The Dark Knight Has A Princess

by DanieLin

Summary:

After Apokolips’ failed invasion of Earth, Darkseid was highly impressed by Batman’s intelligence. He secretly collected Bruce Wayne’s DNA and injected it into his youngest Omega daughter, Princess Avelynna-Chloe.

In the past life, Avelynna-Chloe was given to Bruce by Darkseid as a war bride. Unaware of the truth about her DNA, Bruce was simply annoyed and disgusted that he had to marry the daughter of his enemy. He treated her horribly, and one thing led to another—he ultimately became the cause of her death.

Only after that did Bruce learn the truth about Avelynna-Chloe’s DNA and realize that he had been denying his feelings for her. Filled with regret, he used a spell to reset the entire universe, determined to start over by marrying her again. But this time, he would love and cherish her with all his heart.

Notes:

Hey there! Welcome to my delulu space! English isn’t my first language, so please bear with me if there are any mistakes or if my writing comes off as a bit awkward.

Before we begin, as you might know from the comics, Darkseid’s first wife—Suli, is a sorceress, which is quite similar to Scarlet Witch. I decided to shamelessly borrow her chaos magic for Suli and her daughter—my Avelynna-Chloe. While some Marvel and The Boys characters will appear throughout the story, Scarlet Witch won’t be one of them since she doesn’t exist in this universe I've created.

Additionally, you might recall from the comics, particularly the one featuring the Star Sapphire Corps (I think it's the Blackest Night event), there’s a character called the Lost Sapphire. She is the only one whose identity is currently unknown and hasn’t made any appearances since. This character inspired me for Avelynna-Chloe, although she won’t have blue hair like in the picture. Anyway, I love the color pink so much that I want to write about a team of women in matching pink uniforms! 🩷

Also I’m not an expert on DC, Marvel or The Boys, I don’t read every comic or watch every movie and show. I’m just a superhero fan trying to share my imagination.

Hope you enjoy the journey! 😊

Chapter 1: The War Bride

The story began when 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 Bruce’s 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.

But he 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 of 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 simply 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 and stared at it for a long time. 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. Familiar. Dangerous.

Some stood with arms folded, watching for any sign of betrayal. Others fidgeted, trading glances heavy with tension and reluctantly 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 slightly 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.

She 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, calm, detached fragility—as if she were 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’s breath hitched slightly. 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 instantly, 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 slightly back, giving her space like a soldier recognizing a general.

J’onn, typically immune to such human responses, turned his head slightly 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 faintly 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.

Batman.

He hadn’t spoken once during the entire discussion. Not until the end.

“I agree to the terms,” Bruce 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 just slightly. “Of course.”

He 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.

Then he held out his hand. “Ring.”

She 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.”

She 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 Bruce Wayne 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 soft. 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 jaw clenched. Hands 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, so quiet 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, ancient, 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 like 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.

Chapter 2: The Vase On The Headboard

Notes:

Staying up all night writing this made me doze off right in the middle of a concert.

Oh and, in this universe of mine, Bruce only lives with Alfred until he’s in college. And the only Robin he ever has is Jason. Don’t worry, he’ll make the rest of them with Avelynna-Chloe. 😉

Wayne Manor loomed on the horizon like a shadow of a forgotten dream. To most, it was just a house—gothic, sprawling, ancient.

To Bruce, it was a mausoleum with walls dressed in memory.

He hadn’t shared it with anyone in decades.

Not since Alfred had packed up and returned to London after Bruce insisted—more than once—that he could handle things on his own. Not since the hallways last echoed with the laughter of a child or the lull of his mother’s piano. Since then, the manor had been quiet, cold, untouched by anything soft.

Until now.

Bruce opened the doors, stepping aside without a word so she could enter first.

Avelynna-Chloe paused at the threshold like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed. Her gaze drifted upward, taking in the high ceilings, the age of the wood, and the dim warmth of the old chandeliers. Her lashes fluttered. She didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Bruce led the way down the hallway, his footsteps echoing beside hers. He moved with purpose, long strides that seemed built for war zones and rooftops—not for giving house tours.

Avelynna-Chloe struggled to keep up. She was small, her legs shorter, her pace lighter. She kept falling a few steps behind, her delicate feet barely making a sound on the ancient floors. Every few moments, she had to quicken her step to catch up—but Bruce never once slowed down.

He pointed things out with clipped gestures: the living room. The dining hall. The library. The drawing room. The music room. The ballroom. The sunroom. The screening room and the game room—no longer used since Jason was gone. The kitchen, which she eyed like it belonged in a museum. Then the gym. The indoor pool. The outdoor pool. The sports yard. The garden. The greenhouse. The lake.

She said nothing the entire time.

They climbed the stairs in silence.

By the time they reached the east wing, her breath was a little uneven.

He opened a door at the end of the hallway. “This is your room.”

It was large—larger than most apartments in Gotham—with floor-to-ceiling windows, velvet curtains, a bed carved from obsidian wood, a private bathroom, and a balcony overlooking the west garden.

He didn’t ask if she liked it.

He just turned stiffly in the doorway.

“Now for the ground rules,” he said sharply, his tone colder than the air.

Avelynna-Chloe turned to face him, hands folded in front of her, expression unreadable.

“One,” Bruce began. “You don’t enter my bedroom.”

She didn’t flinch. Just nodded.

“Two. My study is off-limits. Don’t go near it.”

Another nod.

“Three. You don't enter the Batcave under any circumstances. No excuses.”

Still, no protest. Just calm obedience.

“Four. You don’t leave the manor grounds unless I give you permission. You don’t go into Gotham. You don’t interact with anyone. You stay out of the news. If you need something—tell me.”

He was treating her like a prisoner. No—worse than that. Like a variable. A risk. A living equation he couldn’t solve and didn’t trust.

He expected her to push back. To glare. To say something mean or dramatic—like her bloodline.

But Avelynna-Chloe just looked up at him with those pink eyes, nodded once more, and replied, “Understood.”

Then she turned and walked into the room.

Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even close the door rudely. She just disappeared behind it—like she’d been disappearing behind doors her whole life.

Bruce stood there for a moment longer, fists clenched at his sides.

He hated this feeling—this pulls inside his chest, the weight of guilt mixing with confusion and something dangerously close to pity.

 

⸻

 

Dinner that evening was a quiet, tense affair.

Alfred wasn’t here anymore to fill the room with polite conversation or the scent of roasted thyme. The long oak dining table stood like a relic from another life, its center lit by soft candlelight. The clinking of silverware echoed louder than any voice.

Bruce sat at the head, arms resting on the table, eyes sharp and unyielding—like a predator waiting for its prey to slip.

Across from him, Avelynna-Chloe sat in her assigned seat—back straight, head high, posture impeccable. She hadn’t touched anything until he did.

When he pulled out his chair, she pulled out hers. When he sat, she sat. When he picked up his fork and sliced into the roasted chicken, she began cutting hers—elegantly, with small, precise movements.

She didn’t fidget. She didn’t slouch. She chewed in perfect silence, not once making a sound, her hands resting softly on the table between bites. When he reached for the water pitcher, she moved before he could—lifting it with both hands and gently pouring it into his glass. Then setting it down again without a word.

Like she’d been trained for this her whole life.

Maybe she had.

Bruce had dealt with royalty before—on Earth and off—but this wasn’t just etiquette.

This was engraved.

Every blink, every breath, every graceful shift of her shoulders said one thing: “I was raised to be watched. I am always being watched.”

He watched her for cracks. Signs of manipulation. Signs of deceit.

He saw none.

Just calm restraint. A princess in exile. Or a girl who’d learned early that survival depended on perfection.

Her fork paused once when she caught him staring too hard.

Their eyes met.

Pink met blue.

She didn’t look away, just blinked once, then returned to cutting her food.

She was too good, he thought. Too controlled. Either she was genuinely this poised… or she was mastered how to hide everything beneath it.

Something inside him hated the thought that it was the latter.

Because nothing was threatening in her.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that made him feel like he was the monster in the room.

 

⸻

 

After dinner, Bruce didn’t expect her to say a word.

But as they stepped into the long hallway outside the dining hall, the light brushing against her pale hair like moonlight, Avelynna-Chloe turned to him—with both hands lightly folded at her waist—and asked, “Is there any empty vase in the manor I may use?”

He blinked.

Of all the questions she could’ve asked—“Can I call Apokolips? Where is the Batcave? Why are you watching me like you expect me to stab you?”—this was the last thing he anticipated.

“A vase?” he repeated flatly.

She nodded.

“I never keep flowers here,” he said after a pause. “So every vase is empty.”

She gave the slightest bow of her head. “Thank you.”

She didn’t ask for help. Just disappeared down the hallway like a whisper of smoke.

Bruce followed.

Not intentionally. Not… really.

He found himself walking behind her, at a distance. Watching.

She found one in the guest living room—crystal, tall, unadorned, and slightly dusty. She lifted it with both hands like it was made of starlight instead of glass and carried it carefully back to her bedroom.

He stayed at the doorframe, leaning against it.

She didn’t look at him—just crossed the room and placed the vase—precisely—on the headboard of her bed.

A still, deliberate act.

She straightened. Adjusted it by a fraction of an inch. Stepped back to make sure it was centered.

Bruce finally asked, voice low, “Why do you need a vase above your head?”

She turned—as if surprised by the question, though her face didn’t show it. Only her eyes did, glowing faintly in the dim light.

“I was trained,” she said. “To sleep with a vase above my head every night. Since I was four.”

Bruce stared at her. “…That’s not an answer.”

Her hands folded again in front of her, like an old habit stitched into her bones.

“It’s a discipline test,” she explained. “A lesson in stillness. If I moved too much in my sleep—rolled to the side, lifted my arms, turned my head too quickly—the vase would fall.”

She looked at the vase. “I was punished when it did.”

His throat tightened. Jaw clenched.

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t ask for sympathy. She just stood there, the light painting gold across her pale skin and dark lashes, watching the vase like it still held power over her.

“You do this,” he said slowly, “every night? Still?”

She nodded. “It keeps me… aligned.”

Aligned.

Like posture meant something more than appearance. Like perfection wasn’t a choice, but a cage she’d long since accepted.

Bruce didn’t know what to say to that.

He just looked at her—this little creature left at his doorstep like a gift wrapped in trauma—and felt something inside him shift.

Because she didn’t seem like a spy. She wasn’t anything like what he feared.

She was… broken. Beautifully broken in ways no one should ever have to be.

Yet—she stood perfectly straight.

Chapter 3: Sweet Baby Hates Chocolate And Cookie

Six months had passed.

The manor, once silent from solitude, was now silent from surveillance.

Bruce had installed cameras in every hallway, every stairwell, every threshold. Hidden microphones embedded in antique lamps, old paintings, and curtain rods. Nothing modern enough to be obvious—he knew how to make paranoia invisible. He wanted to know where she was and what she was doing at all times.

And so, he watched.

Not out of fascination—at least that was what he told himself.

It was surveillance. That was all. A hunt for evidence. For proof that this whole thing was a mistake. That the daughter of Apokolips, of war, of fire, wasn’t as soft as she seemed. That behind those pink eyes and delicate hands was a fuse waiting to be lit.

But no fuse ever sparked.

Avelynna-Chloe lived in the manor like she’d always belonged to its shadows. Quiet. Unintrusive. Graceful and ghost-like. She obeyed every rule. Never entered his bedroom. Never touched the Batcave. Never left the property, not even once.

The farthest she’d ever made was the garden. Alone. Barefoot in the dew-covered grass, gently pruning roses and whispering something inaudible to dying stems. Sometimes she sat by the lake, legs tucked beneath her, back straight, staring into the rippling surface for hours.

She never smiled. She never cried.

She just… existed.

Grief lingered in her like a second skin, worn silent and close to the bone. Her sisters—Granny Goodness, the Female Furies, the Star Sapphire Corps—gone. Every woman she had ever called family, was murdered in the firestorm of an invasion she hadn’t led. And Bruce had made sure she had no one left. No visitors. No messages. Not even a funeral.

All she had now was stillness.

And rules.

Bruce’s rules were cruel in their clarity.

No unscheduled meals. No music after nine. No books from his study. No perfume stronger than soap. No scented candles. No sharp objects unless approved. No physical contact. Ever.

He never touched her. Never even looked her directly in the eye unless necessary. And when he did, his expression stayed frozen—neutral, or worse, cold with the kind of restrained hatred that felt older than memory.

Part of it was protocol. Safety.

The rest of it… he couldn’t explain.

Because her scent—peach and milk and something ancient and elusive—made him feel like he was coming undone at the edges.

So he avoided her.

Avoided the kitchen when he knew she was baking bread she never ate. Avoided the greenhouse when she was arranging flowers in vases. Avoided the piano when she played lullabies in minor keys—slow, aching melodies no one had taught her. Just… remembered.

The only thing she ever asked of him came a month after she’d moved in.

Standing in the hallway, hands folded, voice almost inaudible: “I need… sanitary products.”

Bruce had stared at her like she’d spoken in a language he didn’t understand. Which, in a way, she had.

For the first time in his life, he walked into a store and bought tampons—gritting his teeth the entire time, ignoring the cashier’s side glance.

When he returned and handed the small bag to her, she shook her head once, eyes downcast.

“I need pads,” she said gently. “Not tampons.”

Bruce went still.

Something feral twisted in his chest.

Because that meant she was a virgin.

And that detail—innocent, clinical, meaningless—set his mind on fire.

She never said anything more about it. Just took the new package when he got it right the next day, thanked him with the softest voice, and disappeared down the hallway.

Since then pads had been added to the grocery list, so she never asked for anything again.

She never begged.

She never snapped or screamed or demanded to be seen.

She simply stayed.

Even when the loneliness curled sharply in her chest, and the grief felt like it would choke her, she held her posture and swallowed every storm in silence.

If he wanted a prisoner, she would be the perfect one.

Because to Avelynna-Chloe, there was nothing left worth fighting for.

That, somehow, unsettled him more than any defiance ever could.

 

⸻

 

Every day, Bruce sat alone in his study or the Batcave, bathed in the cold blue glow of a dozen security monitors. One hand hovered above the keyboard, the other clenched tightly around a whiskey glass he hadn’t sipped from in hours.

He had memorized criminals’ routines his entire life—how they walked, how they lied, how they bled.

But nothing had ever lodged itself in his brain the way she had.

Her movements were always the same—floating, like she wasn’t fully tethered to gravity. He could map out her path through the manor by sound alone now—the soft padding of her barefoot steps in the hallway, the faint rustle of silk every time she turned a corner.

He told himself he was still watching for treachery. However, what he noticed now had nothing to do with espionage.

Screen after screen, room after room—there she was.

His wife.

His enemy.

She’s Darkseid’s daughter, he reminded himself. This marriage is political. Dangerous.

But that didn’t explain why his eyes kept drifting to her screen. Didn’t explain why he noticed how she always slept too late and ate too little. How she skipped breakfast entirely, touched nothing at lunch, and only nibbled at whatever meal appeared in the evening. A pattern of grief. Silent, heavy mourning.

And yet, her body—stubborn and loyal—refused to let her die.

It ached for movement. For endorphin. So every afternoon, around the same hour, she slipped into the indoor pool like a ghost. No splashing. No dramatic dives. Just quiet strokes. Back and forth. Over and over. As if swimming through the pain would shrink it. As if gliding through warm chlorinated water was the only time she could remember what peace felt like.

She always forgot to drink water. So instead, her body begged for sweetness.

She started making juice. Lots of it. Orange, pomegranate, watermelon-lemonade with sprigs of mint she stole from the greenhouse. The blender of Wayne Manor hadn’t seen this much action in years.

And Bruce had tea. So much tea. Gifts from board members, monarchs, and international clients. Dozens of porcelain tins from countries he hadn’t visited in over a decade. He never touched them—he was a coffee drinker, bitter and black—but she made use of all of it.

She steeped the leaves with precision. Measured ingredients with eerie delicacy. Then promptly ruined the entire thing by pouring in a gallon of milk and enough honey to trigger a sugar coma.

Bruce tried it once. He told himself it was for security—he had to be sure she wasn’t slipping something into the drinks. The moment it touched his tongue, he nearly gagged. Too sweet. Unbearably so. He got a migraine.

But later, when he found a leftover teacup she hadn’t drowned in milk, he tried that too.

It was… good.

He didn’t mention it.

Nor did he mention how often he found himself walking slower past the vases she kept filling with flowers—cut straight from the garden and the greenhouse, trimmed to perfection, always arranged in clusters of color that brought life to the dead manor. Pale pink roses. Lavender. Bone-white lilies. Sun-drenched marigolds. Every time he passed one, his eyes flicked over. Just for a second.

They made the place feel less like a mausoleum.

And her days? She spent them in the library.

Reading. Writing. She devoured mythology—Greek, Norse, Egyptian, Chinese—then spiraled into Jason’s old comic books, wide-eyed. She started writing fanfiction in the margins of old notebooks.

Bruce found one once. Read through it when she wasn’t looking—for security purposes, he told himself again—but there was no hidden message. No cipher. No intel. No plan.

Just a vivid, brilliant imagination.

Her stories were layered. Strange. Beautiful. And occasionally, he found himself imagining her in those roles—Aphrodite, Athena, Persephone, Psyche, Helen, Freja, Iðunn, Sif, Hathor, Chang’e, goddesses, nymphs, warrior queens, cunning enchantresses. Somehow, she fit all of them. A shape-shifter of elegance.

And then there were the clothes.

She wasn’t given much. Just basics. But she turned them into something else entirely. In her room, when the cameras caught her unaware, she played dress-up like a child left alone in a costume closet. She turned a plain dress into royal elegance. A T-shirt into something oddly regal. She mixed colors and layers like she was painting on herself.

Bruce never should have watched that part.

The longer he looked, the harder it became to look away.

He was furious with himself.

“She’s your enemy,” he snapped in his mind. “You’re not supposed to be attracted to her. You’re not supposed to notice the curve of her neck, or the softness in her wrists, or how her hair glows like white-gold when the sun hits it at five in the evening.”

He hated how his body betrayed him. Hated how her Omega scent—the sweet, warm, milky peach of it—seeped through the air and dragged claws down his spine. Hated how close he came, more than once, to walking past her in the hallway just to catch a breath of it.

He didn’t speak to her. Didn’t let her see that he watched.

But every night, when the manor was still and she curled up in bed beneath that damn glass vase, sleeping like a fetus, a porcelain doll too fragile to break, Bruce sat in the cold of his cave with the monitors flickering, and felt like he was the one losing control.

Because she wasn’t a spy. Or a tool. Or a threat.

She was a girl buried in grief, surviving in silence.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to hate her.

 

⸻

 

By the tenth month, Bruce couldn’t take it anymore.

He told himself it was strategy. Self-preservation. Damage control. Because if Avelynna-Chloe offed herself in his house, he’d not only lose political leverage—he’d be handing Darkseid a reason to break the treaty and turn Earth into a crater with a third invasion.

So one day—without thinking—he knocked once, didn’t wait for an answer, and left a silver tray at her door.

Delicately arranged: hand-rolled truffles, imported dark chocolates, and an assortment of sugar-dusted cookies flown in from Paris.

The kind of delicacies girls were supposed to like. Princess things. Sweet things.

The tray returned untouched.

Bruce passed it once in the hallway, then again, like the damn thing had grown teeth.

By nightfall, he was glaring at it like it had personally insulted him.

Against every shred of his better judgment, he tried another way.

This time with a note. Two words, scrawled in his exacting hand: “Eat something.”

Still untouched.

No missing bites. No smudges. No reaction at all. She’d seen it—he knew she had. The camera in her room caught her reading the note. She even tilted her head at it like it puzzled her.

Then she set it down and walked away.

By the end of the day, Bruce carried the tray back into his study like it was mocking him. Like she was mocking him. He sat down, stared at the sweets for a long, stupid moment—then stuffed them all in a bag like a petty, brooding child.

 

⸻

 

The Watchtower kitchen was unusually quiet the next morning.

Just Hal, Barry, and J’onn loitering with their coffee when Bruce entered like a thundercloud with a death wish and a sack full of rejected sugar.

He dropped the bag on the counter without a word.

Barry blinked. “Is that what I think it is?”

Hal peeked inside, then let out a low whistle. “Are those from Lucien’s?”

“Truffles from Spain,” J’onn added calmly, already lifting one with telekinesis. “Valrhona. Dark chocolate, 72%. Impressive.”

Bruce said nothing. Just stood there, arms crossed, scowl permanent.

Barry popped a cookie in his mouth. “Okay, wait—this isn’t generosity. This is rejection.” He squinted. “Oh my God. Did the princess shoot down your romantic billionaire snack delivery?”

“She chugs milk, juice, and tea like a damn baby every day,” Bruce growled. “I thought she liked sweets. Apparently not chocolate.”

It came out like an accusation. Like he was mad at her for not being normal.

“Who doesn’t like chocolate?!” Barry yelped, half-eating, half-gesturing.

J’onn examined a truffle. “She’s precise. Chocolate is oily. Cookie is crumbly. Sensory discomfort. Or maybe it’s linked to trauma. Certain textures can trigger strong associations.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” Bruce muttered.

Hal clapped him on the back hard enough to make Bruce twitch. “Aw, don’t be like that, spooky. You tried. That’s already a rom-com-level leap for you. Baby steps.”

“Shut up,” Bruce said.

Barry grinned. “You just got out-charmed by your own wife, dude.”

“Technically, she’s not even trying,” J’onn said.

“She writes fanfiction,” Bruce dropped the fact suddenly.

They all paused.

“…What?”

“She writes. About characters in mythology and comic books.” He stared at the wall. “She made Sailor Moon fall in love with Freyr.”

Hal blinked. “Was it spicy?”

Bruce didn’t want to answer that.

Barry raised both eyebrows. “Okay. But you read it. So, what—you’re watching her and reading her diary now?”

“For security,” Bruce snapped. Too quickly. Too defensive.

“Sure. Totally. Not because you’re weirdly obsessed or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“She got under your skin, man,” Hal sang, opening another truffle. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re emotionally constipated, emotionally compromised, and emotionally allergic to admitting you care,” Barry said through a mouthful of shortbread. “It’s okay. We still love you.”

Bruce’s eye twitched. “You’re all insufferable.”

“And you’re in denial,” Hal said. “Wanna know how I know? Because you’ve been ghosting women for twenty years and now, you’re over here hand-delivering cookies like a butler with a crush.”

“I do not have a crush on her.”

“Then why do you keep bringing her snacks?”

“Because she’s not eating.”

“Then why not bring her a meal?”

“Because—”

Bruce stopped.

They were all looking at him. Barry chewing. Hal grinning. J’onn floating another truffle like it was the punchline.

Bruce exhaled slowly. “Because she looks like she’ll break if I touch her plate. Because she looks like she’s already halfway broken.”

There was another pause.

Hal leaned back. “Damn.”

J’onn nodded. “Understandable.”

“Dude,” Barry said softly. “You could just try… talking to her. Or get her other things that you know she likes.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

He just stood there in the glow of the Watchtower’s artificial sun, jaw set like stone, pulse loud in his ears, and wondered how the hell a girl who didn’t even speak unless spoken to had taken up this much space in his head.

And why it hurt more than it should.

Chapter 4: Wayne Manor Shouldn’t Be The Set Of A Disney Princess Movie

Notes:

My cab got a flat tire on the way to the airport while I was writing this. Then the hotel wouldn’t let me check in, so I had to change in the spa’s bathroom and put on my makeup in the middle of the lobby—right in front of a group of Indian men.

Guess the AO3 curse is real. 🙂

The next two months weren’t supposed to go like this.

Bruce should’ve been focused—ruthless—in tearing down whatever emotional mask she wore. He should’ve been designing more surveillance countermeasures. Running scans. Preparing Earth’s defenses in case she ever gave her father the signal.

Instead—

He was browsing women’s fashion websites.

At first, it was under the guise of necessity. Avelynna-Chloe only had a few basics, and even then, they were plain things he’d ordered on autopilot without care. Neutral colors. No personality.

But she’d made them look like magic.

The silk blouse she tied at the wrists. The oversized hoodie she wore off one shoulder when she thought no one was looking. The simple sundress. Somehow, she carried it all with the elegance of a diplomat and the softness of a fairy tale.

And maybe—just maybe—he noticed too much.

He told himself it was for observation. Intelligence gathering. Understanding the subject.

Still, when the grandfather clock in the corner of his study struck midnight and he realized he’d spent four hours scrolling through pastel silks, lace-trimmed collars, and cashmere cardigans… he shut the laptop like it had personally betrayed him.

But the damage was done.

The next day, the packages arrived.

Not one. Not two.

Twenty-seven.

Shoes in ivory. Handbags in blush suede and champagne leather. Delicate gold bracelets and vintage brooches. Heels she’d never wear in the house. Sleepwear in lavender chiffon. A sweater with little bows on the sleeves.

And lingerie.

Bruce stared way too long at that section.

Soft cottons. Gentle laces. No push-up. No harsh wires. Nothing red. Nothing black. Nothing too loud or carnal. Just… breathable things. Pretty things. Things that would sit against her skin like a whisper and make her feel human, not hunted.

He told himself it was strategic. Disarming.

But when he pictured her in them—floating through the hallway with her quiet poise, eyes soft with surprise and thanks—he had to physically crush the bridge of his nose and step away from the screen before he lost his mind.

And Avelynna-Chloe did thank him.

When the boxes were delivered to her door—each one labeled with her name in precise pen—she didn’t question it. She just opened them—reverently, like they were sacred things. Her pink eyes lit up in a way Bruce had never seen before, not even in his highest-resolution cameras.

She looked up at the nearest lens and said—with her hands clasped over her chest—“Thank you.”

Like he’d saved her. Like he was good.

He hated how it made his chest feel.

The next week, he bought her more tea.

White peony, jasmine, rose hips, chamomile. Some imported from China. Others from back alley stores in London that Alfred once frequented. She mixed them herself—always in the weirdest combinations. Added milk and honey. Or citrus and cream. Sometimes fruit. Sometimes boba, which she made by hand.

And more books.

Not the leather-bound classics already filling the manor’s library. Not the political tomes or dusty encyclopedias. But “dumb novels.” YA love triangles. Sci-fi soap operas. Greek god fanfiction. Historical romances with zero accuracy but lots of yearning.

Things girls her age might’ve read if they weren’t born on a murder planet.

He left them outside her door without a note.

The next morning, she was curled up in the window seat, barefoot, reading one.

And when she wasn’t reading, she was in the garden.

He’d bought her seeds—white cosmos, Queen Anne’s lace, moonflowers, sweet alyssum. She planted every one of them herself. Dirt under her nails. Knees in the grass. Nothing fancy. Just presence. Care. Soft devotion.

Every time Bruce passed one of her vases—now everywhere in the manor—he felt it.

A shift. A pull.

Like someone had taken a dead house and given it back its heartbeat.

He caught himself watching her on the monitors again, arms crossed, scowl deep.

She was just reading. Or trimming a flower. Or sipping tea in the garden with her eyes half-closed.

He gritted his teeth.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

No signs of rebellion. No suspicious behavior. No secret codes.

But the longer he looked at her…

The harder it became to look away.

Especially when she wore the cashmere. Or the silk nightgown. Or those sleep shorts that hit her mid-thigh and did things to his self-control.

Her pheromones didn’t help either.

That milky, peachy, Omega-scented sweetness that flooded the hallway every time she walked past. He’d installed air filtration systems twice. It didn’t work.

He’d thought a war with Darkseid was the worst thing he’d have to survive.

Turned out—

It was her.

Sitting in his house. Reading his books. Drinking his tea. Healing from a kind of grief he couldn’t begin to understand.

And still managing to look like something he didn’t deserve to want.

But wanted anyway.

More than he cared to admit.

And definitely more than he should.

 

⸻

 

One day, things escalated with a simple question.

Bruce hadn’t planned to ask it—hell, he didn’t even realize the words were already halfway out of his mouth until it was too late.

“Do you… like what I got you?”

They were in the hallway. Avelynna-Chloe was carrying a vase of blooming white peonies, dressed in one of the new cardigans he’d picked—a muted blush one with pearl buttons. She turned to him, blinked slowly.

“Yes.”

Just that. No embellishment. No hesitation.

The kind of quiet yes that made something in his chest settle.

He nodded, already turning away, but then added stiffly, “If you need anything else… just tell me.”

That was all it took.

Within a week, the requests started.

Polite. Measured. Occasionally written on notepaper and slipped under his study door like little secrets.

She needed satin sheets and pillowcases—“for skin protection,” she added in the margin.

She needed fur blankets—“for warmth and pressure when I sleep.”

The lightbulbs in her room were too yellow—she preferred cooler-toned lighting. “Like the ones used in high-end fashion stores,” she’d scribbled, complete with a doodle of a floor lamp.

She needed a full-length mirror.

And then came the avalanche.

Bath bombs. Face and body scrubs. A soft bath sponge. A less spicy mouthwash. A water flosser. Gentle cleansers. Sheet masks and clay masks. Eye cream. Serum. Cotton pads. Sunscreen. Makeup remover.

Bruce read the list, eyebrows raised halfway into his hairline.

Still, he bought her every last thing.

When it all arrived—neatly arranged in a rose-gold wire basket she didn’t ask for but he thought looked cute—her eyes lit up like he’d handed her the moon.

She whispered, with her hands clutched over her chest again, “Thank you.”

Bruce would never admit how smug he felt. He hadn’t smiled in days, but that day, he nearly did. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Enough to scare Alfred if he’d been there.

He was Batman. And also, apparently, the best sugar daddy on the Eastern seaboard.

But then—she asked for makeup.

He blinked at the note.

Makeup?

He stared at her face on the security feed.

Why? Why would someone like her need makeup?

Her skin was flawless. Her lashes curled like they’d been sculpted. Her cheeks had a soft peach tint without a single drop of blush. Her lips were already full and pink, even when she was dead silent.

He clicked the “X” on the cart three times before finally sighing and ordering something.

A red lipstick. A neutral lip gloss. And a soft-toned eyeshadow palette in warm pinks and shimmers with some brushes.

Avelynna-Chloe received them the next day.

The note she left in return was a bit shorter.

“I… thought I asked for more. Is it because you think it’s a waste? Because I’m ugly?”

Bruce dropped the paper.

Ugly?

He stormed down the stairs before he realized what he was doing. Found her near the kitchen, barefoot in one of the new maxi dresses he’d gotten her, hair braided loosely over one shoulder, looking like some kind of forest spirit in exile.

“You’re not ugly,” he said before he could stop himself. “You’re—”

She looked up, startled.

He froze.

“…I just didn’t think you needed anything else,” he finished weakly.

She tilted her head. “Oh.”

A beat passed.

“Okay.”

And then he walked away. Fast. Straight to the Batcave, where he slammed his forehead against the nearest wall.

“What the hell is wrong with me.”

He wasn’t supposed to say things like that. He wasn’t supposed to feel things like that. He was supposed to be in control. Strategic. Calculated.

But now?

Now she wandered the manor like she belonged there. Like some delicate, half-lost songbird trying to hum her wings back into place. Wearing soft clothes. Humming to herself. Floating down hallways like moonlight on water.

The damn humming was beautiful.

It made something in him go still.

Like she’d brought peace to a place that hadn’t known it in decades.

She liked books. She talked to flowers. She looked better in his old hoodie than he ever had.

It reminded him—

God help him—

Of Beauty And The Beast.

Bruce leaned back in his chair in the cave, scowling up at the ceiling.

Great. Now he was comparing himself to a fairytale beast. A hairy beast who locks a girl in a castle and gives her stuff until she stops being sad.

“She reads all the time,” he muttered. “She sings to herself. Her voice is pure. I’m literally holding her hostage…”

He smacked himself in the forehead.

No. Stop.

He wasn’t the Beast.

He was—Flynn Rider.

Right?

Suave. Handsome. Cool.

“Hi, I’m Bruce Wayne, and I can handle myself and my emotions and definitely did not just sprint out of the room because a girl said “okay” to a compliment.”

Then again… Avelynna-Chloe did look like Rapunzel. Long, platinum hair. Big eyes. Hope tucked somewhere under the weight of centuries. Beauty rooted in tragedy.

Wayne Manor is not a Disney set, he reminded himself.

This was not a fairytale.

This was real life.

And the real-life problem was—

He was falling.

Falling for a girl who wasn’t supposed to matter.

She was humming in the hallway again. Like she didn’t know she was slowly breaking every wall he’d spent his life building.

And maybe, just maybe—

She was saving him, too.

Chapter 5: The Handkerchief

The next few weeks were… different.

Small shifts. Barely noticeable to the outside eye—but Bruce noticed.

They started talking.

Not often. Not for long. But it was happening.

Avelynna-Chloe stopped leaving him notes. Instead, she’d murmur questions when their paths crossed in the manor.

“Do we have soy milk?”

“I saw a fox near the garden. Should I be worried?”

She didn’t flinch around him anymore. She didn’t cower.

She approached.

Bruce found himself responding. Saying more than one-word answers. Sometimes, full sentences. Even… sarcastic ones. A dry joke here. A clipped remark there. Once, she laughed—and it startled him so much he dropped his coffee cup.

He didn’t say a word when it shattered. He just stared at her, blinking like she’d grown wings.

Somewhere in the haze of these slow, silent days… something else changed.

Bruce stopped checking the security footage as often.

He still reviewed it occasionally—habit didn’t vanish overnight. But not with the obsessive, minute-to-minute scrutiny he once did. Not with the military precision of a man expecting betrayal.

He knew her schedule now. Knew when she took her tea. When she liked to garden. When she curled up by the window with a book. Her rhythms were gentle, consistent. Predictable.

In time, the cameras became just… background noise. A system left running, but not actively watched.

For a man like Bruce Wayne, that was as close to trust as anything got.

Then came the evening that rewrote something inside him.

 

⸻

 

The knock on his study door was soft. Too soft to hear, if he hadn’t just stopped typing.

Bruce didn’t look up at first, fingers still hovering above the keyboard.

“…Can I come in?”

His head lifted slowly.

