five adult Avengers and an emotional support dragon.
Which was good, because Harry Potter had somehow ended up with four girlfriends.
Correction: four very intense, absurdly hot, lethal girlfriends. Who liked to wake up before sunrise and apparently had no respect for sleep.
Harry was flat on his back in the middle of the bed, blanket tangled at his waist like it owed him galleons. One arm flopped over his eyes. He was snoring like someone who'd fought off an alien invasion, two time-travelers, and an entire Hydra splinter cell in a single week.
Because, well… he had.
"He's drooling again," Ororo said, her voice smooth as silk, sharp as thunder. She sat upright like a goddess who refused to slouch, dressed in one of Harry's shirts and nothing else. The fabric hung off her shoulder like it was in awe of her.
Jean yawned from where she was half-curled against Harry's side, her fingers idly tracing the phoenix tattoo inked on his chest.
"If he's the Chosen One, I choose caffeine," she muttered. "And maybe a tamer sleep schedule."
Tonks, at the foot of the bed with neon-pink hair that kept shifting shades like it couldn't make up its mind, grinned and leaned over his leg.
"Five more minutes and I'm drawing a smiley face on his abs with Nutella."
"Make it a lightning bolt," Natasha said from the corner of the room. She was upside down on one arm doing a handstand in yoga pants and a bra that had survived more explosions than Harry's patience with Dumbledore. "You know. Branding."
Harry groaned.
"I swear on Merlin's saggy left sock," he muttered, "if you graffiti me again, I will hex your espresso machine into a frog."
Tonks gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Oh, he would," Jean said, her hand now sliding slowly down his chest with lazy affection. "This is the same guy who transfigured a Death Eater's wand into a kazoo mid-duel."
"To be fair," Harry murmured, cracking open one emerald eye, "he was monologuing. I consider it a public service."
"Hmm," Ororo purred, brushing a kiss to his temple. "You talk a lot of nonsense for a man who flopped onto me at 3 A.M. like a starfish in crisis."
"I was emotionally distressed and very cold."
"You were also on fire," Natasha added, hopping back onto the bed with panther-like grace. "Literally. Your cloak caught on something in the kitchen."
Harry shrugged. "The toaster made a threatening sound. I defended my honor."
Jean snorted. "By summoning a fireball?"
Harry placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "It was a small fireball."
"You scorched the countertop," Ororo said, but she was smiling like she didn't mind one bit.
Tonks crawled up beside him, face mischievous and hair now styled in a copy of Ororo's regal curls. "So, what's it like waking up every morning surrounded by four women who could beat you up and make you enjoy it?"
"I've stopped asking questions and started leaving thank-you notes," Harry replied. "Also, I now instinctively dodge in my sleep. Jean's left elbow is a war crime."
"It's not my fault you hog the blankets," Jean said, smug.
Natasha stretched out beside them, her leg hooking around Harry's lazily. "You sleep like you're still fighting Hydra in your dreams. It's cute. In a trauma-and-tension kind of way."
"Oh, and don't forget the growling," Tonks chimed in.
"I don't growl," Harry objected.
"Sweetheart," Natasha said dryly, "you growled at the alarm clock yesterday."
"It attacked first," Harry muttered.
There was a beat of silence.
Then all four girls burst into laughter.
"Okay," Harry said, sitting up, tousled hair somehow even more ridiculous than usual, muscles flexing under soft morning light. "New rule. No bullying the Chosen One before breakfast."
"We don't bully," Ororo corrected, brushing her fingers along his collarbone. "We flirt aggressively."
"Big difference," Tonks agreed.
"You're lucky you're hot," Jean added, placing a kiss to his shoulder.
Harry sighed. "Yes, yes. Tragic past, stupidly broad shoulders, reckless magic, brooding eyes. I'm practically a Tumblr post."
"And don't you forget it," Natasha said, kissing him full on the mouth before flopping onto her back like she hadn't just short-circuited the room.
They were chaos. They were powerful. They were kind of terrifying.
And somehow, they were his.
For a few quiet moments, they just lay there, the room filled with soft breathing, lazy hands, and the occasional complaint from Tonks about someone's cold feet.
And even though a mission could drop at any second, or Fury could shout them into a briefing over the intercom, or reality itself could split open again—
Right now?
