19210/jen

jen
Date of Scene:	03 October 2024
Location:	Jennifer Walters' Condo
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Lorna Dane, Jennifer Walters

---

'Lorna Dane has posed:
Tradition is important as a young, chaotic woman bound to an equally chaotic set of responsibilities.

Traditions are safe harbors where loved ones sailing the seas of life dock to resupply and reconnect. They are a tacit statement:

Even though everything is crazy all the time, I still want to make space for you.

"It's Ten 'Til Day!" is how Lorna Dane enters Jennifer Walters' condo, bursting with excitement with spread arms, a beaming smile, and a door arrested from slamming into something by the last moment application of magnetic thought. It's 8 PM on the dot, comfortably past even the most pernicious of last minute legal tasks; Lorna's hair is as big as her smile, her already voluminous curls teased out into a soft emerald corona framing her face and spilling past her shoulders. Each hand holds a bottle of tequila, with two more bobbing on either side of her head. Each tequila's fiercer than the last, ranging all the way up to an oddly iridescent bottle distilled from an agave-like plant native to many planets of the Vega system.

Traditions often involve some form of intense relaxation, for Lorna.

Like a lawyer-seeking missile, she homes right in on the distinct signature of the radiation that empowers and emboldens Jennifer. The moment the other woman is spotted, Lorna hurls the bottles from her hands, runs, then lunges into a leaping, neck and shoulder-seizing hug. A soft pink off shoulder top, black pants that must've been painted on by some Genoshan clothier with fabric painting powers, flat emerald and wine purple thong sandals, and enough bangles to add a jangly percussion track to her burbling joy make for an altogether casual outfit; so it goes for Ten 'Til Day, an alliterative occasion marked the only way it could be.

"One of them's alien," she warmly whispers in Jennifer's ear, ticking her head towards the quartet of bottles hovering at various stages of 'almost shattered'. Despite the indication, she tightens her grip and does her very best to shimmy her way into being the perfect visual obstruction--

"mmmmmwah~"

One with velvet-soft lips painted in Jennifer's favorite shade of purple.

One who is not the least bit ashamed to literally go 'mmmmmwah' to underline how far she is willing to go to be a handful on this, the most sacred of days until 'Nine More? Hear Us Roar' Day; 'Eight Days Down' Day; 'How Could Anyone Be Expected To Have Proper Grammar In That State?' Day; 'Six Shots and Sick Thots' Day... ... all the way up to the crown jewel.

The Lynchpin.

The Day of Early October Days--

The Greenie Gals Gala.

The one day a year when Lorna and Jennifer's birthdays coincide, because while yes they're like 12 days apart, see above about chaotic schedules then square it, and then maybe square it again because Jennifer is not only a busy lawyer, but an AVENGER, and moreover time is ultimately fake, so birthdays are whenever you say they are.

It's a sacred tradition indeed.

Lorna and Jennifer's relationship is couldn't exist as it is without these mindful chronal carveouts, named or otherwise. In the months since storming over to Jennifer's place to be depressed, then somehow end up declaring her love, Lorna squeezed quality time into whatever gaps could be made-- whether it be a nice night somewhere quiet, or a quiet night in Jennifer's condo.

"Missed you," she whispers in Jen's ear, because it's been a few days since anything more than Facetime was an option. "How are you? Are you ready to celebrate?" follows with gradually ramping volume. "Are you feeling like tacos, or tagliatelle, or tamales-- I mean, I know the answer is probably gonna be a solid quarter of the list, but... as starting places go..."

By the time she's ramped up to full-force cheek - impish grin and all - she has finally loosened her hold on the taller woman, allowing herself to slide to the ground as soon as Jen allows it.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
Jennifer Walters is a big fan of theme days.

Unfortunately, she's not that great at coming up with them.

"Hey! I'm pretty good!"

Do we need to link back to the terror of Tuxedos on Trivia Night Tuesdays again?

"N-no!"

We could also do a flashback sequence--

"Euughhh. Fine, fine, I get your point, I suck, just keep going!"

So anyway. Big fan of theme days. Not very good at them. But when Jennifer's reckless can-do energy is married to the sheer, practically an amoral force of nature power of a chaotic disaster tempest? Beautiful things can happen. Beautiful, perfect things.

Things like -theme nights-.

It isn't just the tradition that's important to Jennifer Walters -- though it is important, managing to squeeze in these little moments and force them into reality no matter -what- the current state of the world is like. No -- it's also just how wonderful it feels to be swept away by these tempestuous moments. Both good and bad - and there are bads, one doesn't feel strongly without them - something about Jen just thrives off the energy and enables it. She can't get enough of a good force of nature in human form.

And so, with that preamble out of the way,

It's Ten 'Til Day!

"It's Ten 'Til Day, you awesome bitch!"

    Enter: Lorna,

getting greeted with all the reckless enthusiasm of a sorority sister at the peak of the party scene. But, you know. With an extra dollop of genuine love and affection!

Awwww.

What this entails, in practice, is everyone's favorite Gamma-Green Gal already spinning on one bare heel to greet Lorna before that door even swings -open-, that all-too perfect, patented She-Hulk smile offering a glimpse of dazzling pearly whites as she throws the impressive wingspan of her strong green arms out wide. Perhaps her awesome Gamma-attuned powers helped her sense the electromagnetic sizzle of floating deliriously-powerful alcohol on the approach. Perhaps she knew exactly when Lorna was arriving through that door through the sheer power of love. Perhaps she read the narrative beforehand!

Or maybe they set a time for all this beforehand and Jennifer is a lawyer who's actually pretty good at her job and part of that job is having the excellent sense of timing necessary to juggle the endless cavalcade of insanity in her life.

EITHER WAY,

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"You get over here -right now-!"

Jennifer Walters is there and waiting for the most important woman in her life, arms wide. Dressed in a stylishly swoop-necked, loose camisole in soft lilac and a pair of dark purple slacks that run tailored-tight around the hips and blossom out to breezy comfort towards the calves, the envious volume of all that layered, dark green hair practically bounces with the impact of Lorna Dane hurling herself Hulkwards with magnetic attraction.

Tequila bottles go flying. Jen gasps out a laughing "ah, wait! I didn't mean -that- urgently--!"

And yet, those strong green arms are wrapping around Lorna the moment she makes impact like they were waiting for this exact moment all day.