Avelynna-Chloe stood in the doorway in a pale blue cardigan that fell off one shoulder, the sleeves too long for her hands. The lamplight made her eyes almost lavender. She was holding something—clutched in both palms, head lowered slightly like a schoolgirl about to present a project.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Bruce said, voice low.

“I know,” she said quietly, stepping inside anyway. “But you’re here to supervise me.”

He didn’t stop her.

She walked up to his desk and held it out to him. “I made you this.”

Bruce glanced down.

It was a handkerchief. Neatly stitched in black thread with the bat symbol in the center—his symbol. Each line was careful, the angles bold and exacting. Around the edges were silver flourishes, almost like feathers or wings curling mid-flight.

He stared.

“It’s stupid,” Avelynna-Chloe whispered quickly, mistaking his silence. “I found Alfred’s old sewing box. There were some cloth scraps left in it. I—I’m sorry I used a sharp object without permission.” She dug into her pocket and produced the needle like she expected to be scolded.

Bruce didn’t take it.

He couldn’t.

“I just…” Her voice trembled. “I wanted to thank you. For everything. I know you didn’t have to. The clothes, the skincare, the books. Even the chocolate. I didn’t like it, but… you remembered. You noticed things. I know they’re expensive, and I don’t have anything worthy to repay you with, but I thought maybe… something handmade might mean more.”

Still, Bruce said nothing.

Because he was looking at her hands.

Red. Raw. Faintly bandaged. A few cuts still healing. Little dots where the needle had pierced her. Blood had soaked through some threads. And yet, the stitching was perfect—stubborn and precise, like she’d refused to stop no matter how much it hurt.

“You did this… by hand?” He asked, voice thick. “How long did it take you?”

She nodded. “A week. I had to start over five times. I kept messing up the wings.”

“You hurt your hands.”

“It’s nothing.” She tried to smile, hiding them behind her back. “I used to learn embroidery as a princess. But the Furies always did it for me. I never… really finished anything alone before.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. He hadn’t felt this kind of ache in years. He could barely look at her face. He could only see the injuries. The effort. The fact that the daughter of Darkseid had spent a week stabbing herself with a needle just to thank him for buying her tea.

And yet she kept talking, still gentle, still quiet.

“I know what this marriage is. I know you don’t want me here. I know it’s political, and that you resent me. But I still wanted to say thank you properly.”

She set the handkerchief on his desk, gave him a small bow, and turned to leave.

“Avelynna-Chloe,” he said softly.

She paused.

“…I’m keeping it.”

She turned her head, surprised. “The handkerchief?”

He nodded once. “And your hands… next time you want to make something, tell me first. I’ll get you gloves. Or a machine. Or someone to help.”

She gave him a stunned smile.

It was the kind of smile that would’ve stopped his heart if it weren’t already a mess.

When she left, the scent of peach and cream lingered in the air for far too long.

 

⸻

 

Bruce scanned the handkerchief, of course. Paranoia never slept.

But after that?

He didn’t let it out of his sight. It stayed on his desk, perfectly folded. A reminder of her pain, and effort, and intent.

It wasn’t flawless. The stitching tilted slightly to one side. One corner was a bit too tight.

But it was hers.

It was real.

Then one night, right before patrol—Bruce reached for his armor…

…And slipped the handkerchief into the inner pocket of his suit. Right over his heart.

He told himself it was to test how well it held up. See how it survived field conditions.

He knew that was a lie.

He just… wanted to keep her close.

And the truth?

He’d become addicted to the scent of her on it.

That subtle mix of milk and peach. Warmth and sweetness. A kind of safety he didn’t deserve.

It followed him into the night. It lingered with him through rooftops and blood and broken ribs. It reminded him of softness. Of someone waiting in the hallways of the manor, humming to herself, healing in deliberate pieces.

For the first time in years—

The darkness didn’t feel quite so empty.

He hated himself for needing that.

But he didn’t stop carrying it.

Not once.

Chapter 6: The Home Of Hot Sea Salt

Bruce had never been the kind of man who looked forward to going home.

Home was empty rooms, cold floors, echoes of memories he had spent a lifetime trying to silence. He never missed Wayne Manor—only used it as a place to store wounds and wear suits.

But now he found himself checking the clock during League meetings. During boardroom meetings. During press events.

Found himself driving faster after patrol.

Found himself wanting to go home—not to the manor, but to her.

To Avelynna-Chloe.

He never said it out loud. Never acknowledged it even to himself. But his body betrayed him every night when he lingered a little too long outside her door before retreating to his own. When he caught himself watching the lights from the windows and felt… relieved. Like something was waiting. Like someone was there.

She filled the manor with sounds and smells he’d never known he needed.

Her voice sang softly in the late hours as she watered the flowers.

Her laugh—light and mischievous—echoed from the library as she was deep in comics.

The clink of china when she made tea, always leaving a second cup—without milk, or honey, or boba—on the table in case he wanted it.

The faint scent of jasmine or rose she sprinkled around the corners of the house, like a trail of stardust. Not to mention that milky peach Omega scent of hers—always playing with his self-control.

Even the thudding bass of whatever ridiculous pop, club, or rap disks she had made him buy for her—sometimes in Japanese, sometimes Korean, sometimes English—filled the once-sterile walls with reckless, rebellious life.

Bruce found himself… enjoying staying home. With her. In the same room.

Still small conversations. Sometimes no words at all.

But little did Avelynna-Chloe know—he was looking at her all the time.

He even began… taking pictures. Secretly. On his phone.

Lots of them.

The way the sunlight hit her face when she was curled on the window seat with a book. The way she looked in oversized sweaters, lost in the folds, hair pinned up messily with half a dozen pastel clips. The way she slept on the couch, one arm dangling over the edge, mouth slightly open like she was dreaming of peace.

He changed his lock screen to her reading. Changed his background screen to her sleeping on the couch with a blanket halfway fallen off.

And then…

One day, during a League meeting—projector on, systems connected, mid-presentation—

The background photo popped up.

Large. Glorious. High definition. Avelynna-Chloe curled on the sofa, cheek resting on a pillow, wrapped in one of the fur blankets he bought her, her lips parted in sleep and her lashes feathering.

The silence was immediate.

Then—coughs. Snorts. Suppressed laughter.

“Aw, that’s adorable,” Diana said, way too loudly.

“Dude,” Hal whispered, eyes wide. “Dude.”

“Is this what we’re doing now?” Barry grinned, already taking a photo of the projector screen. “That’s your wife, right? Or your hostage-girlfriend? I’m confused.”

“I’m going to die,” Bruce muttered. “I’m going to self-destruct.”

J’onn tilted his head. “Her REM cycle appears stable. She seems at peace.”

“Not helping, J’onn.” Bruce snapped, already ripping out the HDMI cable.

They held him hostage in the break room afterward.

“You’ve got it bad, man,” Oliver teased, tossing him a soda. “I knew you were feral, but I didn’t know you were smitten.”

Bruce ignored them all.

And immediately considered changing his name and moving to a different solar system.

But when he finally got home—when he stepped through the front doors and smelled her tea, saw the lights still on, saw shoes by the stairs that weren’t his, and a mess of hair ties scattered on the piano bench—

He found a post-it on the fridge. Heart-shaped. Neon pink. Sloppy writing.

“Tried to make steaks today. Left one for you in the fridge. Don’t worry it’s not poison, you can check it yourself :) Anyway, bon appétit!!!”

Bruce stood there, holding that ridiculous pink note between two fingers.

And he smiled.

God, she was driving him mad.

Because he didn’t just like it. He didn’t just tolerate it.

He was starting to need it.

Her.

 

⸻

 

One night, it was raining the kind of rain that sank into your bones. Cold, slicing rain. Gotham rain.

Bruce had been out for hours. A drug ring in the Narrows had turned into a three-gang ambush and one panicked civilian situation. By the end of it, his ribs ached, his right shoulder was bruised, and something in his thigh screamed every time he turned wrong.

He grappled to the roof of an old parking structure to catch his breath—that was when he saw Catwoman.

Selina landed beside him like a shadow on silk. Lithe. Confident. Familiar.

“Rough night?” she asked, her voice teasing like always.

Bruce said nothing. Just adjusted his cowl and winced slightly.

Selina watched him closely. “You’re slower. Heavier. Distracted.”

She walked a slow circle around him, the rain sliding off her tight suit. “That new wife wearing you out already?”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

“I have to admit,” she went on, “when I heard about your little intergalactic arranged marriage, I thought it was a joke. Batman settling down with some alien princess? Really?” She scoffed. “That’s not you, Bruce.”

Still silent.

“You need someone wild. Someone who gets the chaos. Someone who won’t get glassy-eyed at your scars or beg you to stop bleeding all over the carpet.”

Her hand brushed his chest lightly. “Someone like me.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened.

Selina leaned in closer, her breath warm against the side of his face. “She’s just a contract. You and I? We were always the same. We understand what it means to burn. To live on the edge of a rooftop in the rain and know it might be your last night alive.”

He still didn’t move.

“Let’s have a little fun,” she murmured. “Just us. No politics. No alien eyes watching.”

Then, at last, he spoke—voice like steel.

“No.”

Selina blinked. “No?”

His eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. “You think just because this marriage started as a political agreement, it doesn’t mean anything? That I don’t feel anything?”

She stepped back slightly, water dripping off her mask.

Bruce’s voice lowered. “She’s kind. She makes the house feel… alive again. I see her trying. Every day. And I’m not going to betray that just because I used to enjoy playing cat-and-mouse with you on rooftops.”

Selina stared at him like she didn’t recognize him. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“God, Bruce.” She gave a bitter laugh. “You’ve gone soft.”

“Maybe,” he said, turning away, cape snapping behind him as he prepared to grapple. “Or maybe I’ve finally grown up.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. Didn’t look back.

By the time he reached the manor, the rain had soaked through to his skin. His leg throbbed. His ribs burned.

But the lights were on. There was warmth in the windows.

He stepped inside and breathed it in—the faint floral scent she liked, soft music humming from the library speakers. He peeled off the suit slowly, wincing, each bruise a reminder of the night.

He limped toward the kitchen and stopped short.

Avelynna-Chloe was asleep at the breakfast nook. Head pillowed on one arm, a book open under the other. She had clearly tried to wait up. A cup of tea had gone cold beside her.

Next to it—one of his favorite muscle balms and a fresh roll of medical wrap.

Bruce swallowed hard.

Carefully, he approached her. Lifted the blanket she had draped over her shoulders and adjusted it so it covered her better.

As he stood there, watching her breathe—serene and untouched by the madness of the night—he realized something with the sharp clarity of lightning splitting the sky.

He didn’t want wild anymore.

He wanted her.

All of her.

 

⸻

 

Avelynna-Chloe finally stirred. Her lashes fluttered open, the dim light catching the soft shimmer of her irises—light pink in the dark, like twilight clouds before a storm.

Then she saw him.

Drenched. Bruised. Standing silently like a shadow with skin.

She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t demand answers or reprimand him for returning late, for getting hurt. Her brows only furrowed—delicately—the way they always did when she was worried. Like a small, unspoken tremor in her soul had surfaced on her face.

“Come on,” she said, rising from the bench. “You’ll catch a cold like that.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she was walking past him, brushing his soaked arm lightly with her fingers. “The indoor pool’s ready. Hot water should be perfect by now.”

Bruce blinked. “You filled the pool?”

“It was raining. I figured you might need it.”

He didn’t argue. Not because he was tired—though he was—but because some part of him… wanted this. Wanted to be taken care of. Just for one night.

And she’d already placed a towel and his favorite black pajama set in the changing room.

By the time he emerged again—dried, bruised, cleaner but still sore—the fire was crackling in the living room. The lights were golden. The scent of ginger and something sweet lingered in the air.

Avelynna-Chloe looked up as he walked in. “Take a seat, please.”

He obeyed, and the moment he did, she pressed a cloth-wrapped bundle to his side. The heat sank into his skin immediately—coarse sea salt burned beneath the surface, targeting the deep bruising with painful, healing heat.

He winced slightly. “What is this?”

“Granny Goodness used to do this to me,” she replied, carefully adjusting the bundle. “Hot sea salt helps burn the blood under the skin. Bruises fade faster.”

His brow lowered. “Did you get bruises a lot back on Apokolips?”

Avelynna-Chloe flinched—just for a moment.

Then she quickly looked away. “Yeah, because of training.”

He didn’t press. Not yet.

“Here,” she added, guiding his hand to hold the hot bundle in place. “Keep pressure on it.”

She turned and retrieved a tray from the side table. A cup of steaming ginger tea. A small ceramic bowl filled with creamy porridge speckled with lotus seeds and thin slices of Chinese yam and wolfberries.

“This will warm you up. Help you sleep better.”

She poured a sip of tea into a separate cup, tasted it in front of him. Then dipped a spoon into the porridge and tasted that, too.

Bruce stared, realizing what she was doing.

Avelynna-Chloe looked up at him, a little embarrassed. “I know you don’t trust me. I just… wanted you to know it’s safe.”

She offered him a spoonful.

He let her feed him. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

She explained every ingredient. “The ginger drives out cold from the body. The yam helps with fatigue. The lotus seeds calm the nerves and help with sleep. I read that your people consider them good for the heart, too.”

He chewed slowly, swallowed. It was simple food. Warm. Soothing.

She smiled faintly. “Thanks to you banning the internet, I’ve had time to learn how to cook. As you can see, I’ve been practicing lately.”

Bruce kept looking at her—really looking.

Her hair pinned loosely behind her head with a chopstick. The gentle shadows under her eyes from staying up late. The bandage still on one of her fingers from sewing.

Martha used to make him porridge like this.

Not exactly the same, but with the same quiet care. She would feed him when he was too tired to lift a spoon. Sit by his bedside with soft words and cool hands.

Now here she was.

Avelynna-Chloe.

Sitting close enough to share breath. Worrying over every bruise. Treating him not like a warrior—but a person. A man.

Not scared of his scars. Not asking him to quit. Not once showing resentment for his nightly war.

He suddenly heard Selina’s words again.

“She’s just a contract.”

“You need someone wild.”

Bullshit.

Bruce set down the bowl, gently.

He looked at her. His voice was low, rough. “I’ve been tired lately.”

She tilted her head, listening.

“I don’t know if what I’m doing still matters. I’ve won fights, but the war… keeps going. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even doing any good. Or if Gotham’s just always going to bleed.”

Avelynna-Chloe was quiet for a moment. Then she reached for his hand—not forcefully, just enough to let him feel the warmth of her fingers.

“You’re one man,” she said. “But you’re the only one who chose to carry this burden. The only one who didn’t turn away when the city cried for help.”

He didn’t speak.

“You’re a symbol of fear,” she continued. “To the ones who deserve it. A warning. A shadow. You make them hesitate. And for the people of Gotham… you’re hope. You’re what they look to when the sky goes black.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of his wrist. “When I see your signal in the clouds… when I see your cape… I feel safe. Like the night isn’t so dark.”

Bruce felt something in his chest clench, then melt. He still didn’t say a word. He couldn’t.

Avelynna-Chloe smiled again. “So rest tonight. The war will still be there tomorrow. But right now, you’re home.”

Home.

He didn’t know what hurt more.

That she said it so easily.

Or that it felt true.

For the first time in years, he let someone take care of him.

And he wanted it to be her.

Chapter 7: First Time 🔞

Notes:

Just got my nails done so here is a chapter for you guys. First time writing smut though, hope it’s not too bad. 🥹

It only got worse.

The tension. The nearness.

It wasn’t the kind of tension that came with suspicion anymore. It was like the silence between lightning and thunder. Like the stretch of seconds before a fall. And Bruce… he was the one slipping.

He caught himself staring too long. Leaning in too close.

Letting his fingers drag when they passed a dish between them. Letting his shoulder brush hers when they read together in the same room—not even speaking, just being.

One night, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire, absently humming an Apokoliptian lullaby. One strap of her dress was slipping off, revealing the line of her collarbone.

He walked past and paused.

Just… paused.

Then crouched behind her without a word and adjusted it gently. Not to cover her—but to touch her. His knuckles grazed her neck, the hollow of her throat, and she let out the faintest sound—like a sigh—without even knowing what it did to him.

He wanted to curse. Wanted to run.

Instead, he stayed. Sat behind her. Didn’t move for ten minutes.

She didn’t mind. She just kept humming.

He started noticing how often she let him touch her. Not because she knew what it meant to him—but because she trusted him. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. When he brushed her hair aside, she leaned ever so slightly into it. When his hand lingered at the small of her back, she walked slower—not away, but beside him.

It was killing him.

Because she wasn’t trying to seduce him.

She didn’t even know she could.

She was just kind.

And cute.

And his wife.

The word made his stomach twist every time. A title born from politics, from strategy and Apokoliptian arrangements—and yet… she wore it like something sacred. She honored it, every day, not through vows or affection, but with the quiet constancy of her care.

Bruce was coming undone.

Piece by piece.

Especially on nights like this one.

He had just come in from patrol—no bruises, no blood, but tired. Soul-tired. The kind that weighed down the bones and hollowed out the lungs. He didn’t expect to find her awake.

But there she was.

In the library. Kneeling by the lower shelves, trying to reach a book that had slipped between the gap.

She was barefoot. In one of his shirts. One he left on the couch this morning.

Too long on her arms. Too short on her thighs.

He stopped cold.

Her hair was twisted into a lazy bun, and she didn’t see him at first. She wiggled her fingers into the space between the bookcase and the wall, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

His throat went dry.

He walked in.

She looked up, smiling sleepily. “You’re back. No injuries?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

She blinked at him. “I forgot to do my laundry.”

That was all.

No coyness. No awareness. Just honesty.

He stepped closer. Too close. His hand lifted—without thinking—and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face. His fingers paused at her jawline, lingering for a second too long.

She didn’t move.

“Your heart’s racing,” she whispered, frowning softly. “Are you… angry?”

“No.”

“Then why—?”

“I don’t know.”

It came out hoarse. Almost pained.

She reached up slowly, her hand covering his where it cupped her cheek. Her fingers were so small. So warm.

“Do I… scare you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he breathed.

But not in the way she thought.

He was scared because every second he spent near her chipped away at the armor he’d spent years welding around his soul. He was scared because he couldn’t tell where duty ended and desire began anymore.

He was scared because—God help him—he wanted to love her.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, searching. And then, without breaking eye contact, she rose to her feet, still holding his hand. Still touching him.

The moment stretched.

If she leaned in just two inches more, he would kiss her. If she blinked the wrong way, he would pull her in.

Instead, she tilted her head. “You’ve been very… human lately.”

His brow twitched. “What?”

She smiled. “Warm. Gentle. It’s like when Superman visits the manor—he has the same glow around him.”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw ticked.

“Don’t compare me to Clark.”

“Why not?” she said, honestly confused. “He’s lovely.”

Bruce pulled his hand back—not roughly, but too fast.

He stepped away, spine stiff. “I’m nothing like him.”

Her expression was almost amused. “You’re right,” she said, “Clark doesn’t scowl nearly as much.”

He shot her a dry look.

She laughed—just a small, sweet laugh—and that was worse than any taunt. Because she didn’t mean to disarm him. She wasn’t playing. She wasn’t flirting.

She was just… her.

Unbothered. Innocent in a way that made his heart feel like cracked glass.

All he could do was stand there, reeling, because even jokingly being compared to Clark made something sharp twist in his chest.

Clark didn’t want her. Clark didn’t ache for her at night.

Bruce did.

She took a step past him then, slow and light, her hand brushing against his as she moved. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe.”

And she was gone.

Down the hallway. Still barefoot. Still wearing his shirt. Leaving behind only the echo of her presence and the peach-milk scent that lingered in the air like smoke after a fire.

Bruce didn’t move. Not until he heard her door shut gently.

Then—and only then—did he allow himself to breathe.

He was slipping.

It was only a matter of time before he fell completely.

He was going to give it. Every piece of himself, whether he meant to or not.

Even if it ruined him.

 

⸻

 

The next night, Bruce woke up from a wet dream about Avelynna-Chloe.

His mind was plagued with thoughts of her—the way she looked, the way she sounded, and especially her scent. He couldn’t get her out of his head. The memory of her clung to his senses like a drug, keeping him restless, burning.

He checked the security cameras—and his heart skipped a beat when he saw that she was still awake, sitting in the screening room.

He stared at the feed. It was already 3:08 AM. What the hell was she still doing up, watching cartoons?

He tried to resist the temptation. He really did. But the longer he lay there, the worse the need became.

Before he knew it, he was getting out of bed, slipping on his bathrobe, and heading downstairs. He needed to see her—up close.

In the dim light of the screening room, Avelynna-Chloe sat curled up in an armchair, knees pulled to her chest, watching an old episode of Tom and Jerry. The warm flicker of the screencast golden shadows across her face, and Bruce found himself watching her like he had no control over his own body.

She looked mesmerizing. Her pink eyes seemed to glow in the dark.

There was no way any Alphas in their right mind could resist an Omega like her.

His footsteps made the softest sound, but even that startled her. She quickly paused the episode and whipped her head around.

“I’m sorry. Was I being loud?”

Bruce stepped farther into the room, his face unreadable. He noticed how she instinctively tightened her grip on her knees.

So adorable.

“You’re up late,” he said, bluntly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she turned off the massive screen. “I’ll go to bed now—I won’t waste any more electricity.”

She stood and started toward the door—but something in Bruce snapped. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path, and caught her wrist in one hand.

He gripped it—not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Just enough to feel her. The moment her skin touched his, everything inside him short-circuited.

Avelynna-Chloe froze. His touch clearly rattled her.

“Please… let me go. I won’t bother you any longer,” she kept her eyes down.

Bruce was acutely aware of how flustered she was. He glanced down at her petite figure. An Omega that powerless against a powerful Alpha like him… it was practically begging to be dominated. The scent of her pheromones was growing stronger—light, sweet, and dizzying.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he pulled her closer. “I decide when you leave.”

A squeak escaped her lips as her body collided with his chest. Her cheeks flushed crimson. Her breathing became erratic. She was trembling in his arms, and the scent of her submission flooded the air.

Bruce’s fingers slid down to her tiny waist. He didn’t loosen his hold. His other hand lifted her jaw. His eyes traced her face, drinking in her doll-like features. There was no doubt in his mind: she was the most beautiful Omega he had ever seen or smelled.

“You drive me insane,” he admitted, voice raw.

Avelynna-Chloe’s eyes widened. Her legs looked like they might give out. It didn’t help that he was touching her like he owned her. She could feel his strong hand on her side, his long, calloused fingers digging into her skin. His Alpha scent was so overpowering, smothering her senses.

“You’re supposed to disgust me…” she whispered, breathless, almost lost.

Bruce’s hand moved up to the back of her neck, cupping the nape, thumb brushing dangerously close to her scent gland—where the mark he planned to leave would sit perfectly.

“You’re right,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “I should disgust you.”

His fingers trailed lightly over her cheek. Her breath hitched, her body stiffening as shivers ran down her spine. She nearly let out a moan. His touch set her heart ablaze, her cunt clenched and pulsed.

“But you’re touching me…?”

Bruce felt a rush of smugness as her body reacted exactly the way he wanted it to.

His next words came out like a growl.

“Because you’re mine. And I can do whatever I want to my wife.”

Without another word, he scooped her effortlessly into his arms.

She gasped, shocked, but he didn’t stop. He turned and carried her out of the room, chest tight, mind blank with need and confusion and something much deeper.

He didn’t speak again—not when he pushed open the door to his bedroom and kicked it shut behind him.

 

⸻

 

Every instinct in Avelynna-Chloe’s body screamed for her to struggle and break free. But she knew that without her powers, she was no match for his brute strength.

She knew exactly what he intended to do.

She was an Omega, and he was an Alpha. They had been married for over a year now.

But little did she aware, it was a record for any man to control himself that long—while living under the same roof with her.

Bruce unceremoniously dropped her onto the bed.

Her heart hammered so hard it felt like it might explode. Her skin was burning, her body caged in by his presence. The heat, the scent, the darkness surrounding them—it was all so overwhelming, she forgot how to breathe.

Being inside her husband’s bedroom was entirely new. This was the first time she had glimpsed any part of his private life.

Bruce stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at her. His chest rose and fell with barely restrained desire. His eyes—unreadable, hungry—roamed her face, then lowered, devouring her with a gaze that torched hotter than fire.

He climbed onto the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress beside her, and leaned over until she could feel his breath against her lips.

“I told you… you’re mine.”

He reached for the condom in the drawer out of habit, but after a second thought, he slammed it shut. He wanted to feel her—all of her—without any barriers.

The night became a dance of tangled limbs.

Again and again, Bruce fucked her—with the intensity of every suppressed feeling he had buried for over a year, driving them both closer to the edge of madness. His touch was rough, his grip possessive, his kiss filled with everything he had refused to feel until now. Every movement was fueled by dominance, by need, by a hunger no longer possible to deny.

Avelynna-Chloe was whimpering, begging, crying out—her voice breaking over and over.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t hold back. He never said a word. The sounds that escaped his lips were just ragged breaths, low groans, the occasional grunt—and every moan from her mouth.

That sound drove him wild, made him want to hear it until there was nothing left but her voice. His lust for her was an inferno, crushing every ounce of logic, every reason he once had for staying away.

He had to bite his own tongue to stop himself from permanently marking her after each round.

The sheets were a mess—soaked with sweat and their body fluids. The air was thick with the scent of sex, a musk that reeked of carnal satisfaction.

Bruce lay on his back, breathing heavily. His muscles were sore from the exertion, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat.

The heat slowly began to fade.

Beside him, Avelynna-Chloe had passed out.

Bruce stared up at the ceiling, trying to clear his head. His body might have been sated, but his heart and mind were in chaos.

He had just had the hottest, most mind-blowing sex of his life—with his wife. The one he had sworn he’d never touch.

He glanced over at her.

She was a wreck—her body covered in bite marks, hickeys, and bruises. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She looked so helpless. Her skin was flushed, the sheets pooled around her waist, leaving her upper half completely exposed.

He marveled at the contrast between his tan skin and her pale one, stark in the moonlight. He took a moment to admire her slender figure, her perky nipples…

Without the paranoia clouding his judgment, she looked even more fragile—and incredibly vulnerable.

A pang of something like guilt twisted in his gut. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks as he thought back on the last few hours.

He had gone too far. He had just ravaged her—and she was barely half his size and weight. He was angry at himself for bringing her to his bed like this—for being so rough when he could easily hurt her. Her body was small… too small, and he was so damn big—over six-foot-three, two hundred ten pounds.

And he had ignored the fact that she was a virgin—a sheltered Omega, unlike any he had ever encountered before.

Bruce cursed silently and ran a hand over his face, wrestling with the conflicting emotions.

Swallowing his pride, he reached out.

He wanted to take care of her, even though he knew it was a bad idea.

His hands were shaking.

A deep frown creased his brow when he noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, the exhaustion etched into his wife’s delicate features.

It was his fault. He was the reason she was so tired.

How many nights had she spent tossing and turning, unable to sleep because of him? How many days had she endured in this damn manor—trapped, isolated, with only him for company?

There was no doubt he had been too cold, too harsh. His heart sank at the thought.

Slowly, he rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around her waist.

She fit perfectly in his arms, like she had been made for him.

Yet, he had treated her like a prisoner instead of a wife.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he couldn’t deny the truth.

His Alpha instincts were suddenly flaring, his jealousy awakened. The thought of anyone else touching her, even looking at her—made him want to tear them apart.

He buried his face into the crook of her neck.

Her hair smelled like peach and milk. He twisted one finger around a silky lock—it was so long. The scent of her Omega pheromones was addictive, he couldn’t get enough of it. He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs, inhaling as if it had always been a part of him.

He almost couldn’t believe this was real.

Nothing had ever felt so right. Nothing compared to this feeling.

She belonged in his arms.

Avelynna-Chloe stirred slightly as he touched her, a small, incoherent murmur escaping her lips.

He pulled her even closer, his large body curling around her like a protective shield.

And he was surprised—startled, even—by the unfamiliar sensation blooming in his heart. He had always seen himself as self-sufficient, someone who needed no one.

But now… he couldn’t help but caress her, his hand tracing a path along her ribcage, feeling her curves until his fingers brushed gently over the side of her breast.

He tightened his grip just a bit, almost subconsciously. He was careful not to squeeze too hard. The idea of keeping her safe suddenly felt like the only purpose in the world.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to detach himself from her. She was his hostage—not his mate, and definitely not the woman he was going to fall in love with.

Then Avelynna-Chloe shifted and let out a sleepy moan, nuzzling her face into his chest.

Bruce melted.

He had held countless women before, but not like this.

Never like this.

He had never held anyone in the way he was holding her now—not even Selina or Talia.

He had never craved to protect and possess someone as much as he craved her.

His hand ran down her hip, his fingers glided across her belly, feeling the soft skin just below her navel.

A thought suddenly crossed his mind: He didn’t pull out, not even once. What if he had gotten her pregnant with his child?

No.

He brushed it off.

It was too soon to tell anything.

For now, he just wanted to forget all the paranoia and hatred and enjoy the feeling of her in his arms.

Ten seconds later, Bruce Wayne fell into the deepest slumber since he was eight.

Chapter 8: New Rules 🔞

Notes:

I’m stuck in a lakeside restaurant because of heavy rain, so more time to write. 🥲

The morning light crept in through the curtains, casting a golden hue across the unfamiliar room.

Avelynna-Chloe stirred, her lashes fluttering open.

The warmth against her back, the scent of cedarwood and musk still lingering in the sheets—it all rushed back to her.

She was in Bruce’s room. In his bed.

She’d broken one of his rules.

The silence was heavy, like the calm before a storm. Careful not to wake him, she gently shifted her body, wincing as the soreness reminded her just how merciless the night had been. Every inch of her ached—her thighs, her hips, even her ribs. Her legs trembled as she slowly slid them out from under the blanket.

She sat up, heart pounding, trying to steady herself. One foot touched the floor, then the other. But the moment she tried to stand, her knees buckled beneath her. She collapsed with a soft cry, the cold floor meeting her skin.

The thud jolted Bruce awake.

In an instant, he was on his feet. “What are you doing?!” His voice was sharp, worried, already crossing the room.

She flinched.

That single, instinctive recoil cut through him sharper than a blade. His expression dropped from alarm to guilt in half a second.

He crouched down, eyes scanning her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, voice rough. “I just—God, are you hurt?”

She shook her head, still not meeting his gaze. “I’m just sore,” she whispered.

He exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to his chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She blinked in surprise. He rarely showed emotion—not like this.

Then came the real shock. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

“My baby girl,” he murmured.

Her eyes widened, breath catching. Her cheeks turned bright red.

That was new.

Bruce saw the look on her face and gave the smallest, crooked smirk. “Yeah. That’s what I’m calling you now.”

She nodded, almost dumbly.

He didn’t give her a chance to say more. Scooping her into his arms effortlessly, he carried her back to the bed. “You’re not supposed to be moving yet. I overdid it last night.”

She stayed quiet, her fingers gripping his bicep lightly.

Once she was settled back against the pillows, he sat beside her and looked over at the headboard. “New rule,” he said, voice firm but calm. “We sleep in the same bed now. Both mine and yours.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“And the vase.” He meant the glass one perched dangerously above her pillow in her room. “It’s gone. I don’t care if I’m not home. You’re not sleeping under that thing again.”

Her lips parted, stunned again by how… serious he sounded. Not angry. Protective.

“…Okay,” she said softly.

He stared at her a moment longer, then gave a decisive nod. “Good girl.”

Before she could react, he slid an arm under her knees and another beneath her back. “Bath,” he muttered.

“I can do it myself,” she protested, face already heating up.

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve already seen you naked, sweetie.”

She immediately went crimson. Her whole body went stiff.

Bruce gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

She buried her face in his chest.

The bathroom was vast and dimly lit, steam already curling through the air as hot water filled the tub. Bruce set her down gently on a small cushioned stool and knelt in front of her, turning on the taps and adjusting the temperature.

He helped her tie her hair up, eyes never straying too long but hands sure and strong. When they stepped into the water together, the warmth enveloped them both, and Avelynna-Chloe sighed, her muscles finally beginning to relax.

He sat behind her, pulling her back against his chest, arms wrapped around her waist.

Twenty minutes later, the quiet of the room was broken by soft moans, muffled gasps, and the sound of water sloshing against porcelain.

Bruce’s mouth moved along her shoulder, his voice a low growl between gritted teeth as he held her hips still.

And Avelynna-Chloe, breathless and helpless, could only cling to the edge of the tub and whimper—

The steam blurred the mirrors. The water sloshed with each thrust. The heat was unbearable.

Neither of them wanted it to end.

 

⸻

 

Adjusting to this new rule was harder than Avelynna-Chloe expected.

She had spent her entire life sleeping alone. First in her own sterile, cold Apokoliptian castle. Then in a silent guest room of the Zamaron palace. Then, for the last year, in the massive, lonely bedroom Bruce had assigned her in Wayne Manor. The idea of sharing a bed—sleeping beside someone else—was foreign. Unnatural.

At first, she couldn’t fall asleep at all.

Whether it was in her bed—now stripped of the vase—or in Bruce’s, the result was the same: her eyes wide open, her senses overly alert. She tried everything—facing away from him, closing her eyes and counting, pulling the blanket up to her chin—but sleep refused to come.

Meanwhile, Bruce slept like he hadn’t slept in years.

The contrast was almost frustrating.

She spent the first night watching him for over an hour. His features were more relaxed in sleep, less harsh. The tension melted from his brow. He looked younger. Human.

Her eyes lingered on the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. She listened to the sound of it—slow, steady—and eventually, something in her began to ease. It wasn’t until his arm, still wrapped around her waist, tightened slightly that she felt it. His Alpha pheromones—stronger when he was unconscious—flooded the space between them.

Her lashes fluttered.

The weight of him against her. The scent of his skin. The thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear…

It pulled her under like a drug.

Every night after that, it got easier.

Bruce, on the other hand, never had trouble. From the first night she was beside him, he was out like a light. As if her presence alone had cured his insomnia.

She was his sleeping pill.

The moment she curled up against him, wrapped in his arms and scent, his body surrendered. His breathing deepened. His mind quieted. Even in sleep, his arms always tightened around her. Possessive. Protective. He never let go. Not once.

