When he was younger, Clint wished really hard for someone. They could be on the road to anywhere and they invariably are. Clint's fingers rest on Coulson's and, like the trapeze or the bowstring, he has learned the value of grip and he doesn't leave bloody fingerprints anymore.

The day Aradia Megido arrived in New York, three important things happened, though she only noted two at the time.

When Harry was eleven years old, his Hogwarts letter came by owl. He'd been accidentally blowing windows open and lighting cauliflower on fire for years. James took Harry to go get his wand at Ollivanders, and Lily took Dudley to the Owl Emporium where he tried to convince her they should build an aviary in the backyard. They came home with a fat black cat who hissed at everyone. Dudley named him Spooks, and Lily called him Monster. "Did you have to?" said James. "That is the meanest beast I've ever met, and I've known Remus unmedicated on full moons and a pubescent Sirius thwarted in love." Lily, who had ink on her cheek and a ballpoint pen stuck behind her ear, waved vaguely at the living room without looking up from her arrest report. Dudley was asleep in an armchair. The cat sprawled across his lap. Both its front paws were wrapped around Dudley's arm as it cleaned his wrist with aggressive fondness. "Alright," said James. "Yeah, you had to."

It hits Sid first, because of course it does. He’d been talking with Phil, discussing their first power play unit, when he gets distracted by Geno’s ass in spandex. “I don’t know why everyone’s always going on and on about my ass, when you’re around. Fuck, man. It’s fucking incredible.” “Whose ass, now?” Tanger shrieks gleefully and Sid realizes with a dawning horror that— “Did I say that… out loud?”

The procedure was an unmitigated success. A healthy baby boy, perfectly average in height and weight with a heart that beat steady as a metronome.

It coalesces somewhere around hour two, and then it’s suddenly, inescapably, achingly obvious. He takes a deep breath and realizes he’s just really, really horny. What the ever-living hell? -- Wherein curses are real, pride comes before a fall, and PK and Carey have to cope with a little more magic than anyone expected.

It isn't, Alex reflects inanely, the fact that Nicky isn't wearing his cuffs. They aren't even cuffs but magic-infused braided and inscribed leather bracelets, one on each wrist—Nicky pushes them up his forearms during every game. No, it's Nicky's anguished face when he takes them off.

“So,” the first reporter asks, pushing forward in the scrum, “did you know about Alex Ovechkin?”

"Leon." Matthew says. He can't remember wanting someone like this before, never in his life, like without them he'd explode. Leon is six-plus feet of warm skin and Matthew wants to ruin him. "Leon," he says again. "I promise I'll still hate you in the morning."

Obviously, everybody knows that there is no blessing without a curse, or a curse without a blessing. It’s the universe’s handy little trick to keep things balanced, so that nobody can ask for too much for free, so that nobody can curse their neighbor without also doing a little good. A matched set. It just that Connor’s starting to think that he really, really did not grasp this concept when he was six years old. ... Jack’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ve never seen a curse like this,” he says finally, and Connor shakes his head, blood draining from his face. “That’s because,” he says, horror settling low in his belly. “Jack, that’s because I’m the curse.”

She smiles at him, and Pierre-Luc smiles back. She doesn't know it, but he's got a big, ugly bruise on his hip from that incident yesterday. A small monster just a block away, small enough that it shouldn't have been too much trouble dealing with it on his own. Really, he has no excuse for the broken window. This isn't junior training anymore and he should be used to working solo by now. It's not what he prefers, but it's not his place to question how Torts is running his team, only to thank him for his trust in PL's skills and do his best not to prove him wrong.

It's a generally accepted fact amongst the members of the bat family that Alfred's cookies are the absolute best and that the last cookie is the best of all. The last cookie is coveted and fought over. The last cookie is important. When the Justice League needs to summon the Ghost King and every offering has been rejected, what else is there to try?

“Welcome to Red Hood’s Apothecary,” Jason says, coolly. “What can I do for you?” The stranger comes up to the counter, and Jason shudders. The man is short and slim, but there’s an aura of power around him that calls to Jason’s demonic nature. That can only mean one thing. Witch. And one trained by someone skilled. In fact, Jason is pretty sure that he recognizes Bruce's style all over the guy's warded clothes. Acid bubbles in his belly. His replacement has no business looking so good.