Enfolded into the embrace of the much taller greenette, Lorna sooon finds herself swept off her feet in a spin that sees those bangles a-chimin' all the more spectacularly for the sheer enthusiasm of the motion. One rotation, two -- and Jen finally settles just long enough to offer up that wonderful grin to her favorite electromagnetically-empowered mutant.

"Oh phew," she exhales a sigh of relief as she sees -all- the bottles floating harmlessly. "I don't want to know what alien tequila would do to my floooooohhh wait one of them's alien?? Xenoliquor is the best liquor--!"

And Jennifer tries in vain to espy that cheeky, special bottle of booze in the fleeting microseconds before her world is filled with the presence of her favorite shade of purple.

"the boooooze," Jennifer quietly complains, but it's all of course a well-executed tease: one anyone could tell by the way she melts with wonderfully eager ease into Lorna's shameless 'mwahhhh', lips to lips.

The tradition is important. These days are important. Finding time just for them is difficult enough, with all the increasing complications of their mutual standings. But without those moments, moments like this, what's even the point of this enjoyable life?

So they find time. And when they can't -find- time, they -make- time. And this -- this is the bedrock that binds it. A whole week and a half of themely tradition.

A celebration that could only ever lead up to that all important day,

the Greenie Gals Gala,

so important it must be reiterated, in color, twice over.

Does it matter that their birthdays do not, technically, land on the same day? Of course not. A day is only as powerful as the meaning you give to it. Anyone who argues the law knows that much.

Besides -- Jennifer is terrible at math. So, checkmate.

"Mm," exhales Jen to that murmured revelation, a small smile enduring on her lips as 'missed you' tickles at her ear drum. "I've been looking to today almost as much as Six Shots and Sick Thots Day."

And that's -really- saying something.

"Ohmigosh, Lor, your hair is amazing today." This observation is made as Lorna's hold loosens and the shorter woman is left feet-dangling a precious foot or so off the floor as Jen lingers in that embrace. It's an observation she is perfectly equipped to make, being an expert in all things glam -- and being that she is so close right now she could practically bury her face in those voluminous curls. Arms squeeze around Lorna, as if for a minute, unwilling to let go -- or perhaps just making up for lost time.

And then, she lets her hold on Lorna loosen, until those perfectly-colored sandals freely touch ground once more.

"You're making -me- pick the carbs? You're a cruel woman, Lorna Dane," chides Jennifer, gourmand extraordinaire, clucking her tongue at the impossible choice laid out before her. "I mean. Ummm. All of them?? But if I had to pick, I guess I could go for a good tagliatelle right about now. It's been -so long- since I've had pasta, Lor."

Cue flashback montage to all the times the past week Jen has had pas"-Good-. Good pasta. It's been a long time since I've had -good- pasta."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
As for how she is, well -- Jen breathes out, and for a moment a bit of a harried look slumps at elegantly broad green shoulders; it lasts barely a second before she's beaming a lopsided smile, running a hand through her dark green locks of hair.

"I -- am so ready for this. I really needed it," is her first answer to that important question. "I got a new car! ... And then wrecked it again." Dark brows furrow; a frown settles on Jen's lips, perhaps over the tragedy of her totaled, beautiful VW Beetle. "It's... a long story. And I'm still not sure how it's all gonna pan out."

Her ruined car? There's probably more to -that-. But Jen pushes past it just as much as she walks past to start swooping low and collecting each of those floating bottles up against the crook of her elbow, one-by-one-.

"What about you? It's so good to see you face-to-face. Has everything been okay? I mean, you know -- relatively speaking."

Lorna Dane has posed:
THE LAST TIME THEY WERE FACE-TO-FACE

There's a moment when Lorna catches a violet gleam at the very edge of her vision. It comes when she's meant to be fetching an extra charger, and it's enough to draw her full attention to an amethyst-topped ring half-buried in the rest of Jennifer's jewelry.

Which in turn is just enough to put a little extra hustle in her step a beat later, when she paces out to curl back into the little nook she's made from Jennifer and the couch. A long and satisfied sigh curls from her lips, wrung loose by familiar warmth.

THIS TIME WHEN THEY'RE FACE-TO-FACE

"Things have been a little hectic," she deadpans with a small smile.

There was the attempt on her life several weeks back that resulted in the forcible removal of a Reaver's combat augmentations ('I made sure she got healed IMMEDIATELY, promise') as a deescalation tactic. The temple in Thailand where she, the Professor, and somehow John Constantine ('some British guy who smelled like cigarettes and tried really hard to die') saved the Juggernaut from being the pawn of an extradimensional god-or-devil. Hunting esoteric bigots ('they're SO fucking annoying and their weapons feel SO fucked up') who haven't the tact to do their crimes in readily explicable and combatable ways. Those are all long past, of course, already well-worn markers in the sprawling trail of their budding relationship. In truth...

"I had to fend off Lois Lane," she whines, low and elongated--

-- affected just so to accentuate the way Lorna hurls herself right back into Jen, burying her face in soft lilac and unbreakable emerald while seizing her waist in both arms powerfully.

'Recently' has been good to her, relatively speaking.

"On my pre-birthday--!" comes with the saddest, puffiest lip the world has ever known and a jade gaze twinkling with mischief amidst the shell-shock.

"She--"

A beat.

A breath.

A synaptic flare--

"... no, but seriously, she asked SO MUCH about the Brotherhood, Jen," eventually comes subdued and smoky. And while there's an audible groan underlining it...

"Did you read it--? I did okay, right? I felt like I did okay-- I mean, I thought I got the point across, you know? Without sounding like an absolute psycho, or an idiot, or--..."

... and plenty of nerves simmering beneath the surface...

"... was it giving 'don't fuck with me, but in like a nice, respectful way where we both understand that it's not nice to fuck with other people' vibes...?"

... there's a little smile that never quite slips away. Mostly, it's jittery pride: Jen already got the first waves of excitement in the immediate aftermath of the interview, with the post-mortem to come... and then, at least, it was evident that the Queen of Genosha was overall pleased with herself for having survived a challenge as formidable as the Daily Planet's top reporter.

"Is it good enough to take with me for evidence that who, or whatever happened to your cute new car--"

Speaking to Lorna's rock-solid faith in the towering beauty's driving skills, her natural instinct is to assume that fault must lie anywhere other than the woman she's padding after on her liquor-gathering mission.

"-- should take me very seriously when I ask them, politely but firmly to pay... ... ... something?"

Half a beat later, when she has a chance to fully think through what she has just said, Lorna cups a hand to her mouth and stretches wa-a-a-a-a-y up to stage-whisper: "please tell me it wasn't a ditch or something. i promise you i understand that a ditch cannot pay you," with an affected grimace.