And of course, the bed wasn’t just for sleeping.

There were nights—many nights—when the tension between them burned too hot to ignore. When the touches turned to kisses, and the kisses to bruising passion. When Bruce rolled over her like a storm breaking loose after years of restraint, his mouth on her neck, his voice hoarse with hunger.

The sex was still rough. Unrelenting. Intimate in a way she hadn’t expected from him.

Like he was reclaiming something. Like every round was taking back what he’d denied himself for over a year.

Because the truth was—he hadn’t touched another woman since the day of their marriage. No flings. No penthouse escapades. Not even a flirtation. Just his own hand and an unspoken bitterness, until the walls finally cracked and she was beneath him, shaking, crying out.

She couldn’t keep up with his stamina, not even close.

But he was good. So good it made her toes curl and her voice break and her thoughts scatter. He knew her body better than she did now—every sensitive spot, every weakness. He drove her to the brink and beyond, again and again, until she was trembling, gasping, her voice hoarse from the way he made her scream.

And sometimes… his Alpha instincts went wild.

There were nights when his pupils blew wide with need, his teeth scraping too close to her neck. When he growled against her skin, nostrils flaring, body shaking from the urge to mark her. To claim her. To leave something permanent.

Those were the nights he had to wear the muzzle.

He hated it—despised it—but it was the only thing that kept him from biting down when instinct took over. He’d stare at her with feral eyes behind leather straps and metal clasps, panting like a beast barely caged.

But he always did aftercare.

That was the strangest part for him. The most intimate.

He didn’t leave. Didn’t roll over and pretend she wasn’t there. He didn’t treat her like a conquest. Not like the others. He stayed.

He cleaned her. Tucked her into his arms. Whispered things he’d never said to anyone before. Called her “little one” and “my girl” in a voice so soft it barely sounded like him.

He kissed the bruises he left. Rubbed balm into her sore thighs. Drew warm baths and lathered her with soap, murmuring that she did good, that she drove him insane—in all the best ways.

He was a man who had never given his lovers anything beyond release.

But with her?

He gave everything.

Because she wasn’t just his wife on paper. She was his—his flame, his obsession, his storm. The one thing he never expected to want, and now couldn’t live without.

 

⸻

 

Since then, their lives didn’t change overnight—but something between them had.

The routine remained the same, at least on the surface. Bruce went to work every morning—boardroom meetings, charity events, press obligations, Wayne Enterprises oversight. Avelynna-Chloe stayed at home, still collared, still tracked, still without a phone or her Star Sapphire ring. The old restrictions remained: no wandering near the Batcave, no unauthorized exits.

But under those rules, a bond had begun to take shape.

She still wasn’t free. But she was no longer just a hostage.

Bruce had started to allow her into his study.

At first, it was only for short visits—ten minutes at a time, sitting quietly on the couch while he worked at his desk. But gradually, the rules stretched. She was allowed to stay longer. Then closer. Eventually, she sat on the corner of his desk or in his lap as he read over reports, his hand absently stroking her thigh or brushing her hair back behind her ear.

He didn’t say it aloud, but he missed her when she wasn’t there.

And there were new rules—always more rules.

She wasn’t allowed to lift heavy things anymore. If something was too high to reach, too tight to open, or too awkward to carry, she had to ask him. No more standing on chairs to reach shelves. No more struggling with jars. No more biting her lip and trying to force something open just to prove she could.

And if she got hurt? Even a scratch?

She had to tell him.

No more quiet suffering. No more kitten licking her wounds in the dark.

When she tried to push back—muttering under her breath that she was an independent woman who didn’t need a man—Bruce simply leaned down, eyes sharp and voice smooth: “Well, I’m an independent man who only needs one woman.”

She flushed scarlet every time.

She never won those arguments.

There were other rules—ones that couldn’t be spoken in polite company. But they both knew them by heart.

They talked more now.

Really talked.

Long conversations that drifted into the late hours—about serious things, about silly ones, about dreams, regrets, childhood memories, philosophies of right and wrong. Sometimes Bruce asked her questions he hadn’t dared before—about her past. And she answered. Though not much, the only thing he could be sure of was that she definitely wasn’t a pampered princess on Apokolips. But she was honest with every tiny detail she told him.

And he listened.

He also gave her more gifts, almost daily now.

More flowers, more books, more tea, more dresses. A velvet scrunchie he saw in a store window reminded him of the way she ties her hair. A limited designer bag she mentioned liking once. A peach-scented body lotion. A pair of fuzzy slippers she immediately adored.

She didn’t ask for them. But he kept giving.

The only thing she refused—no matter how often he asked—were photos.

She hated how she looked in them. Claimed she wasn’t photogenic. That she looked awkward. Ugly.

To Bruce, the idea was absurd. She was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

But she’d run away or cover her face the second she noticed the camera.

So he just kept being sneaky, taking pictures when she wasn’t looking. She never admitted she knew, but sometimes he caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips when the shutter clicked.

And no matter how many times he told her to go to sleep without him, she never listened.

She always stayed up. Always waited.

Whether he returned at midnight or dawn, Avelynna-Chloe would be there—on the couch, in one of his shirts, a book open in her lap or the kettle still warm in the kitchen. Every time he came back bruised or battered, she took care of him with gentle hands and hot sea salt compresses.

Her touch soothed him. Her scolding voice—soft and concerned—eased the ache in his chest more than any painkiller.

Bruce didn't know if that was the reason why he couldn’t stop touching her. Constantly now.

When she passed by, he reached out to trail his fingers down her arm. When she sat near him, he pulled her onto his lap. When they stood in the kitchen, he kissed her temple, her shoulder, her hair. He couldn’t seem to help himself. The feel of her grounded him.

She got used to the pet names, eventually.

Little one. Sweetheart. Kiddo. Baby girl.

Each one made her cheeks burn. But she never asked him to stop.

Because she was learning, too.

Learning how to be close to him. To return his touches. To offer affection in ways that once made her tremble. The first time she kissed his cheek—just a quick brush of her lips, feather-light and barely there—he’d frozen.

Then smiled.

Not the small, polite smile the world saw.

A real one.

Just one kiss from her lit fireworks in his heart.

They were still learning each other. Still healing. Still wrapped in shadows and scars and sharp-edged memories.

But every night, as she curled up beside him—her body smaller, softer, fragile against his—

He held her like she was the only thing tethering him to this world.

And maybe… she was.

Chapter 9: The Dates

After nearly two years of a strange, tense marriage—a political arrangement forged in necessity and suspicion—Bruce decided to change the rhythm of their lives again.

A date.

Not just one—every weekend.

His announcement came casually, one Thursday evening in the study, “From now on,” he said without looking up from his papers, “we’re going out every weekend.”

Avelynna-Chloe blinked. “Like… for what?”

He looked up. His expression softened. “For us.”

An actual date.

It was such a foreign idea, she didn’t know what to say. They’d done everything—slept together, lived together, ignored each other, bruised and healed—yet somehow this felt more intimate than all of that.

And Bruce—who once took his exes to dinner only to get them into bed—now bought his alien wife a pair of dark contacts to disguise her as a normal Asian girl, and took her to breakfast.

Then brunch.

Then lunch.

Then dinner, of course.

They started simply, by grocery shopping together like an ordinary couple—though the supermarket guards definitely stared when Gotham’s billionaire walked in with a goddess-level beauty clinging to his arm like a child. Avelynna-Chloe pushed the cart. Bruce pushed her hand off the heavy bags. New rule was updated: she wasn’t allowed to lift a damn thing.

Then one weekend, he brought her to a café tucked in an ivy-covered alley. They sat at a small table under fairy lights. He watched her stir more milk into her latte and thought it might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Next weekend, an afternoon tea at Gotham Rosewood, where she wore a pistachio dress that made his mouth go dry and corrected his posture every time he slouched over his plate of macarons.

Then bakery dates. Pastry shops. Ice cream parlors. Frozen yogurt stands. She had a bottomless stomach for sweets, and an uncanny ability to pick the best dessert on the menu every time. He once tried to guess what she’d order ahead of time—he was wrong. She was cocky about it for hours.

Then picnic dates—blankets under warm sun, her hair tied up with ribbons he’d bought her, her mouth full of strawberries. Bruce lay beside her, silent and content, letting her read aloud while he closed his eyes and soaked in the moment.

Then bowling dates, where she could barely lift the ball but giggled every time it hit the gutter. Then skating dates, where she clung to him like her life depended on it.

Movie dates were always in private theaters. So were ballet performances. And operas. And plays. He wanted no crowds. No interruptions. Just her beside him, leaning into his shoulder with stars in her eyes.

When she asked about concert dates, he hesitated.

“It’s too crowded,” he said. “Too risky. Not yet.”

She didn’t pout. Just nodded, accepting it. Trusting him.

But then there were the zoos. And the aquariums. And the museums.

He watched her glow in places most people barely blinked through. Animals adored her. Sea creatures followed her hands along the glass. Butterflies landed on her shoulders without fear. Children stared in awe. Perhaps it was the side effect of her Succubus and Siren forms, but Bruce watched with a strange swell of pride in his chest, as if every single one of those creatures was validating what he already knew—there was something extraordinary about her.

An extraordinarily pure heart.

Then workshop dates. Private studios tucked into forgotten parts of Gotham where craftsmen and women taught candle-making, ceramics, floral arranging, bookbinding, leatherwork, calligraphy, even woodworking.

Avelynna-Chloe bloomed in them. Flourished. She was a natural with her hands—delicate yet focused, fiercely curious. She asked the instructors a thousand questions. Took her time. Got lost in colors and textures. Made Bruce a leather notebook once with her initials stamped into the corner instead of his. She said it was because she wanted him to think of her when he used it.

He never told her he hadn’t even written in it—too afraid to mess it up.

They made candles together once. He picked pine and smoke scents. She picked rose, vanilla, and something faintly dangerous—dark amber or musk. She labeled hers with his initials. “For the study,” she’d said.

He lit it every night she fell asleep on the couch while he worked. He had completely forgotten about his old no-candles rule.

Then game center dates.

Bruce never thought it would be his thing.

And yet, there he was—scoring 9999 on the punching arcade while she clapped like he was Hercules himself, laughing in a way that made his heart ache.

She beamed at him. “You’re so cool!”

He raised a brow. “It’s not hard.”

“You’re still cool.”

He felt like a middle-aged man with a spoiled daughter when she clung to his arm and dragged him through every single game. She begged him to win plushies for her. He did. Every one. She kissed his cheek every time.

The next morning, Wayne Manor’s game room had new upgrades.

Somehow—he still didn’t know how—he’d agreed to have the punching arcade installed. Along with a grappling-claw plushie machine. A whack-a-mole. A full-scale racing game. And two ancient arcade cabinets: Mortal Kombat and Bloody Roar.

“Why?” he’d asked, dazed, arms full of her plushies.

“Because,” she said sweetly, “you said I could.”

He didn’t remember saying that. But maybe she was right.

He gave in, like always.

But the arcades were nothing compared to the bills of shopping dates.

She had a passion for luxury. Designer boutiques. Custom cosmetics. Limited edition skincare. She never asked for permission—just held things up with sparkling eyes and waited for his nod.

He never said no.

He carried every bag, every box, every over-the-top purchase, smiling when she spun in a new dress or tried on diamond-studded hairclips just because they were “cute.”

And spa dates?

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone—but he enjoyed those too.

Facials. Massages. The serenity of her voice as she lectured him about sunscreen and eye cream. She made him exfoliate twice a week. Forced him into sheet masks. Brushed his hair with gentle fingers when he dozed off mid-treatment.

She cared.

About his skin. His health. His rest.

He never realized how starved he was for that kind of affection—stubborn, persistent care.

So he let her take over. Let her pamper him. Let her crawl into every corner of his life with her laughter and her softness and her absurd demands for arcade machines and anti-aging serums.

Then came the nail dates.

God. The nails.

Bruce reserved the whole place—because of course he did—and sat there, silent, while she got her manicure and pedicure.

The first time, he kept his head down, reading something on his tablet, pretending not to stare.

The second time, he didn’t even bother hiding it. He just watched.

There was something addictive about the way her fingers looked afterward—delicate, polished, with little half-moons of shine.

It became a thing.

He’d sit beside her, drink whatever coffee they gave him, occasionally glance through a business report—while she chose between shades and charms, glossy or matte.

Until one afternoon, she struck.

He never saw it coming.

She was unusually quiet that day—eyes glowing with mischief.

Before he could make his escape, she pounced. Quite literally.

He was on the couch. She was on his chest. One hand gripped his wrist, the other uncapped a bottle of Chanel’s Rouge Noir—deep, dark cherry.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I already started,” she said, tongue peeking out in concentration as she carefully painted his pinky.

“Avelynna-Chloe Wayne.”

“Bruce Thomas Wayne.”

He could’ve stopped her. Could’ve thrown her off without effort.

But she was delighted. Looking down at him like some naughty little princess fulfilling a lifelong mission.

So he let her.

All ten fingers.

When she was done, she held his hands up like trophies. “You look dangerously fashionable.”

He stared at them. “You’re lucky I—”

She kissed him, quickly and smugly. “Find them pretty. I know.”

He wanted to say “love you.”

He grumbled for the rest of the day.

But left it on. Didn’t wash it off.

Wore it to the Wayne Enterprises boardroom meeting.

Nobody dared ask.

Lucius knocked on his door one hour later with a terrifying face, “What the hell happened to you?”

Bruce just said, flatly, “I lost a bet.”

But inside, something strange and warm glowed through him. Because only she could get away with it. Only Avelynna-Chloe could turn Batman into a walking threat with designer nail polish—and somehow, make him like it.

 

⸻

 

Somewhere between museum dates and Mortal Kombat tournaments at home, Avelynna-Chloe brought up the idea that would test the last shreds of Bruce’s patience.

“I want to go somewhere… spicier.”

Bruce glanced over the rim of his coffee cup. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” she said airily. “Adult places. Like bars. Clubs. Maybe even a strip club.”

He choked. Actually choked. Set the mug down before it shattered in his hand.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice perfectly clipped, jaw tight. “You want me to take you—my wife—on a date… to a strip club?”

“Yes.” She shrugged. Pure, sweet, sugar-laced innocence. “Why not? You used to go.”

“That’s not the point,” he muttered like he’d just stepped on a nail. “They’re crowded. Loud. Complicated. Full of… distractions.”

“You don’t want to look at the girls?” she asked, cocking her head. “Because I don’t mind. I’ll be looking at them too.”

He growled. Literally. He desperately needed to shake some jealousy into this brat. “We’re not going to a strip club.”

“What about one with male strippers?”

He gave her a look so sharp she physically recoiled from it, biting back a chuckle.

“Don’t test me,” he deadpanned.

So, they compromised. Meaning: she wore him down.

He arranged a private lounge at one of Gotham’s upscale bars. Not quite a club. Not a strip club. Still public enough to make him uncomfortable.

She wore a short dress and sparkly heels. He wore a dark suit and looked like a hitman guarding a diamond.

She ordered the most colorful, ridiculous drink on the menu—something layered with neon green, electric blue, glitter-dusted pink, and three kinds of sugar. Bruce, suspicious, ordered a beer and watched her like a hawk.

His drink came out first. He barely took one sip before she leaned over and said, “Let me try.”

He let her. One dainty sip of his beer, and she made a face like he’d handed her swamp water. “Ugh.”

Her cocktail arrived moments later—complete with sparklers and edible orchids.

Another sip.

And she was gone.

Turned out, alcohol was Princess Avelynna-Chloe’s Kryptonite.

Bruce sat there watching her descend into madness in slow motion.

She giggled uncontrollably. Slid halfway down the leather booth. Tried to poke the sparklers with her fingers. Attempted to steal his beer again. Shouted terrible pick-up lines at him while failing to keep a straight face.

Then came the part where she climbed into his lap, whispered something completely obscene in his ear, and bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark.

He hissed through his teeth. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t like youuuu,” she sang against his throat. “You’re so old and grumpy and muscley and you smell like sex and gunpowder and you have a big…”

He had to carry her out.

Like, literally carry her—heels in one hand, purse in the other, her legs wrapped around his waist while she babbled absolute nonsense and tried to undo his tie.

But the real disaster came the next day.

Because he didn’t notice the hickey until he was in the Watchtower briefing room.

With the Justice League.

Removing his cowl.

There it was—bold, purple, and very, very real, like a neon sign screaming: BATMAN GOT CLAIMED.

Dead silence.

Clark’s brows shot to his hairline.

Diana blinked once, twice, then started smirking so hard she had to pretend to cough.

Hal straight-up backed away from him.

Bruce—now had gotten used to being in embarrassing situations caused by his wife—didn’t say a word. Just pulled his collar higher and proceeded with the mission report.

Later, Clark pulled him aside.

“Did someone… attack you?”

Bruce gave him a look so cold the atmosphere dropped five degrees. “My wife, obviously.”

Clark blinked. “No more questions.”

Back at home, Avelynna-Chloe was curled on the couch in a hoodie far too big for her, sipping warm lemonade with an ice pack on her forehead.

She looked up sheepishly when he walked in.

“…Did I do something bad?”

Bruce scowled and sat beside her. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry…”

“…Don’t be.” He pulled her into his lap and kissed the side of her head. “But next time, you’re sticking to water.”

He didn’t know how he could come up with all this patience for her shenanigans.

Because he’d never been in love like this before.

But he was starting to truly understand what it felt like.

Chapter 10: Always Find You

It happened on a sunny Saturday during a brunch date in Gotham Botanical Garden’s greenhouse café—one of those quiet places Bruce carefully curated to avoid public attention. The date itself was unassuming: Avelynna-Chloe in a pale silk sundress, her hair tied in ribbons, and Bruce in black-on-black as usual, sunglasses on, exuding “no comment” energy from head to toe.

They were just sharing a croissant—her stealing the buttery flake off his plate, him pretending not to notice—when, across the hedges and ferns, a paparazzo’s shutter clicked.

Once. Then again. Then again.

Bruce didn’t react immediately. Didn’t tense or flinch. He just reached for his phone under the table, pinged the security team, and canceled the dessert order.

But it was too late.

By nightfall, the image was everywhere.

The photo—grainy and taken at a distance—showed Bruce Wayne seated beneath hanging vines and golden sunlight, his posture relaxed, his expression surprisingly soft. And beside him, the mystery “Asian” woman. Young. Ethereal. Exotic. With a smile that made Gotham collectively forget how to breathe.

#MrsWayne trended worldwide in under an hour.

Speculations flew like wildfire.

Who was she? Where did she come from? Was it really Bruce Wayne’s wife? Was this the reason he disappeared from Gotham’s social scene the past two years?

Every gossip blog and media outlet scrambled for answers. Journalists camped outside Wayne Tower. Tabloids flooded Wayne Enterprises with interview requests.

So Bruce made a rare, brief public appearance the next morning. No press conference. Just a clipped, pre-recorded statement:

“Yes. I am married. She is the Japanese-Chinese foster daughter of a family that has been close to the Waynes for generations. That is all I will say on the matter. She is a private citizen. I expect her privacy to be respected.”

He didn’t even blink before walking off camera.

Naturally, the public respected nothing.

Modeling agencies. High-end designers. Film studios. Even a famous director from Poland sent a handwritten note to Wayne Tower: “If she can mesmerize the camera like that from fifty feet away, imagine her on the big screen.”

Bruce said no to everything.

Politely at first. Then curtly. Then with increasing irritation as even LVMH started calling Lucius Fox directly.

“She’s not joining showbiz,” Bruce told Lucius one evening, voice low and final. “She’s not here to entertain anyone.”

Lucius raised a brow. “And is that for the good of the world… or your peace of mind?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Because the truth was: both.

Avelynna-Chloe had no idea she was famous. She still had no internet access. No phone. No idea that some of the world’s most powerful entertainment industries were clawing to get a piece of her.

While headlines exploded online, she was in the game room, wearing bunny slippers and hammering away at the whack-a-mole arcade. She let out a victorious squeal when she beat her previous score.

“I DID IT!” she called, eyes sparkling. “I BROKE MY RECORD!”

He appeared with a familiar paper bag in hand.

“McNuggets?” she gasped, as if he’d brought her a treasure chest.

He watched her run across the room in glee, eyes shining, ponytail bouncing, face lit with simple, unfiltered joy.

No filters. No designer gowns. No professional lighting.

Just her.

Pure, unbothered, untouched by the world’s hunger.

He held out the bag and let her snatch it from his hand. She kissed his cheek in thanks and plopped on the couch beside him with a happy sigh, dipping a nugget into the sauce with laser focus.

She didn’t know about the photo. Didn’t know half the planet was in love with her now. Didn’t know directors were fighting over who would get to “discover” her.

She didn’t need to know.

Bruce settled beside her on the couch, one arm draped over the back, just watching her as she munched and hummed contentedly under her breath.

He could have the whole world at his feet—but all he wanted was to keep this moment untainted. To protect this version of her: the innocent, delighted creature who devoured McDonald’s like it was the ultimate luxury and that a five-second peck on his cheek was enough to make his whole day.

He kissed the top of her head and muttered against her hair. “Mine.”

No matter what the world saw, no matter what they wanted—

She belonged to him.

He’d burn the world before he let it take her away.

 

⸻

 

Few months later, on a warm afternoon in early autumn, as golden leaves danced around the stone paths of the manor garden. Avelynna-Chloe had been quiet that day—soft-spoken, thoughtful, her gaze lingering on the horizon beyond the tall wrought-iron fences.

When Bruce asked her what was on her mind, she hesitated. Not from fear, but out of courtesy.

“I just… want to go outside. By myself.” She glanced up at him. “Not far. Just around the neighborhood. To walk.”

It wasn’t a rebellion. Not a demand. Her voice was almost shy. But it still struck Bruce like a thunderclap.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The old, cold part of his mind immediately sharpened with warning.

What if it’s a trick? What if it’s unsafe? What if she’s taken, attacked, seen, photographed, exploited, touched—

But then he looked at her again. At the woman sitting beside him, the woman who always waited up for him, who took care of his wounds, who cheered when he won her plushies and stabbed herself making him a handkerchief. Who never once talked back to him—not even when he deserved it.

Maybe it was time.

She wasn’t asking to be free from him.

She was asking to feel… more of a person.

“All right,” he said finally, voice low.

Her eyes widened just slightly, her lips parted. Hope and disbelief danced on her face.

“But,” he added, standing with all the steel of a general issuing an order, “there are conditions.”

Of course there were.

He led her down to the study and began explaining—detailing every rule like he was preparing a security protocol for a diplomat.

She wasn’t to go more than eight blocks away from Wayne Manor.

No buses. No subways. No hitching rides. If she got tired, she had to call a private cab. He installed the app on the tracker bracelet.

Speaking of which, he upgraded it.

The new bracelet had a proximity sensor that would send alerts if she got too close to communication towers or unsecured devices. Just in case some Apokoliptians tried to “coincidentally” bump into her.

And there was the panic button.

“If you press this,” Bruce said, pointing to the embedded button beneath the gemstone, “I will be there within five minutes.”

Her brows raised. “Flying or teleporting?”

He didn’t answer. She giggled softly.

He handed her a credit card—one of his, but with a limited daily cap. “It’s enough for food, drinks, maybe a small item.”

She nodded, understanding. “You’ll check everything I bring home?”

“Every receipt,” he confirmed. “Every bag.”

“And you’ll track me the whole time?”

He hesitated. Then said it plainly. “Yes.”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t argue. She knew who she was—and who he was. An Apokoliptian princess, heir to war and flame, married to the most paranoid Alpha on Earth.

She stepped into his arms and hugged him tightly. “Thank you. I mean it.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just held her close, buried his nose into her hair, and inhaled that calming scent that always grounded him.

“You’ll be careful,” he murmured against her ear. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

So it began.

Every other day, Avelynna-Chloe went out on short walks. Always the same path—past the bakery with the big glass windows, through the quiet tree-lined street where old houses stood like sleeping giants, and sometimes looping around the small park where toddlers waddled with sticky hands and dogs barked at squirrels.

She dressed simply, kept her head down, and moved like any other local girl. No jewelry. No excessive makeup. Just soft smiles, sipping boba tea or crunching on Pocky sticks.

She never wandered beyond the limits Bruce set. Never stayed out too long. Never let her guard down.

The bracelet never lit up once.

Bruce watched every outing in real-time, on the Batcomputer, or from his office when he was at work. His heart rate spiked every time she left the property—but he also couldn’t help but watch her move with a joy that made her feel… free.

She bought the silliest things. Rainbow flans. Tiny collectible figurines of jellyfish. Marshmallows shaped like clouds. A vending machine trinket she said “looked like you when you’re mad.”

She never went over the spending cap. Never did anything reckless.

When she came home, she always found him—sometimes in his study, sometimes in the gym—and told him what she saw. What she bought. What made her laugh.

At night, when she curled into his chest like she belonged there—and she did—Bruce realized something.

Letting her out into the world… didn’t weaken the bond.

It strengthened it.

She came back to him every time.

Willingly.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

To a man like Bruce Wayne… that meant everything.

 

⸻

 

But in a city like Gotham, there was risk.

Bruce should’ve known.

Avelynna-Chloe was brilliant. Quick with words, quick with feeling, poetic in thought. But she still used her fingers to count anything over ten. She could quote entire ancient texts from memory but once spent five whole minutes trying to calculate how many packs of eggs they needed for three dozen.

And sometimes she got turned around in Wayne Manor.

Of course she couldn’t tell north from a frying pan.

So when he finally glanced at the tracker mid-afternoon, just out of a boardroom meeting, and saw her signal completely gone…

His blood went ice-cold.

The last ping had been near Crime Alley.

The one day he hadn’t checked her trail. The one day he’d been pulled from meeting to meeting with Lucius, shareholders, and export partners. The one day Gotham decided to dump a surprise blizzard on the city, icing every street and turning familiar corners into disorienting white mazes.

He slammed the tablet down, already bolting from the office before his assistant could even ask what was wrong.

 

⸻

 

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t mean to wander. Not really.

But the world looked different now—suffocated under snow. Trees looked the same. Houses looked the same. Even the boba place had closed early. When she turned to retrace her steps, everything behind her was buried under a blanket of white.

There was no one on the street. Everybody must have gone home, except for this Alice in Not-So-Wonderland.

She tried to stay calm. She reached for her ankle to call for a cab.

Then she heard them.

Three men.

Their voices—sharp and sweet in that predatory way.

Panic twisted inside her chest like a cold knife. Her body tensed out of pure instinct—but the collar around her neck buzzed. Her Omega Beams, her chaos magic… still suppressed.

She turned to run. But snow and speed are a cruel combination.

Her boots slipped. The world tilted. And with a sickening crack, she went down.

Both ankles.

She tried to get up. The bracelet short-circuited in the impact. Sparks. Nothing else.

The men were already laughing.

“Hey, beautiful—need help?”

One reached for her.

She bit him so hard she tasted blood.

Another lunged—she grabbed a dented baseball bat from a trash bin and swung.

They cursed, swore, and tried to grab her coat—she bit the second one too, hit the third in the head. She ran. Limped. Dragged her broken ankles across the ice.

A coffee shop loomed like a lighthouse. She flung herself inside, panting, wild-eyed.

They didn’t follow.

She sat in the corner, shivering, with a cup of hot water and a bag of ice around her ankles. The sweet barista gave her a blanket. But it took her nearly an hour of explaining, pleading, and trying every name in her memory—because Bruce never told her his numbers, before she reached Wayne Enterprises' private line.

“I’m his wife,” she whispered, voice breaking through the shop’s phone. “Please. Please tell him I’m here.”

 

⸻

 

Bruce arrived like a storm.

His coat was already off, his hair dusted with snow, his eyes locked on her and only her. For a second, the entire coffee shop held its breath.

She was on the couch, shoulders shaking, ankles swollen, bat propped beside her like a broken knight’s sword.

But she smiled when she saw him.

It shattered him.

She smiled.

“Mr. Wayne?” the barista asked nervously.

Bruce nodded once. Then crossed the room and knelt.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, cradling her face. “You’re okay.”

She said softly. “I—I didn’t want to call a cab. I was scared. I didn’t trust sitting behind a stranger’s wheel. I tripped and—I’m sorry. I got lost. I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“You didn’t bother me,” he said sharply. “Not now. Not ever.”

She apologized instead of blaming him for all the leashes and rules he put on her. It would feel better if she just punched him in the face.

He glanced at the barista, whispered a thanks, then lifted her into his arms.

“Let’s go home.”

He carried her to the car. Autopilot on. Backseat. Her body curled onto his lap, head against his chest. He wrapped his coat around her.

 

⸻

 

Back home, Bruce did everything himself.

Hot towels. Medical kit. Pillow under her knee. Salve for her scrapes.

When he began resetting her ankle, she clenched her jaw so tight her teeth might’ve cracked. She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just bit the inside of her cheek and pinched her thigh until bruises bloomed under her skin.

“Don’t,” Bruce said, gently stopping her. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

She looked at him, eyes glassy with pain.

“If it helps…” He guided her trembling hands to his shoulders. “Hurt me.”

So she did. Pinched his shoulder so hard she left a small mark through his shirt. He just kept working, murmuring soft, steady things until the splint was in place.

Later, he checked her arms. Her sides. Her back. Looking for bruises, breaks, scratches.

When he was finally sure she had no other injuries, she sat back against the pillows and whispered, “I’m always lost, you know…”

He glanced up.

“My code name. The Lost Sapphire. Queen Aga’po gave it to me after I ran from Apokolips to Zamaron. Because even though I was born for destruction, the ring chose me for love. I didn’t belong there anymore. So I… wandered. Planets to planets. Now I’m here. Still lost. I guess that makes me stupid.”

She laughed—sad, like breaking crystal.

“Maybe one day… no one’ll come looking.”

Bruce’s heart cracked clean in two.

He cupped her face again. “You’re not stupid. And I don’t care if you’re in another city, another country, another planet, or on the other side of the universe—I will always find you.”

“…You will?”

“Every time.”

She pressed her face into his chest.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

 

⸻

 

The next day, Wayne Enterprises went into meltdown.

For the first time in recorded history, Mr. Wayne called off work.

When asked for the reason, Lucius calmly relayed, “His wife is sick.”

Bruce didn’t leave the manor. Didn’t go to the study or the cave. Didn’t touch the suit. Didn’t patrol. When nights came, he lay beside her in bed, reading aloud until she fell asleep against him.

Avelynna-Chloe healed quickly.

When she went out again, Bruce fitted her with a new bracelet—thicker, smarter, impossible to break. It had built-in GPS, audio monitoring, emergency broadcast, and synced to his heart rate.

But more than that… he gave her a pepper spray.

Not for killing. But more than enough to destroy any scumbag who dared touch her.

“You made this for me?” she held it like it was a holy relic.

“I should’ve given it to you from the beginning,” he replied.

She smiled like a child getting her first sparkler.

Then one night, on patrol, Batman spotted them.

The same three men. Different street. Crowbars in hand. About to break into a jewelry store.

They hadn’t committed a crime yet.

He didn’t care.

He saw the bandages on one’s arm—bitten so deep the wound still hadn’t closed. His wife’s teeth. Her mark.

He smirked behind the cowl.

And then he descended.

Three against one. It wasn’t a fight.

It was vengeance.

And when he left them bloodied in the snow, barely breathing, he didn’t say much.

Just: “You’re lucky she let you walk away.”

Chapter 11: A Kid At Heart

More months passed. The surveillance was slowly gone now—replaced by Bruce’s own eyes, his own ears, and the quiet confidence he’d built in reading her every shift of expression, every lift of her voice, every twitch of her lips before a lie.

Avelynna-Chloe unfolded like a shy bloom under sun and time. A cosmic being. A princess. A warrior trained by Granny Goodness and the Female Furies, a Star Sapphire once hand-picked by Queen Aga’po, a political bride… beneath all of it was someone no one had expected:

A kid at heart.

It showed in her eating habits. Bruce had seen strange diets, but nothing quite like hers. Not even close.

She didn’t just have preferences. She had a rulebook. A code that governed every single bite of food she put into her mouth.

Anything sour? Gone. Bitter? Nope. Fishy? Not a chance.

She’d eat rare steak like a predator from myth. But the first time she tasted lamb, she made a face like she’d bitten into rot. “It stinks,” she whispered.

She preferred chicken thigh. “More tender,” she said with glee. “White meat tastes like homework.”

Broccoli, carrot, asparagus, bell pepper, cauliflower, chayote, bok choy? Vanished from her plate like magic—eaten without fuss. But dice a tomato, an onion, or a sprig of cilantro into microscopic atoms and hide it in her soup? She’d find it. Push it aside with surgical precision.

Mushrooms? Loved. Truffles? “I don’t care it’s expensive. The smell burns my airway.”

Her relationship with seafood was even more complicated. She hated fish. “Too fishy,” she said. “And I have a Siren form. It’d be cannibalism.”

“…You’re not a fish,” Bruce replied, dry as ever.

“I have a mermaid tail. That thing looks like a fishtail.”

She loved other seafood though—shrimp, lobster, crab, clam, mussel, scallop, jellyfish. She once brought home a seafood platter and ate it while watching cartoons like it was popcorn.

Fruits? Oh, she loved fruits. But not all. Watermelon and peach were sacred. But pear? “What is this cardboard texture?” Berries of any other sort than strawberry? Jam? Absolute “fake fruit blood.”

She drank juice and tea daily—of course. But the milk.

So. Much. Milk.

She drank it out of mugs, tumblers, wine glasses—once even out of a measuring cup. At one point, Bruce looked at the half-empty fridge and muttered to himself, “Her blood must be white at this point.”

Coffee? Only the cute ones. Latte. Frappuccino. Anything darker or bitter made her make a face like a kicked puppy.

Then one day, a Wayne Enterprises shareholder sent a beautifully wrapped mochi box. She saw the green one and went, “Ooh, pretty.”

One bite. Five minutes later: dizzy. On the floor.

Matcha. Anaphylaxis-lite.

Bruce almost hospitalized someone over it.

Then came the spicy food cravings.

It was so intense that she had to order Sichuan takeout at least once a week. Sometimes it was full-on bowls of kimchi and jalapeños, eaten like cereal.