It was perfect.
And honestly?
That was magic.
—
Things were escalating.
Not in a "grab-your-wand-we've-got-Dementors" way.
More like in a "the universe clearly didn't prepare for four superpowered women waking up in a bed with one dangerously attractive wizard and absolutely no intention of being professional about it" kind of way.
Harry Potter, international magical consultant slash S.H.I.E.L.D. headache generator, was currently pinned to the mattress by four very determined agents who had weaponized affection, mischief, and far too much skin contact before breakfast.
Jean was straddling his lap like she'd claimed the high ground in a pillow war. Her copper-red hair spilled over one shoulder in slow-motion shampoo commercial glory. Her hands, for the record, were absolutely not cleared by HR.
Tonks was draped across his chest, her bubblegum-pink hair sticking up in several victorious directions, like she'd fought gravity and won. Her mouth was somewhere near his neck, which had apparently become her new favorite chew toy. Every time Harry let out a sound, she giggled like a Gremlin with an espresso shot.
Ororo stood tall at the edge of the bed, one eyebrow arched like she was preparing to command lightning—or at least direct traffic in the "who gets to kiss Harry next" department. Even in a tank top, she had the regal posture of someone who should be issuing royal decrees instead of negotiating cuddling rights.
And Natasha?
Natasha Romanoff had pinned his wrists above his head like this was a training session and he was the dummy. Except her smirk said she was the one being entertained.
"You're blushing," she purred, leaning in just close enough that her lips almost brushed his.
Harry, somehow both amused and mildly alarmed, met her gaze with a smirk of his own.
"I'm British. We blush when someone offers us tea too confidently."
"Oh, I'm offering something," she whispered.
BZZZZZZZT.
The intercom crackled like a dying robot being fed through a blender.
"Agent Potter. Agents Grey, Romanoff, Tonks, and Munroe," said Maria Hill's voice, which had all the warmth of a tax audit. "Director Fury. Briefing Room One. Five minutes ago."
A moment of perfect, stunned silence.
Then Harry let his head fall back against the pillow like the entire universe had personally offended him.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "The one woman immune to charm, reason, and the laws of fun."
Tonks flopped face-first into the sheets. "We were literally five seconds away from breaking like seven international treaties."
"Eight," Jean corrected, not even moving from Harry's lap. "I Googled it."
Natasha, still calm as ever, reached across her body and threw a dagger at the intercom. It hit dead center. The unit sparked, fizzled, and died with the electronic equivalent of a squeal.
"Nice shot," Ororo said dryly. "But she'll know."
"She always knows," Harry agreed grimly. "I think she astral-projects just to ruin my morning."
"I think you astral-project sass directly into her bloodstream," Jean said, finally dismounting like a smug redheaded ninja. "You do have that effect."
"Thanks," Harry said. "It's the trauma. Gives my sarcasm depth."
"Someday," he added, rolling to sit up, "I am going to create a spell so powerful it banishes all intercoms into the sun. I'll call it Buzzkillus Interruptus."
Tonks cackled. "That's a real spell now. Put it in the book."
"Ten points to Ravenclaw," Jean declared.
Harry gave her a betrayed look. "I'd most probably be a Gryffindor."
"You've got Ravenclaw spite energy," Natasha said, sliding into her bodysuit with practiced indifference. "It's the 'I will win this argument and hex your furniture' vibe."
Ororo smoothed out her top with queenly grace. "As fun as this has been, unfortunately, global peace does not care that Harry was about to—"
"Finish that sentence," Harry warned, eyes wide, "and I swear I will un-summon your weather."
Ororo smiled innocently. Lightning flickered behind her in the hallway window.
Jean patted his cheek. "Let's not pretend you wouldn't enjoy being struck by lightning if she did it in heels."
Tonks rolled off the bed with the dignity of a cat falling off a windowsill. "Fine. Briefing now. Explosions later. Snogging… postponed."
"Temporarily," Jean added, shooting Harry a wink so lethal it might've been a concealed weapon. "We will finish this."
"Don't make promises you won't keep," Harry said with a sly grin.
"I never do," Jean said, over her shoulder, already halfway into her boots.
Harry looked down at himself—rumpled, shirtless, and about three seconds from saying "to hell with national security" and yanking them all back into bed.