"Can't let what are definitely sentient, sapient entities," follows once she's planted firmly on her feet again and ramped back up to standard levels, "get away scot-free with ruining my girl's ride-- obviously."

Only for those feet to leave the ground fully when Lorna jumphovers up to Jen's eye-level to plank a kiss on her exquisitely sculpted cheek.

Lorna Dane has posed:
"... especially when she's got hair like this," follows, increasingly hushed as slender, pale fingers slip into Gamma-green tresses to get lost for a while, "and is still sweet enough to say nice words about mine." Eventually...

... a few seconds, give or take...?

... just swirling, turning, and stroking those fingers through Jen's hair leads to freshly manicured, neatly trimmed purple, black, and green nails whispering across the scalp hidden beneath precious layers.

"The pasta's already on its way-- duck ragu is good, right?"

A knowing smile.

A glimmer.

A wink.

... and more whispering while her lips stay pressed together for the moment. More savoring the softness of perfected tresses spilling between, over, all around her skin.

Keeping with the tradition of Ten 'Til Day, Lorna drinks deeply of the woman she'd gladly share EVERYTHING with, days be damned.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
The daily lives of Jennifer Walters and Lorna Dane are the stuff stories are spun from.

Quite literally.

At the very least, being stuck in an endless and sometimes pulpy narrative means things are never -really- boring (even though, Jen would be quick to note, -BORING ISN'T SO BAD SOMETIMES-). Every time they talk, Lorna has tales to tell. Some of them are exciting ('Oh wow, like Juggernaut wasn't already a tough customer. He's unstoppable, Lor! It's in the name! ... hey, how do you think he feels about the therapeutic recreation of fisticuffs--'), some concerning ('Forcibly removed-- alright, I trust you--'), some worrying ('I really wish I could help you more with those Chuds of Humanity, Lor -- y'know if you ever need me you just have to ask--'),

and some bemusing ('--wait. John Constantine has to be the most antihero name ever, please don't tell me he wears a trenchcoat--')

... but there's always stories.

Like, Jen's troubling encounters with groups of AIM scientists who also happen to be offputtingly enthusiastic about Brainiacs on a trivia-themed night that shall not be named ('they called themselves the 'Brainiac Maniacs' Lor, I felt like I was going to throw one of them to the moon--'), or distressing new foes, ('Have -you- ever heard of Animal-Vegetable-Mineral Man? No, right? Plus I swear Asbestos Man just freaking died last year--'),

or now, where they face their greatest foes yet:

HARD-HITTING JOURNALISM

AND!

RECKLESS OUTREACH WITH YOUR MORTAL NEMESIS?!

Lorna buried against her favorite camisole, Jennifer does her girlfriendly duty as Lorna (playfully) laments:

She gingerly pats her on the back

not once!
    not twice!
        but THRICE!

"There there," she soothes, her voice the gentlest of teasing coos,

"Now Lor, I'm sure the mean old journalist was just as scared of you as you were of her."

--

("She's not going to be mad that I called her old, is she? She has sources everywhere, Lor! It was metaphorical, I swear--")

But eventually, the gentle teasing pries away at joking layers until the seeds of concern and anxiety gradually out. Lorna speaks about the Brotherhood; Jen's green-lashed eyelids hood as she briefly glances aside.

"I mean," she begins, hesitates, and then continues, "it was sort of inevitable, y'know?"

But she doesn't voice her own misgivings. When Lorna is so nervous, so anxious -- she just smiles, and cranes her head, until her lips press against the perfectly coifed curls of that head of green hair.

"I read it," she murmurs against Lorna's luxurious locks. "I read it -twice- over. I even bought the newspaper, in this day and age. I was thinking of framing it..."

She smiles, lips tugging against Lorna's scalp, before she continues:

"... aaaand it's my professional opinion as a world-renowned barrister who has represented at times absolute psycho idiots...

"... you did great, Lor. She didn't pull any punches, and you fended them off with - I'm gonna say a real fancy word here, so prepare yourself - absolute aplomb. Even the ones I know you probably didn't want to address."

Lips press against scalp.

"And you were graceful," kiss, "and ambitious," kiss, "and hopeful," kiss, "... and just the right amount of threatening to let everyone know you mean business. Nice, respectful business."

Kiss~.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"And I'm more than happy to give you a beat-by-beat assessment of your performance, legally speaking, any time you want -- for free, because it's the very special week-ish leading up to our very special day."

And -that's- love.

But now, as she pulls away to gather precious, -important- bottles, the spotlight turns on Jennifer, and it is -her- turn to grimace an anxious little grimace as Lorna brings up the matter of.... -the Car-.

Oh, dear Beetle, how she misses you, and the feeling of the New York winds in her hair, and all the smells of the city--

--okay maybe not the smells but the point stands.

Despite the grimace, though, a soft snort flares past green nostrils for the expert way Lorna frames matters. Jennifer's initial answers all come in the form of those expressive features doing what they do best: in the way a little, touched smile dances at her lips when Lorna offers to put that threatening, queenly power to good use on her car's murderer; the -overwrought- way she rolls vivid gamma-green eyes when that whisper floats its way to her ears,

or the way she sticks out her tongue for that 'definitely sentient, sapient entities... obviously that comes with inevitably coupled with the way she leans that prominent cheek right into the affectionate press of perfectly pursed purple lips.

"My hair -is- perfect," she agrees. Poutily.

But with the promise of pasta on the way (Jen's eyes just -light- up at the promise of duck ragu; she even faux-swoons her way to her kitchen island, proclaiming, "oh, Ms. Dane~!" because she likes duck ragu and the fact that Lorna -knows- she likes duck ragu -that- much), Jennifer sets those drinks down on the kitchen countertop, turns towards Lorna...

... and then suddenly, she's whisking the other woman into her arms, picking her up like she weighed little more than the world's lightest feather...

"You--"

... and setting her to comfortably straddle the Sensational She-Hulk's Sensational She-Shoulders, positioned at the back of her neck.

"--get comfy. I -- am going to assess the goods!"

And so she does, turning her attention to the booze. Silence reigns for a few seconds.

"... It was Mary," Jen finally says. A second passes. "Titania." Another second passes. "-Again-.