Bruce tried matching her spice level once.

Just once.

Thirty minutes later, he was dying in the bathroom. Like, nearly making peace with God kind of dying.

Avelynna-Chloe knocked on the door, holding electrolyte drinks and biting her cheek to stop laughing.

“Stop,” he groaned.

“I’m not—” she snorted. “I’m helping.”

And the tables turned—when she gave herself a headache from licking too much raw Himalayan pink salt out of her palm—Bruce got his revenge.

“Oh no,” he said in mock concern, holding her temple. “Was the salt too salty for my Siren princess?”

She threatened to lick his face in revenge.

He was weirdly okay with it.

Eventually, he hired a professional.

Explaining her food preferences—and her reasons—was torture.

“No chocolate. No cookie. No pepper, ketchup, Nutella, wasabi…”

“She likes tentacles. But not the rest of the squid or the octopus…”

The nutritionist stared at him like she was about to call a psychiatrist.

He didn’t care. He wrote the check. Big one.

He even learned to cook.

Him. Bruce Wayne.

The man who once thought boiling eggs was enough culinary talent for a lifetime was now in the kitchen three nights a week, making Apokoliptian dark stews with flavors that bordered on violent, Zamaron tripe and crystal-leaf salads. He had to import the ingredients under five different names.

She lit up like a lamp when he got it right.

Then one night, after she cleaned her bowl, she ran her fingers down her face and gasped.

“…No.”

“What?”

“My cheeks. They’re getting chubbier.”

He blinked.

Then grinned.

Like a slow, creeping wolf.

She tried to back away, but he pulled her into his lap and rubbed his beard against her soft, round cheeks like a beast scent-marking his mate.

“Look at these,” he murmured. “Baby cheeks. Baby girl.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“You’re rounder than my memory foam pillows.”

“YOU STUPID OLD BAT—”

She tried to escape. He held her tighter. Nuzzled her harder. She squealed.

“I’ll bite you!”

“I hope you do.”

She kicked her legs like a furious toddler and ran.

He chased her down the hallway like a man possessed, growling ridiculous things, and when he caught her, he hoisted her up and tickled her ribs until she was wheezing, clinging to him, face flushed with laughter and love.

He held her a little longer than necessary that time. Buried his face into her neck. “I like you this way.”

She stilled. “…Fat?”

“No,” he said, his voice low. “Happy.”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t answer at first.

Then she curled closer into his arms, pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and whispered back. “…Me too.”

 

⸻

 

It showed again when Bruce—against his better judgment and after weeks of negotiation, bribery (on her part), and prolonged silence (on his)—loosened another rule.

Avelynna-Chloe was granted limited internet access on two carefully monitored devices: the living room TV and the brand-new PlayStation 5 he had set up in the game room “just to keep her occupied.”

She was overjoyed. The first thing she did was download every major streaming app with gleeful abandon, and Bruce, in classic overcompensation fashion, just bought every single premium subscription. No delays. No locked episodes.

She’d earned that freedom, he told himself. Besides… what could go wrong?

The first sign that he had vastly underestimated her came when he checked her watch history.

Fashion shows. Dozens of them. She binge-watched all the Met Gala reviews and rated celebrities’ outfits like she ran Vogue.

Sex And The City—with a worrying amount of dramatic pausing whenever Mr. Big entered the scene.

“You look like him,” she casually said.

“A walking red flag you mean?” Bruce could feel the migraine coming.

“Yeah, but you’re also more like Aidan.”

“…”

“If I’m Carrie, I’ll settle down with Aidan right away.”

He growled and turned away before she could see the way his ears went red.

Then Bring It On. Legally Blonde. Clueless. Mean Girls. Sex Education. Euphoria.

And she wasn’t just watching them—she was absorbing them. Quoting them. Mimicking outfits. Practicing sassy comebacks in the mirror.

Sometimes, when she felt particularly cheeky, she’d walk past Bruce with a hair flip, mutter, “You can’t sit with me,” and smirk as if she’d just won a war.

Her jokes? Cruel. Hilarious. Lethal.

“You’re so vintage,” she purred one day, lounging upside-down on the couch in his hoodie.

He blinked at her. “Did you just call me old?”

She looked at him sweetly. “Oh, as if.”

He glared.

She giggled and rolled over dramatically like a diva on a chaise.

Bruce had been stabbed before. Multiple times. Nothing ever felt as sharp as her tongue when she felt bold.

He concluded—without a shred of doubt—that if someone had made a live-action Regina George using Apokoliptian royalty, it would be Avelynna-Chloe. Except meaner. Funnier. Prettier. And somehow far more dangerous in glitter-covered pajamas.

She didn’t stop at mean-girl flicks either.

Her taste was broad. She had no consistency except chaos. One moment she’d be watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The Golden Girls, How I Met Your Mother, or Hell’s Kitchen, the next it was Oggy And The Cockroaches, then a ten-hour binge of Quentin Tarantino’s or Adam Sandler’s movies.

And then… she found Batman: The Animated Series. That ridiculous, overly dramatic version where the cape was the size of a tent, and every line sounded like it was recorded in a cave.

She dragged Bruce in to watch it with her. Sat him down like it was a ritual.

Midway through the second episode, she turned to him with narrowed eyes and muttered, “The voice actor sounds like you.”

He smirked. “Does he?”

And for three straight days, Bruce Wayne walked around the house speaking in that same gritty, low growl.

“I’m vengeance. I’m the night. I’m Batman,” he whispered into her ear while she was brushing her hair.

“Where’s the Joker?” he mumbled while doing dishes.

“Justice never sleeps,” he said solemnly in the middle of breakfast.

She hit him with a pillow. He didn’t stop.

But the more time she spent watching TV, the more commercials she might come across. They were dangerous—very dangerous.

Suddenly, she wanted Barbies. Plushies. Toys.

She sent him another list.

In the sunroom, she built a Barbie DreamHouse citadel. Full fortress. Two floors. Battery-powered elevators. Miniature chandeliers. Tiny pink batons for “defense.” Each Barbie had a name. A backstory. Drama. There was betrayal. Romance. Murder.

Bruce once watched a full ten-minute soap opera scene she acted out using dolls and a squeaky voice for each of them.

He never felt more… confused.

And then came the game room.

Besides the arcades, the PS5 had become her second kingdom. She downloaded every other version of Mortal Kombat. When she got bored, she switched to Mario Kart, Sonic, or a cooking simulator. She’d shriek in panic and throw the controller at him.

“I’m undercooking the risotto and Ramsay’s yelling at me again! Help!”

Horror games? She couldn’t stand them. The music alone had her screaming. But she still downloaded Outlast and Resident Evil, only so Bruce would play them while she watched from behind a couch cushion—screaming, flinching, and occasionally kissing him on the cheek whenever he shot a zombie.

“I adore you,” she whispered breathlessly after he successfully ran away from Eddie Gluskin.

He blinked at her.

“…You adore me?”

“You escaped! He was going to saw off your cock and balls!” her pink eyes wide with adrenaline.

He just sat there. Numb. Controller in hand. Brain… melted. Felt… old. Really old.

This girl. This… child was…

“…Darkseid’s bloodline my ass,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

He walked out of the game room after stopping her from downloading Batman: Arkham Knight and Injustice, rubbing his temples.

“This isn’t a wife. This is a teenage fashion-addicted alien with too much curiosity and no concept of boundaries. This is a kid.”

A beautiful, radiant, absurdly graceful kid who made his blood pressure spike by just breathing near him.

He blamed the age gap. He blamed the war. He blamed Darkseid. He blamed God, Gotham, and Alfred’s early retirement.

But he kept buying her Barbies.

Kept calling her “kiddo.”

Even when she smacked him for it and said, “I’m not a child.”

He smiled anyway. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Pressed a kiss to her cheek, “You’re my baby girl. Deal with it.”

And she did. She huffed and rolled her eyes and blushed so hard she looked like a tomato.

Because she was his. She could turn a billionaire into a butler. A vigilante into a babysitter. A hardened man into the boy he once was before the nightmare happened.

She was married into this planet for the peace of both worlds, now she had become his peace.

Chapter 12: Joe Chill And The Parademon

Notes:

Just been to another concert. Tripped, my idol held me and picked me up—happy but absolutely mortified. And I broke my ankle, like what I wrote about Avelynna-Chloe. 🙂

I'm truly cursed.

So… IT’S ANGST TIME! 😈

Two and more than half a year had passed, quietly threading themselves into a kind of rhythm neither of them had expected.

Their marriage was still strange, still scarred by its brutal beginning—surveillance, suspicion, cold silences. A union born not of trust but a necessity, circumstance, and a crown drenched in old blood. Yet… somehow, it had softened into something else.

Something that didn’t hurt.

Avelynna-Chloe couldn’t name it.

She didn’t want to name it. But she felt it—every time she found herself reaching for Bruce without thinking. When thunder cracked too loudly outside the manor. When a bad memory resurfaced. When something beautiful happened. When she tried a new dish. Or stumbled across a funny cartoon episode.

Her first instinct wasn’t to retreat.

It was him. Always him. Like he was her anchor.

Her fingertips sought the warmth of his shoulder. Her eyes followed him across rooms. Her body curled around his like ivy, greedy for the strength in his arms and the quiet calm beneath his silence. Sometimes she held onto him like a koala—clinging to his back, her face pressed against his neck.

And sometimes, her body screamed for him in ways she blamed on their cursed biology—Alpha. Omega. Fate. Instinct.

She teased him shamelessly when the need overcame her, nuzzling against his neck with breathy whimpers, whispering, “I want you…” as if she was playing pretend. But she wasn’t.

And Bruce…?

Bruce was drowning.

He kept telling himself he had control. That this was manageable. That she was still a wildcard, a mystery wrapped in mischief and magic and heartbreak. That he couldn’t trust what he was feeling because he had built his whole life on pushing those feelings away.

But the truth screamed louder each day.

Love.

He was in love with her.

Not lust. Not duty. Not power or convenience. Not the kind of love that came clean or easily.

This was wildfire. Burning. Dangerous. Addictive.

A raw, consuming flame that he hadn’t known was possible inside a man like him. A fire that only she could feed.

It crept in like smoke—through the cracks in his armor. Into his bones. His blood. His every breath. He couldn’t stop thinking about her—her laugh, her eyes, the way she scrunched her nose when she was curious, the childlike excitement she had for almost everything around her.

It should’ve driven him insane. Maybe it did. But he didn’t care.

There had been women before. So many. But none who left this kind of bruise on his soul.

None who made him ache just by walking out of the room.

He didn’t know when it happened. When it stopped being a reluctant partnership and became this. When her smile became his favorite sight. When her heartbeat in the bed next to him became the sound he couldn’t sleep without.

He fought it.

God, he tried. He drowned himself in work. Night patrols. Justice League missions. Wayne Enterprises reports. City politics. Anything to keep himself from staring at her too long. From reaching for her hand too quickly. From blurting it out like some dumb teenager under a spell.

Because if he said it—if he confessed—he might lose what they had.

That terrified him more than anything.

So he stayed quiet. Masked. Composed.

Until she walked into his study one night—barefoot, hair a mess, draped in one of his old shirts, clutching a plush bunny under one arm and a strawberry milk carton under the other.

She looked at him with sleepy eyes and asked, “Are you coming to bed?”

That was all.

But Bruce’s throat went dry.

She wasn’t seducing him. She wasn’t being playful or sassy or manipulative. She just wanted him nearby.

And that look in her eyes—it shattered him.

He closed the file in front of him and stood without a word. He followed her upstairs, hand brushing lightly against her back, and when she climbed into bed, he tucked the blanket around her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Because to him, she was.

She belonged by his side. Not as a hostage. Not as a political partner.

As his.

One day soon, he was going to tell her.

For now, he just lay beside her. Let her press her cold feet against his legs. Let her curl into his chest and mumble something about wanting Barbie’s pink convertible next.

He smiled faintly, “Anything for you, baby girl.”

Even if it killed him.

 

⸻

 

Eventually, Bruce was more and more deep in something he would call daydreaming.

He’d been considering it—really considering it. He wanted to rip that collar off her neck with his bare hands. Smash the bracelet and bury the shards. Throw away the rules, the restraints, the walls between them. Let her be his equal. Let her fight beside him—not as an obligation, but as his Omega, his wife.

He wanted her by his side in the Justice League, unleashing her powers like divine fury and dazzling light. He wanted to watch the world see what he already knew—that she was extraordinary.

He wanted to mark her.

Claim her. Not with force.

But with love.

With every scar he carried, every broken piece of him he hadn’t shown her yet. With the truth of who he was—both Batman and Bruce Wayne.

And maybe—just maybe—he wanted children.

Tiny, wild, half-Apokoliptian little hellions who liked milk and punched through walls. He thought of her holding their children. Maybe a daughter with his eyes and her smile, tugging at her mother’s glittery dress, asking to play tea party. Maybe a son who never had to learn to fight a war, because their home was finally safe. Kids who would sleep tangled in their beds. Kids who wouldn’t have to be orphans in a world of shadows.

But he needed one moment. One last step before the fall.

To learn more about Avelynna-Chloe’s past, Bruce sat hunched over the console in the Batcave, the cold glow of alien code flickering across his eyes like ghosts from another lifetime. The silence around him was thick, punctuated only by the low hum of machines and the sharp, rhythmic tapping of his fingers across the keyboard.

He did the impossible—again.

Hijacking a dormant signal from one of Cyborg’s old surveillance uplinks, he piggybacked onto lingering traces of Apokoliptian tech still hidden in the infrastructure of Earth’s satellite networks. From there, he tunneled into a sub-layer of Darkseid’s intelligence web—deep beneath any level of security a human had any right breaching.

But this was Bruce Wayne.

He was searching for her.

What he found was… nothing.

Or rather, too perfect a nothing. There were gaps in her file—gaping absences where memories and records should have lived. Her entire life before they met had been scrubbed clean, smoothed over so thoroughly it screamed of intention. Artificial silence. Fabricated void.

He tried everything—decryption scripts, brute-force sequence attacks, recursive worm loops. Nothing held. Every firewall burned back hotter than the last.

“They don’t want me to know who she really is,” he muttered to himself, jaw clenched.

Exhausted and frustrated, Bruce leaned back in the chair, scrubbing a hand down his face. For the next few minutes, he scrolled aimlessly through old translated scouting logs—declassified battlefield reports, random Parademon deployments, Earth-survey entries that hadn’t been purged. Most of it was junk. Filler. Debris.

Until one log stopped him cold.

It was old—decades old. From long before Superman’s arrival. Before the League. Before Bruce had even donned the cowl. He read the heading twice to be sure.

“Reconnaissance Entry 14-Theta. Urban resistance encountered. Location: Gotham City. Crime Alley.”

His blood ran cold.

Crime Alley.

That night.

Bruce clicked the entry. His heart was a steady drumbeat in his throat.

The file described a covert Parademon extraction unit that had been met with brief resistance before retreating via Boom Tube. No casualties. Surveillance scrambled. One civilian had interfered.

Male. Mid-30s. Fled the scene in panic.

The image loaded slowly, pixel by pixel, corrupted and faded—but the face was unmistakable.

Joe Chill.

The man who murdered his parents.

Bruce’s hands froze on the keyboard.

The report noted Chill had been “startled by a Class-3 Demon presence.” Panicked and disoriented, he’d stumbled into the alley—trying to escape something he couldn’t understand. Moments later, he encountered a couple and their child.

A wealthy couple. A little boy in a tuxedo. And a gun.

Bruce sat motionless, the weight of it crashing over him like black water.

It wasn’t random.

Not entirely.

Joe Chill hadn’t simply been a desperate man with a weapon and bad timing. He had been running. Running from a Parademon. From Apokolips. From something that had no place on Earth—but had found its way to Gotham anyway.

And in his fear…

He killed Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Bruce couldn’t breathe. It was as if the cave itself collapsed inward, pressing him into the chair, stealing the air from his lungs.

All this time—he had believed his parents’ murder was the result of chance. A broken city. Turned out his origin—the very moment that had shaped him, birthed the myth of Batman—wasn’t just a tragedy.

It was collateral damage.

The fallout of a war between worlds.

His father’s blood. His mother’s scream. His childhood shattered. All because of Apokoliptian shadows that had touched his life long before he’d ever heard the name “Darkseid.”

Long before he’d ever met her.

Avelynna-Chloe.

Hatred surged like wildfire through his chest. Rage he hadn’t felt in years—pure, unfiltered, incandescent. All of it aimed at the thing he had spent a lifetime fighting in the dark.

Apokolips.

He hated that world. Feared what it would do to Earth. Resented everything it represented—chaos, tyranny, war, destruction.

Now, it lived in his home. In his arms. In her.

She hadn’t just reminded him of the enemy. She was descended from it.

This was why he’d built walls. Why he’d installed the collar. The tracking. The constant surveillance.

Bruce shoved the chair back as he stood, the legs screeching against the cave floor with a violent echo. His chest heaved, fury twisting through his ribs like barbed wire.

The very idea that any Apokoliptian—let alone Darkseid himself—had a hand in the death of his parents felt like sacrilege. An unforgivable wound.

It was an insult he could not let slide.

He had sworn long ago that he’d make Darkseid pay. He’d already been driven by vengeance, but now… this changed everything. This wasn’t just war. This was personal. Intimate. A thread woven through his pain.

And if it meant burning Apokolips to the ground to erase every trace of that damnation, he would do it without hesitation.

He would lay waste to everything.

 

⸻

 

When Bruce found her, Avelynna-Chloe was in the library, sitting cross-legged on the velvet cushions of the window seat, paging through an old book on marine biology.

She looked up the moment she heard his footsteps—heavy, purposeful, quiet in the wrong way. Wrong in that they didn’t stop until he was in the doorway, shadowed by the frame.

His face gave almost nothing away. But his eyes… they burned.

She blinked and slowly closed the book. “What happened?”

He didn’t speak at first. He stood still, one hand clenched around something metallic. Then, without a word, he threw it.

A datapad skidded across the oak table, stopping just in front of her.

“Read it,” he said, his voice hollow, dangerous.

She looked down at the screen—and then her heart sank into her stomach. She didn’t need to scroll far. She already knew what he had found.

“You knew,” she whispered.

“You lied to me,” he growled.

“I never—”

“You hid things.” His voice cut like razors now. “You kept secrets. While sleeping beside me. While holding me. Secrets about me.”

Before she could say another word, he was already moving.

In a blur, he was in front of her, hand clamping around her throat just below the collar.

Her breath caught. The sudden loss of air sent panic lancing through her.

“You don’t get to speak,” he hissed, eyes locked with hers, a tempest behind his pupils. “Not after that. Not when they were there. Not when Joe Chill ran from a fucking Parademon and murdered my parents. You think I believe in coincidence anymore?”

His grip tightened—just enough to cut off her air, not enough to crush. But she gasped, clawing at his forearm, wide-eyed, struggling as her back hit the edge of the table. Pinned.

“I—can’t—breathe—” she choked out.

The terror was all too familiar. She’d felt this before. In the throne room. In Darkseid’s presence.

And now… in Bruce’s hands.

“You knew,” he roared. “You knew what they were. You knew what they did. And you didn’t say a damn thing. I let you in. I let you into my home. Into my bed. I let you touch me. And it was all a goddamn lie.”

With a growl, he flung her away from him.

She crashed into the wall with a sharp cry, crumpling to the floor like a broken doll. Pain bloomed along her ribs and shoulder, her breath ragged, her throat sore. She looked so small on the ground, the collar still cold around her neck.

He stood over her, looming.

“You played me. You pretended to be something you’re not. You let me believe you were harmless, fragile. Innocent. That you were mine. But you were a weapon all along. A weapon of my enemies.”

“I AM NOT A WEAPON!”

Snatching a dictionary from the shelf behind her, she hurled it at him with all her might. It hit him square in the jaw with a loud thud.

She pushed to her feet, wobbling, her voice shaking.

“I’m not an object. I’m not a puppet or a soldier. I’m a person—with feelings, with honor—and yes, I protected them. Because they were people once before Apokolips twisted them into monsters! You think they wanted to be that way? One Parademon panicked and caused your tragedy, and for that, I’m sorry, but don’t you dare act like that erases everything I am!”

Bruce stood still, the book at his feet. A red mark blossomed on his cheek from the impact.

He didn’t flinch, but something shifted in his expression. A flicker of emotion—shock, maybe—at her sudden fire.

But his anger returned, sharper, cutting.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he spat. “You’re not the one who was orphaned in an alley. Don’t talk to me about your people. There are no your people. They’re not people—they’re rabid dogs serving a tyrant!”

He stalked toward her again. “You should’ve told me. You should’ve warned me. But you didn’t. You sat there, sleeping in my bed, while keeping Apokolips close to your heart.”

“I DON’T SERVE DARKSEID!” she screamed, tears now brimming. “I serve what’s right! I’m a princess—it’s my responsibility to protect Apokolips—and other planets!”

“A princess,” he leaned down, his voice cold, dark. “You’re married to me. Your loyalty belongs to me. Not to them.”

“I chose to be your wife! I didn’t do that lightly. If you think that makes me your slave, you never really knew me.”

Then she slapped him.

Hard.

The crack of it echoed.

His face whipped to the side. The sting sank in like flame. Slowly, he turned his head back toward her, touching his cheek with an unreadable look.

She stared at him, trembling. Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. Her voice was raw.

“I will never be anyone’s slave. Not yours. Not Darkseid’s. Not anyone’s.”

She pushed past him with all the dignity she could manage, footsteps soft but determined. She didn’t look back as she left the library, vanishing down the hallway toward her room.

Bruce remained where he stood, breath harsh, heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like a prison drum. His fists trembled at his sides.

He had every reason to stay angry. Every reason to call her a liar, to cast her out, to lock her away forever.

But all he could think about was the look on her face as she walked away.

Not broken. Not begging.

Just… hurt.

He wanted to hate her.

But all he could feel… was heartbreak.

Chapter 13: The Panic Attack

That night, Gotham cracked open.

The storm rolled in like a beast—growling, relentless. Thunder split the sky in jagged veins of white light, the kind that made windows shudder and lights flicker like they were holding their breath. Rain battered the old stone walls of Wayne Manor in angry fists, loud and punishing like the sky itself had turned vengeful.

Bruce barely noticed it at first. He was lying in bed, still restless, still haunted. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face. The look in her eyes when she slapped him. The hurt. The trembling dignity as she walked away from him without a word.

He’d been wrong before, but this time—this time it cut deeper. Because even in his rage, even when his hands were at her throat, part of him had known.

She wasn’t his enemy.

But the storm didn’t care about guilt.

The crack of thunder ripped through the sky like a scream. It was so loud it shook the bedframe.

Bruce’s eyes snapped open.

Then he remembered—she’s scared of thunder.

She never said it aloud. But he’d seen the way she tensed every time it rolled across the sky. The way her lips pressed into a line and her ears twitched slightly when it rumbled. The way she curled in on herself, clutching a pillow, eyes distant like she was far away—in a memory she didn’t want.

Without a second thought, Bruce threw the covers back and got up. His movements were instant, urgent. There was no armor, no cowl—just Bruce, barefoot, storm-hearted, moving through the manor with grim purpose.

The hallway was dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning that painted it in ghostly whites and blues.

Rain lashed against the windows, streaking down like tears.

 

⸻

 

It took Bruce less than two minutes to reach her room, his pulse pounding louder than the storm.

The door creaked open—and the sight inside hit him like a blow to the chest.

Avelynna-Chloe wasn’t in bed. The blanket was still tucked in. The lamp glowed faintly, casting pale light across the room.

But then he heard it—the soft, broken rhythm of breathing. Shallow. Uneven. Coming from the closet.

Bruce was across the room in seconds, heart twisting painfully. He flung the closet door open.

There she was.

Curled into a ball on the floor, arms wrapped over her head, hands pressed tightly against her ears as though she could shut out the thunder by sheer force of will. Her body trembled uncontrollably, and her breaths came in quick, desperate gasps.

He dropped to his knees and reached for her without hesitation, pulling her into his arms. She was weightless—far too light—and so tiny against his chest, it made something sharp twist in his gut.

“Shhh…” he whispered, cradling her close, one hand stroking her hair with tender motions. “It’s okay… I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

She was sobbing. Not crying—sobbing. Her tears soaked into his shirt as she clung to him like a child, her shoulders shaking so hard it made his arms ache to hold her still.

He’d never seen her like this before.

“Breathe,” he whispered again, voice low and steady. “Just breathe for me, sweetheart…”

But she couldn’t. She was too deep in the panic. Her voice cracked as she choked on hiccups, murmuring names between gasps—Granny Goodness… Lashina… Big Barda… Aga’po… Neza…

Names of friends.

Not Darkseid. Not Suli.

Just the ones who loved her.

The names cut into Bruce like shrapnel.

The realization that followed was worse: this was his fault. He had done this to her.

Her body convulsed in his arms, breath hitching as the thunder rolled again, louder this time. She froze against him, whimpering.

“I’m here… baby girl, I’m here,” he murmured, gently rocking her. His voice had lost its usual edge—it was warm, aching, unfamiliar even to himself. “You’re okay… you’re alright…”

“I wanna go back to Zamaron…” Avelynna-Chloe whispered brokenly, her voice was nearly drowned by the storm. “There’s no one here cares about me…”

The words shattered Bruce.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“No one here cares.”

That wasn’t true. God, it wasn’t true.

He wrapped his arms tighter around her, not enough to hurt—just enough to hold her together.

“No,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I care. I care about you…”

It surprised him, how easily the words came. He didn’t have to force them—they just… fell out. And they felt true.

He tilted her chin up gently, trying to guide her panicked eyes to his. “Look at me, please… Look at me, sweetie. I’m here.”

But she was too far gone. Her body sagged against him, her eyes fluttering closed as she finally passed out from the weight of her exhaustion.

Bruce caught her before she hit the floor.

Panic surged through him. “No… no, come on, kiddo… stay with me…” He shook her slightly, but her limbs were limp.

She was unconscious.

He lifted her in his arms, holding her like she was made of glass. She felt even smaller than she looked—so soft, so fragile. It didn’t seem possible that she came from a world like Apokolips. No one this delicate should be made to feel this afraid.

He laid her gently on the bed, careful not to brush the bruises he himself had put there. He settled in beside her and pulled the blankets over them both, tucking her in.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, he lay there holding her, one arm wrapped securely around her, her face nestled beneath his chin. His fingers moved slowly through her hair in a rhythmic motion meant to calm her. It was all he could do—this pitiful gesture—when what he really wanted was to go back in time and undo everything.

She looked peaceful like this. Her breathing evened out, and her heartbeat grew steadier beneath his palm.

Bruce brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and let his hand rest lightly over her heart, feeling the rhythm beneath his fingers. His throat sore.

She was alive.

He had almost taken that from her.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered.

She didn’t hear it.

But he said it anyway—because it was the first time he had ever truly meant it.

He studied her face in the dim light. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. Her nose, her lips—every inch of her looked carved by hand, like a porcelain doll left too long on a battlefield. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen… and he had broken her.

With trembling fingers, he brushed her lower lip.

He hated himself for what he had done.

How had he gotten it so wrong?

How had he let her believe no one cared?

 

⸻

 

As the storm began to quiet, Bruce remained awake, still cradling her close. She was finally resting, but he wasn’t.

His mind wouldn’t let him. It circled, spiraled, and broke itself open with every inhale she took against his chest.

As the minutes passed and the adrenaline ebbed, Bruce began to truly see.

He thought back to every little moment he’d dismissed. Every twitch, every overly obedient silence. He hadn’t known what he was looking at then. But now…

He remembered the way Avelynna-Chloe would flinch—just slightly—anytime he raised his voice, even when it wasn’t directed at her. Even when he was just speaking sternly over the phone to someone else.

And when she slept… she didn’t just curl up. She folded herself in. Spine bowed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around her ribs as though bracing for impact. Sometimes she pulled the blanket over her head. It wasn’t just a habit. It was learned. Conditioned. Beaten in.

Fear had made her small.

And the hot sea salt trick—how could he have forgotten that?

She knew how to fade bruises like it was second nature. Before he set the new rule, she never asked for help. Just quietly tended to the damage like it was part of a routine.

Like it had always been.

The realization landed like a weight in his chest.

He had been such a goddamn idiot.

All this time… all the surveillance, the suspicion, the cold distance. The rules. The restrictions. The eyes in the walls and ceilings. He’d watched her like a threat. Treated her like a ticking bomb. Like a weapon designed by Apokolips to seduce him, then destroy him.

Darkseid’s daughter.

The ultimate Trojan horse.

But…

If Darkseid had loved her—if she’d been of any true value to him…

He wouldn’t have dressed her in diamonds and sent her into the hands of Earth’s most paranoid, grief-ridden detective.

He wouldn’t have abandoned her here like an offering.

He wouldn’t have thrown her to a man with every reason to hate the blood that ran in her veins.

No. Darkseid hadn’t treasured her.

He had discarded her.

Bruce’s jaw locked tight. His hand curled unconsciously into a fist as he looked down at her sleeping form, still trembling faintly in her dreams.

How many years had she smiled through pain? How many nights had she stood perfectly still, balancing a vase on her head, her feet bloodied in heels too small, punished for tilting even a fraction? How many bruises had been buried beneath silk gowns and glittering chains?

He had no idea how deep her scars went.

But he knew one thing with certainty.

She was not his enemy.

She never had been.

She was his wife.

His responsibility.

His—

His chest ached. He swallowed hard.

Not a soldier. Not a spy. Not a pawn. Not a weapon.

Just a girl.

His girl.

And what had he done?

He’d treated her like she was the monster. Like she’d come to destroy him. But it wasn’t her.

It had never been her.

It was him.

He was the one who had watched her suffer and said nothing. He was the one who kept her caged in a house that felt more like a prison.

Now, she didn’t believe someone here cared.

That was on him.

He tightened his arm around her, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, the words felt too late.

Still, he said them. Over and over. Into her hair. Into the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

The guilt sat heavy in his chest. So heavy, it was hard to breathe. But he didn’t move.

He wouldn’t leave her.

Not now. Not ever.

Eventually, somewhere in the crawl of hours just before dawn, the storm gave way to silence.

And Bruce—still holding her against his chest, hand resting gently over her heart—finally let his eyes close.

He drifted off into a fitful sleep. With her in his arms. And the ache of remorse kept him company.

Chapter 14: The Machine Gun

The months that followed were quiet.

Too quiet.

Avelynna-Chloe stopped meeting Bruce’s eyes. She didn’t speak above a whisper. She didn’t argue, didn’t tease, didn't smile, didn’t pout. She ate in silence, walked alone, and slept in her room. She simply… withdrew. Like someone slipping beneath water, not drowning, but choosing to vanish.

Emotionally. Physically.

There were no more late-night talks, no more cups of tea passed back and forth between conversations. No more evenings spent side by side in the screening room, laughing at dumb movie plots or crying silently when the story hit too close to home. No more Sunday walks in the garden, no more trips into the city disguised as simple dates.

She didn’t visit the game room. Didn’t touch the PS5 or the arcades. Didn’t so much as glance at the stack of magazines he had caught her giggling over.

The vibrant young woman who once bounced from room to room was gone.

She became a ghost in his house.

The walls of the manor, once humming with her music and odd little habits, were now silent.

It was like reliving the early stage of their marriage all over again—those cold months when she was quiet, obedient, contained. Like a jewel locked in a vault. Polished. Untouched.

Only now… she was wounded.

Bruce felt every inch of the distance.

He tried. Awkwardly. But he tried.

He made sure her favorite jasmine tea was brewed and waiting for her every morning, kept perfectly warm in her porcelain cup. He began leaving gifts outside her bedroom door—not grand things, but things she adored: a rare book of Apokoliptian poetry, an imported bar of pink glitter soap she used to hoard, a new pair of lace-trimmed socks in a pattern he remembered her admiring.

She said nothing.

He adjusted his schedule. Came home earlier. Cut down his patrol nights. Dined with her—even when she barely touched her food. When she didn’t speak a word.

He never raised his voice. Never invaded her space. Never touched her unless she initiated it.

Which she never did.

At night, he lay in their bed with one arm stretched across the sheets toward where she used to sleep. Just… stretched out. Reaching. Hoping. His other hand was clutching the handkerchief she had made for him tightly.

But she never came back.

His insomnia returned, stronger than before. The nightmares came roaring back too—visions of blood, of war, of her crying in that closet. Some nights he couldn’t bear it, when the pain overwhelmed him, he’d leave his bed and gently open her door. She locked it now, but he had never removed his access. He disgusted himself for that—but used it nonetheless.

She never woke. Or at least, she never let him know if she did.

He’d crawl under the covers beside her and hold her. Her warmth bled into him, her scent grounding him.

When she instinctively nestled into his chest in her sleep—seeking comfort, mistaking him for one of her plushies—it was a knife twisted beneath his ribs.

He didn’t deserve it.

So he never stayed long. He left before the sun rose. Always slipped out before she opened her eyes.

Sometimes, he watched her from the shadows. Saw her standing alone by the lake, barefoot in the dew, her hair loose around her face as she stared at nothing. Or curled into the smallest shape in the library’s velvet chair, arms around her knees.

She looked so far away.

The bruises faded from her skin over time.

But not from her heart.

Bruce began to wonder—if she was already gone. If she had emotionally left. If he’d broken something that couldn’t be mended.

Still… he tried.

Not because he expected forgiveness. But because she deserved to be loved. Because she deserved more than what he gave her. And because some part of him—some raw, desperate part—knew he needed to be better. For her.

He showed up every day. In all the ways he knew how.

He started writing down things she said in the past, studying her old journals, researching her likes and dislikes—not because he didn’t already know, but because he was terrified of forgetting. Terrified of losing even the smallest thread that tied her to him.

He tried to tell himself the silence didn’t kill him.

He’d endured worse. He’d survived war. Torture. Loss. His parents. Jason. Countless goodbyes. He’d lost more than any man should bear.

But this? This was different.

This was a thousand little rejections that he knew he’d earned. This was watching her shrink when he entered a room. Watching her shoulders tighten when he stood too close. Watching her hands curl in on themselves when she thought he might be angry. This was waking up to an empty bed, night after night, and remembering that he was the reason it stayed empty.