"I'll be five minutes."
"You'll be ten," Natasha said, tossing a black T-shirt at his face. "Shave. You've got 'haunted lumberjack' stubble."
"I thought that was part of the look," he said, pulling it on. "Tragic. Rugged. Dangerously attractive. The usual."
"It is the look," Tonks said, stealing one last peck on his cheek. "But if we're walking in with Captain America, I need you at full smolder."
"Because obviously," Harry muttered, smirking, "I'm the eye candy."
Natasha leaned in again, voice low and smug in his ear. "You're not wrong."
Then she slapped his butt, turned on her heel, and strutted down the corridor like she owned gravity.
Jean followed her, humming to herself.
Ororo paused at the door, giving Harry a once-over that could probably bend steel.
Tonks saluted him lazily, eyes twinkling. "Try not to look like we broke you, love."
"Too late," Harry muttered, grabbing his wand and adjusting his shirt. "But don't worry—I'll weaponize the trauma. It's what I do best."
And with that, he headed off to the briefing room—still radiating enough flirt energy to cause small technological malfunctions in his wake.
Because Harry Potter was many things.
Subtle?
Not one of them.
—
S.H.I.E.L.D. HELICARRIER – BRIEFING ROOM ONE – APPROXIMATELY TEN MINUTES AFTER SOMEONE SHOULD'VE STARTED YELLING
Harry Potter walked into the room like he owned it. Not just the room—the Helicarrier, the sky, possibly the dramatic music playing in everyone's head. Black Henley clinging to muscles that had absolutely no business looking that good this early, wand tucked casually into a shoulder holster, expression set to 'charmingly dangerous.'
Trailing behind him? A tactical fever dream of gorgeous, glittering chaos.
Jean Grey, red hair haloed like firelight, wore crimson leather and a look that said she could read your mind and wasn't impressed. Ororo Munroe glided in wearing shimmering silver, eyes storm-bright and absolutely done with your nonsense. Tonks bounced in combat boots, a cropped black jacket, and pink hair brighter than Bucky's last emotional crisis. And Natasha Romanoff? All-black tactical bodysuit, supermodel-level bone structure, and a smirk like a knife fight wrapped in lipstick.
Steve Rogers blinked at them as if trying to process five simultaneous crushes and a minor panic attack.
"Morning," he said, tone very Captain America meets Midwestern Dad. "You all look… awake."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "We aim for intimidating, sexy, and slightly guilty."
"Nailed it," Bucky muttered, already half in love with half the team.
Jean tossed her hair. "We do try."
Peggy Carter, somehow looking both regal and terrifying in navy-blue, leaned forward at the head of the table.
"You're late, Potter."
Harry grinned.
"Fashionably. It's in the mission protocol, somewhere between 'don't die' and 'bring snacks.'"
Peggy didn't smile. Not really. But her lips twitched in that British way that meant you're annoying but attractive so I'll allow it.
Tonks stage-whispered, "Should we bet on who ends up pinning whom to the wall first?"
Jean pulled out her phone. "Too late. I've got a bracket."
Ororo sighed. "You all need supervision."
"You say that like you aren't the hottest one here," Harry murmured, eyes glinting as he passed her.
Natasha smirked and shoulder-checked him lightly. "Flirt later. Fury's gonna rage-pop a vein."
As if on cue, the lights dimmed. The door hissed open with the melodrama of an offended cat.
Enter Nick Fury. Trench coat flaring. Eyepatch gleaming.
"Potter. I see your personal harem's arrived."
Jean raised a hand. "We prefer 'Task Force of Chaos.'"
"Or W.A.N.D.," Tonks added. "Women Assembled for Naughty Distractions."
Peggy actually snorted into her coffee.
Fury slapped his tablet down like it owed him money. "We've got a problem in Thailand. Logan and Talon went dark twelve hours ago. Last thing we got was a three-word message from Wolverine."
He tapped the tablet. The screen blinked. They're cloning her.
Jean bolted upright. "Cloning Laura?"
Bucky rubbed his jaw. "That's suicide. And not even the sexy kind."
"Did they not watch any sci-fi horror movie ever?" Harry asked. "Or read a warning label?"
Fury pointed at him. "That's why you're going in. Recon. Rescue. Minimal fireballs."