"It's just. ... I don't know. She was mad about - of all the things - Creel breaking up with her. -Creel-. You'd think she'd be thanking her lucky stars, right?" Jennifer puts her focus on examining each liquor bottle label and contents carefully, her other hand holding firm to one of Lorna's pale calves as she does. "She was riding in this god awful abomination of a truck, like, the alsoran of the cybertruck world, and she was barreling through cars like she was competing for the title of World's Worst Road Rager or something, and then I kinda... totaled -her- car, and just as we were about to fight..."

Jen hesitates as she inspects the third bottle. Her brows furrow.

"... you know how Carol and I, we started up that club? So we could have a place where us and people like us could have a safe space to vent and release aggression -without- blowing up buildings in the process?" Jennifer clears her throat. A few seconds pass. And then, like she was in a race,

"SoanywayIkindainvitedTitaniatojoinifshewantedandsheacceptedandIdon'tevenknowwhyIdiditLorwhat'swrongwithme."

She just belts through -all of that- in one ungainly slurry of syllables.

All in one breath!

And then -immediately- pushes past--

"Okay! Here's the deal. I'm going to make us one of my signature, specialty palomas. -You- are going to choose the liquor we are going to start with. And then you will curate our increasingly drunken experience in cosmic hedonism from there. How d'you like the sound of -that-?"

Jennifer squeezes Lorna's calf, affectionately.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"--And by the way you -do- know you'd be obligated to get me -some- kind of recompense for my poor car even if I crashed into a ditch right. It could be a sentient ditch, Lor! And even /if not/ I want you threatening its ditch wife and family immediately--"

Lorna Dane has posed:
It's Mary who she has to threaten, it turns out.

Titania.

Again.

"... she still does the wrestling belt and spikes look, right?" Lorna checks, lowly. "She's kinda big, Jen..."

Demonstrating the depths of her reservations, Lorna pairs probing for potential magnetic advantages with hooking her ankles against a world-carrying back and ever so gently rolling the heels of her palms against Jen's temples as a prelude to covering brilliant, Gamma-lit eyes. From her secure shoulder perch, she hunches low enough to touch the tip of her nose to silky, viridescent perfection. One gentle and shameless inhalation later, she murmurs, "Not even Mary can help who she loves, Jen," then nuzzles into luxuriously irradiated tresses for a satiating beat. "... I dunno HOW someone ends up falling for a guy who thinks touching a moon rock'll give him moon powers, but she did--"

Mercifully enough, she slips her hands up to lace across Jennifer's brow; when she does, the battling barrister finds sparking green eyes and a small, inverted smile waiting for her.

"... I just wish your poor car didn't have to suffer for it," Lorna softly offers before pulling back to plant a kiss near Jen's hairline. "I liked that car! The backseat was--"

Does she know how Carol and Jennifer started up that club...?

"Huh-- oh, yeah! Which reminds me, if you guy s ever need--"

Then Jennifer clears her throat like it's a starting pistol, and all the emerald haired queen can do is try to keep up as the story speeds well beyond a ruined car and a broken heart. A split-second afterwards, when she has finally managed to parse her way through the jumble of language, Lorna swiftly cranes back down to meet Jen's eyes with her own.

Wide, green.

Incredulous, sparkling.

"... wait--"

Radiant with dawning mirth.

"-- you invited Mary to Punch Club?!"

More than enough warning for Jen to brace herself against the jubilant squeal which follows. Bouncing against those wide shoulders, Lorna kicks her legs excitedly for a second before swiftly hooking back onto Jen for purchase. She grips green cheeks in both hands, subjecting them to affectionate squeezing and kneading; it's not that she's not excited for Jen's signature, specialty palomas, but thoughts of cocktails naturally fall away in the face of what truly matters.

And what could matter more than--

"Jen, she is your FAVORITE VILLAIN to punch and you GOT HER in your club for punching-- Jen! Jen, this is HUGE!" she burbles. "It sucks about the car, OBVIOUSLY, but now you can just-- you can FIGHT her, whenever you want, and nobody has to get hurt!" A beat.

"... except for HER," she briskly adds, "maybe, since you're so much stronger and tougher and bigger than she is-- why would you bury the lede?! This is-- have you thought about outfits, yet? Are you gonna, I dunno, are you gonna do costumes? Street clothes? Oooh, oh, oh my god," palms still planted against Gamma green cheeks fall into excitedly smacking against the other woman's collarbone, "you should definitely think about coordinating-- what'd you wear the FIRST time you fought her? Wear THAT, so she knows how much you guys' rivalship means to you!" As if hoping to preemptively smooth over any dismay or hesitation at the notion of themed dress-up fights with a long-time rival, Lorna lays more excited smooches in the luxurious bounty of Jennifer's hair.

"... you HAVE to let me watch," she then murmurs into that hair. "You HAVE to--"

Smooch!

"Promise I'll scowl at her REALLY hard the whole time, so she knows the car thing STILL isn't okay, even IF she was heartbroken and it wound up leading to this exciting new chapter in your relationship-- I don't know if I CAN menace a ditch, but I can menace a Titania."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
She still does the wrestling belt and spikes, right?

"Yep," confirms Jennifer Walters, frowning deep. Frowning -thoughtful-. "She varies the look sometimes but she's -always- got that big chunky gold belt and all those spikes."

Clearly, they are on the same page here, and working their way through what choices in ferrous fashion Lorna can turn against the terrible Titania. Clear--

"Oh! She's been experimenting with leopard print lately. It's not bad. It's so glam, and she's got the confidence to pull it off. It--"

She-Hulk pauses here, eyes widening in revelation just as she sets down glasses and tequila for cocktail mixing. Yes, Jen. Let it come to you.

"--You were asking about metal stuff to defend my honor weren't you this wasn't a fashion thing."

Jennifer Walters, very smart.

Jennifer Walters, slave to fashion.

Jen is large; she contains multitudes.

Of course, the narrative determines this is the perfect time in which Lorna's hands cover both Jen's eyes and her great, fashion-brained shame. She sighs in exasperation at being so thoroughly hoisted by the storyteller's petard ("that isn't even how that saying works!!"), but despite her embarrassment, a smile finds its way to her lips as she feels that nose nuzzle into her hair.

"thank you for putting serious thought into avenging me." she mutters sweetly but softly. Still--

Not even Mary can help who she loves, Jen.

... I dunno HOW someone ends up falling for a guy who thinks touching a moon rock'll give him moon powers--

"He turned himself into cocaine once, Lor! Cocaine! An industrial fan blew him away!"