Every time she avoided his gaze, it split another crack through his chest. Every time she turned her face away, it echoed.

She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t punishing him.

She was just… tired.

Because of him.

He knew now—truly knew—that she wasn’t responsible for any of what he had feared. She wasn’t her father’s weapon. She wasn’t part of some grand Apokoliptian conspiracy. She didn’t pull Joe Chill’s trigger. She didn’t command that Parademon. She hadn’t even been conceived when those wars happened. She wasn’t born to destroy Earth, or him.

She was born to love and be loved.

And he had made her feel like a prisoner in her own home.

She said she felt safe around him.

Still, he blamed her for the blood. Still, he made her pay the price.

The guilt gnawed at him. Ate at the edges of his soul. Carved out pieces of his resolve until all he was left with was this aching need to make it right.

But he didn’t force.

He simply waited.

Because for the first time in his life, he understood—

He couldn’t fix this the way he fixed everything else. Not with money. Not with power. Not with control.

The only thing he could do now…

Was stay.

And hope.

And love her. From a distance.

For as long as she needed.

 

⸻

 

Things kept going on like that—until one night.

The sky was darker than usual, and Gotham drowned beneath a thick, cold mist that coiled through its streets like ghosts from Bruce’s past. The rooftops felt heavier somehow, the air metallic and bitter.

And Bruce… he wasn’t at his best. Not tonight.

He was already bleeding by the time he grappled over the old theater district, his side torn open by a hidden blade. The fight had been a mess. Sloppy. He’d been distracted—too caught in his own head to hear the footstep that didn’t belong, the shift of fabric in the dark.

Two members of the League of Assassins had waited for him in the shadows.

They didn’t gloat. They didn’t need to. They attacked like wolves. One of them plunged a dagger into the soft seam beneath his armor—deep, twisting. The other landed a brutal blow to the back of his skull that nearly ended the fight before it began.

He barely escaped.

Now, he moved on nothing but instinct and adrenaline, blood trailing behind him, smearing red along the edge of the rooftop tiles. His cape was torn. His ribs were broken. His vision flickered like a damaged feed. He pushed himself through it. He always did.

The Batmobile came into view like a lifeline.

He didn’t realize he was being followed until he was home.

The Batcave doors sealed behind him with a hydraulic hiss. The low hum of machinery welcomed him, but even the cave felt colder than usual. He stumbled from the vehicle, one arm clutching his side. His armor was slick with blood. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He yanked off his cowl with a grunt, blinking past the vertigo.

Then—

Clink.

A shuriken rang out as it struck the stone floor behind him.

He turned sharply, pain blurring the edges of his vision. Two masked figures stepped into the cave’s light—cloaked, faceless, silent as death. They had followed him.

“How did you get in here…” he growled, bracing himself against the console, falling into a defensive stance.

They didn’t answer.

They lunged.

The fight was fast and violent. Metal against flesh, breath against breath. Bruce blocked one strike, then another, but he was too slow. Too wounded. One assassin slashed across his chest—fresh agony blooming where old pain hadn’t yet faded. He fell to his knees.

The second assassin raised a blade high.

But before it could fall—

RATATATATATA—

The sudden roar of a machine gun filled the cave.

One of the assassins was slammed against the cave wall, his body jerking as bullets ripped through him. A second later, the other fell too—head snapping back, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.

Smoke curled from the barrel of the rifle.

Bruce blinked.

Avelynna-Chloe stood in the elevator entrance, eyes locked, stance wide, her hands firm on the weapon. The shadows cut sharp lines across her face—cool, hard, unreadable. Not soft. Not childlike. Not the same girl who once cried over Met Gala dresses or cuddled plush toys.

He stared at her, stunned. He had never seen her like this. Not in all the years of marriage. Not in any records. This was not hesitation or mercy. This was the precision of someone raised by fire. A predator.

She didn’t have a no-killing rule like him. He couldn’t be mad at her. And she had just saved his life, plus protected his secret identity.

Bruce’s breath rasped in his chest. Blood soaked his armor. His knees gave way, but he stayed upright with sheer force of will. Questions screamed through his skull.

How the hell had she bypassed the Batcave’s security? How did she get that gun—a WayneTech prototype, no less?

Before he could say anything—before he could even reach out—Avelynna-Chloe raised the gun again.

Aimed it straight at him.

His breath caught.

Her hands didn’t shake.

She could shoot. Walk away. Leave this place behind. Leave him behind. After everything he’d done—everything he’d said—after the bruises and suspicions, she had every right.

She could end it. Right now.

For a split second, Bruce wondered if she would.

Her finger hovered over the trigger.

Then—

His knees buckled.

He collapsed.

In that same moment, Avelynna-Chloe’s gun hit the floor with a sharp, cold clang.

Her mask cracked. The fire in her eyes shattered.

She ran to him.

Chapter 15: Lynne, Love Of My Life 🔞

When Bruce opened his eyes, it was like waking to a vision—an angel bathed in low light, her silhouette outlined by the pale glow of the med bay monitors.

Avelynna-Chloe stood over him, her hands working efficiently. She was tending to his wounds.

His voice came out hoarse, still rough with pain, but the scolding tone lingered behind it. “How the hell did you get down here… and get your hands on my weapon?”

She shot him a brief look—no warmth in it—before returning to peeling away the rest of his armor. Her fingers were deft despite the anger in her movements.

“A thank-you would be nice,” she said flatly. “Considering I saved your life instead of putting a bullet in your head and walking out that damn door.”

The last of the armor hit the ground with a dull metallic clatter. Bruce hissed as the pain flared. Blood streaked his ribs and chest—dark, thick, gushing from a gash that carved deep into his side. It was bad. Deep enough to be dangerous if left untreated.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t waste time gawking. With practiced hands, she cleaned the wound, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the air. Her stitching was fast, precise. She didn’t fumble, didn’t flinch. She worked like someone who’d always done it—patching him up after every mission he didn’t come back from in one piece.

After a long, quiet stretch, her voice cut through the tension—unmistakably bitter.

“And I’m not an idiot,” she said, not looking at him. “I cracked your security system after three months of living here. I’ve been down in this cave a hundred times when you weren’t home.”

She reached for the gauze and began wrapping his side—not gently. Every tug had bite to it, the tension of anger behind every pull.

“I scrubbed the footage too. So you didn’t find anything when you played it back. You thought you were always watching me, didn’t you?” She tightened the gauze harshly. “Surprise.”

Bruce winced. Her hands weren’t shaking, but there was something unhinged in the way she wrapped the bandages—an edge of hurt too raw to hide.

“And the gun?” he asked, his voice strained.

She didn’t hesitate. “After you choked me, I figured I’d need something to stop you from finishing the job. So I stole it from your stash.”

He grimaced, not just from the pain in his ribs but from the weight of her words. She was still saving him—even now. Even when she had every reason to walk away. She treated him like a wound that needed closing. Like she couldn’t let him bleed out.

“So you’ve had access to everything this whole time?” Bruce leaned slightly forward despite the sharp stab of pain. “But you never used it. Not once?”

Avelynna-Chloe finally looked up. Her eyes—those pink eyes that used to glow with curiosity, with life—were cold now. Empty in a way that made his stomach sink.

“What did you think I was going to do with it? Call the police on Batman? Send the Justice League’s secrets to Apokolips? I hate you. But without you—and your dumb cape club—Darkseid would’ve reduced this planet to ash already. And I don’t want that.”

He stared at her, speechless. It would have been easier to face a knife than that.

She turned away, walking to the supply shelf with mechanical precision. She didn’t move like someone angry anymore—she moved like someone tired. So tired.

“Hate is a strong word,” Bruce murmured, voice quiet now. “Especially coming from you.”

She didn’t turn. He saw her jaw clench before she answered.

“You locked me in a cage. You choked me. And now you’re upset I said I hate you?” She scoffed. “Funny.”

She dipped a cloth in antiseptic and returned to him, pressing it hard against the stitched wound. Bruce sucked in a breath, hissing through clenched teeth.

“I deserved that,” he muttered.

She didn’t reply. Her silence hurt more than her hands ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered after a pause. “For everything. For what I did to you.”

The air went still.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t acknowledge the apology—just moved past him with her arms full of supplies. Her body was tense, locked down like armor.

Bruce watched her go. Watched her stride across the cave, pausing only when she reached the corpses of the assassins. Their blood had pooled under them, staining the stone beneath their broken bodies. She bent down and, with no hesitation, dragged both toward the crematorium, her steps loud, deliberate.

He stayed still as she operated the cremation chamber, shoving the bodies in with the same cold detachment she used to stitch his wounds. Fire consumed them quickly. The room flickered in an orange glow, painting her face in shadows and flame.

He couldn’t just sit there.

Ignoring the stabbing, Bruce pushed himself off the bed and limped across the cave. His boots echoed over stone as he approached her.

“Wait,” he called out, voice rough. “Kiddo—”

He reached out and caught her shoulder. “Don’t walk away from me. Just… talk to me. Look at me, baby girl.”

Avelynna-Chloe froze at the touch.

Her body tensed. When she turned to face him, it was with a glare that could’ve dropped him to his knees. But the moment her gaze fell on the blood leaking through his bandages, her expression faltered. Her eyes narrowed with anger—and something else. Grief. Maybe even guilt for still caring.

“Why should I?” she bit out. “Give me one reason.”

Bruce’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t have an answer rehearsed—just truth. He’d never begged in his life, has never been the type to plead—but damn it, she’s the only one who’s ever made him feel this desperate.

He reached up and gently cupped her face, thumbs brushing against her cheeks, the touch surprisingly gentle for such a massive, scarred man—careful like he was afraid she might shatter in his hands.

“Because I need you,” he said, voice ragged. “Not for Earth. Not for Gotham. For me.”

Her lips parted. For a second, her eyes softened. But then they hardened again.

“Need me for what?” she said bitterly. “Sex? There are women dying to throw themselves at you. Go find them. This marriage is political. That’s all it is to me.”

The words dug in deep.

Bruce scowled. The idea of being with someone else—touching anyone else—made him feel sick.

He held her face firmer, voice rising just a little.

“This isn’t about politics. And it’s sure as hell not about sex. You think I’d touch anyone else? You think anyone else could even be you? This is about us, sweetheart. Or are you telling me you’ve already forgotten?”

Avelynna-Chloe bit her lip, hard. She wanted to pull away. Wanted to shut him out again. But something in his voice—something—made her pause.

“Forgotten?” she snapped, shaking with rage. “You call this a relationship? You kept me in chains. You accused me of things I never did. I’m nothing more than your hostage. I’m the first alien princess you’ve ever fucked, so you got excited, and that’s it. Just because we share a bed—”

Before she could finish, Bruce leaned in and kissed her—deep, desperate, apologetic.

 

⸻

 

The moment his lips captured hers, Avelynna-Chloe’s speech stopped dead.

His touch was hard, hungry, filled with a need he’d been holding in for months—but he was careful with her. The kiss was rough, but gentler than she would’ve thought, one of his hands still cupping her face while the other wrapped around her waist and pulled her against him.

He forced her mouth open, slipping his tongue past her lips, tasting her.

A shock of heat shot through her body, her mind going blank. Her hands flew up to his chest, trying to push him away—but her body betrayed her. Her resistance weakened as her mouth opened reflexively under his, her tongue moving against his in a battle she was bound to lose.

She hated herself for the way she melted under his touch—the way she wanted him. Her knees went weak. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears. She blamed it on her Omega instincts. She’d been away from satisfaction for months. Now her body craved an Alpha.

By the time she realized what was happening, she was already on his bed—riding his cock like it was her personal dildo.

She didn’t even remember moving. Didn’t remember giving in. Just fire. Instinct. Need.

The adrenaline from the battle, combined with the pain medication Bruce had taken, affected him more than he’d thought. His wound ached, but the fire in his blood was far more powerful.

He ran his fingers over her tits, touching her like a drowning man—as if she were the only one who could save him.

“God, sweetheart… you’re driving me insane.”

Avelynna-Chloe just moaned and quickened the pace of her hips.

The room filled with the sound of skin against skin, the faint scent of sex, and the rhythm of their mingled breaths. Her body moved on its own as she rode him faster, harder—but his eyes stayed locked on hers. His hands tightened their grips on her hips.

“Listen,” Bruce growled—an order, not a request. “No more shutting me out.”

In response, she collapsed on top of him as she reached climax, her cunt clenching tightly around his cock.

A guttural moan tore from his throat. The sensation was enough to drive him over the edge. His arms wrapped around her immediately, holding her against him as he came deep inside her.

“That’s it. Let me have all of you. I want all of you,” he murmured.

Her body was already trembling from the orgasm, but his words sent a new shiver down her spine. The way he held her, the way his knot filled her…

His hand lifted to cup her face, forcing her to look at him. “You’re mine. I’m gonna make sure everyone understands that—starting with you. You saved my life, so now you’re stuck with it.”

His words hit her like a knife in the chest—a raw, stinging pain that made her eyes fill with tears. She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the emotion rising in her throat. He was always so gentle in the moments after they finished, but also brutally possessive. She knew it wasn’t fair, but she couldn’t help how her heart melted.

“I still hate you.”

Bruce let her cling to her anger—he understood that was what she needed. He just kept her cradled in his arms as he nuzzled his face into her neck, his cock still buried inside her tight cunt.

“I’m not gonna let you pull away from me this time,” his words practically a rumble against her skin. “I’m never letting you go.”

There it was again—the possessiveness. That dominant, intense side of him that made her heart clench and her head spin, even as it scared her.

Avelynna-Chloe turned away. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to look at him, too afraid to let him see how much he meant to her.

“I don’t belong anywhere. I don’t have a place, and I don’t have a home. Not anymore.”

His eyes narrowed, his breath catching. He heard the pain in her voice—the pain of a girl who had lost everything. He slid one hand down to her stomach, feeling the smooth curve of her belly.

“You do have a place—and you do have a home. With me. I don’t care if you hate me. I’m keeping you.”

The tears finally spilled.

He wouldn’t let go. He wouldn’t give up.

Avelynna-Chloe knew better than to hope for anything more from him, but she couldn’t stop wanting it—the love, the care, the acceptance.

The family.

She let out a shaky exhale, her words hoarse and laced with bitterness. “I’m the daughter of your enemy.”

Bruce pulled her closer. He breathed her in—filling his senses with the familiar scent of her hair.

“I couldn’t care less about your heritage,” he replied gruffly. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a Wayne. You’re my wife. You’re in my arms, in my bed. You belong to me… to my pack.”

His tone made her shiver again. She wasn’t sure she could believe him, but she also didn’t trust her own voice. She was tired, emotional, and her heart ached as she murmured in a half-whisper, “Asshole…”

Bruce chuckled at the insult—he knew she didn’t really mean it. “Is that any way to talk to your husband? Especially after I just saved you from having to sleep alone tonight?”

In response, Avelynna-Chloe simply turned away and closed her eyes, too tired to argue with this old bat.

Bruce could practically feel her pouting. He let out a small huff of laughter as he gently turned her face to look at him again. His voice was still rough, thick with possession.

“Don’t pout at me, sweetie. You know I love you even when you’re all sulky and bitter with me.”

Her pink eyes nearly bulged.

Did this man just say he loved her???

Great. If the Bruce Wayne from three years ago hopped into a time machine and saw this, he wouldn’t hesitate to smack this version of himself right across the face.

Bruce couldn’t help the smirk spreading across his mouth at her stunned expression. It was the first time he’d said “I love you” to her. He wasn’t sure if she’d believe it… but he meant it. In his own twisted, obsessive, borderline deranged way—he loved her. And he wasn’t planning to keep it to himself anymore.

“You heard me. I mean it. I love you.”

Avelynna-Chloe stiffened for a moment, then acted like she hadn’t heard a thing. “I must be delusional from lack of sleep.”

Bruce blinked once, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Wow. That’s the reaction I get? I pour my heart out, and you act like I’m a fever dream?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose along her cheek, his voice dropping to a mock-wounded murmur. “You know, for a second there, I almost felt like a one-night stand. You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Women out there are throwing themselves at me, and you, little one, dump me like I’m yesterday’s trash.”

Despite the teasing, there was something real underneath—hope, maybe. A desperate dare for her to believe him.

Avelynna-Chloe bit her lip, trying to suppress the flush climbing up her cheeks. She knew he was teasing—mostly—but she could also hear it in his voice. That thread of sincerity.

He meant it. He loved her.

And he was baiting her now, waiting for her to give something back. She couldn’t help it. So she took the bait. “Why don’t you go be with one of them, then?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened, his grip on her hip tightening reflexively. A flicker of anger crossed his expression—but he reined it in with a smirk.

“I told you, no. You’re the only one I love. And is that jealousy I hear? Don’t tell me you’ve actually started to like me a little…”

Avelynna-Chloe closed her eyes and started making exaggerated snoring noises.

Bruce let out a low growl of amusement at her insolent display.

“Are you seriously falling asleep in the middle of my confession?” he asked, voice dry. “Or are you just trying to change the subject?”

He pressed his hips up into hers in a slow, shallow thrust, his cock already hard again inside her—reminding her exactly how deep she still was in this.

“You don’t really think I’m going to let you go that easily, do you?”

Avelynna-Chloe gasped as her body rocked forward from the sudden motion. She was trying to pretend she didn’t care. Trying to stay cold. Distant.

“I’m really tired and sleepy over here,” she muttered weakly, a small pout pulling at her lips, petulant, bratty—like a spoiled child whose nap had been ruined.

Bruce huffed out a breath of laughter at her display. He leaned in and kissed her temple. “You’re a terrible liar. I know exactly what that pout means.”

His hand slid slowly across her stomach and down between her thighs. He barely had to touch her—just the lightest brush against her clit had her shuddering.

“Your body betrays you every time, sweetheart.”

Avelynna-Chloe tensed. She tried to stay still. Tried not to react—but the heat was already returning between her legs.

Her body was so damn hungry for him. For his touch.

A small moan escaped her lips as he stroked her slowly, deliberately. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, and she looked anywhere but at him, her voice sharp with frustration. “We’re not going for another round. I literally just stitched your wound up earlier.”

Bruce didn’t stop. His hand continued stroking her soft, wet folds, his fingers slick with her arousal. His cock twitched inside her.

“Oh, I know. But that just means we need to be a little more creative.”

He rolled his hips slowly into hers again, his fingers picking up speed. The pressure he applied to her clit had her thighs trembling.

“Ah—!”

Avelynna-Chloe cried out, her body reacting violently to the sensations. She was already sore from the first round, but this… this was almost cruel.

“Not so rough—your wound—” she tried.

“Is going to be just fine,” Bruce cut in, his voice certain. “You worry too much. That’s cute. So… wifey material.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. Her head lolled back as he filled her with every deep thrust, the stretch of him inside her almost too much. She hated how that “wifey” word made her heart flutter.

Somewhere between exhaustion and exasperation, she let out a ragged breath, “You reckless, old, fucking horndog…! Just cum…!”

His eyes gleamed in the dark like a wolf. Her voice—pleading, broken—sounded too much like surrender. That sent him over the edge.

But not yet.

He pushed in deeper. “What was that? I never took you for a woman who’d be eager to end our fun so soon…”

Every thrust hit the spot inside her again and again, her body seizing around him. She clutched his wrists, trying to anchor herself, trying not to fall apart.

“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore… I’m so—”

“Say it,” he growled, didn’t stop moving. “Say “I love you,” kiddo.”

Her mind was breaking apart. Her whole body was shaking from how close she was. Her pride tried to fight—but it was no use. She was already drowning in him, in everything he was.

The words tore out of her like a sob.

“I love you… I love y-you…!”

His heart cracked open in his chest. He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing.

He lost it.

He drove into her harder, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was savage, overwhelming. His whole body trembled against her as he finally came again—hot, thick, deep, possessive.

“I love you too, baby girl… I love you so much…”

Avelynna-Chloe clung to him as the second orgasm shattered through her, her body convulsing as she fell apart around him again. The pleasure was too much, it left her wrecked, limp. The last of her anger melted into weariness.

She murmured in a half-dazed voice as her eyes drifted shut. “…Silly old bat.”

Bruce let out a low chuckle. He cradled her tightly, one arm wrapped protectively around her back, the other stroking gentle circles into her bare spine. He still couldn’t believe how much he loved her—or that she finally said those three simple words to him.

“You’re a brat, Miss Avelynna-Chloe.”

Avelynna-Chloe hummed, her eyelids too heavy to open as she burrowed into his chest. A long moment passed before she spoke, her voice a sleepy whisper. “Lynne.”

Bruce lifted his head slightly to look down at her. His brows furrowed. “Hmm? Lynne? What does that mean?”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t open her eyes. She was already halfway gone, her body soft with exhaustion. “Only strangers call me Avelynna-Chloe.”

She snuggled a little closer, her fingers curling lightly into his skin. “My friends called me Lynne.”

Bruce went still. The name landed like a stone in his gut—but not heavy with dread. Heavy with something far more human. Intimate. Real. He hadn’t known that. He’d never asked. In all the years of surveillance, tension, slow-burning war between their bodies and minds—he’d never once asked if she had a name that made her feel… like herself.

His throat felt tight as he repeated the word, reverently, like it meant more than she could ever guess.

“…Lynne.”

The sound of it felt warm on his tongue. Like sunlight peeking through cracks in an old wall. He buried his face into her hair and inhaled deeply, breathing in her scent again.

She smelled like home.

His voice was gruff when he spoke, “Lynne… Bruce. Both one syllable. Both end with “e.” Even your full name still ends with it. That can’t be just a coincidence.”

Avelynna-Chloe gave a small, sleepy huff of laughter against his chest. It was so faint it barely registered, but it was there. A ghost of a smile curved her lips.

“Don’t you start with fate brought us together or something like that…”

Her words trailed off into a drowsy mumble. Her body was already slack, sleep pulling her under fast.

Bruce smiled down at her, “You have to admit, it’s kind of amazing. Same number of letters. Same last sound. How is that not fate?”

Avelynna-Chloe let out another sleepy breath. She barely managed to mumble, “So cheesy… you Dork Knight…”

She didn’t even make it to the second word before sleep took her.

Bruce almost giggled. She’d called him a dork. Not a bastard. Not a prick. Not a cold, paranoid son of a bitch. A dork.

His heart felt lighter than it had in decades.

He watched her, brushing his hand slowly through her hair, letting the silence settle between them like a blanket. He could feel her heartbeat through her skin—steady now, not racing. Her breathing was slow and calm. She was safe.

Only when he was sure she was deep asleep did he finally speak again. “And you’re the love of my life.”

No teasing. No heat. Just the truth.

The world outside could burn tomorrow, but tonight… she was in his arms.

Darkseid was using her as a tool to seduce the leader of the Justice League?

Well then, both Batman and Bruce Wayne were happily trapped.

Chapter 16: The Blood Bible

The next few months of their marriage were nothing short of chaotic—in the most unexpected, beautiful way.

Bruce found himself in foreign territory: as a husband hopelessly, pathetically in love—with a wife who barely looked at him like he was anything more than an annoyance half the time.

Somehow, he loved every second of it.

He woke up each morning with Avelynna-Chloe’s soft hair tickling his throat, her legs tangled with his, her scent already woven into the sheets. Every single day, without fail, he devoted himself to the same goal: earning her heart.

He was all in. No pride, no masks, no manipulations—just honest, relentless affection.

He spoiled her beyond reason. If she glanced at something—anything—he bought it. Jewelry she never wore? It was hers. She sighed at a fashion show on TV? Her closet doubled in size by the week. Designer bags, sparkly heels? Delivered daily. Barbies and plushies? An entire corner in their bedroom had become their second kingdom. She mentioned a snack? It arrived the next day in every variation imaginable.

He didn’t stop there.

It wasn’t about the gifts. Not really.

It was about attention. About presence. And Bruce gave it to her shamelessly.

He touched her every chance he got. A hand on the small of her back when she walked by. His palm at her waist when they stood in the kitchen. Fingers threading through her hair while she read in the library. Cheek resting on her shoulder while she ignored him, and when she raised an eyebrow or gave him that flat, unimpressed look, he’d just grin—completely unbothered.

She called him a clingy old bat. He took it as a term of endearment.

She still acted cold. Still insulted him like it was her favorite hobby. Still rolled her eyes and muttered curses in Apokoliptian when he flirted too much. She smacked his arm or shoved his face away when he got too close just to tease—but never hard.

It was absurd—a billionaire working overtime to woo his own wife. She slept beside him every night, wrapped around him like a second skin—and still acted like he hadn’t earned her trust yet.

Her stubbornness should’ve pissed him off. But Bruce was stubborn, too. And stupidly, undeniably in love.

She thought her bitterness could push him away. But she didn’t understand men like him. Hunters didn’t quit when the prey ran. They chased harder. And Bruce wasn’t just any man—he was an Alpha with a heart that only beat for her. Any other man would’ve killed to compete for a princess like her. Honestly, he wouldn’t have blamed them.

Because he was a lovestruck idiot.

An obsessed, possessive, most emotionally unavailable man in love with a girl young enough to be his daughter—and he didn’t care. He only knew he loved her. He was going to win her heart, even if it took a lifetime.

And though Avelynna-Chloe was bratty, cheeky, endlessly frustrating—she never pushed him too far.

She let him be close. Let him follow her like some watchdog with bedroom eyes and a protective streak a mile wide. She let him rest his head on her lap while she read her comics. She pretended to be unfazed when he stepped out of the gym shirtless—but the way her magazine shot up to cover her red face said otherwise.

And in bed? Every night, she wore some kind of lingerie. Every damn night. It was never the same—sometimes satin, sometimes lace, sometimes barely-there silk that was more sinful than clothing. She took him in like she was claiming him. Every movement, every breath, every moan—hers. Her legs tightened around his waist when he went too deep, her nails raked down his back like she wanted him to lose control. And he did. Every time.

Then she held his hand when he came back from patrol, bloodied and sore, and sat silently while she patched him up. She scolded him for staying out too late, only to fall asleep at the Batcomputer console waiting for him to return. Even in the middle of his work in the cave, she’d climb into his lap without a word. Just curled up like a sleepy bunny with cold toes.

“The bed doesn’t smell like you anymore,” she’d mumble against his chest then fall asleep with her face pressed to his heartbeat.

She hadn’t said she loved him again. Not once. Not in words.

But he wasn’t worried.

Because sometimes love wasn’t loud. Sometimes it was in the way she touched his face when she thought he was asleep. In the way she kissed his pulse. In the way she stayed.

For now—that was more than enough.

 

⸻

 

The idea to step up the game had come to Bruce in one of his quieter moments—those rare slivers of stillness when Avelynna-Chloe wasn’t teasing him, wasn’t pushing him away with a smirk or pretending not to care.

A birthday. Her birthday. A small party. Just the two of them.

Only—he didn’t know when it was.

She had never told him. Not once, not even when he asked directly. She’d just brushed it off with a shrug, “Not important.” And back then when he went through the Apokoliptian intelligence web, there was nothing about her in the system—no official record, no paper trail, no birth certificate. Of course not. That would’ve been too easy.

It wasn’t until one night, while trying to log into the Netflix account she’d taken over, that he saw the clue. Her password. A string of random letters and numbers—except it wasn’t random. The numbers at the end were familiar.

A date. At the end of September.

He checked her passwords on other streaming accounts. Still those same numbers.

So she did have a birthday. She did remember it. She just didn’t think anyone else should.

Well, that was about to change.

From that day on, Bruce put a plan in motion. Quiet, careful, utterly covert—just the way he worked best. It started with baking classes.

Baking.

God help him.

He signed up for them under a false name. It felt strange at first—leaving the office earlier than usual, sneaking off to a downtown culinary studio instead of a stakeout or boardroom meeting. He told her he had “overtime.” She didn’t question it, though he caught the way her eyes narrowed once or twice.

He learned everything about mousse—how to stabilize it, how to get the perfect texture, how to fold peach purée just right without deflating the mix. It was messy at first. Frustrating. But he got better. And the more he imagined her cutting into that soft, peach-colored cake with that surprised little gasp she made when something touched her, the harder he worked.

Then came the present.

That was harder. He already bought her everything. He was running out of luxuries to throw at her. So he thought. And thought.

Until he remembered the bullets.

Every single one she’d taken out of him over the years. The ones she yanked from his body while swearing under her breath. She’d dump them in the tray, muttering that he was a cockroach for not dying.

He never threw them out. He’d kept them all.

Now he had them melted down—personally supervised the alloy. Then remade into hairclips. Sleek and sharp, minimalist, polished with a black matte sheen. Prada-style. Miu Miu-style. But in the shape of his bat symbol.

He held the finished set in his hand for a long time.

Next, the card.

It had to be handwritten. Not typed. Not printed.

He went to look for the most expensive ink in the manor—the one Alfred had custom bottles made, back when the butler thought Bruce might take up calligraphy or restore Wayne family records by hand. He’d never touched them. Only Alfred had. They were kept in a small drawer in his old room.

But the drawer was empty.

He blinked at it, frowning. He could’ve sworn—the last time he’d seen the ink was three years ago. Just a week after she’d moved in.

He didn’t think much of it, just got on the phone and placed an order.

Until he smelled smoke.

It was early morning. He was passing through the hallway above the east garden when something made him stop.

Smoke. Faint. Barely noticeable.

He followed it. Down the stairs. To the side door that led out into the garden. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, and there was a chill in the air.

The fire had already died out.

Ash still floated lazily in the wind, gray strands catching the breeze like they were too tired to rise. Avelynna-Chloe was kneeling beside it—her hair windblown, her eyes distant and heavy.

He asked her what she was doing.

She didn’t look at him. Just bowed her head a little and murmured, “I wanted to grill marshmallows.”

He knew she was lying.

But he didn’t press. Not then.

It wasn’t just that.

Later, as he was passing her room door, he saw her hoodie—his old hoodie, really—hanging from the doorknob. Something about it looked off. He reached out to take it down.

He touched the sleeve.

And froze.

It was soaked.

But not with water. Not with juice or tea. Not with rain.

With blood.

 

⸻

 

Bruce nearly lost it.

The moment his fingers brushed that blood-soaked sleeve, his mind spiraled into a place darker than the Batcave itself. For a breathless second, all he could see was that night. That moment—when rage, grief, and something uglier had twisted inside him. When he’d grabbed her by the throat. The horror in her eyes. The silence afterward.

What if she hadn’t truly recovered?

What if she never did?

He tore through the manor in a blur of panic until he found her—there, in the drawing room, hunched over the oak table like she was made of crystal and could shatter if someone even looked at her too hard.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t hear him at first.

Her pen moved fast, frantic strokes across old parchment—each letter beautiful, elegant… and trembling. Her whole hand shook. Her breathing was shallow. The smell hit him next—metallic, strange, familiar. The ink glimmered faint violet under the warm chandelier light, nestled in a small dish beside her elbow.

Bruce stepped forward without thinking.

He reached out and took her wrist.

“Lynne.”

She flinched—but she didn’t pull away.

His gaze dropped. The sleeve of her sweater had ridden up slightly, and now he could see them—thin red lines crisscrossing her pale skin. Not just one or two. Dozens. He peeled the fabric back gently, revealing neatly bandaged scratches, layers hidden from him for God knew how long.

There was too much blood.

“What is this?” His voice came out like gravel. Low. Dangerous. Not at her, but at the pain. At the hidden burden she’d been carrying alone. “What are you doing?”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t answer right away.

When she looked up at him, her face was a mess of ash, guilt, and something rawer—shame, maybe. Her fingers were smudged with ink.

“I’m writing copies of the Kal’xiren,” she whispered. “The Apokoliptian Book of Passage. Our… bible. I’m burning them in the garden.”

He stared at her, too stunned to respond. That was what she’d been doing all those mornings? That was what the ink was for?

“Why?” he finally managed.

She looked down, shoulders curling in on themselves. “For your parents. Thomas and Martha Wayne.”

The names struck him harder than a bullet. They were never spoken aloud. Not like that.

“I’m blessing their souls in the Eternal Fire,” she continued, voice thin. “Like we do back on Apokolips. I thought… maybe if I made enough copies, enough prayers, and burned them in a holy flame, it would reach them.”

Bruce’s breath caught.

He couldn’t speak.

But then he forced out, “How long have you been doing this?”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t meet his eyes.

“Since I lived here.”

He clenched his jaw.

“I thought the scratches were from your needlework,” he said hoarsely.

“They were,” she murmured. “At first. I thought I could just use the blood that leaked naturally. But… it wasn’t enough.”

“You think they need it?” his voice cracked.

“No,” she hesitated. “I think they deserve it. Because it was my family who started everything. Darkseid sent the Parademon that scared Joe Chill. If that hadn’t happened…”

Her voice trailed off.

“They might still be alive.”

Bruce swallowed hard.

“Sweetheart,” he said, gripping her wrist gently but firmly. “You had nothing to do with what happened to my parents.”

“But I carry his blood.” Her eyes welled up. “I don’t want to. I never did. But it’s still there. I thought… if I used that blood to write the prayers, maybe they’d mean something. Maybe they’d carry more weight.”

Bruce’s chest ached. His hands were shaking now too.

He didn’t have words—not at first.

He simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him.

Ink-stained fingers. Blood-streaked sleeves. Old, smudged parchment on the table.

He didn’t care.

He just held her.

“You never needed to do any of that,” he said, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “You honor them just by being who you are.”

“But I’m not clean,” she whispered brokenly.

“No, don’t ever think that. You are.”

Avelynna-Chloe broke.

Not with a scream. Not with a sob. But with a collapse—like all her weight had been held up by guilt alone, and the moment it gave way, she folded into him.

She cried.

She let it all out—quiet, painful, soul-deep weeping. Her whole body shook against him, and Bruce—who had once vowed to keep everyone at a distance—held her like she was something too precious to ever let go.

That night, he carried her to their bedroom, laid her down gently, and returned to the drawing room.

He gathered every piece of parchment she’d written—delicate, blood-and-ink-filled pages of ancient scripture. He stored them in an archival case. They would not burn. Not anymore.

Then, with her watching from the bed, he did something she never expected.