Harry looked mildly offended. "Fireballs are part of my emotional regulation plan."
"You're the only one who improvises without immediately detonating an embassy."
Tonks nudged Harry. "Aww, he trusts us."
"Speak for yourself," Ororo said. "I don't improvise. I smite."
Natasha cocked her head. "What's the plan if one of the clones is hot but evil?"
Harry leaned back in his chair. "Easy. Flirt first. Explode second. Apologize third."
"Fourth," Ororo corrected. "Apologies come after kissing."
Steve looked heavenward. "This is why Fury drinks."
Fury rubbed his temple. "You leave in thirty. No uniforms. No S.H.I.E.L.D. ID. Madripoor rules apply. If someone offers you fried scorpion on a stick, say no."
"Counterpoint," Harry said. "Say yes, then set it on fire."
Peggy stood. "I'm going too."
Steve blinked. "Same."
"Because of course you are," Fury grumbled.
Harry stood last, rolling his shoulders like a predator stretching its wings. He glanced at his team. Natasha looked ready to kill for fun. Jean was already humming ominously. Tonks twirled her wand like a cheerleader with a vendetta. Ororo summoned a flicker of lightning between her fingertips.
Harry smiled. Wicked, slow, and devastating.
"Guess we're going to Thailand."
Natasha adjusted her gloves. "Hope they're ready."
Jean ignited a little flame in her palm. "They're not."
Tonks' hair turned blood red. "Let's break some science."
Ororo nodded once. "Let's bring the storm."
And Harry? Harry just turned and walked out like the cliffhanger he was.
Because chaos didn't announce itself.
It entered stage left in leather and flirtation.
—
THE NEXT DAY – BANGKOK, THAILAND – SUV RIDING DIRTY (BUT INCOGNITO) – 1:43 PM
There were a few universal truths in Harry Potter's life.
One: never trust food that looks like it might attack you back. Especially if it's skewered.
Two: Tonks should never be given caffeine and a mission briefing in the same hour.
Three: wearing a flamingo-print Hawaiian shirt in public should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment—especially when you look like you could bench-press Thor's ego.
"I look like a human vacation warning," Harry grumbled, flipping down his sunglasses with the same energy most people reserved for slapping a mosquito. "Who authorized flamingos?"
"You lost strip Uno," Tonks reminded him, her bright pink ponytail bouncing as she popped her gum. "Deal with it, Agent Aloha."
Harry side-eyed her. "You cheated."
"You wore socks with sandals," she shot back. "That's a war crime."
Jean leaned forward from the back seat, her sundress fluttering like a floral battle flag. She adjusted her massive straw hat and gave Harry a slow once-over. "You know what? Flamingo-hot might be your best look."
Harry sighed dramatically. "I feel like I should be selling overpriced coconuts and whispering, 'Live, laugh, lava.'"
Ororo, serene and devastatingly gorgeous in a flowing white wrap dress, lifted one perfect brow. "Could be worse. You could've ended up in Tonks's tank top."
Tonks glanced down proudly at her neon tank that read: Sun's Out, Wands Out. "This shirt is a lifestyle."
"It's a public threat," Natasha muttered from the driver's seat, her tone dry enough to qualify as a desert. Dressed like she walked straight out of a travel magazine's espionage edition—denim shorts, combat boots, and a bikini top covered by a half-zipped jacket—she barely glanced at them. "Smile more, Potter."
Harry slowly turned. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Her smirk was practically a felony.
"Did… did you just weaponize catcaller logic on me?"
"Consider it retribution for the Bubble Bath of Betrayal," Natasha replied.
"That was team bonding!" Harry protested. "There were scented candles!"
"You bewitched the rubber duck to sing Marvin Gaye," Jean added. "With harmony."
Tonks clutched her stomach, giggling. "It quacked Let's Get It On. I nearly died."
Ororo shook her head. "Focus. We're minutes away from infiltrating a black site."
Cue Fury, breaking into Harry's earpiece like an angry Siri.
"Potter, I swear, if you get caught wearing that abomination, I'm disavowing your whole existence."
Harry leaned closer to the mic. "Miss me, Director?"
"Not even a little. You're dressed like a pool boy with a wand fetish."
"Still hotter than Cap in chinos."