SEE MARVEL KNIGHTS: SPIDER-MAN FOR MORE INFO ON THIS THRILLING SAGA! --Wait. Was that even this universe??

"Regardless! I should be able to have love veto powers. It should be a legally actionable offense to love someone who turns themself into cocaine and believes in moon powers. Not that it's -any- of my business, anyway, and Mary can do -whatever- she wants with her life, even though she -shouldn't- be doing it -that- way -- I'm just saying, if I brought it before the court, I'm pretty sure I'd win that case and set that precedent!"

She is, of course, kidding.

"... I think Judge Byrne still owes me a few favors for all that crap he pulled..."

Of course--??

Fingers fall up, up, up and away from her hands to nestle against her brow. And Jen, her vision restored, takes a moment to lift her hands up to her shoulders so that she may affectionately squeeze Lorna's thighs as her fellow Greenie Gal offers up that electric, inverted smile.

She can't help it: her smile grows three sizes, despite her vexation over why she can't legally curb Mary MacPherran's love life.

"I'm being judgmental, aren't I," she surmises the obvious. ("let the record show I wasn't asking -you-!")

With this, she pivots smoothly, both in the telling of her tale and in the physicality of her movements: turning towards the fridge, she pops it open, blasting her and Lorna with a refreshing gush of refrigerant. She plucks the remaining ingredients for her MULTIVERSAL FAVORITE palomas - including a couple cans of Jarritos, because when you're as good at making palomas as Jen (not her opinion, just a fact),, you come prepared to make them at any time, at any place - before she shuts the door again with the canny bump of her hip.

She's flipping a knife for lime-cutting into her palm with fabulous flourish by the time her attempt to subtly move on from her superspeed confession--

-- you invited Mary to Punch Club?!

--fails COMPLETELY.

"Uggggggghhh -- h-hey, Lor, I've got a kni-- ACK! ACK!!! ACK! AAACK!"

Jennifer Walters has posed:
And it is to Cathy-degree perfection that Jen flails as Lorna squeals and enthuses on her big green shoulders: cuttin' knife bouncing haplessly between her palms as she tries to keep it from falling and/or accidentally doing it's cuttin' thing on her favorite pair of (currently-kicking) legs in the world before she finally catches the utensil and lurches -forward-, taking Lorna along for the ride.

"Phew," she exhales, taking a steady grip of Lorna's calf just to make sure she didn't accidentally self-bronco buck herself off her Sensational perch. "Lor, I'm trying--"

~squish!~

go her cheeks between Lorna's hands.

"tuh maehk muh wuhld pamuth puhwoomuh--"

So doth the lady protest to much against the squishy-squosh of her cheeks. She doesn't stop the kneading, nor does she stop the enthusing. She just rolls her gleaming green eyes with grand (playful) grievance, and gets to work flipping that knife back up and cutting lime wedges as Lorna enthuses.

"yuh yuh" she muffles around palm-pursed lips "it'sh shupah hyooj"

Cheeks -- released!

"-- It -does- suck about the car," is, of course, her first thought she regains the gift of clear enunciation. "It was so cute. And I have so many fond memories..."

<FLASHBACK SEQUENCE OF EVENTS THAT MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE HAPPENED WITH EITHER OF HER CARS GO HERE>

<SEQUENCES INVOLVING THE BACKSEAT HAVE BEEN EDITED OUT FOR MU CODE AUTHORITY REASONS>

"Sigh."

Back to work Jen goes; and whatever misgivings she -might- have about her impulsive decision to invite Mary, she's still preening with a brilliant little grin as Lorna praises her. "-And- more fashionable--" she begins to insist, of course. Lorna's continued enthusing, however, is infectious. She smiles, lets out a little "pfff" and then -- pauses. Green eyes climb ceiling-ward. She taps that knife against her invulnerable lip.

"--What -did- I wear when we first... oh god, I think it was that solid blue one-piece with the--" Jennifer wrist-flaps at shoulder height, lightly smk-smk-smk!ing Lorna's thighs as she does, which is really a side benefit, "--epaulet things. Ugh. Ugh! With the really floppy boots, too! Why did I even wear that one??"

<FOOTAGE NOT FOUND>

"You know she's going to laugh at me, right? You know that. I know you know that." Jen sighs anew, placated by smooches on her well-feathered hair. "I swear. The things I do for the ones I love..." Because this, clearly, is for Lorna's benefit. Absolutely, one-hundred percent.

Knife set aside, Jen pours that pricey tequila, followed by the rest of the ingredients. She's mixing them together with an expert's touch as she rolls her eyes upward to peer at Lorna, best she can, looming above. "So you're -actually- excited because you want to play voyeur," she chides, clucking her tongue as if she even cares. "Fine. I give you a special Girlfriend Pass to Punch Club." She takes a detour here to sign a cross of blessing, sanctifying this moment for her shoulder-perched greenette. Her smile lingers, as Lorna promises to dutifully menace. "You'll menace that ditch too," she insists, playfully. But...

Why -would- she bury the lede?

As her thoughts come back to that question, she frowns a bit, pausing in her mixing.

"It's not a -relationship-, it's a-- nemesis ship. Nemeship? Nemesiship? --Whatever. It's just... I kinda made the call at the hip, y'know? And I don't even know how it's gonna go, or if Mary's gonna take it too far -- and I am -so- sure Carol's not going to be happy unless I -really- grease the wheel. It's just..." An exhale slips past her lips. "... I'm just tired of going through the same old beats, again and again, you know?" Jennifer chews on her bottom lip.

"Maybe if I just. If we can just. -Change- the formula. Things can change?"

She really hopes that things can change.

Lorna Dane has posed:
Things CAN change...

... ... can't they?

During the Lane interview, there was a moment where she steeled herself to grill Lois on the double standard between the global community's expectations for its only Mutant state, and those it reserves for the plethora of Human ones: why SHOULD Genosha be expected to walk on eggshells while the fires the rest of the world look to burn her people in rage unchecked?

Why do the overreaches of governments like Canada go unaccounted for when their sins proliferate through the posthuman community?

Why are the endangered expected to defend themselves without offending the sensibilities of their oppressors?

To her credit, Lois met the Queen's critiques openly, honestly-- with just enough of an edge to tell Lorna that on some level, she understood. Can things change?

Can old patterns ever give way to new ones?

"Things can change."