He took a sterile blade from the kit beside her gauze.

To cut his own palm.

Deep enough to bleed.

Her eyes widened.

He let his blood drip into the dish of remaining ink—dark crimson curling through violet. It swirled together with hers, forming something new. Something sacred. He sealed it in a bottle. Labeled it. Dated it. Set it beside the scrolls.

“You don’t carry the blame alone,” he said, walked over and knelt before her, his hand still bandaged but steady, and brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

“And I’ll keep these.” His voice was devout. “Not because they’re apologies.”

He looked at her—truly looked.

“But because they’re love.”

The only kind of love someone like her—pure, wounded, quietly burning—could offer.

He would treasure it forever.

 

⸻

 

The next morning, Bruce canceled everything.

Meetings. Calls. Wayne Foundation briefings. Even patrol. Lucius didn’t bother asking why—he just cleared the schedule and warned the employees not to disturb Mr. Wayne under any circumstances.

Because today was important.

Today was her day.

She didn’t even know it.

Avelynna-Chloe spent the morning dazed—partly from the residual blood loss, partly from the emotional crash of last night’s breakdown. She floated around the manor—her steps a bit clumsier than usual, her fingers cold when Bruce brushed them with his own. Her skin was paler, and she blinked as if her mind was still behind her body.

Bruce followed her all day—never straying far. He made her tea, cooked her eggs, took her embroidery basket to the sunroom, and helped her nap when the dizziness returned.

She didn’t ask why he was home. She didn’t ask why the dining hall smelled faintly of vanilla and peach.

She didn’t suspect a thing.

Not until dinner.

Bruce emerged from the kitchen holding a small cake—soft, creamy, layered with peach mousse and sponge. On top of it was a pink, sparkly bow-shaped candle already flickering with light.

Avelynna-Chloe blinked, disoriented.

“…What is this?” she asked, as though the concept were foreign.

Bruce gave her a smile.

“Happy birthday, Lynne.”

She blinked again. “How… how do you know that?”

He shrugged casually, even as his heart thudded from the sight of her bewilderment. “Netflix password.”

Her expression twisted into something between amusement and disbelief. “You stalked my password?”

“You left it saved on the guest account,” he said. “Not very stealthy, princess.”

Her fingers curled lightly on her lap. Her eyes dropped to the cake again. “We… we don’t do this on Apokolips.”

Bruce didn’t need to ask why. He knew. A planet built on conquest, slavery, and death wouldn’t need to remember birthdays. Wouldn’t need to remind their children they were once born. They were raised for war—not celebration.

She reached forward slowly, as if unsure she was even allowed to touch it.

“I’ve never had one before,” she whispered. “Not a real one.”

His heart cracked.

“Well,” he said, “you’re not on Apokolips anymore.”

He reached out, his hand brushing her cheek before resting against her nape. “Make a wish.”

Avelynna-Chloe stared at the candle’s flame for a long moment. Her pink eyes shimmered—not from the light, but from the emotion she fought to hold back.

Almost in a whisper, she closed her eyes and said, “I wish… for peace across the galaxy. For every soul—past, present, and future—to find their happiness. And… hopefully I could be one of them.”

The words sank straight through Bruce.

She leaned forward, blew out the candle. The room dimmed slightly as the flame disappeared.

He stepped away just long enough to grab the box from the mantle. Silver ribbon. Black wrapping paper. No tag.

“Here you go.”

Avelynna-Chloe took it with both hands, still blinking like this was all unreal. When she peeled back the ribbon and unwrapped the box, she gasped.

Hairclips.

Not store-bought ones. Handmade. Delicate, glimmering bat symbols—the metal sleek, dark, and elegant. Cool to the touch. It looked expensive, but it felt personal.

Because it was.

She looked up, stunned. “These…?”

“I melted down all the bullets you’ve pulled out of me.”

Her mouth fell open. “You kept them?”

“Every single one.”

She stared at him, touched beyond words. Bruce stepped forward, took the clips from her hands, and brushed her hair back. He clipped them into place—one on each side. His fingers grazed her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

Avelynna-Chloe flushed, then said with casualness, “You know… on Apokolips, when a man gives a woman hairclips, it’s considered an act of commitment.”

Bruce paused. Then smirked. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “Just like how women give men handkerchiefs.”

He grinned. “Like how you made that handkerchief for me?”

She scoffed and reached for the cake, clearly trying to change the subject.

He stopped her gently with a hand on her wrist. “Dinner first. Cake is dessert.”

Then began his mission: coaxing her through an absolute feast of red meat.

A ribeye. A filet mignon. A whole tomahawk steak. She tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“You need iron,” he said. “You lost too much blood.”

She grumbled. She pouted. She tried to shove food back on his plate. He just spoon-fed her another bite every time. It took forever—but by the end of it, she was miraculously able to finish the entire cake and down a glass of milk.

Bruce scooped her into his arms without a word and carried her to bed.

Avelynna-Chloe was full and drowsy now. He laid her down carefully, tucked the sheets around her, and climbed in beside her.

She sighed, half-asleep already, then mumbled, “If your parents met me… they probably wouldn’t like me.”

Bruce frowned. “That’s not true.”

She stared at the ceiling, voice foggy. “It is. My father indirectly caused their deaths… and I’m young enough to be their granddaughter. They’d think this whole thing is weird.”

Bruce’s chest tightened with a flicker of self-consciousness.

He cleared his throat, slightly flustered. “So… you do think it’s weird? Being married to an old man?”

She turned her head toward him, half-lidded eyes surprisingly sharp. “I’m not into guys my age. Too loud. Too immature. I… like the gray in your hair.”

Bruce blinked.

“And your eyebrows,” she added dreamily.

He stared.

“And your beard too.”

He grinned.

It was the kind of smug, delighted grin that belonged on a man twenty years younger—a man who’d just scored the winning point in a game he wasn’t supposed to win.

Before he could tease her, her breathing had already slowed.

She’d fallen asleep.

Bruce looked down at her—this brilliant, stubborn girl who came from a world of fire but somehow ended up in his arms.

He leaned in close, stroked her hair gently, brushed his lips against her temple, and whispered the words only for her to hear.

“Silly young lady… You have no idea how much I love you.”

Then closed his eyes, with her warmth curled around him and the scent of peach and milk lingering in the air—

He fell asleep too.

Chapter 17: SpongeBob And Patrick 🔞

A month later, the air began to shift. The leaves turned amber and gold, Gotham’s sky settled into its dusky gray gloom, and the stores started piling candies in the windows.

Halloween was approaching—and Bruce, in a rare stroke of overconfidence, decided it might be a good opportunity to cheer his wife up.

“You can go all in this year,” he told Avelynna-Chloe, thinking—foolishly—that it would give her something fun to do.

He regretted it immediately.

Because though he’d faced down Darkseid without blinking, broken bones without flinching, watched the world turn its back on him, survived countless wars, but nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared him for the sheer psychological warfare that was… Halloween with his Lynne.

She started small. Innocent.

Pumpkin carving.

At least it was supposed to be small.

But it turned into a massacre.

She butchered dozens of pumpkins across the kitchen counter, the balcony, the garden, the greenhouse—there were seeds and guts everywhere. He stopped counting at thirty-seven. He now suspected somehow, in some cursed reality, the Wayne family was funding Gotham’s pumpkin market through her alone.

And every ruined pumpkin? Didn’t go to waste.

She cooked them.

Bruce—who loved her, who would rather die than let her think her efforts weren’t appreciated—ate them.

Sautéed pumpkin with garlic. Pumpkin and sausage soup. Pumpkin stew. Pumpkin pasta. Pumpkin risotto. Pumpkin pie.

PUMPKIN.

For. A. Week.

He had to suppress the urge to cry every time she beamed and asked, “Is it good?”

It was… edible.

Then came the decorations.

Wayne Manor—once regal, somber, and elegant—was now a haunted rave house met sorority craft explosion.

Neon spiderwebs crawled up every wall. Ghost balloons floated from the chandeliers. Hundreds of tiny, glitter-covered bat charms were scattered across the hallways, so stealthily placed that Bruce genuinely thought he’d stepped on a mine when one snapped underfoot.

“Sweetie,” he groaned the fourth time it happened, massaging his heel, “you’re going to give me a cardiac episode.”

Avelynna-Chloe only grinned and kissed his cheek. “You said all in.”

It didn’t stop there.

One day she took one of his old white shirts, cut uneven holes in it, and started jumping out from behind curtains going “Boo!” like some knockoff horror-themed gremlin.

Bruce pretended to be scared every time, just to see her double over laughing.

She laughed so hard once, the cloth twisted and slid over her eyes mid-sprint—and she nearly fell down the stairs.

Bruce caught her just in time, pulling her into his arms.

“You’re trying to kill both of us,” he muttered.

She just laughed harder, “Worth it.”

Then came the witches.

She bought giant inflatable witches—plural—that kept triggering the manor’s security system. One stood in the courtyard. One on the balcony. One—God help him—on the roof.

The fire alarm went off every hour. The manor sounded like a full-blown emergency zone. Bruce nearly yanked the entire system offline until he figured out how to isolate her chaos from the central sensors.

Not that it helped his nerves.

Because then came the props.

He opened the bathroom one morning, groggy, half-asleep—and came face to face with a skeleton sitting on the sink, holding a loofah.

He screamed. Not loudly, of course—just a manly, dignified, soul-leaving-his-body sort of inhale.

The worst was the garage.

His sacred garage.

The one place he didn’t show her when she first moved in, specifically because he didn’t want her anywhere near his most prized car collection.

One afternoon, he pulled into the driveway and saw blood. Trailing along the ground, leading into the garage.

He braced himself, heart thundering, preparing for the crime scene—

Only to find a fake mangled corpse half-crushed under his Rolls-Royce.

And beside it?

His giggling, giddy little Lynne with Alfred’s ancient chainsaw, pulling at the cord like she was trying to summon a demon.

“Lynne—!”

“I was just gonna saw the mannequin in half for realism!”

“Put it down before you hurt yourself, or me, or the fucking manor!”

That evening, Bruce gave up.

Movie night. That was his last resort. Keep her occupied. Distract her.

He picked horror—Avelynna-Chloe was scared of horror.

He started softly. The Haunted Mansion.

She loved it.

Too much.

She made notes the entire time. She wanted Wayne Manor to look like that mansion by next Halloween.

So he upgraded the horror.

The Silence Of The Lambs.

She watched it like it was a gourmet cooking show.

“I like Hannibal,” she said thoughtfully. “Can you cook like him?”

Bruce blinked. “You want me to serve you liver with chianti?”

“Foie gras with chianti.”

So came the nuclear option.

Hereditary.

The lights were off. The trauma was heavy. And when the credits rolled, Avelynna-Chloe was trembling beside him, eyes wide, mouth slack.

She didn’t speak. She just clung to him. Like a koala. Tucked into his side with both arms and legs wrapped around him. When they got into bed, she still wouldn’t let go.

Bruce had never been happier.

He tucked the blankets around her. Pulled her close. Buried his face into her hair.

His little hellion, finally subdued.

He grinned quietly in the dark.

Victory.

Even if it cost him the manor, his sleep, and several years off his life.

At least now, with her soft and warm and curled into his chest, he had peace.

At least until Halloween night came.

But that would be its own disaster.

He’d be ready for it.

Probably.

 

⸻

 

Halloween night arrived like a prophecy foretold in chaos.

Bruce had been praying since the afternoon. Repeatedly.

“Please let it be mild. Let her be calm. Let her idea of Halloween night be staying in, sipping milk, watching something vaguely spooky. Maybe Hocus Pocus. Or Coraline. Something… manageable.”

At first, it seemed like his prayers worked.

All Avelynna-Chloe did was filling two pumpkin buckets at the front door—one with peach candies, the other with mango-flavored ones, both color-coordinated to an absurdly cute aesthetic. She even tied bows on the handles.

But Bruce had fought too many wars to let his guard down.

She was too quiet. Too sweet. Too… suspiciously well-behaved.

Something was coming. He could feel it.

Then it hit him.

She’s going to ask to go trick-or-treating.

He groaned internally, already imagining the looks on the Leaguers’ faces if they saw Batman out collecting candy like an overgrown child.

And what was she going to wear? She liked Mortal Kombat, right? Maybe Kitana. Or Mileena.

Actually… Kitana might not be so bad.

Wait—no. That was exactly the problem. She couldn’t go outside dressed like that. That kind of costume was for his eyes only.

Bruce was still deep in a very dangerous fantasy spiral when Avelynna-Chloe bounced into his study like a sugar-high fairy, eyes sparkling.

“Guess what you get to be?”

That was the moment he should’ve jumped out of the window.

Now he was standing in their bedroom. In front of a full-length mirror.

Wearing a bright yellow inflatable SpongeBob SquarePants costume.

It squeaked. Every time he moved.

He could feel his dignity hemorrhaging.

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” he muttered, not even looking at himself anymore.

“Noooo,” came her far-too-pleased voice. She waddled into view like the unholy offspring of a marshmallow and a jellyfish—in a matching inflatable Patrick Star suit. Pink. Round. Horrifying. Adorable.

She clutched her glittery pumpkin bucket like it was a scepter of doom. “This,” she declared, “is the best thing you’ve ever done. We’re gonna look so good together.”

Bruce stared.

At her.

At himself.

Back at her.

“I’m a grown man,” he grumbled. “I run multinational corporations. I’ve fought gods. I’ve punched your tyrant father in the face.”

“Now you’re gonna get candy with your wife and tell people you live in a pineapple under the sea,” Avelynna-Chloe reached up and booped his nose through the costume.

He said something that made the manor windows rattle. She only giggled louder.

It took a team effort to get him out the door—mostly her yanking and pushing and whispering encouragements like, “Come on, be the sponge!” while he groaned like a man being led to execution.

His broad frame got wedged in the door.

He made eye contact with the statue in the foyer.

He’d never felt more judged.

Miraculously—they made it outside.

Now Gotham’s wealthiest couple was waddling through the neighborhood, hand-in-squeaky-hand, drawing stares that would’ve made TMZ foam at the mouth.

Children screamed in delight. Parents laughed.

Avelynna-Chloe chanted “Trick or treat!” at every door like she was casting a spell. Her glittery pumpkin bucket filled rapidly.

Bruce tried.

He really tried. He sighed. He dragged his feet.

But then—somewhere around house seven—her tiny hand slipped into his through the costume flap.

He gave in. Just a little.

“You owe me for this,” he grunted.

“One hundred percent,” she beamed. “I’ll pay in kisses.”

“…I should ask if this gets any more ridiculous…”

“Oh, it will,” she chirped, skipping ahead slightly. “Next year, you’re gonna be Hello Kitty.”

He stopped. Dead in his tracks.

“Fuck no.”

“Too late,” she sang. “I already bought it.”

 

⸻

 

Eventually, Bruce started adjusting. He hated to admit it, but he did.

Halloween night had become… survivable.

His pride had taken irreparable damage, yes—shattered into jagged little pieces scattered behind him like the remains of an exploded Batwing.

But Avelynna-Chloe was glowing.

Sugar rush in her veins, cheeks flushed pink under her Patrick Star suit, laughter spilling out of her in waves—she was having the time of her life.

And he was falling a little harder than he already had.

Because seeing her like this? It did something to him.

Something big. Something permanent.

Then fate, as it always did, kicked him in the face.

They rounded the last corner near the manor gates, the glow of the porch lights barely visible through the trees—and Bruce saw him.

Commissioner Jim Gordon.

Walking his dog. Probably keeping a distant eye on his grandkids going door-to-door down the street.

Bruce froze.

Gordon squinted. Trying to make sense of the banana-yellow, squeaky, inflatable blob waddling toward him in the dark like a rejected mascot. He tilted his head slowly. Like a confused owl. “…Mr. Wayne?”

There was no saving this. No lie he could tell. No shadow to hide in.

So Bruce did the only thing a man in an inflatable SpongeBob costume could do.

He ran.

As fast as the foam suit would allow—which, to be clear, wasn’t fast at all. He moved like a malfunctioning parade float.

“No—where are you—!”

Avelynna-Chloe shouted behind him, cackling so hard she could barely speak.

His oversized foam feet caught on the curb.

He flailed. Arms pinwheeling.

Then—gravity.

He tripped.

Like some cursed yellow Michelin Man, Bruce Wayne—the Dark Knight, the Caped Crusader, the World’s Greatest Detective—began to roll.

Down.

The.

Hill.

Like a cartoon cheese wheel.

MRRRFFMPH—

The costume wheezed and puffed with every bounce. His limbs flailed. His dignity cried for mercy.

Gordon just stared. Motionless. Speechless.

The dog barked once.

Avelynna-Chloe was no help.

She sprinted after her husband, gasping for air between hysterical laughter, bouncing like a bright pink balloon.

By the time Bruce rolled to a squeaky stop at the bottom of the street—crumpled in a pathetic pile of nylon and crushed honor—she had collapsed on the ground beside him.

“You—” she wheezed, barely able to breathe, “you actually rolled like a fruit roll-up!”

Bruce groaned. Flat on his back. Face to the sky.

But he didn’t snap. Didn’t curse the heavens like he normally would.

He just listened.

To her.

That high, uncontrolled, feral laughter. The kind that shook her whole body, made her eyes water, her nose crinkle, and her voice go squeaky at the ends.

It was joy. Raw, childlike joy.

He hadn’t heard a sound like that in decades.

Not since before the alley. Before the gunshot. Before the orphanhood.

For a second—just a second—he let it all fall away.

The city. The burden. The cowl.

It was just him and her.

She wasn’t afraid to laugh at him—and it didn’t hurt. Not even a little.

She laughed like the world was safe.

He found himself chuckling. Deep and tired and real.

Then he turned his head, looking up at her from the pavement, eyes soft.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

“Not even in death,” she hiccuped.

“I’m surrounded by enemies,” he groaned, trying to sit up in the poofy yellow mass.

Avelynna-Chloe dropped to her knees beside him, still beaming. Her glitter bucket had tipped over—mini lollipops rolling across the street like shrapnel. She cupped his absurdly inflated face and kissed right where his cheek should be.

“Now let’s go to the Watchtower.”

He choked.

“NO!” His scream echoed through the trees.

She laughed even harder, tipping sideways and lying down next to him, kicking her legs like a starfish being tickled.

Bruce stayed there, utterly defeated.

And in love.

So fucking in love.

 

⸻

 

Wayne Manor’s heavy doors groaned open as the two waddled in—one deflated SpongeBob, one barely-holding-it-together Patrick.

Avelynna-Chloe was still laughing.

“Stop—stop making that face,” she wheezed, tears threatening the corners of her eyes as Bruce dragged his half-deflated costume up the stairs like it was a corpse he needed to bury.

“I’m not making a face,” he growled, his voice muffled inside the giant sponge head.

“You look like a soggy crouton. Rolling around like you’ve lost on a Slip ’n Slide.”

He groaned again, but there was no bite behind it. Not when her giggles were still echoing in the stairwell.

By the time they got to their room, Bruce flopped onto the edge of the bed, arms out like a felled tree, as Avelynna-Chloe snorted and began unfastening the cursed costume from his limbs.

“Hold still,” she ordered, tugging at a hidden zipper. “You’re like one of those vacuum-sealed food bags—except with more grumbling.”

He said nothing, only glared. But she kissed the scowl right off his lips.

One inflatable appendage at a time, she peeled the suit off him, revealing the sweat-soaked, muscular form beneath. When she finally tugged the massive yellow head off his shoulders, Bruce inhaled like a man freed from a plastic prison.

“Your turn,” he grunted, already reaching to unzip her costume with far more precision than necessary.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna be gentle, or rip it off like a candy wrapper?”

“Keep laughing at me and find out.”

They tossed the costumes into a heap, both of them standing in nothing but the Halloween-themed underwear she insisted on buying—pumpkin print boxers for him, a pink bat-laced panties for her. She didn’t wear a bra—“the costume was thick enough to cover,” she said.

Bruce stepped into the sauna. Avelynna-Chloe padded in behind him like a duckling.

He sighed as the steam enveloped them. The ridiculous night had ended, but her laughter still echoed in his ears. She settled next to him, cheek resting on his shoulder, fingers tracing lazy circles over the scars beneath his collarbone.

“You’re lucky I didn’t record you,” she grinned.

“I’m lucky you didn’t call the press,” he shot back.

“Yet.”

His head tilted down, mock-glowering. “My lap. Now. Before I drown you in bubbles.”

She pouted and climbed onto him, thighs straddling his hips. His arm slid around her waist protectively.

“You really didn’t mind the costume, did you?” she asked softly.

He exhaled a laugh. “I hated every second of it.”

“But?”

He looked down at her lashes, “But I’d do it again, just to hear you laugh like that.”

She blinked. Her lips parted like she wanted to answer, but didn’t. Instead, she leaned up and pressed a tender kiss to his jaw.

“I always love people who willingly throw away their dignity just to make me laugh,” she whispered. “Thank you. Tonight was… one of the best nights of my life.”

His lips curved, cocky and pleased. “Then I want a reward.”

She giggled faintly as her fingers dipped into the glittery pumpkin bucket beside them. “Okay,” she smiled. “Let’s play.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Guess what flavor it is,” she said, unwrapping the candy. “But close your eyes. Only mouth.”

A smirk tugged at his lips.

He obeyed.

The candy pressed against his lips first, then her mouth—sweet, melting between them in a kiss that tasted like honey. Her tongue swept softly against his, playful, deliberate. When she pulled back just an inch, breath caught between their mouths, he tasted it instantly.

“Mmh… strawberry,” he murmured against her lips.

“Good job.”

He kissed her harder.

And again.

And again.

One by one, the candies disappeared—orange creams, cherry blossoms, a lemon drop that made her gasp before he swallowed it from her lips. Their mouths never truly separated, only shifted, deeper each time. Her hand drifted up his chest, nails grazing the line of his sternum, while his settled on her thigh—possessive.

By the time they reached the bottom of the bucket, his breath had grown heavier, and so had hers. The heat between them had nothing to do with the steam anymore.

Then Bruce felt it.

The wet ache of her arousal, right where her body pressed into him. Her breath hitched. Her face flushed, glowing under the dim lighting—beautiful, dazed, and biting her lower lip. She shifted—just slightly—but enough that he felt her slick warmth stain his lap.

His hand slid from her thigh to her waist, anchoring her in place.

He murmured near her ear, voice low and rough, “You’re soaked.”

She buried her face in his neck, groaning in embarrassment. “It’s your fault,” she mumbled, breathless. “You kissed me like that.”

He chuckled darkly, tilting her face back toward him.

“I want dessert,” he said, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“We already had cand—”

Before Avelynna-Chloe could ask what he meant, Bruce gently flipped her—effortlessly, like she weighed nothing. Her gasp was muffled as he pulled her body to align with his, upside down now, her thighs resting on either side of his head.

It took her a heartbeat to realize what he was doing.

“W-Wait—!”

But he’d already ripped off her panties and dipped his head. His mouth closed around her cunt, drinking in the taste of her like he’d been starving for it.

She moaned—and instinctively leaned down—hand trailing along his stomach to pull down his boxers, lips brushing against the length of his cock.

She matched his pace. Met his hunger with her own. They moved like a mirrored current—one overwhelming, the other unraveling. His low, breathless grunt was all the encouragement she needed.

As he gripped her hips a little tighter, the way his voice rasped her name against her thighs, she could tell his release was coming. When they both came—seconds apart, bodies shuddering in perfect sync—it felt like falling into the stars.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t hesitate. She took all of his cum, swallowed every drop he gave her, as if it was a vow she meant to keep.

They finally slowed—both shaking, spent—he turned his head just enough to press a reverent kiss to her inner thigh, as if to say thank you.

Then he gently eased her off of him and sat up, catching her in his arms like she was something rare. Something holy.

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“I wanted to,” she whispered, cheeks flushed but unashamed. “I love how you taste when you love me.”

His throat tightened.

The words weren’t loud.

But they were enough.

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was trust. Worship. Desire in its purest, rawest form.

Later, Bruce carried her out of the sauna and into the marble tub, where she lay across his chest, body still trembling from aftershocks.

For a long time, they didn’t speak.

Just the silence of two souls, intertwined. And the kind of intimacy that came not just from closeness, but from knowing each other in a way no one else did.

He brushed a hand through her damp hair, curling his fingers behind her neck to hold her still. Their foreheads touched, breath to breath.

“You want to continue?” he asked.

Avelynna-Chloe shook her head.

“I want you to ruin me.”

That night, the water in the tub didn’t get a chance to cool down.

Chapter 18: Happy Turkey Day, Mr. Wayne

Another month had passed.

The Batmobile roared down Gotham’s backstreets like a predator hunting in the dark. Bruce’s grip on the wheel was firm, eyes sharp despite the hour. Criminals didn’t take holidays off—especially not Thanksgiving. For them, it meant distracted civilians, looser security, more targets.

He’d already stopped two muggings and intercepted a stolen truck by the Narrows. He was running on caffeine, grit, and sheer stubbornness. And he hadn’t realized that he hadn’t seen Avelynna-Chloe since coming home.

He didn’t check their room. Didn’t peek in the screening room like he usually did.

Just straight to the cave.

He’d make it up to her later.

At 4:12 AM, he spotted a shadowy group hauling crates from a neighborhood store. The alley reeked of gasoline and broken glass. One man jimmied the lock of a rusted delivery van, while another shoved a register into the trunk of a car.

Bruce dropped from the rooftop, cape billowing, boots silent against the cracked pavement. He landed behind them in the shadows and waited. Observing.

There were four. All armed.

One of them—tall, lean, late twenties, visibly nervous—was whispering something about how they needed to move faster.

Batman stepped into the dim light.

“Don’t do this.”

They all froze.

The crowbar clattered to the ground.

He raised both hands slowly, palms open.

“It’s not too late to walk away.”

The tall one hesitated.

Then one of the others—a hothead with a scar across his nose—pulled a gun and sneered. “The hell it ain’t. You picked the wrong alley, freak.”

Bruce said calmly. “There are food banks. Shelters. Programs. If you want to, I can help you.”

“You can help by dying,” the scarred one snapped—and fired.

The first bullet hit the armor. Barely staggered him. But that was the only warning they’d get.

Bruce moved like a storm.

He closed the distance in a blink—took the shooter down with a brutal punch to the throat and a disarming twist that snapped the wrist holding the pistol.

The second man tried to swing a crowbar—Bruce ducked, caught it mid-arc, twisted it free, and slammed it into the man’s gut. He crumpled with a wheeze.

The tall one turned to run—Bruce flicked a Batarang that clipped his leg and sent him sprawling into a heap of overturned trash bins.

The last tried to fire but fumbled with the safety. Bruce didn’t give him another chance. A quick jab to the ribs. A spinning kick that knocked the weapon from his hand. Then an elbow to the jaw that left him out cold.

Less than sixty seconds.

He tied them to a light pole like garbage bags left for morning pickup. Then contacted Gordon through the encrypted comm in his cowl.

“Four suspects, tied at Jefferson and Grover. Property damage minimal. Loot recovered.”

He moved to inspect the crates they were loading—mainly cash, but also random items. A set of dumbbells? What the hell? Were they planning to work out in between robberies?

Bruce picked one up, frowning.

Suddenly, someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned so fast his cape flared behind him. His eyes widened.

“Lynne??”

She stood there—barefoot, in his hoodie, blinking up at him with a sheepish smile and cheeks pink from the cold.

“What the—how—?!”

Startled, Bruce dropped the dumbbell. It landed right on his booted foot.

A thud. Then a string of very un-Batman-like curses erupted as he doubled over, groaning in pain.

Avelynna-Chloe winced but couldn’t stop the laugh bubbling up.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” she said between giggles, rushing to his side. “I didn’t mean to scare you! I just—that hit so hard—are you okay?”

“No,” Bruce growled. “You just dropped a fifteen-pound metal brick on my foot.”

“I didn’t drop it! You did!”

He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. Fair point.

“What are you even doing here?”

She bit her lip. “I, uh… might’ve snuck into the Batmobile earlier. I was just bored!”

Bruce stared.

Avelynna-Chloe twisted her fingers behind her back, stepping around the unconscious goons like they were harmless furniture.

“I opened the trunk,” she said. “Found the blanket and pillow you keep in there for emergencies. So I climbed in to nap. I didn’t mean to fall asleep for hours. I only woke up when you made a hard turn and I rolled over the spare grapple gun.”

Bruce looked like he was choosing between yelling and laughing. He chose neither.

Instead, he sighed. Long. Slow. Bone-deep.

“You stowed away in the Batmobile like a stray cat.”

Avelynna-Chloe nodded solemnly. “A very cozy, sleepy stray cat.”

“…And you didn’t think to call me?”

She grinned. “But then I wouldn’t get to see Batman punch criminals in person. You’re hot when you’re violent.”

Bruce groaned louder than when the dumbbell hit him.

“You’re going home. Now.”

“But—”

“No buts. You are never—never—hiding in the Batmobile again. What if I’d driven into a gang shootout? What if I’d brought you into an area filled with Fear Gas?”

“What if you’d remembered to say hi to your wife before vanishing into the night?” she shot back, folding her arms.

That silenced him.

Avelynna-Chloe softened at once. “I wasn’t mad,” she said. “Just a little lonely. I missed you.”

Bruce ran a hand down his face. Exhausted. But also guilty.

“You’re not a distraction,” he muttered. “You know that, right?”

She nodded, stepping closer. “I know.”

He reached out for her hand. “I just… I’ve been in mission mode lately. I should’ve checked on you.”

“I’m not upset,” she murmured. “I’m just glad I’m with you now.”

He closed the distance and pressed his forehead to hers, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re still in so much trouble.”

“Okay,” she whispered, hugging him tighter. “But I’m your trouble.”

He smiled, finally. One of those smiles that only she ever got to see.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

 

⸻

 

After that, Bruce limped toward the Batmobile, wincing with every step. He popped the driver’s side open, prepared to activate autopilot—his damn foot throbbed like a war drum.

But just as he reached for the wheel, her soft hand caught his wrist.

“Let me drive,” Avelynna-Chloe chirped with that far-too-pure smile.

Bruce squinted at her like she’d just suggested giving the Joker a babysitting job.

“…You?”

She nodded eagerly. “You’re hurt. I’ll take us home.”

He stared. Scanned her for signs of fever or recent head trauma. None.

“…Fine.”

Cautiously, he got into the passenger seat, and she skipped around to the driver’s side, climbing in like she was about to commandeer a spaceship.

And then it began.

Her feet dangled inches from the pedals. She wiggled her toes helplessly.

“Um… I can’t reach.”

Bruce reached across her and slammed the seat adjustment lever. The chair jerked forward, bringing her petite frame within stomping range of the pedals. She gave him a thumbs-up.

Then grabbed the wheel with both hands—gripping it like it might explode.

His stomach dropped.

“…Wait a minute.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you ever driven a car before?”

Avelynna-Chloe tilted her head. “Uh...”

Bruce nearly had a stroke.

“Do you know how to drive?”

She grinned sheepishly. “Nope!”

“Put it on autopilot. Now.”

“No,” she pouted, “what kind of supportive husband won’t teach his wife to drive the car of her dreams?”

“This isn’t a car, it’s a ballistic missile on wheels—!”

But it was too late.

The Batmobile growled to life as she hit the accelerator. With a screech loud enough to trigger local car alarms, they shot out of the alley like a torpedo.

“BRAKE!” Bruce barked as they nearly mowed down a mailbox.

“WHICH ONE IS BRAKE?!”

“Oh God—!”

The Batmobile spun in a wild loop around a corner, tires screeching, sparks flying. He grabbed the dash, the door, the roof, the seatbelt, his own face—anything.

Her face was a mix of joy and horror as she screamed “WHEEEEE—!” like she was on a rollercoaster at Disneyland.

“Actually, I have geometrylexia!” she shouted over the engine’s roar. “It’s a spatial math disorder—totally real on Apokolips! It affects my calculating, drawing, and controlling vehicles skills!”

“Now is the worst time to tell—watch out for the—!”

The Batmobile jumped a curb, took out a trash bin, and skidded back into the street like a mechanical demon on weed.

Avelynna-Chloe, cool as chaos itself, began to sing.

“The wheels on the bus go ’round and ’round, ’round and ’round, ’round and ’round…”

Bruce stared at her like she’d been possessed.

“Are you singing nursery rhymes?!”

“It helps me focus!” she shouted back.

“FOCUS HARDER!”

But she just launched into the next song.

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…”

The Batmobile nearly flew off a speed bump.

“MERRILY? MERRILY?! This isn’t merry! This is vehicular homicide with a musical soundtrack—!”

Somehow—by the mercy of every god and quantum probability—they didn’t crash. They didn’t get spotted. No thugs. No patrols. No Gordon.

After what felt like five hours of hell (in reality, fifteen minutes), the Batmobile glided into the Batcave.

And parked.

Smoothly. No scratches. No dents.

“Tada~!” Avelynna-Chloe chirped proudly, holding both arms in the air like she’d just landed a jet.

Bruce didn’t speak.

He crawled out of the car on his hands and knees, kissed the stone floor of the cave with dramatic reverence, and whispered, “Never. Again.”

She hummed cheerfully behind him. “Maybe I’ll take the Rolls-Royce out tomorrow. I hear the holiday sales are nuts this year.”

His head snapped up like she’d slapped his butt.

“Don’t you touch my Rolls-Royce.”

She batted her lashes. “Mercedes?”

“No.”

“Porsche?”

“Don’t.”

“Lamborghini?”

“I will bury you under your plushies.”

“Bugatti?”

He froze, lips parting in raw betrayal.

“Aston Martin?”

“NO—!”

She was laughing, collapsing next to him as tears streamed down her cheeks.

He glared like a wounded wolf, still on the floor, cradling his foot and his broken soul.

But then she crawled beside him, helped him into the nearest chair, and knelt to take his boot off gently.

“You’re such a brave passenger,” she cooed teasingly, unwrapping the swelling. “I’m so proud of you.”

He just groaned. “You’re lucky I love you.”

 

⸻

 

The next few days passed with Bruce’s foot healing faster than expected—thanks to enhanced training, excellent medical care, and the quiet threat of never again having to sit shotgun in his own Batmobile. But while the swelling faded, the psychological damage lingered.