"Focus up, Agent. I need eyes on that hotel basement. Cloning lab. Hostile personnel. Possible Talon signature."
Jean was already scanning her phone, pulling up schematics. "Hotel's a tourist trap. Karaoke upstairs, screams downstairs."
"Classic villain chic," Tonks muttered.
Natasha, already shifting into mission mode, pointed to a loading zone. "Drop point. Hotel's called the Lotus Lotus Happy Sleep House."
Harry snorted. "Sounds like somewhere you wake up without a kidney."
"Or with three," Tonks added.
Steve's voice crackled in from the rooftop across the street. "You're clear to go. But Harry… flamingos?"
Harry adjusted his lei dramatically. "Say hello to Agent Aloha."
Bucky's voice followed, flat as ever. "I want to die."
Natasha parked with clinical precision, popped her door, and muttered, "Alright, degenerates. Operation Drunken Disaster begins now."
Jean looped her arm through Harry's. "Play it loud, play it hot."
Tonks twirled out of the SUV like she'd just won a dance battle. "And if all else fails… seduction spells."
Ororo sighed. "Storm help us."
The team strutted across the cracked tiles of the lobby like they owned the world. A tourist belted a cursed rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody" from the bar. Tonks joined in with a surprisingly solid harmony.
Jean leaned into Harry's side. "If I get offered a clone contract, I'm blaming you."
Harry grinned. "Would it help if I offered to clone myself first?"
She paused. "That's either the dumbest or sexiest thing you've ever said."
"Why not both?"
Before she could respond, Ororo grabbed his collar, tugging him down so her nose brushed his.
"Focus. People are in pain. That's not a joke."
Harry's smirk didn't fade, but his posture shifted. Just slightly. Enough to say: someone was about to regret their life choices.
"Let's go save Logan. And let's make whoever's behind this wish they'd stuck to karaoke."
Natasha slipped onto a barstool, crossed one leg over the other, and tapped her comm.
"Game time."
Across the street, Peggy sipped her tea.
"God help Bangkok."
And just like that, the sassiest, prettiest, most chaotically dangerous group of magical spies since James Bond learned how to levitate walked straight into the belly of the beast.
Because when you're dealing with illegal clones?
You call the original chaos crew.
—
LOTUS LOTUS HAPPY SLEEP HOUSE – BACK BAR – 2:17 PM (Secret Room That Totally Isn't A Front For Espionage, But Definitely Is)
The Lotus Lotus looked like someone tried to open a tiki bar inside a fever dream, then said, "Let's make it weirder." Past the main lounge—where a statue of Buddha wore Mardi Gras beads and someone was scream-singing "Uptown Funk"—there was a beaded curtain with all the subtlety of a lie detector in a poker tournament.
Natasha brushed through the curtain like she was entering a catwalk full of crime.
"Play nice," she muttered over her shoulder. "And no threats unless they're flirty."
"I only do flirty threats," Harry said, flashing a grin that made hearts melt and villains question their careers.
Tonks bounced in behind them, all pink hair and weaponized vibes. "This place screams, 'stab me for secrets.' I love it."
A man sat at the back, sipping from a whiskey glass like it owed him child support. Three-day stubble. Black suit. General aura of someone who once sold warheads for a dare and cuddled kittens to balance the karma. Brett Goldstein levels of brooding hot.
"Natasha," he said without looking up.
"Zhenya," she replied, slipping into the seat across from him like a dagger into a sheath.
Harry slid in beside her, wearing a flamingo-print shirt and sunglasses that should've been illegal. "Charmed, I'm sure. And slightly sunburnt."
Zhenya finally looked up, locking eyes with Harry like he was trying to decide whether to flirt, shoot, or write poetry about him.
"Who's the flamingo?"
"Agent Aloha," Harry replied, propping his feet on the table. "Here to serve sass, spells, and vacation regret."
Jean took the seat beside him, red hair blazing, sundress somehow both innocent and warlike. "He also bench-presses trauma for breakfast."
"It's part of my self-care routine," Harry added. "Right after green smoothies and not trusting billionaires."
Tonks plopped down like a caffeinated bomb, her tank top reading: Sun's Out, Wands Out. "He's also our emotional support snarker."