Drifting from Jennifer's shoulders, Lorna turns a reassuring echo into a gentle, hovering demonstration of just how much they can change: palms flattening against exquisitely sculpted cheeks, an affectionate bumping of noses, and the barest meeting of lips sustained by the inevitable magnetism between hyperenergized bodies-- calm, certain, lingering warmth where fervent, lustful fire once held exclusive domain. Friends can become lovers; nemeses can become punchbuddies; a man can become a fortune in cocaine, and a woman can become so smitten with him that losing him opens the door to growth.

"... which..." whispers through a sliver of space, warming Jen's lips, "... reminds me..." Thumbs curling slightly, Lorna traces around the curvature of Jen's cheeks like she's touching spun sugar. Hooded eyes flick away from Jen's while a taut, restrained smile flickers across her lips.

"... I met someone," she shares, soft and slow-- shivering slightly once it's out, then sliding her eyes back to Jen's just to check. Just to be sure that this change is a sustainable one. "A princess-- a magic princess, from a magic world, who was just, she was at a fundraiser, for some reason, and wanted the same shrimp puff, and we danced, and--"

It isn't quite the million mph pace Jen set, but Lorna's definitely racing as words tumble into the narrow gap between them. By the time she notices and catches herself, her tenuous smile's grown into full-bore affectionate warmth.

"... her name is Amy, and I really, really want you to meet her," she manages to offer, measured and low as she reorients herself so she's hovering upright instead of sprawling in mid-air. Nearly getting thrown from Jen's shoulders is a poor reason not to climb right back aboard, but she reasons that this is the kind of moment the demands proper, non-inverted eye contact.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
A weight is lifted off Jennifer Walters' shoulders.

It's not a burden she minds carrying -- it's not even a burden at all, really. But she still feels the absence of those precious pounds of body weight and warmth as Lorna Dane draws away from her broad, ready perch, and the contrast of the cool, conditioned air gracing the well-warmed stretch of her green skin elicits the tiniest of exhales.

Jen is a woman known for the confidence she projects. And she -is- confident, about a lot of things. It came with the nigh-literal second lease on life; it came with the narrative know-how of her new life; it came with a decision -not- to waste the gift she's been given.

She's confident about a lot of things.

But she's anxious about a lot of things, too.

So there's a certain amount of comfort...

Things can change.

... in hearing reassurances from someone you respect. Someone you love.

After all: no one is an island. Not even when you're strong enough to flip one.

Glass clinks on the countertop as Jen abandons her drink making for a minute moment in favor of pouring the remains of that little exhale against Lorna's lips in that cheek-cradling kiss. Her hands find better use pressing their palms to the small of the Genoshan Queen's back and applying just enough pressure to draw them together even as she leans them both back against the countertop. It's slow. Leisurely. So different from how it used to be. Like there's no rush to get from point A to the fade to black of a point B. She likes it like this.

Likes them like this.

Things can change. The words offer assurance.

And her certainty in it is sealed with a kiss.

... which... reminds me...

"mm," Jennifer noises in reply, her thumbs working the small of Lorna's back in small circles. Her lips find hers again. Feeling the tension of Lorna's lips, the world's strongest lawyer blinks and draws back, a questioning look settling in bright, gamma-green eyes as they focus on their counterparts, flit aside.

... I met someone.

What greets the return of Lorna's gaze is a bemused blink.

It's more of a surprised thing than an uncomprehending one, really. More like being blindsided by a passing truck than not being able to process trucks exist; after all, they've talked quite a bit about how to make a relationship between them work. (In the interest of time and buffer constraints no flashback sequences will be shown of Jennifer Walters detailing her own prolific and ongoing relationship history.) It just -- takes her off-guard.

Jennifer Walters is a confident woman. And although she inwardly, briefly, worries for the worst as the concept of 'things changing' is evoked --

... and I really, really want you to meet her.

It really doesn't take -too- much to banish those concerns at all.

She watches as Lorna stumbles over her explanation, and how every syllable melts the tension of her smile into one of genuine affection. And, those eager little mirror neurons firing in her brain, Jennifer can't help but slowly reflect that smile with affection all her own.

Lorna, dropping her hover to eye length, will feel green fingers clasping the back of her neck...

... before Jen answers that desire with another, languid kiss, eyes shut, lips smiling against lips. Her hand falls from Lorna's neck as that contact goes on, as she just takes a moment to offer physical assurance. And then...

"Okay," the World's Most Glorious Green Glamazon sighs against Lorna's mouth. And as she speaks -- a cold, condensation-dappled glass finds its way to Lorna's palm.

"First, we drink." Wait. Did she just finish mixing that blind--?! It's pure talent, baby. (Just ignore any counter spills, please and thanks.) "Then, we enjoy unhealthy amounts of duck ragu, and you tell me all about her. And then... Lor, I'd be happy to meet her."

A second passes. A brow arches.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"A princess, huh? So, what -- is your whole life just an extended Lords and Ladies genre sequence now? Am I going to have to get a title and peerage? I remember when you were just a simple gal going delirious double fisting coffee for your thesis--"

Lorna Dane has posed:
Things can change.

It doubles as a warning. Lorna understands this on a fundamental level, having lived through the truth of things violently, abruptly changing. In the blink of an eye, things can change so severely that whatever came before can only persist in painful memories.

So that triplet of syllables isn't offered lightly: she knows the anxiety lurking beneath cool, unbreakable jade from the ways in which it mirrors her own, and knows better than to merely humor it. For better, for worse, things can change...

... and either way, it's so much better to face them next to someone she loves.

Someone she can count on, who counted on her even when she was just a candle burning at both ends to get her thesis under control.

Someone who trusts her when she confides she's met another someone-- and lunges right past tolerance, past acceptance, all the way to celebrating the presence of a new wrinkle in their budding, ever-evolving relationship. That Jen survived temporary blindness, cheek-capture, rowdy excitement, and gentle affections only to come out the other side with freshly mixed drinks ready to go isn't any more surprising than the rest of her response, if Lorna thinks about it; in this blissful moment where she's basking in radiant warmth and the newly worn depths of familiar grooves, it nonetheless elicits bouncing brows and a gasp upon suddenly chilling her palm.

With her senses full of Gamma, the last thing she's worried about is spillage-- which only makes Jen's feat that much more impressive.

"Nobody's taken me on a walk through a beautiful garden to juxtapose their impending treachery yet, so we've got plenty of time to workshop you a title," she murmurs back, tipping her forehead to touch Jennifer's as she raises the glass to her smiling lips. A long, indulgent sip just confirms that Jen is truly an expert beyond peer in the art of palomamancy and draws a happy sigh from the young monarch. Wrapping her arms around broad shoulders, she adds, "It does feel a little like I stumbled into a dream, sometimes-- I mean, a whole princess? And she's a rebel princess-- her magical kingdom that she's the rightful ruler of got taken over by an evil wizard, so she is a rebel princess, Jen-- like, who just, IS, that?" Free fingers sink into emerald locks until her nails graze the other woman's scalp.