The garage was now under triple biometric lockdown.

Every time he left the house, he triple-checked the locks on the side doors, back doors, and even rigged a motion sensor over the garage entrance like he was guarding a nuclear warhead.

Avelynna-Chloe pouted hard when he refused to take her out grocery shopping for Thanksgiving.

“Pleaaaaase,” she begged, arms wrapped around his waist, nose buried in his shirt. “You said we’d shop together—”

“I also said you’d never touch my keys again.” Bruce kissed her forehead gently, pried her off, and left with a shopping list longer than a Gotham criminal record.

Thanksgiving arrived crisp and golden. The manor smelled like heaven—cinnamon, rosemary, roasted garlic, honeyed ham.

Bruce was in the kitchen early, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed in concentration as he chopped herbs with surgeon-like precision.

That was when trouble crept in.

Literally.

Avelynna-Chloe tiptoed behind him, oversized sweater brushing her thighs, hair in two messy braids.

Bruce sensed movement.

“Don’t,” he warned without turning.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re thinking of doing something.”

“…Can I help?”

He paused.

She’d been good all week. No attempted vehicle theft, no booby traps, not even a glitter bomb in his sock drawer.

“…Fine,” he sighed. “Stuff the turkey.”

She beamed, practically bouncing toward the counter. “Yes, chef!”

He turned away to check on the potatoes.

Big mistake.

He didn’t know that she’d been well-behaved only because she’d been watching a lot of Mr. Bean lately.

He didn’t even register the giggle behind him—until his world went dark.

Moist darkness.

The raw, uncooked, full-sized turkey was shoved over his head.

“LYNNE!” came the muffled roar. The smell of thyme and poultry filled his nostrils. “WHAT—WHAT—IS THIS—”

“BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA—”

“IS THIS THE TURKEY—?!!”

“This is a classic!” Avelynna-Chloe wheezed, doubled over, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. “I need pictures!”

“No—NO—DO NOT—!”

She’d grabbed his phone. Snap. Snap. Snap. A whole album of Batman, now a confused, seething Turkeyhead.

He thrashed, flailing like a man trapped in a burlap sack. “STOP—STOP—I SWEAR—IF I END UP ON THE NEWS LIKE THIS—JUST GET IT THE FUCK OFF!”

“I’m trying!” she said through laughter. “Wait—it’s stuck. Don’t move! I’ll get the olive oil!”

“Don’t you dare pour oil on my face while I’m inside a dead bird—”

“…Just a tiny bit?”

“NO.”

Eventually, they had to retreat to the Batcave. With Bruce blindly feeling his way down the hallway like Frankenstein.

It took twenty grueling minutes, three lubricants, two sonic scalpels, and one extremely humbling head angle, but finally—

POP.

The turkey flew off like a meaty helmet. Bruce stumbled back, hair a mess, face pink with shame, and dignity shredded—again.

Then silently marched upstairs for the longest shower of his life.

Avelynna-Chloe, thoroughly amused but now feeling slightly guilty, took over the rest of the Thanksgiving dinner. She remade the stuffing. Re-basted and roasted the turkey. Made mashed potatoes, plum sauce, and a tray of peach cobbler.

By the time Bruce emerged from the shower, the dining table looked like a spread from a holiday magazine.

She sat there, lips pressed together in a smile too innocent.

He sat stiffly across from her.

He glared at the turkey.

Then at her.

“…You put it on my head.”

“You needed a little holiday spirit,” she said sweetly.

“You violated me with poultry.”

Avelynna-Chloe tried to be serious, really, she did—but then she took a bite of her drumstick and chewed on it with dainty, happy little nibbles—like a bunny with a carrot. Her eyes half-lidded. Her cheeks puffed. She hummed with satisfaction like she was eating stars.

Bruce’s glare cracked.

He exhaled hard, shoulders slumping in surrender. “Come here.”

She grinned, practically skipping across the room to climb into his lap.

She reached for the turkey fork, carved a slice, and spoon-fed him with a smug little grin. “Open wide.”

He did.

And despite everything—the poultry-related trauma, the fact he still smelled faintly like rosemary and shame—he was content.

Because his Lynne was in his lap, stuffing turkey into his mouth like he was the world’s grumpiest baby.

And her laughter… God, that laughter.

It was enough to make him thankful for all of it.

 

⸻

 

After dinner had turned into gentle laughter and casual teasing, Avelynna-Chloe—without being told—started doing the dishes. Bruce noticed. But he said nothing this time, quietly appreciating her for trying to make it up to him.

He headed upstairs first.

By the time she entered the bedroom, drying her hands with a towel, she stopped dead at the sight of him—

Bruce Wayne.

Sitting on the bed.

Laughing.

Not a chuckle. Not a smug smirk. Not a nose-huffing grin.

Laughing his ass off.

Like a man who had officially lost his last marble.

Avelynna-Chloe froze, clutching the towel. Her eyes widened in horror.

“…Did I break you?” she asked nervously.

He looked up at her, red-faced, still catching his breath. His chest shook with lingering laughter. “No,” he said between breaths. “You’re just—you’re—God, you’re something else.”

Her brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

He reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and cradled her to his chest. “It means,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple, “you’ve made this house feel alive. You’ve made me feel alive.”

But her face turned down slightly. The laugh lines in her eyes were replaced with worry.

“…You think I’m childish, don’t you?”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

“You do.” Her voice was soft. “Your exes are all… mature. Women.”

Bruce opened his mouth, confused, but she kept going.

“I saw this article in a magazine,” she continued, eyes fixed on the edge of the bed. “It said men don’t marry the one they love most. They just settle down with the one who showed up at the right time. And… that’s what this is, right? A political marriage. I was just—convenient.”

Bruce stared at her.

Then narrowed his eyes.

Then groaned.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling her closer as she tried to squirm away. “You went from trying to assassinate me with a turkey to emotionally spiraling in under two hours. That’s a new record.”

“I’m serious,” she pouted, sniffling. “You would never marry someone like me if we had a choice.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, tipping her chin up.

“You’re wrong.”

She blinked at him.

“If there had never been a treaty. If your planet never existed. If I’d just walked into a coffee shop and seen you standing there? I still would’ve fallen in love with you.” His voice dropped lower. “I did. The moment you walked into the Watchtower. You were sunshine and trouble all in one. I knew it from the start.”

Avelynna-Chloe’s eyes welled. “…Really?”

He nodded. “You think this was settling? No. You were the surprise. The gift I never saw coming.”

She looked like she was about to say something more, but he gently cupped her face, and for once, his voice was vulnerable.

“Sometimes I think… maybe my parents saw how long I’ve been alone. How tired I was.” He swallowed. “So they sent you to me. Like some kind of miracle. A little light, just for their son.”

Her breath hitched. Her lower lip trembled.

“I’m not much of a believer,” he added, “but if angels exist, Lynne, you’re one of them.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she hugged him tightly, burying her face in his neck. “That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You can’t say things like that. I already feel bad enough for all the years you had to be alone. Patching up wounds in silence. Coming home to nothing.”

“And now I come home to you.”

Avelynna-Chloe sobbed against his skin. “Then I want to use the rest of my life to make it up to you. I wasn’t there with you in the past, so now my future is yours.”

Bruce’s throat closed. The weight of her words, the purity of her devotion—it nearly undid him.

He held her, grounding himself in the warmth of her body, her heartbeat pressed against his own.

Then, finally, he leaned back and gave a small, teasing smile. “Alright. Today is Thanksgiving. Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re thankful for?”

She smiled faintly. “Well, I’m thankful that this world has a Batman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Specifics, baby girl. Don’t be shy now.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m thankful for how you look in the Batsuit. When you drive. When you fight. When you’re doing something so intensely, your brows furrow like you’re solving the world’s greatest riddle.”

“Oh?” he grinned, pinning her beneath him gently.

“When you wear your business suit. Adjusting your tie and cufflinks.”

He leaned closer. “Go on.”

“When your hands are so big I can barely hold your thumb. When your eyes are so blue it’s like falling into the ocean.

His mouth was against her ear now. “Anything else?”

“…Your arms,” she whispered. “The veins. How you breathe into my ear when you’re too far gone to think.”

His expression twitched.

“And the way you grunt—real low, like you’re losing control. It makes me feel like I’m the only thing on your mind. Like I own you for real.”

Bruce stared at her, stunned and burning. “You do.”

Before she could respond, he kissed her—hard. Desperate. A kiss that made the world disappear. When they finally broke apart, breathless and dazed, a glistening string of saliva still connected their mouths.

She blinked up at him, lips swollen, eyes glassy. “I’m definitely thankful for that too.”

He let out a low laugh—then kissed her again, as if he had all the time in the universe to prove it.

The night stretched on—slow, steady, deep.

And when she was curled up in his arms, fast asleep, lips parted slightly, the faint trace of blush on her cheeks, bruises of love scattered across her body—

Bruce knew.

He’d found the secret weapon.

Tiring her out was his new strategy for surviving her shenanigans.

And loving her?

That was the part that came easily.

Chapter 19: Jingle Bells, Batman Smells

December brought with it a quiet kind of cold—blanketing Gotham in layers of snow.

Bruce took that as a sign.

One Sunday morning, without warning, he’d told Avelynna-Chloe to bundle up. They took his dark green Land Rover, drove out of the city for the first time since they were married—winding through sleepy roads lined with frost-kissed trees, where Gotham’s chaos faded into the stillness of the woods. The snow-covered landscape stretched endlessly beyond the windshield, white and glistening beneath a pale winter sun.

Avelynna-Chloe kept turning her head to peer out the windows like a student on a field trip, her gloved hands pressed to the glass, breath fogging it up every now and then. “So pretty,” she murmured, wide-eyed. “It’s like we’re in a snow globe.”

Bruce smiled. He used to come here every year with his parents. Hiking. Camping. Laughing. Those memories had collected dust, buried beneath years of pain and grief—but today, with her beside him, they stirred again.

When they parked along a hidden trail and stepped out into the crisp air, Bruce reached for the axe in the open back with one hand—and her gloved fingers with the other. The woods were hushed, branches heavy with snow. Every step crunched beneath their boots.

“Gotham Woods,” he said, “used to be a winter tradition. My father always said nature resets the soul. We’d hike through here, make hot cocoa over a fire, cut a tree for the manor…”

Avelynna-Chloe looked up at him, lips parted.

“I haven’t been back since.”

She squeezed his hand.

He told her more stories as they walked—about how Thomas once slipped down a frozen hill trying to light a campfire, about the time Martha got chased by a squirrel after stealing its acorn stash.

She chuckled softly and squeezed his hand tighter.

After a bit of trekking, they found it: a pine tree standing proud near a rocky ridge.

“This one?” Bruce asked.

“This one,” Avelynna-Chloe agreed.

While he knelt beside the base and began to chop, she flopped down dramatically onto the snowy ground like a happy puppy. Her giggle echoed through the trees as she flailed her arms and legs.

“Making snow angels?” Bruce called over his shoulder.

“Obviously. What do you take me for? A normal adult?”

He let out a huff of amusement.

Then Avelynna-Chloe started to sing—loud and off-key.

“Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg~ The Batmobile lost a wheel, and the Joker got away!”

Bruce paused mid-swing, turned his head slightly, and said with perfect deadpan, “Ma’am, I shower daily.”

“I know,” she threw a snowball at his back. “I hate how good you smell, it’s annoying. You’re like cedarwood, and ruin-my-ovaries sexy.”

He choked.

Having an erection in the middle of cold weather wasn’t a good idea.

So he rolled his eyes and went back to chopping, though the faint curve of his smile betrayed him. She kept tossing little snowballs, most of them missing. The rhythm echoed through the clearing.

With a final heavy swing, the trunk gave out, and the pine tree toppled gently into the snow.

She sat up and clapped like a kid. “Look at you, Papa Bear!”

Bruce glanced at her, that slight smirk tugging at his lips. “You realize you’re the cub in this situation, right?”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t argue. Just watched with thinly veiled awe as he lifted the entire tree onto one shoulder—along with the axe—then reached down to take her hand again like it weighed nothing—because he was an Alpha, why not show off?

She looked up at him with those bright, sparkling eyes, cheeks rosy, mouth twitching into a grin. “You’re such a man.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” he said dryly.

They trudged through the snow, his footsteps deep and steady, hers quick and bouncing beside him—like two mismatched pieces that somehow clicked together perfectly.

The pine needles scratched lightly against his shoulder, but he didn’t care. The weight of the world on his back didn’t feel heavy.

He had her hand in his.

 

⸻

 

The drive back into the city was quiet, but not in a lonely way. Snow dusted the edges of the road like powdered sugar, jazz Christmas music played from the radio, and Avelynna-Chloe spent half the trip humming along with her cheek squished against the window, watching the snowfall.

When they reached Gotham Mall, it was already dressed in its full holiday glory.

Garlands and wreaths hung from every archway. Fairy lights wrapped the banisters like ivy, and snowflake decals clung to the high glass ceilings. Giant nutcrackers stood guard at every entrance. The center atrium shimmered with a towering silver-and-gold Christmas tree that sparkled like it belonged in a fairy tale. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, gingerbread, and cinnamon-glazed popcorn.

Bruce found it all a bit overstimulating.

Avelynna-Chloe, however, lit up like one of the thousand bulbs overhead.

They went into a toy store—somewhere that sold both ornaments and children’s toys, a glittery mix of color and noise. Bruce, being Bruce, went straight for the ornament section, settling on elegant baubles, metallic stars, and velvet ribbons. Classy. Understated. Minimalist.

Meanwhile, Avelynna-Chloe was already bouncing between aisles like a pinball.

“Hey!” she called from two aisles away, holding up a snowman with LED lights for eyes. “This one farts when you squeeze it!”

He blinked. “We’re not putting that on the tree.”

She darted to the next aisle. “Look—it’s the Grinch plush in a tutu!”

Bruce didn’t try to keep up anymore. He just sighed, placed the ornaments into his basket, and after fifteen minutes of chasing her from section to section—watching her lose her mind over a disco-ball, squeal over a moose wearing boots, and try to fit into a child-sized elf costume, he let her frantically add dolls into her cart.

There went her Christmas present.

As the cashier scanned box after box—Barbie Pet Spa, Barbie Astronaut, Barbie CEO—two employees whispered to each other nearby.

“That man must really love his daughter,” one said with a smile.

“He’s so sweet.”

Bruce didn’t even bother correcting them. He just gave them a dry smile and muttered under his breath, “Close enough.”

While he was still at the checkout counter, Avelynna-Chloe had already skipped outside, twirling with her scarf trailing behind her. He watched her through the storefront glass, smiling faintly at first.

Then his smile faded.

She stood right in front of the mall’s “Santa Station”—a cozy red-and-green booth lined with fake snow, where kids took turns sitting on Santa’s lap. Parents crouched beside them, smiling and laughing. Some took photos. Others just watched their children beam.

Avelynna-Chloe wasn’t moving. Just standing on the edge of the scene.

Her eyes weren’t sparkling now.

She watched the children tugging their parents’ hands, whispering wishes into Santa’s ear. Watched the parents pick them up. Watched the simple warmth of something she never had.

A few kids passed by her and stared. One whispered, “Mommy, is she a Christmas fairy?”

A group of teenage boys near the food court nudged each other, daring one another to go talk to her.

But she didn’t notice.

Bruce did.

He knew that look.

Because it lived in his mirror too.

At least he had eight happy years with his parents. Her? No childhood. No holidays. No Santa. No warm hand pulling her into the kitchen to bake cookies. No parents whispering “Merry Christmas” as they tucked her in.

She had wars. Steel. Apokolips.

His jaw clenched. His heart cracked.

He turned to the toy store staff and lowered his voice.

“Deliver a stuffed Rudolph to Wayne Manor,” he said. “The biggest one you’ve got. And throw in a Santa suit, adult size.”

Then he paid for the purchases, gave a generous tip, and gathered up the bags and boxes.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t hear his footsteps until his hand slipped into hers.

She blinked and looked up, startled.

“Ready to go?” he asked softly.

She nodded quickly, smiling again. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He gently pulled her close, wrapped an arm around her as they walked out of the mall together, into the gentle fall of snow under Gotham’s twinkling winter sky.

She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder.

And Bruce made a silent vow.

If he had to spend every Christmas dressing up like Santa, buying every Barbie in existence, and stuffing Wayne Manor with lights until it looked like Times Square, he’d do it.

Because she deserved to know what it felt like to be loved on Christmas.

To be a kid. To be held. To be remembered.

To finally have someone who would never leave.

 

⸻

 

Christmas Eve afternoon arrived. The manor was filled with the scent of pine and peppermint, music playing in the background from a dusty old phonograph Avelynna-Chloe had insisted on using because “it feels more magical than your fancy Bluetooth speakers.”

She was soaking in a tub overflowing with peach-scented bubbles, one leg draped lazily over the porcelain edge. The mirror was fogged with steam. She didn’t hear the doorbell when it rang. Or the muffled sound of Bruce exchanging a few words with the delivery staff. She also hadn’t noticed, all week, that her husband hadn’t shaved.

He was saving it. For tonight.

Dinner was warm. Roast beef, honeyed carrots, and red wine. She’d made him eat a full plate, like always—“You’re skin and bones, Mr. Wayne,” she’d said with a teasing glare, despite the fact that he was all muscle.

After dinner, Avelynna-Chloe wandered to the living room first, adjusted her new Barbies on the Christmas tree like they were part of a royal court. She set up the fireplace, curled on the carpet surrounded by pillows and blankets, building a cozy nest with practiced ease. She had fuzzy socks on. And one of his old sweaters that swallowed her whole.

That was when she heard it.

“Ho, ho, ho…”

Her head whipped around, pink eyes wide.

Bruce stepped into the living room in full costume. A classic red Santa coat stretched across his broad chest, a fake belly pillow strapped beneath, white-gloved hands gripping a sack slung over one shoulder. But the beard—oh, the beard was real. Snow-dusted stubble that had grown in heavily over the past few days.

Avelynna-Chloe squealed. Actually squealed.

She sprang off the carpet like a rabbit and tackled him in a hug that nearly sent the bag flying.

“You’re Santa!!” she gasped in disbelief.

He chuckled low in his chest, the sound rumbling against her cheek. “I heard there’s been a very naughty girl in this house.”

She pouted up at him immediately. “What naughty girl made her husband a Christmas present?”

His brow rose. “You got me something?”

She grinned and pointed to the tree. Bruce followed her gaze and spotted the small wrapped box nestled beneath the lowest branch. He set the sack down and picked it up, unwrapping it slowly.

Inside: a handmade sweater. Dark navy. Clean stitching.

“You made this?”

“I knitted it,” she said proudly, adjusting the collar like a mother fixing her kid’s school uniform.

Bruce looked down at the sweater, then back at her, silent for a moment.

“You think I look good in navy?”

“I think you look devastating in navy,” she pulled him down for a quick kiss.

They placed the Rudolph next to the tree, its big red nose lighting up whenever she pressed it. Bruce had also added a few other surprises in the sack—some rare collectibles, a custom dollhouse that resembled Wayne Manor, and a silk nightgown wrapped in gold tissue.

Then they curled by the fire.

She sat on his lap, nestled against him, his arms draped around her waist.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For being a bearded man who holds me and solves all my problems.”

Bruce laughed, brushing his lips against the crown of her head. “I’ll add that to my resume.”

They sipped milk and settled in for movie night—Home Alone. Part one. Then two. Avelynna-Chloe laughed so hard she nearly choked on a muffin. Bruce watched her more than the screen, lips twitching every time she asked him if they could turn the manor into a booby-trapped fortress too.

“No,” he said with utter seriousness. “Absolutely not. Do you know how long it would take to clean up after something like that?”

“But the flamethrower—”

“No.”

Eventually, the movies wound down, and Bruce slipped in The Gray Ghost—black and white, old, soft in its grainy glow. His childhood favorite. A story about a masked hero who fought for justice in the shadows.

He used to watch it with his parents. Now, with her curled against him, hands tucked under his arm, his heart aching with something he couldn’t name—it felt full. Almost too full.

Maybe, he dared to hope, one day he’d watch it again with their children.

Halfway through the third episode, her breath evened out.

She was asleep.

He kissed her forehead and pulled the blanket up to her chin, then leaned back with a soft sigh.

“Merry Christmas, Lynne,” he whispered.

She murmured something in her sleep. It might’ve been his name.

With fire flickering and snow falling against the tall windows, Bruce Wayne—who once thought Christmas had died with his parents—realized it had simply been waiting.

Waiting for her.

Chapter 20: Fireworks In Your Eyes

The New Year was approaching fast, and with it came Bruce’s curiosity.

They were curled up in the library one night, Avelynna-Chloe buried under a blanket burrito with a mug of banana milk, when he finally asked, “Do Apokoliptians celebrate New Year?”

She looked up, blinking slowly. “We used to. Before Darkseid declared himself Emperor. Then it became illegal to believe in time.”

Bruce paused. “Illegal to believe in time?”

“Well, sort of,” she shrugged. “No calendars, no clocks, no birthdays, no holidays. Just war and factories and eternal grayness.”

Bruce stared at her in horror.

She stretched her arms over her head with a little yawn. “But before that? Yes. We did have New Year traditions. Want me to show you?”

He smirked. “You sure it won’t involve burning something down or calling on the spirits of vengeance?”

“…We’ll see.”

Too late to import anything from Apokolips, they set out to replicate what they could on Earth.

First: plants.

According to her, Apokoliptians had two sacred plants for the New Year—the Firefruit Tree and the Whispering Blossom. The closest Earth equivalents? A kumquat tree and a peach blossom.

Bruce drove them to Bristol Township, where they found a modest little nursery selling potted kumquat trees. Avelynna-Chloe practically danced around them like it was a baby phoenix hatching. She picked the chubbiest, sunniest one.

He just paid for it.

But there were no peach blossoms.

On the drive back, winding through a quiet residential road, Avelynna-Chloe gasped so loudly that Bruce nearly slammed the brakes. “There!”

“What?” he barked, already going for the emergency lights.

“Peach blossom!” she pointed eagerly. “In that garden—look!”

Sure enough, a sprawling hedge wrapped around a quaint house just off the road, and over its white fence bloomed a peach blossom tree.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “So?”

“So,” she said slowly, “I’m gonna go steal a branch.”

He nearly choked on air. “Why can’t we just offer a deal to the owner?!”

She gave him her sweetest, most manipulative smile. “Stealing something small on New Year’s is an Apokoliptian tradition. You steal luck. Not valuables. Just a little something—like this branch! It’s symbolic. If you pay for it, it will mean nothing.”

“Symbolic theft,” he muttered. “Wonderful.”

“If I get caught, it’s your fault for letting me out of the house,” she teased, opening the door.

He growled. “Get back in the car. You’re going to break your neck climbing that fence.”

She grumbled under her breath, trying anyway, bouncing fruitlessly like a bunny against the gate. It barely came up to his chest.

With the biggest groan known to mankind, Bruce stepped out of the car, yanked his hood up, and stalked over.

“I’m not bailing you out of jail,” he glared.

“You won’t have to,” she beamed.

In one swift, highly illegal, deeply un-Batman-like move, Bruce vaulted over the fence, snapped a small branch with pink blossoms, and dropped it into her waiting arms on the other side.

She clutched it like it was the One Ring. “Perfect.”

Bruce was already pulling a device from his glove box the moment he got back in the car, scanning the area for cameras.

“If this ends up on the news, I’ll die.”

“You’ll be the most legendary Gotham husband ever.”

“I already am.”

Back at Wayne Manor, while Bruce sat in the cave deleting any digital traces of their “burglary,” Avelynna-Chloe hummed through the hallways like a fairy with purpose.

She skipped from room to room, peach blossom in one hand, kumquat tree in the other, trying to find “the luckiest spot in the house” to place them. Eventually, she settled on opposite corners of the grand hall, because according to her: “One brings fortune, the other brings serenity. We don’t want them clashing. It’s basic magical botany.”

Bruce just leaned in the doorway, arms folded, staring at her glittering eyes and mischievous energy. She looked like a creature from another world—and she was. Still, she belonged here.

With him.

He sighed deeply, as she skipped off to go find red ribbons for the branches.

The things he did for love.

Even if they stepped a little past his boundaries.

Or maybe—

She was his boundary now.

 

⸻

 

The morning of Apokoliptian New Year’s Eve began.

Bruce was awakened by kisses. Soft lips peppered across his jaw, his cheek, his brow.

“Wake up, old bat,” Avelynna-Chloe cooed, practically bouncing on top of him. “We need to cook. Now.”

He blinked. “What time is it?”

“Time to get your ass in the kitchen.”

After a quick breakfast (he barely tasted it), Bruce was elbow-deep in flour, kneading and pounding and folding dough under her firm but playful instructions.

Avelynna-Chloe called it Sky Cake—a chewy, stretchy rice snack made from glutinous rice flour. The process reminded him vaguely of how mochi was made—lots of smashing and folding and a concerning amount of upper body strength.

“You’re good at this,” she said, peeking at his forearms. “I’ll let you make it every year.”

“I’ll disappear every year,” he muttered.

She just smiled sweetly. “Then I’ll hunt you down.”

While Bruce worked on Sky Cake, Avelynna-Chloe. got to work on something called Land Cake. He watched her pour rice soaked in pandan juice into a square mold lined with broad, shiny green leaves—stachyphrynium placentarium, she said.

He wasn’t going to try pronouncing that.

In the center, she carefully nestled pork belly and mung bean paste, before expertly folding the leaves in and tying it all together with strings split from bamboo.

“Why square?” he asked.

“Land is square. Sky is round.“

“Ah. Geometry.”

“Magical geometry,” she said.

After the Sky Cake was put in the steamer and the Land Cake was wrapped, Avelynna-Chloe dragged Bruce—grudgingly—to the garden.

He chopped firewood with practiced ease while she assembled a small outdoor cooking station. She placed the Land Cake in an iron pot over the fire, then burned paper offerings beside it: three sets of delicate paper clothing and boots, three paper fishes, and stacks of fake money.

Bruce squinted. “Let me guess—ritual sacrifice?”

She rolled her eyes. “These are for the gods and ancestors. The clothes are offerings. The money is for them to buy what they need in the afterlife. And the fishes… well, the gods ride fishes.”

He looked at her sideways. “You realize your people are literally called New Gods, right? Why do they need bribes?”

She smirked. “Who doesn’t like money?”

He chuckled, kissed her forehead, and followed her back inside.

Lunch was Sky Cake. Sticky and chewy. Bruce stared at the two pieces she set in front of him. Then she plopped a sausage between them and handed it over. “Apokoliptian sandwich.”

He bit in.

It was strange. It was soft. It was good.

He gave her a thumbs-up.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the kitchen counter making dumplings. Bruce chopped chives. She rolled the dough. Together, they formed dozens of little half-moons filled with minced pork and herbs.

Unbeknownst to him, Avelynna-Chloe slipped a small coin into the filling of one dumpling.

Just one.

For the final dishes: they made a golden boiled chicken, rubbed gently with turmeric powder to tint the skin a rich yellow, and boiled with shallots for sweetness. She reserved the broth, added dried shrimp, vegetables, and strange-looking pork skin cracklings—which expanded like pool floaties—to make Ball Soup.

The house smelled like comfort and home.

When Bruce carved the chicken, she stood with her chin in her hands, watching with dreamy eyes. “On Apokolips, this is how families test future son-in-laws.”

He sliced each piece with surgeon precision, neatly arranging them on the plate with a smug grin. “So? Did I pass?”

“You transcended.”

Dinner was set. Golden chicken carved to perfection. Steamed Land Cake, unwrapped like a jungle gift box. Dumplings glistening in rows. Ball Soup piping hot.

Avelynna-Chloe crushed salt and pepper in a bowl, shredded lime leaves, then picked a kumquat from their tree, squeezing its juice into the mix.

Bruce dipped the chicken into the mixture and—

“…That’s delicious.”

“Right?” she said proudly. “No need for gravy.”

He tried the Ball Soup next. It was savory, balanced, and the cracklings absorbed the broth like sponges. The Land Cake was rich and tasty.

Then he bit into the dumpling.

Crunch.

His jaw locked.

He froze. “What the hell is—?”

Avelynna-Chloe burst into laughter like a child who just pulled off a prank.

Bruce carefully extracted a coin from the dumpling’s filling, blinking in disbelief. “You could’ve broken my molar.”

“But now you’re the lucky one!” she giggled, bouncing in her seat.

He stared at her happiness.

Then at his dumpling.

He realized, without a doubt, she hadn’t touched that plate once. She’d waited for him to find the lucky one.

He smiled.

She wasn’t just sharing tradition—she was giving him luck.

Not knowing that he’d spent all his luck on having her as his wife.

 

⸻

 

After dinner, they stayed in the garden, wrapped in the same thick blanket. Avelynna-Chloe leaned against his side, her breath fogging in the cold air, her fingers tucked between his. The fire crackled beside them, mostly embers now, but still glowing faintly—like a shared memory refusing to fade.

She watched the fireworks with childlike awe. Bruce, as always, watched her.

Watched the fireworks in her eyes.

Then something shifted in the sky. A spark of pink. Then another. Then bursts of light shaped like jellyfish, sugar cubes, plush bears, and even vaguely suspicious glittering heels—every shape a clear nod to something she adored.

And finally, one enormous firework bloomed into a shimmering heart, glowing across the sky with a brilliant “B + L” written inside.

Avelynna-Chloe gasped.

“You didn’t…” she whispered, half-accusing, half-bewildered.

Bruce grinned and pulled her closer. “Gotham’s sky budget went to something more important than crime watch tonight.”

She didn’t even know what to say. She tried to protest—he was too much, it was over the top—but then his lips met hers in a deep, silencing kiss. Her protests melted into the snow around them.

When they finally pulled apart, her cheeks were blooming redder than the fireworks.

“You’re such a cheesy geezer,” she mumbled against his shoulder.

“All because of you,” he murmured back, resting his forehead against hers.

She pouted, but reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a small red envelope, tucking it into his palm.

“For you. Apokoliptian tradition,” she said shyly.

He opened it. Inside was a crisp hundred-dollar bill—his own money, which she hadn’t spent—a tiny bag of salt, a lighter, and a single cigar.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “The salt is for good luck?”

“Mm-hmm. The money is to multiply wealth. The lighter, so your life stays lit—like fire. And the cigar…”

She paused, then gave him a sly smile.

“That one’s just because I like how you look when you smoke.”

Bruce let out a soft, amused exhale. Then, with all the cool detachment of a noir detective, he pulled the cigar between his fingers, lit it in one smooth motion, and took a slow draw—watching her eyes widen with delight as the flame danced and smoke curled from his lips.

“You’re unbelievable,” she whispered.

He smirked. “You started it.”

She nestled closer under his arm, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her fingers absentmindedly traced along the edge of his collar, then down the front of his sweater, resting just above his chest. He was so warm. So solid. Her home, even when everything else was chaos.

“Your heartbeat’s faster,” she murmured.

“Yours too.”

She smiled against his Adam’s apple. “You’re like a big, grumpy stove.”

And—she froze. Her eyes widened a little.

“…Old bat.”

“Mhm?”

“There’s… something poking me.”

He tilted his head just slightly, too smug. “Could be the cigar.”

She whacked his arm. “No cigar’s that size.”

Bruce only chuckled low in his throat.

“I thought you said no sex on Apokolips during the New Year,” he teased.

“I’m saying…” she hesitated, looking up at him, eyes soft and shimmering, “that the first person I want to hold me into this new year… is you.”

Bruce wrapped both arms around her, lifting her with care as he stood.

“I can give you that.”

She giggled as he carried her inside, their shadows long across the snowy grass. In his arms, she felt weightless. Safe.

They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to.

When midnight came and the world exploded with cheers, confetti, and another round of fireworks from every rooftop in Gotham, Bruce and Avelynna-Chloe were curled up together beneath the blankets in bed, foreheads pressed, lips brushing in another kiss.

“Happy New Year, Mrs. Wayne,” he whispered.

She smiled against his lips.

“Happy New Year, dear hubby.”

Chapter 21: Valentine’s Day Came Five Days Late

It was February now.

Valentine’s Day.

Bruce had it all planned.

The red roses—glitter-dusted and lush—were scheduled to arrive at the manor on Valentine’s morning. The tiara—handcrafted by Chaumet—was carefully boxed and hidden inside his private safe. And he’d cleared his calendar to make her dinner himself—roast duck à l’orange, wine pairings he’d researched meticulously.

It was going to be perfect.

Until the boardroom meeting in Metropolis.

Until the snowstorm hit.

A blizzard swept through the northeast corridor, grounding flights and closing roads.

That night, Bruce had sat in his hotel room, bathed in dim city light through frosted windows, with the storm outside hammering against the glass. He’d triple-checked the weather, called the pilots twice. No chance of flying out.

He cursed the timing. But even the Batwing couldn’t beat hurricane-force winds and zero visibility.

He stared at the folder of contracts on the desk—but his eyes kept drifting to the monitor beside him.

Wayne Manor’s camera feed flickered softly in the dark.

There she was.

In his oversized hoodie, sleeves far too long for her hands, barefoot on the marble floors, her hair unbrushed and a little messy.

Each morning, Avelynna-Chloe brewed her tea in his mug. Sometimes she’d talk to the camera. Sometimes she held up a notebook with a summary of her day.

“Made pancakes. They tasted like sadness.”

“Fixed the squeaky drawer in our bathroom. It no longer screams like a demon.”

“Found your old wallet in the laundry room. I’m claiming it. Finder’s keepers.”

“Some guys flirted with me at the workshop today. Better be home soon or you’ll lose your wife!”

At night, she curled up on the couch or in their bed, wrapped in one of his coats like armor. She looked so small without him beside her.

Then on Valentine’s morning, the roses were found outside the front door in a crystal vase, sealed with a card: “From the man who breathes in winter only to chase your fire.”

Avelynna-Chloe smiled, tracing the loops of his handwriting, and looked straight into the nearest camera.

She held up a page from her notebook.

“You’re stupid. I miss you.”

Bruce leaned forward in his chair, pressed his fingers to the screen. “I’m coming home to you, sweetie.”

