Chapter Text
Bruce Wayne was twenty-seven years old. He had been Batman for four years, had led the Justice League to victory, and had protected Earth from an invasion by Apokolips.
Since then, Bruce had been studying the planet itself—its Parademons, its Elite, especially Darkseid and his family—to prevent similar invasions in the future.
Apokolips was a planet of Alphas and Betas. So when the first and only Omega—Avelynna-Chloe—was born, it caught his attention.
From what he had learned, she was the youngest daughter of Darkseid and Suli—a noble princess by birth, known for her beauty—chosen by a Star Sapphire ring and eventually escaping Apokolips to join the Star Sapphire Corps. They called her The Lost Sapphire.
Bruce hadn’t thought much about her—until many years later, when the Star Sapphire Corps and their headquarters—planet Zamaron—were attacked by Darkseid. The entire planet and every Star Sapphire were wiped out, all for the sake of capturing one runaway princess.
Satisfied with his victory, Darkseid suddenly felt compelled to invade Earth again. The Justice League managed to stop this second invasion, but the cost in lives was far greater than the first.
To “make up” for the damage, Darkseid offered Avelynna-Chloe as an Apokoliptian hostage—proposing a political marriage between her and Batman.
Bruce was enraged when he first heard the offer.
Darkseid’s voice still echoed in his head from the transmission—cold, amused, and utterly inhuman—as he proposed the unthinkable: a marriage between his daughter and the leader of the Justice League. A “gesture of peace,” he’d called it.
Peace. From the same son of a bitch who had invaded Earth twice, turned cities to ash, and slaughtered thousands without blinking.
Bruce hated Darkseid to the core of his soul. The very idea of binding himself to that tyrant’s bloodline made his skin crawl. He left the Hall of Justice before the conversation was even over, fists clenched so tightly his gloves tore at the seams.
Marry her? The daughter of the monster who murdered families, leveled hospitals, and broke worlds?
Absolutely not.
So Bruce tried to throw this ticking bomb at the other male Leaguers.
Clark gave him a side glance and was one move away from flashing the photo of Lois in his wallet. Arthur grunted—he already had Mera. Carter laughed darkly and said he’d kill her before kissing her. Barry stammered something about Iris. Hal and John argued over whose ring counted as “married to the Corps.” J’onn declined on behalf of Mars. Oliver said Dinah would hang him with his bowstring.
They all turned to Bruce.
Single. Wealthy. Powerful enough to host a princess. Calculating enough to keep her contained. Most importantly, Darkseid had specifically asked for the leader of the Justice League.
For the first time in forever, Bruce wanted to murder someone.
But after another long, grueling session behind closed doors—the harsh truth became undeniable.
“It’s not about her,” Clark started gently. “It’s about Earth.”
“If this is what keeps another war from happening,” Diana said firmly, “then it’s a sacrifice one of us has to make. And you’re the only one Darkseid respects enough to offer this to.”
Bruce didn’t answer. He stared at the data scrolling across the holoscreens. Strategic risk maps. Civilian death tolls. Satellite images of burned cities.
When he returned to the Batcave, his frustration roared out in action.
He couldn’t control the League’s decision. But he could control her.
Within hours, he was already at his workstation, designing a contingency plan. For Avelynna-Chloe—just in case.
The collar was forged from Nth-metal alloy laced, with Kryptonite-lined circuitry, and chaos-dampening runes acquired from Zatanna’s more obscure grimoires. It was sleek, matte black, deceptively elegant, and devastatingly effective. It would suppress every single one of her abilities: her chaos magic, her Omega Beams, her Siren form, her Succubus form—everything. With it on, she’d be nothing more than a normal girl. It was even coded to shock her if she ever tried to remove it.
Bruce set the prototype down on his workbench. He didn’t want a bride. He wanted insurance. He wanted safety for Earth, for the people who would never survive a third invasion.
This wasn’t marriage. This was war dressed in white.
And he intended to win.
***
The Watchtower’s hangar was colder than usual—silent, save for the hum of containment shields and the steady footfalls of the greatest protectors Earth had to offer.
The Justice League stood side by side, eyes fixed on the looming Boom Tube hovering just outside the forcefield perimeter. The vacuum around it crackled with volatile, Apokoliptian energy. Some stood with arms folded, watching for any sign of betrayal. Others fidgeted, trading glances heavy with tension and reluctant curiosity.
“She’s late,” Barry muttered.
“She’s Apokoliptian,” Hal replied. “They show up when they want, kill who they want.”
“Let her try,” Arthur grunted. “I brought the trident.”
“She’ll probably be twenty feet tall with teeth like a Reaper,” Zatanna said dryly, adjusting her gloves.