"... but I guess it's felt a little like that ever since... I mean, you know."

An alien monster forced her across the Rubicon, turning a caffeine-fueled student into royalty overnight.

"Fortuantely... Gamma-enhanced pinches mean I know better," she teases before leaning in to share the lingering hints of a perfectly mixed drink on her lips and tongue.

Jennifer Walters has posed:
Nobody's taken me on a walk through a beautiful garden to juxtapose their impending treachery yet

"Sounds like you don't have very good friends," Jennifer Walters interjects here.

so we've got plenty of time to workshop you a title.

"... do you think California will ever see the light and allow landed titles? Jennifer Walters, Duchess of Los Angeles! ... Sigh. Maybe one day."

The smile dancing on Jen's lips is a delighted one, of course, despite her joking [citation needed] lament for her lack of lordship. Forehead to forehead, she looks preens as proudly as a contented cat as Lorna takes her time to enjoy what is - by Jen's humble estimation - a magnum opus in mixology.

"Oh, or maybe I'm the humble but beautiful servant, entwined in blisteringly belligerent sexual tension with the peerage!" Once more, Jen Walters sighs a dreamy sigh, clearly getting away with herself in this fantasy. "And I'd look -great- in a maid's outfit... hm..."

Yes. She definitely is. Which is why we must inject a dose of reality right--

--here, as Jen's brows furrow in realization.

"... A servant's life would be kinda awful, wouldn't it? Like, say they had a blisteringly belligerent affair and they got caught, they'd probably be the one taking all the blame. And they don't even get good living quarters! I bet my living wage would be atrocious too. And I couldn't even stroll through the tulip gardens whenever I wanted--"

She's, perhaps, putting far too much thought into this.

Fortunately, everyone's favorite Gamma-Irradiated Glamazon abandons her fantasizing just as easily with nothing more than a sip of her paloma and a muttered, "i'd be the -first- one to organize a worker's strike i tell you that much"; soon enough, she is setting her drink aside for the moment to take the other greenette in her life by the waist and draw her up and against the counter - careful to avoid all her (MINIMAL, THANK YOU) - spillage.

Lips press against lips. And her paloma tastes just as great when it's a lingering aftertaste in Lorna's mouth as it does straight from the glass. She leans that sizable body weight and warmth into Lorna for a few precious seconds...

... and then, of course, breaks that kiss with a well timed pinch of her favorite queen's side.

"You know I gotchu covered, boo," she whispers against Lorna's mouth with a grin, and not once does she even attempt to apologize for using the word boo. A second passes.

"So you're in, like, a whole She-Ra situation here, huh?" she wonders. "I'd love to make jokes but this sounds like a more serious situation. What kind of evil wizard are we talking here? Like... Bentley Wittman stuff, or, uh. I don't know, a Merlyn-on-a-bad-day deal?"

Lorna Dane has posed:
"He calls himself Dark Opal," Lorna murmurs back, lips barely moving against Jennifer's while emerald eyes flick fractionally beneath her lids, "which would arguably be less serious than it really is if her whole society wasn't..."

The bridge of her nose wrinkles a touch as her brows lower. A small, dismayed smile briefly touches her lips.

"... just, fundamentally constructed around gemstones. Gemstone Houses - big 'H', gemstone magic-- they were throwing gems around as currency at a magical beast auction, which--"

Distress lowly rumbles in her throat. Parting thighs were an entirely predictable consequence - besides the squirming, the exhaling, and the barely voiced squealing - of being pinched after her placement on the counter, and now is when she capitalizes by tugging Jen closer until she can cross her ankles behind her green-skinned gal.

"... saying it out loud," she quietly admits while winding her arms around the other woman's neck and shoulders, "does feel pretty in-line with the premise of buying an animal that can talk, or fly, or whatever because it was born in a magical fantasy dimension... but I hated seeing it all the same." Neatly trimmed nails whisper up the back of Jennifer's neck until they're grazing scalp.

"It felt a little too familiar, you know?"

Barely audible, lest she disturb the moment by voicing her unease too fully, Lorna tumbles right from thinking sour thoughts out loud to trying her best to banish them with more pleasant actions. Sound is minimal the next time her lips move, locking with Jennifer's as the rest of her coils tightly around the tower of legal power.

"... also," slips out several seconds later, softly, "for the record: it'd be impossible to blame you for anything to do with you wearing a maid's outfit."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
"So she's a princess of some kind of... Gem...world?"

Look at how restrained Jennifer Walters is; she doesn't so much as blink as she vocalizes this titular thought. She doesn't even mug for the camera. The fourth wall remains blissfully intact in this moment of serious reflection!

She's a god damn pro.

The jade giant hears that distress in Lorna's voice, the way it releases in that tiny sound she makes as thighs squeeze 'round Jen's sides. The sensational She-Hulk opts for a show of physical, rather than verbal, support in moments like these, wrapping those perfectly green arms around Lorna and slides hands beneath that pink top to ply the tension from her favorite greenette's back with the canny knead of her fingers. I understand what you mean, that backrub says.

Tactile language can, truly, be profound.

"I know," she reinforces the sentiment quietly.

"Trying to sell off -anything- that can hold a conversation is all kinds of wrong."

Perhaps the wonders of Lords and Ladies really doesn't hold up to careful scrutiny, in hindsight.

At least, not like Jennifer Walters in a maid outfit. She smiles oh-so-smugly in the wake of Lorna's claims, brows bouncing -just- so in the aftermath of that kiss.

"Is that right?" Walters wonders, voice a whisper. "Hm, hm. I might have to put that to the test..."

("Just don't expect me to do any actual housecleaning, this place takes enough effort to maintain, I swear--")

Jen draws away from the counter with Lorna in tow, drinks forgotten for the moment (save for a stray gesture towards them with the swivel of her wrist and a request of Lorna to "do that floaty thing you do??" with the bottles and glasses) in favor of dragging Lorna on a trip towards the living area.

"Okay. Dark Opal: goofy name, bad news. Got it. Lords and Ladies -- maybe more morally dubious than expected. Though is that really a surprise--?" She offers a little, lopsided smile Lorna's way. "So, then! Tell me -all- about your She-Ra."