Zhenya's gaze swept over the girls—Jean's barely-concealed psychic smirk, Tonks's mischievous bounce, Ororo's calm storminess—and he exhaled like he'd just walked into a rom-com written by John Wick.
"You brought a magician, a weather goddess, a telepath, and a human glitter bomb to my table. What am I, a Bond villain?"
"Only if your cat's evil," Harry said, removing his sunglasses with the drama of a magician pulling a sword from a hat. "And your WiFi password is DieHardFan69."
Natasha cut through the banter with a look sharp enough to pierce Kevlar. "Give us the layout. Or I'll let Jean start reading your browser history."
Zhenya raised both brows. "That's cruel."
Jean shrugged. "I'm chaotic neutral."
Zhenya slid a folded map across the table. "Three floors underground. Two exits. Freight elevator in the supply closet, and a tunnel that connects under the massage parlor across the street."
Tonks wiggled her eyebrows. "Like... a happy ending massage parlor?"
Zhenya smirked. "Only if you tip well."
Harry leaned in, elbow on the table, voice dropping an octave. "If this ends in betrayal, just know you're not my type."
"Oh?"
"I prefer informants who don't smell like vodka, regret, and expensive failure."
That earned a loud snort from Jean and a proud, "Yaaas, burn him!" from Tonks.
Zhenya, to his credit, laughed like he enjoyed being insulted by beautiful people.
He tapped the map. "Retinal scan plus Laura's DNA markers. But there's more. Something... off. The tech's not HYDRA. It's older. Pre-Wakandan. Atlantean, maybe."
Ororo straightened. "That's not tech. That's divine mischief in circuitry."
"They're combining genetics with quantum energy mapping," Zhenya added.
Harry blinked. "Cool. So they're basically trying to make a Care Bear with a kill switch?"
Zhenya's lips thinned. "Worse. They're trying to weaponize empathy."
Everyone went still.
Jean's voice was razor-sharp. "They're engineering emotions?"
"Assassins who can simulate kindness, forge bonds with targets, then strike."
Tonks paled. "That's evil on an academic level."
Harry's voice dropped to something quiet and devastating. "That's not science. That's cruelty dressed in a lab coat."
Zhenya finished his drink and stood. "That's all I know. Now I'm leaving before your group hug turns nuclear."
Harry watched him go, then stood slowly, eyes glowing like emeralds in an apocalypse.
"Okay," he said. "We've got a subterranean science hell, a karaoke cover operation, and a bad idea made of empathy and unresolved daddy issues."
Jean rose beside him. "So, Friday night?"
Tonks cracked her knuckles. "Operation: Feels Like Treason is a go."
Ororo summoned a spark of lightning in her palm. "They tried to play god. Let's remind them who controls the storm."
Natasha checked her Glock with the grace of a dancer loading a solo. "We hit them at sunset."
Harry adjusted his flamingo shirt, eyes glinting. "Let's go save Logan. And if someone asks why I look like a cursed travel agent... just smile."
Jean leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "You know you look hot, right?"
Harry smirked. "Obviously."
Tonks slipped her arm through his, already humming a war tune. "Come on, Agent Aloha. Let's break some science."
And just like that, Bangkok trembled slightly.
Because the Chaos Crew was coming.
And they did not believe in subtlety.
—
LOTUS LOTUS HAPPY SLEEP HOUSE – ROOM 404 (YES, REALLY) – 4:42 PM (Operation Planning HQ, where the towels are suspiciously fluffy, the mugs are aggressively mismatched, and the ambiance smells like stale incense, overpriced room spray, and impending violence.)
Harry Potter — yes, that Harry Potter, now in flamingo-print silk and plotting an actual break-in like it was brunch — stood in front of what could generously be called a whiteboard. Less generously, it was a stolen room service menu duct-taped to the wall with a "Permanent Sticking Charm" and a suspicious amount of wand-gum. His handwriting was looping, aggressive, and unfairly attractive.
He tapped the word TUNNEL, circled three times with a heart.
"So," he said, in a voice that could probably sell you anything, even a death wish, "our options are: one, a freight elevator guarded by meatheads in body armor and cargo pants straight out of the '2007 Villain Starter Pack.' Or two, this very illegal, very sweaty, very massagey establishment called 'The Healing Touch.'"
He paused. "Which sounds less like a front and more like a felony."