“Or a tactical nuke in heels,” Diana’s tone was neutral but alert. “We should still hear her out.”
Bruce said nothing. He stood apart from the group, arms at his sides, eyes narrowed. He was in full armor but unmasked. His lips were pressed in a line sharp enough to cut steel. Every instinct screamed trap, and the trigger finger in his mind itched to fire.
The Boom Tube flared.
Parademons spilled into the hangar like insects with purpose, flanking a figure draped in fine black robes stitched with jagged crimson thread. The stench of brimstone followed him like a disease.
DeSaad. Greasy, hunched, and smiling in that way only predators do when they think they’re in control.
The League tensed.
“You’ll forgive the delay,” DeSaad drawled, voice slick with mockery. “Royal ceremonies take time.”
Clark stepped forward. “We were told Darkseid’s daughter would arrive for the marriage treaty. Is she aboard the vessel?”
DeSaad grinned like a man revealing the punchline of a cruel joke. “She is,” he said, licking his teeth.
Silence swept through the hangar.
“You know royals—always wrapped in rumors,” Carter scoffed. “We sure it’s not just Kalibak in a wig?”
John let out a short laugh. J’onn raised a telepathic brow.
“Yeah,” Oliver chimed in, elbowing Bruce. “Kalibak’s her brother, right? Dude looks like a gorilla that lost a fight with a lawnmower. What if she’s… you know…”
“…same gene pool,” Hal added with a chuckle.
“Try showing a little dignity,” Shayera snapped. “We’re not in a tavern.”
“Agreed,” Dinah said, crossing her arms. “We don’t know who she is yet. But she’s not her father.”
Bruce remained silent, eyes locked on the still-open portal. His frustration was palpable. He hated the unknown. Especially when it came from Apokolips.
The hangar trembled. A ship emerged—pure black metal, etched in fire glyphs, shaped like a cathedral mourning the dead. An unmistakably Apokoliptian royal transport, yet unlike any vessel seen before.
Its engines roared once, then cooled. The ramp extended with a hiss, and from the shadows, a petite figure began to descend.
At first, no one breathed. The Justice League—seasoned warriors who had faced gods and monsters—prepared for the worst: a monster, a war-bred abomination, something twisted.
But what stepped into the light made the entire hangar once again fall silent.
She was otherworldly.
Barely five-foot-two, smaller than every man in the room by a foot or more—a nymph among titans. Slender and delicate, perhaps ninety pounds at most, yet her body was painfully divine—curves that didn’t belong on a frame so small. Hips and bust that hinted at fertility, at heat, at something ancient—as if sculpted from stardust and temptation. Her slim waist looked like it could be wrapped in one hand and crushed with a light press. Her collarbones were so defined that they could cradle water. Her legs—long for her height—were lean, moving with the effortless grace of a dancer. Her ankles looked fragile enough to shatter from a breeze.
Yet it was her face that brought the League to their knees—spiritually.
Her features bore a resemblance to the Asian humans of Earth—ethereal, but with an unplaceable Apokoliptian edge. Her hair was a platinum-silver cascade, flowing behind her like a river of stars, shifting faintly with the colors of the galaxy—midnight violet, comet blue, even hints of rose gold when she turned. It framed her small, heart-shaped face, accentuating every angle. Phoenix eyes, large and upturned, glowed with iridescent pink pupils like polished rose quartz. Her willow-swept eyebrows rested above a high, elegant forehead. Her nose was straight, kissed with softness. Her lips were naturally pouty. Long lashes shadowed cheeks still soft with youth. And her skin… her skin—like milk poured fresh over porcelain, gleaming beneath the Watchtower’s artificial lights.
The room shifted.
Diana blinked in surprise.
“I thought Apokolips was nothing but fire and ash,” Shayera murmured.
The male Leaguers still said nothing—but their silence was thunderous. Clark faltered for a breath. Hal’s mouth opened and closed like a drowning man. Arthur audibly cleared his throat, arms folding tighter. John rubbed the back of his neck. Barry had straight-up forgotten how to look away. J’onn tilted his head in raw intrigue, though he tried to suppress it.
Oliver finally muttered, “That’s… definitely not what I was expecting.”
Carter leaned toward Bruce with a low whistle. “You sure we’re not the ones being offered in marriage?”
And Bruce? It only flickered across his face for a fraction of a second—but it was there. The widening of his eyes. The twitch in his jaw. The tight breath held between parted lips.
Avelynna-Chloe walked toward them with the composure of a ghost—quiet and regal, yet soft like wind across silk. Her robes were white—not the white of surrender, but of untouched snow, of moonlight reflected off a lake. They floated around her like mist. There were no weapons on her. No armor. Just a single gold circlet atop her head, nestled in the galaxy of her hair.