Lorna Dane has posed:
That floaty thing comes with scintillating emerald bands flickering around Lorna's outstretched left hand, because there's no real point in expending the effort required to silence such displays of power in the safety of Jennifer Walters' apartment. Compared to the balletic telekinesis of her psychic cousins, her display of electromagnetic levitation is a more direct and efficient affair: glassware bobbing in a loose cloud of sparkling bodies, each intermittently flickering with the electric green arcs keeping them aloft. Finesse on the level of adroit air-dancing requires a level of concentration that simply isn't possible when one is so thoroughly occupied by matters of critical import:

"Oh no," barely disturbs the air between them as full lips curl into a smile so satisfied there may as well be a mouse tail dangling from it, "PLEASE don't dress up in the maid uniform that may or may not be tucked away in some forgotten corner of your enormous closet, and dust things with feathers-- that'd be so awful."

Critical import, much like giving Jen's hair a little tug to tilt the other woman's head back as soon as they're seated. Lorna doesn't remain so long, lifting from Jennifer to follow the tugging angle such that her Cheshire grin remains poised and looming over the Hulkette's.

"I'd hate that so much, I don't even know what I'd do with myself--!" she gasps, lifting-- looming-- and ultimately tilting in to squash the tip of her nose to Jen's momentarily before dropping firmly into the other woman's lap.

Of course, there's also the matter of bad news with a goofy name. The drinks and bottles float statically above and beside the pair as Lorna's grin softens a few notches. Initially, she's primed for the serious version of explaining what she knows of Opal, only for Jen - in her infinite, Gamma-enriched wisdom - to offer the perfect out.

"She's so, so brave-- I mean she's young, almost the same age I was when everything happened," Lorna softly muses, combing one set of fingers, then the other rhythmically through Gamma-green locks, "and not only does she face it head-on, she keeps throwing herself into whatever new problems she can find. And she's strong, and crazy stubborn, and willful-- she just, does whatever she figures is right..."

A soft, wistful sigh leaves her forehead touching Jen's and a small, sunny smile on her lips.

"... even though she's a ~morally dubious Lady~," she abruptly pivots afterwards as threaded green brows lift and playfulness sneaks back into her grin, "like one currently occupying you."

Jennifer Walters has posed:
Sometimes, grace must be sacrificed in the name of necessity.

"Oh, well, if you think it's awful. I daren't think of it, madame~!"

Sometimes, that necessity happens to be pitting the lion's share of your attention on teasing word games with your girlfriend.

"And I certainly shan't even spare a single thought to tormenting my poor lady with my expertise in feathers!"

These are the most necessary necessities of all.

All this done, of course, with a middling-to-barely-passable perky British accent ("Hey, it's not middling! It's -- it's -- shut up is what!") as Jen flops back onto that seat and obtains a lapful of Lorna, the layered majesty of her dark green hair bouncing in shiny waves with the impact. Thankfully -- she's invested in Hulk-Bearing furnishings ever since she was gifted this apartment, and it stands strong as she settles in and draws her head back with the guiding tug-tug-tug of that buoyant hair.

It's all smiles for the Mistress of Magnetism, matching a Cheshire's devious grin with a frighteningly convincing yet ultimately laughable ("I object! Again!") ingenue's bright and blithe smile.

"So never-you-worry, my laaaaaady!"

...

Okay so MAYBE the accent work is laying it on a little thick.

She might know this in her heart of hearts, but Jennifer Walters shows no shame whatsoever, even flashing the Magnetrix of Genosha a cheeky wink in those moments before Lorna takes that offered detour to espouse the virtues of Amy Winston as they wait for their ragu. She listens to it all, of course, with a quite critical look in her eye, brows climbing bit by bit til they reach their majestic apex at the invocation of ~Morally Dubious Ladies~.

"Hmmmmmm," she muses, her expression amazed! Astounded! Alarmed?! "Sounds a -lot- like someone I know. Like a certain strong and crazy stubborn and willful - and stubborn! - morally dubious lady currently occupying me, maybe...?"

She pauses to consider this, forehead bumping Lorna's, smile a delight of dazzling dark green lips. "Naaah, couldn't be. The one -I- know is just. So -bratty-." That smile blooms into a grin. "... But for some mysterious reason, I get the feeling I'll like her a lot."

As if, perhaps, their meeting was already set in digital stone...!

"So. Does -she- have all that gem magic you were talking about? And is it as glam as I'm thinking? Because I have to tell you, I'm thinking very glam. Like... Ziggy Stardust levels."

Lorna Dane has posed:
Looming over seven feet of She-Hulk, Lorna beams with noble benevolence. Vivid emerald waves fall like curtains around them, pooling and spilling over shoulders strong enough to bear the weight of the world and then some. Wherever Jennifer's accent and ingenue mannerisms may fall along the objective scale of literary/theatrical critique, the only observer who matters is utterly spellbound by the giantess' performance. A soft, quaking giggle slips through her felinious grin, swiftly quelled by lips rolling inwards and catching on her teeth. She takes her time breathing in, steadying herself fully and drawing back from the edge of cracking utterly--

"... but have we forgotten, my fair titaness...?" purrs ever so softly, quieted by a heady mixture of intent and barely-managed restraint. "However flexible my morals may be, I am a lady-- and a proper lady is nothing if not kind, when it counts. Kindness that includes the dread sacrifice of suffering emerald magnificence armed with feathers in my presence," comes with fingers delicately tracing the elegant curve of Jen's cheek, "knowing as I do the joy that playing maid to the Queen of Genosha would bring you."

Once the British accent engine is well and truly started, Lorna dives right into soaking every last bit of her rebuttal in posh airs. One good turn laid a little thick deserves another, doesn't it?

One brow-kiss later, she settles in against Jen to bear the weight of comparisons with a chorus of winces and taut, self-aware grins. "You DO have a type," she asserts when Jen reaches her ultimate conclusion, "which is why I'm gonna take it easy on your new morally dubious ladyfriend the next time I see her-- unless she breaks another car of yours--"

A beat passes. Lorna's grin recedes as her brows sink in thought.

Another beat, and a teasing smirk slips into place.

"-- unless that's just how you guys flirt, in which case-- I mean, far be it from me to get in the way...~"

One self-satisfied kiss claim later, she's met with questions about gem magic, and--

"There are a lot of gems, and it's even more glam than you're thinking-- Jen, you HAVE to see her do it--!"