Tonks, lying upside down on the bed like a particularly chaotic mermaid, threw a Sour Skittle into the air and missed her mouth entirely. "I vote tunnel. Lower chance of being shot. Higher chance of awkward towel-related eye contact."
Her crop top read ACCIO TROUBLE. It wasn't an outfit so much as a mood.
Jean leaned against the mini fridge, arms crossed, one glowing eye twitching in mild psychic irritation. "If they're using Laura's DNA, we'll need to bypass at least three layers of biometric security. I can spoof the retinal scan, but I need to get within five feet of the core relay."
"Five feet is enough," Natasha said, not looking up from the blade she was sharpening on the floor. Her red hair was pulled back in a braid so clean it could cut someone, and she had the posture of someone who'd already made peace with murder.
She glanced up with a smirk that could shatter steel. "Unless Potter wants to seduce his way through a hallway of angry science bros."
"I mean," Harry shrugged, spreading his hands like an apologetic angel. "I did once charm a Hydra lieutenant using nothing but a smirk, a disarming spell, and a tragically misfired Lumos."
"He flirted with a hallucination of himself last week," Natasha added dryly.
Ororo — serene, silk-wrapped, and still the most dangerous woman in the room — raised an eyebrow that carried thunder. "And if that fails?"
Harry gave her that slow, lopsided smile. The one that could melt glaciers or start international incidents.
"Then I set something on fire. With charisma."
Tonks threw a pillow at him. "That's what he did to me!"
"Darling," Harry said with a wink, catching the pillow midair and tossing it back, "I hadn't even started flirting when you proposed fake-marriage-for-spy-missions."
Jean sighed into her drink. "You literally suggested a magical bank heist on our second date."
"And yet," Harry said, holding up his wand like it was a champagne glass, "you're all still here."
Jean rolled her eyes. "I'm here to make sure you don't flirt with your own clone if they make one."
"Too late," Natasha muttered.
Ororo's voice dropped like lightning over calm water. "And we agreed not to bring that up."
"In my defense," Harry said, deadly serious, "he was witty, emotionally available, and extremely well-dressed."
"Because you dressed him," Tonks pointed out.
"Exactly," Harry said, pointing at himself with both hands. "Taste. Flawless."
Jean swiped the marker from the tray and drew what looked like a preschool map of the enemy facility. Her voice was the only sensible one in a room of sexy chaos.
"Security rotation's light during the evening karaoke rush. We go in through the tunnel at 9:07. Natasha and I take point. Harry, Ororo, Tonks? You three run distraction in the hallway."
Harry raised a brow. "Distraction. As in... I take my shirt off?"
Tonks perked up. "Seconded."
Natasha, without even glancing up, said, "Please don't. We'll never get the guards back on task."
Ororo straightened, silk shifting like storm clouds. "I'll handle the locks. But the electricity's unpredictable underground. I need your spell support."
Harry's voice dropped, low and rough. "You have it. Always."
The air went a little heavy. Eyes locked. Thunderstorm flirtation brewing.
Jean cleared her throat loudly. "Later, hormonal lunatics. Planning now, foreplay after."
Harry didn't blink. "Jealous is not a tactical stance, Grey."
Jean flipped him off with glowing fingers.
Natasha finally stood, tugging the map closer. "One more thing."
She tapped a red-marked corner.
"Unconfirmed energy spike. Shielded. Zhenya says it could be Atlantean tech. That means ancient, unstable, and potentially one wrong wand flick away from an interdimensional incident."
Harry leaned forward, eyes narrowing like emerald lasers. "Sounds like my kind of Tuesday."
Silence. Battle-ready. Beautiful. Lethal.
Tonks reached into her bra (don't ask) and pulled out a bag of Sour Skittles. "Alright, gang. Who wants to storm a villain karaoke hotel and emotionally damage a clone?"
Harry grinned, wicked and regal. "Let's hit the spa, sing some Queen, and punch a genetically-engineered war baby in the feelings."
Jean cracked her knuckles. "Operation: Empathy Overkill is go."
Ororo turned toward the window. Lightning flickered in the distant clouds, like it was waiting for permission.
"Let's remind them," she said, voice calm and terrible, "why chaos wears leather."
And somewhere over Bangkok, thunder answered like a promise.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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