And that distant, detached fragility—as if she was far too gorgeous to be touched, yet far too breakable to be left alone. She looked like she belonged in a sacred garden—not on Apokolips. Like she’d stepped out of a forbidden dream, untouched by war or blood. A being men weren’t worthy of, yet would burn the world to protect. She was beautiful, not just in the way that knocked the breath from your lungs. No—it was worse than that. She was beautiful in a way that made your soul ache, made you want to be better. To deserve her presence.
The perfect hostage.
The perfect bride.
DeSaad gestured dramatically. “Behold—Princess Avelynna-Chloe, youngest daughter of Darkseid, the fruit of Empress Suli’s womb. May she serve peace.”
The League turned in unison to Bruce.
He didn’t move. He just kept staring at her, face unreadable.
But they all saw it. Even the billionaire playboy had been struck.
His Alpha instincts clawed at his spine, whispering sick, primal things into his thoughts: Impress her. Protect her. Breed her. Mark her.
He nearly punched the steel wall behind him.
Instead, he took a breath. Focused on logic. Coldness.
She’s not even that beautiful, he told himself.
It was the worst lie he’d ever told.
He forced his mind back to the long string of women he’d seduced, bedded, and discarded—supermodels, heiresses, spies, thieves, assassins. He compared their faces to hers, side by side in his mind. They all looked like distortions. Mock-ups. Rough drafts. Like sea creatures mimicking femininity. All octopuses, compared to this pretty little thing—a relic wrapped in velvet skin, too stunning for her own good.
He reminded himself that she was Apokoliptian. That her father was a tyrant. That this was a treaty.
None of it changed the fact that she was the most breathtaking creature he had ever seen.
As Avelynna-Chloe stepped closer, the atmosphere in the Watchtower hangar shifted again. The air seemed to hum with something biological—an instinctive reaction that neither magic nor science could fully explain.
The Alphas noticed it first. Clark inhaled. Arthur’s shoulders straightened. Carter’s wings gave a single, unsettled rustle.
For Bruce—the Omega scent hit him like a sudden memory.
Peach and milk. Sweet, cloying—but with something layered underneath. Like the scent of a wildflower growing through the cracks of a battlefield. It tugged at instincts buried beneath decades of training and control. He shut it down, clenching his jaw tight enough to grind molars.
The other men fared worse.
Barry was the first to approach, appearing beside her in a blur. “Hi! I mean—hello, uh, Your Royal Highness? Or do we say Your Grace? Do you like Earth snacks? Because I can introduce you to churros and milkshakes and—”
Hal shoved him aside. “Ignore the speedster. He short-circuits around beautiful women.” He offered his best smile. “Green Lantern Hal Jordan. Perfect match for a Star Sapphire, am I right?”
“Ignore him,” Arthur growled, stepping forward with that lazy grin of his. “Arthur Curry. King of the oceans. If you need an escort anywhere on Earth, I’ve got a palace in Atlantis and a fleet waiting.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Oliver cut in. “I’m literally a billionaire too, y’know. You like archery? I could show you a few things.”
Clark, ever the gentleman, stepped forward next with a warm, kind smile. “Welcome to Earth. We’re honored to have you. I hope this situation hasn’t been too overwhelming.”
John, usually composed, cleared his throat and stepped back, giving her space like a soldier recognizing a general.
J’onn, typically immune to such human responses, turned his head in assessment.
Carter smirked at her like he was about to scoop her up with his wings and sing “I can show you the world” like Aladdin.
Avelynna-Chloe said nothing. She simply walked forward, slow and graceful, her posture poised with the elegance of royalty. She smiled at the female Leaguers—Dinah, Shayera, Zatanna—and offered nods of acknowledgment. But her gaze avoided Diana, passing her with practiced distance.
With the men, she was colder. Polite nods. Nothing more. Nothing encouraging.
Her pink eyes moved across them—Arthur’s scars and ink, Carter’s golden armor and wings. She lingered on Clark the longest—as if sensing the sun buried beneath his skin.
Then she saw him.
Bruce Wayne.
Everything in her paused.
He was still. Rigid. His face was cold marble cut by war—high cheekbones, square jaw, the hint of a scar near his right brow. Hands behind his back, unmoving—except for his eyes. Blue. Frozen. Soulless. They burned into her with sharp precision, analyzing every step, every movement, every breath she took.
His scent was different. Cedarwood. Citrus. Metal. A faint hint of gunpowder and blood, of worn leather and steel. A battlefield bottled into a man. His presence didn’t pull her in—it pressed down on her. Heavy. Suffocating. Like the moment before a warship opens fire.
He was taller than she expected. Broader. His muscles were corded and thick beneath the armor. His chest rose and fell like a beast in restraint. The silver streaking his hair and beard didn’t soften him—it made him look more dangerous. More seasoned. The kind of man who didn’t need to show strength, because his silence was already a warning.
She met his eyes—and for a second, something flickered there. Recognition. Not quite memory, but familiarity.
His gaze was merciless. Not impressed. Not enchanted. Just… locked on.
Her heartbeat skipped, then stuttered.
He didn’t look at her like a suitor. He looked at her like a threat.
Somehow, that made her straighten her spine a little more.
In that instant, they understood each other.
This would not be a soft alliance.
***
The formalities began almost immediately after Avelynna-Chloe’s arrival. The Watchtower’s conference room transformed into neutral territory: a table of Earth’s mightiest seated across from a representative of Apokolips.
DeSaad did most of the speaking, oozing through the clauses with that mocking grin never leaving his face. He outlined the terms dictated by Darkseid’s court—ceasefire, restricted portal access, trade negotiations for select technology, and of course, the political marriage between the Princess of Apokolips and Earth’s most dangerous mortal.
Bruce hadn’t spoken once during the entire discussion. Not until the end. “I agree to the terms,” he said coldly. “With precautions.”
No one was surprised. Not even DeSaad. And certainly not Avelynna-Chloe.
Once the agreement was sealed and DeSaad disappeared back into the Boom Tube, Bruce turned toward her. The others had cleared out—except Clark, who lingered in the hallway, watching through the glass with furrowed brows but choosing not to interfere.
Bruce approached slowly. Every step he took was measured.
Avelynna-Chloe stood still, hands folded before her, gaze calm. She made no effort to resist when he took out the collar.
“This is a power-suppressing collar. Activated only by my voice,” he said flatly.
She tilted her head. “Of course.”
Bruce fastened it around her neck with practiced efficiency, the magnetic click echoing a little too loudly in the room.
He didn’t meet her eyes.
Then came the tracking bracelet—a sleek silver band fitted around her ankle. “GPS-coded, updated every ten seconds. You step out of the set perimeter, I’ll know.”
Her lips parted for a moment, but she said nothing.
Bruce held out his hand. “Ring.”
Avelynna-Chloe hesitated for only a breath before sliding the pink-hued Star Sapphire ring from her finger and dropping it into his palm.
“And phone.”
She handed that over, too. No questions. No comments.
Bruce turned from her, storing both items in a secure, lead-lined containment case in his utility belt. When he faced her again, his expression had cooled to absolute zero. “We leave now.”
Avelynna-Chloe nodded. No protest. No sass. No plea.
She understood. This wasn’t about her. This was about survival. About damage. About fear. Her father had invaded this planet twice. Burned cities. Taken lives. And Batman had lost people.
So she let him cage her.
Who was she to complain?
***
The Batwing roared across the sky.
Avelynna-Chloe sat in the co-pilot seat, head turned toward the window. Her fingers were clasped in her lap, her collar catching the moonlight in glints. The tracking bracelet around her ankle sat still, unnoticed.
Outside, the world looked impossibly different from the jagged red chaos of Apokolips. Earth had stars that twinkled, not burned. Cities that breathed instead of screamed.
She didn’t speak.
Bruce hadn’t said a word since takeoff, and the tension in his frame was palpable. His hands were white-knuckled on the yoke. His profile was as sharp as his thoughts—ticking like a clock made of razors.
She didn’t know that he was battling a war inside his mind.
Not against her. Against himself.
“You shouldn’t have agreed to this. You can’t trust her. She could bring the world to its knees with a whisper.”
But there was another voice.
“She didn’t resist. She didn’t lie. She just… looked at you. Like she saw something she recognized. And that scent… that look…”
His breath hitched, he hoped she didn’t hear it.
He could still smell her—peach and milk and ruin.
He was furious with himself for noticing.
She was a threat, he told himself again. But she wasn’t acting like one.
Wayne Manor waited ahead—dark, monolithic, and alone. A castle for a knight who’d forgotten how to kneel.
He would take her there. He would give her a room, ensure her safety. Monitor her.
Because that’s what Batman did. Control the variables. Even when one of them had eyes like rose quartz, smelled like memories he didn’t have, and walked as she belonged in another lifetime.
No matter how many walls he tried to raise inside himself… she was already under his skin.
Too soon. Too deeply.
He gritted his teeth harder.
Contain her.
But some things weren’t meant to be contained.