Even if the snow took a lifetime to melt. Even if the sky never cleared.

He would come back to her. He always would.

Because love, for men like him, wasn’t a fairytale.

It was finding the one person who saw the scars… and still chose to stay.

She proved again and again: She was his.

And he was hers.

 

⸻

 

Five days after Valentine’s, just as the winter sun dipped beyond the skyline, Bruce finally returned.

The second he stepped through the door, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around him like an embrace. It was warm, familiar—home. He toed off his shoes at the entrance, the tired ache of travel still clinging to his bones, but already softening with each breath.

And then—rushing footsteps. A blur of movement.

“Old bat!”

Avelynna-Chloe came flying in from the kitchen, apron fluttering behind her, a dusting of flour on her nose like a mark of mischief. She didn’t slow down. She launched straight into his arms, clinging to him like she never meant to let go again.

Bruce caught her with a breathless laugh, staggering a little from the force of her affection.

She buried her face into his shoulder, breathing him in. “You smell like airports and frostbite.”

“You still smell like mine,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss the flour from her nose.

He didn’t even take off his coat. He just held her for a long minute. Then, with a secretive smile, he took her hand and led her quietly down the hallway, into the study.

Avelynna-Chloe blinked, confused, but followed with curiosity.

Bruce opened the old wall safe behind a bookshelf, turning the dials with the kind of reverence he usually reserved for weapons or WayneTech prototypes. From the velvet-lined interior, he took out a box.

She gasped the moment he lifted the lid.

White gold, twined like frost-kissed vines. Pink sapphires catching the firelight. Diamonds like starlight scattered across its curve.

He stepped behind her and carefully nestled the tiara onto her head, letting his fingers brush through her hair.

“How did you know?” she whispered, breath catching. “Back on Apokolips, I had a castle made entirely of pink sapphires.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t. I just—pink reminds me of your eyes. And your favorite color. And your laugh. And… you, princess. You’ve always been my princess.”

She turned slowly in his arms, stunned.

He cupped her cheek. “I know I missed Valentine’s. I wanted to be here. But even when I couldn’t be, I never stopped thinking about you.”

Avelynna-Chloe just smiled, brushing his temple with her fingers. “You’re too sweet. But do you even remember what day it is today?”

Bruce paused. “…Wednesday?”

She laughed under her breath, amused but already expecting the answer. “February 19th.”

The realization hit him like a drop of cold water. “My birthday.”

“I know you forgot,” she said, not unkindly. “You always do.”

He looked down for a moment. “After they died… birthdays stopped being worth remembering.”

“I won’t allow that,” her hands slid down to his, intertwining their fingers. “Let’s make new memories.”

She led him to the dining hall, where she’d already set a place for two.

From the kitchen, she emerged with a bowl cradled carefully in her palms—steam curling up in soft spirals. Noodles, garnished with poached eggs, bok choy, and mushrooms. The broth shimmered clear and golden.

“Longevity Noodles,” she explained, placing it in front of him. “Apokoliptians eat this on birthdays. It’s for health, for long life, for good things to come.”

Bruce sat down, still dazed. Avelynna-Chloe knelt beside him, adjusting the utensils.

“One rule, though,” she said, wagging a flour-covered finger. “You’re not allowed to bite the noodles. You have to slurp the whole strand. If you bite them… bad luck.”

He smirked. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

He obeyed. Each strand was carefully lifted, tasted, and chewed with patience. The flavor was simple—honest. It warmed his chest.

Afterward, Avelynna-Chloe brought out a small cake shaped like a coffee mug. Coffee sponge. Espresso cream. The smell was intoxicating. One candle flickered atop, fashioned into the number 100.

Bruce raised a brow. “You think I’m ancient now?”

“No,” she laughed. “I think you’ll live to be a hundred. That’s the wish.”

He smiled and blew out the candle—silently making his own.

He didn’t wish for success. Not justice. Not even peace.

He wished for her. Always her.

She disappeared for a second, then returned dragging a massive, wrapped box across the floor with great difficulty. “Your present.”

He opened it. Inside—meticulously arranged—were a tie, a belt, and several small, embroidered sachets.

Everything bore the bat symbol. Tiny. Hidden. Clever.

“I had to lie to the instructors at the workshop,” she confessed, giggling. “Told them I had a boyfriend who was obsessed with Batman. So no one would ask questions.”

He chuckled, already emotional.

“The tie is subtle enough for your boardroom. The belt too—look, the bat’s flipped. No one will know. And the sachets are for your cars.”

He looked at the tiny symbols, stitched with so much care.

Then she added softly, “There’s one more layer.”

Underneath, nestled in black velvet, sat a timeworn watch.

His father’s.

The one he thought lost forever. Broken. Forgotten.

It ticked now.

“I asked a watchmaker to teach me how to fix it,” she said quietly, “I wanted you to have him back… from me.”

Bruce couldn’t speak.

He stared at the watch. At her bandaged hands. At the tiara glinting in the firelight, the flour still dusting her apron, and the smile that so pretty, so pure—it broke and healed his heart at the same time.

Tears pricked his eyes.

He pulled her into his arms.

“You’re everything I never deserved.” He murmured thickly into her hair.

Avelynna-Chloe squeezed him tighter. “Then deserve me.”

So he would be.

For her.

On this day, in this moment—there was no Dark Knight, no billionaire, no broken orphan boy.

Just a man.

Loved.

Worthy.

Home.

 

⸻

 

They finished the coffee cake together, savoring each bite—not just for the taste, but for the peace it brought with it. The glow from the dining hall lights softened the lines on Bruce’s face, casting a halo around Avelynna-Chloe.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, watching her with something dangerously close to a boyish grin.

“I think I’m buzzing from the caffeine,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “Might need to burn off the energy.”

Avelynna-Chloe suspiciously narrowed her eyes. “That better not be your way of saying you’re heading to the gym at this hour.”

He only grinned. “I mean you. Me. Our bed.”

She let out an embarrassed laugh, tugging lightly on the apron strings still tied at her back. “Sir, I baked you a coffee cake simply because that’s what you drink every day—”

“Oh I know, it’s just—” He stood up to step closer and cup her face, tilting her chin up. “I’ve been away for too long. I missed you more than I even realized.”

That was all it took.

Their kiss was full of everything left unsaid over the past week—the ache, the longing, the deep sense of home he could only find in her arms. One kiss became two, then three, then she was pulling him by the collar, murmuring something about how unfair it was to miss someone that much and still be expected to act normal.

When they finally collapsed beneath the weight of satin sheets and each other, their bodies tangled, breaths shallow, skin to skin—Avelynna-Chloe nestled against his chest, her fingers trailing in idle circles over the scars that marked him like a roadmap of battles long fought. She didn’t say anything at first. Just traced the long-healed lines with reverence. Bruce watched her, his hand cradling her bare shoulder.

Then the thought slipped from him like a ghost.

“I want to tell you this, but please don’t take it the wrong way…” he said, voice almost too low to hear. “Sometimes I think about the fact… that I’ve outlived my parents. I’ve been alive longer than either of them ever got the chance to be.”

She stilled. He immediately kissed the guilt away from the top of her head.

“They never got to see me grow up. Never got to see me like this. Covered in these… reminders. Of every night I’ve tried to make Gotham safer. Of every time I failed,” he admitted. “If they saw me now… what would they think? Would they recognize me? This life I built?”

She met his eyes. “You didn’t fail, you’ve learned from your mistakes. And if they could see you now—they wouldn’t see the scars first. They’d see the man their little boy became. A protector. A force for good. A light, even when he thought he was living in shadows.”

He didn’t look convinced.

She reached out again, placed her palm flat over one particularly old scar on his ribs. “I love these,” she whispered. “Every single one of them. They mean you fought. They mean you survived. They mean you’re still here.”

Her lips brushed that scar, then another, then the one above his heart. “Your parents would be proud. I’m proud. You’re the strongest, kindest man I’ve ever known.”

Bruce swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “You love my scars? Even the ones older than you?” he asked, almost teasing.

She smiled. “Especially those. I think it’s romantic. My husband’s body tells a story that started long before I was even born. And somehow, that story led you here. To me.”

His heart swelled painfully.

“Besides,” she added, curling up against his side again, “I think the scars make your chest look even better. With all the muscle and the…” she blushed, hiding her face against his skin, “hair. You’re like a teddy bear sculpted by the gods.”

Bruce laughed—a full, real, from-the-gut laugh. He couldn’t help it.

“Don’t ever let anyone hear you call me a teddy bear.”

“Teddy bear, teddy Bruce!”

He groaned and pulled the blanket over her head, muffling her giggles as he kissed her temple.

This was the happiest birthday he’d ever had.

He didn’t know how long he’d live. But he knew—this, right here—was what he’d always protect. Always return to. Always love.

Even when the night was long, and the world cruel, this was his light.

His girl.

His home.

Chapter 22: Can’t See

Notes:

I’m getting my apartment renovated after 10 years, also kinda overwhelmed with packing and moving my stuff to a hotel room. My anxiety is all over the place, so I’m going to traumatize everyone with angst for a while. 💀

In between happy days, fate had to step in like a cruel joke.

The Watchtower trembled under the sudden impact.

Alarms blared. Shields surged to life. The Justice League mobilized, chaos blooming in every corridor.

The intruder wasn’t just strong—he was savage. Unrelenting. He tore through defensive lines like wet paper. There was no mercy in the way he moved. His claws dripped with blood, the venom eating through metal and flesh alike.

Barry was the first to fall—just a graze across his arm mid-run, but it sent him crumpling with a scream, limbs convulsing.

Hal tried to disarm the whip-like tail, slicing it clean off with a burst of green energy. But even dismembered, the limb writhed and twisted like a predator with a will of its own.

From the base of the attacker’s spine rose a jagged stinger, curved and obsidian-black. It struck like a viper, each movement precise, explosive, terrifying.

Then came the change.

Bones cracked. Skin split. The very air shivered as his body twisted, swelled, transformed—what had once been man became monster.

A dragon.

A hell-born serpent covered in armor-thick scales, smoke curling from his nostrils, wings metallic and steaming, each movement shaking the Watchtower to its core.

He roared, and the sound alone shattered two levels of glass and made even Clark falter mid-flight.

It took everything. Diana’s lasso bound him for seconds at a time. J’onn fought to breach his mind. Clark’s heat vision seared at his chest while Bruce coordinated every movement from mission control, watching patterns, predicting attacks, shouting orders.

Finally—the monster fell.

He hit the reinforced floor with a thunderous crack, steam and blood hissing from his wounds. The black liquid pooled beneath him, smoking where it touched metal, melting holes in the floor like acid.

Even unconscious, he radiated danger.

And yet, from scorched lips and broken ribs, a single word slipped out in a rasp barely louder than a breath.

“Lynne…”

Bruce stood behind the one-way glass, unmoving, his fists clenched white. Below, hazmat-suited medics danced around the acid-blood, trying to stabilize the unconscious beast. No one could get close.

He didn’t wait.

He moved with purpose, pushed past two guards who barely got a glance, and knelt beside the creature’s massive, damaged form.

There—around its neck. A dog tag. Nearly hidden beneath the scales.

He ripped it off.

The letters engraved were jagged, sharp, and not in any Earth script. Apokoliptian.

Bruce’s mind whirred into motion.

He took the tag back to the nearest terminal and ran a translation through League databases. It only took seconds.

The name that appeared on-screen hit him like a punch.

”Neza.”

”Darkseid’s Elite former member.”

He didn’t need the rest of the data to finish loading.

He remembered.

Avelynna-Chloe’s panic attack. The way she had collapsed, gasping that name. The one name she’d choked on through sobs and a haunted stare.

Neza.

He wasn’t just a soldier.

He was her past.

Now he was here, bleeding on the floor of the Watchtower, half-dragon, barely alive, and still whispering her name like a prayer or a curse.

Bruce stared at the screen, unblinking. His heart was a fist in his chest.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t waste a second.

He flew straight to Earth.

Straight to her.

 

⸻

 

Avelynna-Chloe had already felt strange all day. Like something was burning in her gut—a warning she couldn’t shake.

When Bruce stepped into the manor that evening, the faint scent of ash and ozone still clung to him. She was curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, but the second she saw his face—his eyes—she knew.

“There was an attack on the Watchtower,” he said quietly. “An Apokoliptian. Blood’s toxic. Tail like a scorpion. Shape-shifts into a dragon.”

She sprang to her feet, her blanket falling in a heap behind her.

“He nearly killed us all. He’s in custody now. Barely holding on.”

She closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing his arms. “Take off the collar. Let me heal him! His physiology is different—he won’t survive long in that facility!”

Bruce’s jaw clenched. Her grip was tight, but not nearly as tight as the storm rising in his chest. She was holding him, her voice desperate—but not for him. For the monster lying in critical condition on the Watchtower.

“No,” he said, prying her hands from him and holding her wrists. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you anywhere near that monster.”

“NEZA IS NOT A MONSTER!” she shouted, her voice raw with panic. “HE’S MY—”

“Your what?” he snarled. “Ex-boyfriend?”

Bruce’s fury overtook him like a wave. He pulled her close, his fingers digging into her wrists. He was so close to crossing a line that could have her running for the hills all over again. He didn’t trust himself to speak without saying something he’d regret—but he spoke anyway.

“Go ahead. Finish that sentence, sweetheart.”

Avelynna-Chloe trembled in his grip, glaring up at him. She knew that look in his eyes—that jealousy. The look that said she was his, and his alone.

Her voice cracked as she snapped. “He was my knight when I was little on Apokolips, until Darkseid exiled him. Happy now?! Let me go!”

She tried to pull away, but Bruce didn’t budge. His body was solid against hers—an unmovable wall. She realized he was barely using strength to restrain her, yet it was still enough to keep her caged.

His eyes darkened further. Her “knight.” That name wasn’t just a memory—it meant something. It meant Neza had a place in her heart.

“Exiled?” he repeated sarcastically. “Let me guess—because he tried to make a move on the princess? And now he’s heard you’re married, he thought he could take you back?”

Every Alpha instinct in him roared—she was his wife. His woman. His voice was bitter, venomous. But beneath it was something deeper. Wounded. Terrified. “You care about him that much? Enough to risk everything just to save him? Enough to heal him over your own husband?”

Her voice cracked open again. “Granny Goodness, the Furies, the Star Sapphire Corps… they’re all dead. I can’t lose Neza too!”

She thrashed against him, trying to break free, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “You have to let me go… please. He’s the only friend I have left…”

Bruce’s heart nearly stopped.

She was crying. Crying.

His grip on her wrists loosened. He never, ever wanted to make her cry. But the possessive part of him didn’t care how she knew that Apokoliptian bastard. All he knew was that she was crying over a damn soldier—not over him.

Avelynna-Chloe saw her chance and suddenly bolted for the door, but Bruce was faster. He grabbed her arm before she could reach it and yanked her back.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he hissed.

Their momentum sent them crashing into a shelf, clutter raining down around them. Among the mess, something light skittered across the floor and rolled to a stop—an empty birth control blister pack.

The air turned sharp.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t dare to move. Her breath caught.

She had meant to throw that away.

Bruce stared at it, then at her.

Here he thought she couldn’t conceive because of their differences in species.

“You’ve been taking those?” he asked, his fury tightening in his throat. “How long?”

She hesitated. “Since I came to Earth… I had some in my luggage. Then after you stopped checking what I bought, I just went to the pharmacy.”

He grabbed her by the hips, pulled her close, and lifted her chin to force her to meet his eyes.

“Why? You don’t want to have my kids? Is that why you won’t let me mark you? Because you were waiting—hoping—Neza would come back for you?”

Avelynna-Chloe recoiled like he’d slapped her, her voice shaking. “It’s not like that! I didn’t want to bring children into a war. If we had a child, Darkseid would take them and turn them into a weapon.”

Bruce’s blood ran cold. She was right. Having children would only turn them into a target. But he didn’t believe her—not fully.

“So you don’t trust me to protect them? Or is it that you’d rather have Neza’s child than mine? You love him—don’t you?”

Her eyes widened, the tears falling freely now. “You really think I’d betray you? That I’d carry another man’s child when I’m married to you?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He pushed her to the floor, straddling her hips and pinning her wrists to the carpet.

“You’ve been stopping yourself from getting pregnant—from my seed. You’d rather be with him.”

“No,” she sobbed, shaking her head, eyes wide with pain. “I’m trying to keep our future safe! I don’t want to lose our child to Darkseid! You don’t understand. As for Neza, fine, I admit I used to have feelings for him. But that was ages ago. I don’t prefer him over you, or want to run away with him, or anything like that! Please… he’s about to die. Just… let me save him…”

“Let you save him? Let you run to him when you’re supposed to be mine? My wife? The mother of my children?” he growled, forehead pressed against hers. “You’re married to me, NOT him, and I’m the one you’ll be living with for the rest of your life—NOT him. So why in the hell would you want to save him? Why do YOU CARE SO DAMN MUCH?”

“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT MORE PEOPLE I LOVE DYING!!”

Her scream shattered the room.

Bruce froze above her. His entire body stilled. The rage, the jealousy, the terrible possessiveness—it all cracked and fell away.

“Lynne…” his voice was no longer harsh, just broken.

Then the communicator in his utility belt came to life.

“Batman,” J’onn’s voice said through static. “Neza’s gone.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Avelynna-Chloe stopped breathing.

The smallest sound escaped her lips.

She shoved Bruce back and scrambled to her feet, stumbling away from him as if his touch burned. Her hands flew up to cover her face—but nothing could block out what she’d heard.

Neza was dead. She hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye.

Bruce stood in place, chest rising and falling as he watched her crumble. His guilt drowned every trace of anger. He took a step forward, then stopped, afraid. Ashamed.

She fled to her room.

He remained behind, surrounded by silence and the echo of her sobs. They carved into his chest deeper than any blade.

It took him minutes to move.

When he reached her room, she was curled on the bed, sobbing into a pillow. Her cries were hoarse, unbearable—the kind you made when your world was falling apart.

He crossed the room and sank beside her, placing a hand on her back.

“Sweetheart… look at me.”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t stop crying. But she looked. When Bruce saw her face—red and tear-streaked, crumpled in grief—his heart split wide open.

He crawled onto the bed, pulled her into his lap. She didn’t fight him. She couldn’t. She just cried, and he held her, brushing her hair back, whispering apologies into the curve of her neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, kiddo…”

But she kept crying.

His hands trembled as he wiped away tears that kept falling.

“I’m the reason this happened—not you. I should’ve listened. I let my jealousy… my fear get the better of me.”

His voice cracked. His throat ached.

“I was an idiot… Baby girl, please… I never meant to make you feel this way.”

She said nothing, just cried harder.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, holding her close as if it might stop her from falling apart any further.

“I just… I love you so much, I can’t stand the idea of losing you.”

She was still shaking. Still crying.

Tears began to prick in his own eyes—for her, and for himself.

He held her tighter, his grip firm but gentle. He murmured again and again, like a mantra—like he was begging her. “Please, don’t cry…”

She cried until exhaustion took her, and eventually—finally—fell asleep in his arms.

 

⸻

 

The following weeks passed in a haze of silence and sorrow.

Avelynna-Chloe did everything Bruce asked of her. She ate when he told her to, bathed when he reminded her, and followed wherever he led. She didn’t argue, didn’t resist, didn’t complain. She listened—obedient, quiet, hollow.

But every day, without fail, the tears came.

She didn’t sob anymore. There were no screams, no trembling gasps. Just the endless streams of tears that slipped down her cheeks, soaking into her lap, her pillow, her sleeves. Unrelenting. Like a wound that refused to close.

She cried herself to sleep. And when she woke, the tears returned.

Bruce tried everything—talking to her, holding her, reading aloud, even just sitting beside her in silence. Sometimes, she allowed it. Sometimes she curled into him like a child seeking warmth. But even then, the tears continued, carving grief into her like water shaping stone.

Then, one morning, Avelynna-Chloe blinked… and everything was dark.

She blinked again. Rubbed her eyes.

Nothing.

The world had melted into shadow.

“Mm…” Her voice was barely audible. It was the first word she’d spoken in days.

Bruce rushed to her side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She reached for him blindly. “I… I can’t see.”

Her voice cracked—not with fear, but with resignation. As if this was just another thing to lose. As if she’d been waiting for the final thread to snap.

He froze. “What do you mean you can’t see?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Everything’s just… gone. It’s dark.”

He cupped her face, tilting her chin gently. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them red and raw from weeks of crying. When she blinked up at him, there was no focus, no recognition. Just emptiness.

Panic seized his chest.

She was going blind—from grief, from exhaustion, from everything he hadn’t been able to save her from.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He scooped her into his arms, cradling her like she might break apart if he let go.

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t protest. Her head rested against his shoulder. Though her tears had stopped falling, he could still feel the dampness on her skin. She was too worn to cry. Too weak.

He moved fast—faster than he ever had, even in the field. Down the hallways. Through the silence of the manor. Straight into the Batcave.

The air filled with the hum of systems booting up as he carried her into the med bay.

He laid her on the table, brushing back a few stray strands of hair from her face. Her eyes fluttered, blinking into the void.

“Computer, scan ocular function,” he ordered, activating the full diagnostics suite.

The machine came to life, sweeping over her body with a soft whir and hum. Bruce stood beside her, unmoving, eyes locked on the monitor as lines of data flickered across the screen.

Minutes dragged like hours.

Then the results came in.

“Retinal degradation. Pressure trauma. Nerve strain. Extended emotional duress. Dehydration. Insomnia. Result: irreversible damage to the optic nerve. No known regeneration treatment applicable.”

He stared at the screen, rereading the lines over and over.

“No…” he whispered. “No, there has to be something…”

He rifled through every database. Every protocol. He called in files from S.T.A.R. Labs, scoured WayneTech’s archives, even dug into Amazon, Atlantean, Thanagarian, Kryptonian, Tamaranean and Martian medicine.

Nothing.

Behind him, Avelynna-Chloe lay still. Like she’d already known this was coming.

Bruce sank into the chair beside her, running a hand through his hair. His grip tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“I’m sorry,” his words barely reached the air. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner. I should’ve done something before it got this far.”

Still, Avelynna-Chloe said nothing. Her hand reached toward him, and he caught it in his own, bringing it to his lips.

She couldn’t see the anguish in his eyes—but she could feel it in the way he held her hand.

Bruce was trapped in a nightmare. He had never felt so helpless.

He was Batman. He had stopped wars. Defeated gods. Saved the world countless times.

But he couldn’t save her from this.

The World’s Greatest Detective could solve anything.

Except this. Except the one person he loved more than life itself.

He brought her hand to his chest, pressing her palm over his heart, his thumb brushing her knuckles slowly.

“You should blame me,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have let it get this far. I never should’ve…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He gathered her into his arms again, holding her as tightly as he dared. She was so light. So fragile. Like if he let go, she’d slip through his fingers.

He pressed his forehead to her hair, swallowing back the trembling in his chest. Every part of him wanted to scream, to fall apart. But he held on—for her.

Because he was supposed to be strong for her.

And he had to be the one taking care of her.

Chapter 23: Worst Nightmare (I)

The days that followed were quiet, filled with a kind of silence that felt both heavy and sacred.

Bruce didn’t push her. He didn’t expect anything from her. He simply stayed—by her side, in her shadow, always a breath away. The Bat had fought gods and monsters, but now he moved with patience, like a man trying to learn a new kind of battlefield: the terrain of grief, of blindness, of a love that refused to give up.

He started small.

He took her hand and gently guided her through the manor, narrating every detail as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“There’s a step here. Just one. Your foot’s already close. That’s it.”

“This wall’s stone. You’ll feel the change when you pass the painting—six steps ahead.”

Avelynna-Chloe never said much. She just listened. Sometimes nodded. Sometimes didn’t react at all. But he kept talking, kept anchoring her to the world.

He changed the layout of the manor, removed sharp corners, and rugs that could trip her. He installed subtle textures on the floor so she could feel where she was with her feet. He added soft bells to the doors. Voice-assist tech to drawers. Her name whispered into every system, every command prompt: “Lynne mode—engaged.”

He started training her hands. Taught her how to read braille books with her fingers, how to fold laundry by touch, how to pour water without spilling a drop. He let her make mistakes. He never sighed.

When she was too tired, he carried her. When she was too quiet, he simply sat beside her—sometimes with her head resting in his lap, his hand stroking her hair in soothing motions.

At night, when she cried again, he didn’t sleep. He just held her. Whispered things about the stars, about how he’d mapped out the sky for her.

“You can’t see them, but I’ll always describe them. Every night. Every season.”

And when she finally asked, weeks later, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “Am I a burden now?”—his heart clenched.

Pain and love warred inside him. He didn’t blame her for questioning herself. Her entire world had been destroyed. So many things had been taken away. Why wouldn’t she feel like a burden, when she could no longer care for herself?

He took her hand, pressed a kiss into her knuckles, and answered without hesitation, “You’re my purpose.”

He said the words he never imagined he’d say in his life—and each one felt like an absolution for the man he used to be.

“You’re my world. My reason for being. Nothing you do, say, think, or feel will ever be a burden to me. You, Lynne, are my purpose in life—to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you happy, to love you more than anyone. You’re a gift. A miracle. I love you, sweetheart. Nothing can change that.”

It was the truth. Raw, simple, and whole. She was the only reason he kept going, the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. She was his anchor—his rock, his everything. All he could do was love her, hold her, and hate himself for breaking her.

He watched her—studied her with a reverence that bordered on obsession. The curve of her chin. The length of her lashes. The softness of her skin. Now that she couldn’t see it, he committed it all to memory.

Every moment with her became a lesson in balance. He was careful—painfully, lovingly careful. He weighed every word, every touch, every breath. He knew how fragile her healing was. He knew how easily she could slip further away if he pushed too hard.

But he wasn’t trying to fix her. He wasn’t trying to change her.

He was letting her find her own footing. He was just there to catch her if she fell.

He had never loved like this before—completely, unguarded, without fear. Every fiber of him wanted to give himself to her entirely. He would have given up everything—his name, his fortune, his crusade—if it meant she could be okay.

Weeks turned into months.

Slowly, Avelynna-Chloe began to regain strength. She moved more. Spoke more. Cried a little less. She even started helping in the kitchen again.

She moved through the manor like a ghost—silent, cautious, but present. Not the same as before. Still broken, but learning to gather the pieces. Beginning to function again.

She reached for him more often. Took his hand. Let him lead. Leaned into his shoulder as they walked.

Bruce knew recovery would be a long road. But she was walking it—and that was enough. He didn’t rush her. He met her where she was, every time. Always patient. Always there.

And when she finally let out a soft laugh one evening—quiet, but real—it nearly undid him.

The sound was so achingly familiar, so startling in its hope, it felt like a glimpse of the future he’d been chasing.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he imagined her healed.

Living. Laughing. Whole again.

With him. By his side.

Forever.

 

⸻

 

Since then, Avelynna-Chloe had been making steady progress. She now moved through the manor without help. She memorized every corner, every step. She cooked her own meals, found her way to the library to sit and read.

She was stronger now. Not whole—not yet—but she was fighting for it.

That morning, she kissed him goodbye at the door, her fingers brushing his face as she said, “I’m okay. Go handle your mission.”

It was the first time Bruce left without worrying every second. But he still checked in every hour. She answered each call with a soft voice and the same gentle reassurance.

Until the drive home—when his phone buzzed.

Catwoman.

Bruce frowned, jaw tightening. He hesitated, then answered. “What?”

“It’s urgent,” she purred. “Meet me at the old Gotham Clock Tower. Now.”

He didn’t like her tone. But something in her voice told him this was serious. He swerved the Batmobile off course, the engine roaring as he changed direction. Seven minutes later, he was stepping onto the roof.

Selina was already waiting, leaning against the railing, the wind tugging at her black leather suit and whip.

“This better be good,” Bruce growled, stepping toward her.

“Oh, it is,” she said, “I just wanted to see how long it would take you to show up. Thought you’d be too busy playing house with your alien chick.”

His blood ran cold. “Watch your mouth.”

Selina laughed—low and bitter. “Come on, Bruce. Don’t tell me you actually enjoy pretending you’re some domestic husband now. That’s not you. You belong with someone like me. You know that. You always have.”

Bruce’s voice dropped, cold and final. “I told you, that part of my life is over. I’m not interested.”

Something flickered in her eyes—wounded pride twisting into fury.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You should know then… I wasn’t the one who needed help. Talia al Ghul hired me. She wanted me to stall you.”

His heart stopped.

“She’s been jealous of your little bride ever since you married her. She never accepted it. And those two missing assassins from the League? The ones that died trying to get to you? She knows. They figured out it was you who took them down. So now it’s revenge.”

Bruce didn’t speak. His fists clenched at his sides. His heart pounded, echoing like war drums in his chest.

Selina leaned in. “Talia is already in the manor. Your wife? She’s probably under her hands by now… tortured. Or worse.”

Bruce turned without a word.

The security feed blinked to life on his gauntlet.

The manor was quiet. Too quiet. No movement. The security system was offline. Someone had disabled the cameras.

There was no sign of Avelynna-Chloe.

He launched into the driver’s seat. The Batmobile’s engine roared as he tore through the Gotham streets. His gut twisted in agony, fear tightening like a noose around his lungs.

Then—suddenly—zap.

His chest seized.

Her tracking bracelet. It had synced to his heart rate.

That meant it just broke.

His worst nightmare was unfolding. His enemies had gotten to the one person he could never afford to lose.

He’d never pushed the Batmobile this fast.

But it wasn’t fast enough.

 

⸻

 

Deep beneath the manor, in the cold heart of the Batcave, Avelynna-Chloe hung suspended by chains. Her arms were raw, her breath shallow. Blood dripped onto the stone floor beneath her. The power-inhibiting collar glowed faintly at her neck—its edges sharp, pulsing with a cruel hum that kept her cut off from everything that had once made her strong.

Talia stood before her, breathing hard. One side of her face was bruised and bleeding, a vicious gash across her cheek—proof of the fight Avelynna-Chloe had managed to put up in her condition.

“You’re a fighter,” Talia spat, wiping blood from her chin. “Even blind, even powerless. Pathetic, but persistent.”

Avelynna-Chloe said nothing. She hadn’t uttered a word since the torture began. Not when the blades cut her skin. Not when the whips cracked against her back. Not when Talia jammed needles into her arms or slammed her into the floor. Silence was her rebellion. Silence was her defiance.

Talia circled her, eyes burning with fury and jealousy.

“Do you really think he’ll come for you? He’s with Selina Kyle now. She called him. He went running to her like he always does. You’re just the shadow of what he thought he wanted. He’s forgotten you.”

Still, Avelynna-Chloe didn’t react. Her face was bloodied, her body limp with pain, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

Talia screamed and struck her again—fists, knees, anything within reach. The beatings grew savage, fueled by wounded pride and venomous jealousy. Blood poured from Avelynna-Chloe’s mouth, staining the floor. She was drowning in it.

Then the cave trembled. A rush of wind. Tires shrieked against stone.

Talia’s head snapped toward the sound. Smoke erupted from her belt—within seconds, she vanished.

The Batmobile screeched to a halt. Bruce leapt out, cape billowing behind him, eyes scanning—

And he saw her.

Avelynna-Chloe hung by the chains, blood-soaked, barely conscious, her head bowed. The collar around her neck flickered. Her fingers twitched. That was all she could manage.

“Lynne—” His voice broke as he rushed to her side.

He ripped the chains down with trembling hands, catching her before she collapsed. Her body was broken. Her skin was torn. Blood soaked his gloves. He cradled her, his tears falling.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. She just pressed her face weakly into his chest, her blind eyes fluttering shut.

He held her tighter, whispering her name over and over, rage and guilt consuming him.

He was too late.

Chapter 24: Worst Nightmare (II)

Bruce moved fast—too fast, hands shaking as he scanned her vitals.

Her pulse was faint. Her breathing was ragged. The damage was far beyond what the med bay in the Batcave could handle.

“Come on, baby girl, stay with me…”

He reached up, typed in his security code, and yanked the collar off her neck, tossing it aside and crushing it beneath his boot.

No more restraints. No more chains.

If he could go back to the beginning of their marriage, he would have ripped his own head off for ever putting those things on her.

He gathered her into his arms and bolted for the Batmobile.

Gotham General was ready before he even finished the call. The moment he burst through the ER doors, they were taking her from his arms, rushing her to the operating room.

He was left standing in the hallway, gloves still soaked with her blood. His jaw clenched. His fists trembled. There was nothing he could do now but wait.

The silence felt louder than any battlefield. Time crawled by. Every second was a knife in his chest.

Finally—the door opened.

A doctor stepped out, face pale, scrubs stained red. Bruce didn’t even let him speak before he was on his feet.

“Tell me she’s okay.”

The doctor hesitated, swallowing hard. “She… she’s alive. But barely.”

Bruce went still.

“She was pregnant.”

The word echoed in his skull.

Pregnant.

“The trauma was… catastrophic,” the doctor continued. “She miscarried. There was nothing we could do. She’s lost an enormous amount of blood. We’ve tried multiple transfusions, but… there’s no match.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. His thoughts raced.

Of course. She was Apokoliptian. Not from this planet. No one here could save her.

“She only has minutes left,” the doctor sighed. “If you want to say goodbye, it has to be now.”

Bruce’s entire body froze.

No. That wasn’t possible. She had been pregnant. They were going to have a child. And now… he couldn’t—he couldn’t lose her. Not like this.

For the first time in his life, Batman was speechless. The world was closing in. This couldn’t be happening. Not to his Lynne.

The doctor’s eyes flickered. “…Sir?”

Bruce moved without conscious thought. He was past the doctor in seconds, into the room, to her side.

 

⸻

 

The beeping of the machines sounded like a death toll. Avelynna-Chloe was pale, surrounded by tubes, monitors, needles, and IVs. The doctors had done what they could.

Bruce sank onto the edge of the bed. He took her hand, carefully turning it over. Her fingers clung to his, and her heart rate monitor flickered faster. The beeping became erratic. She was slipping. He could feel it.

Avelynna-Chloe used all the strength she had left to drag her other hand over and touch his face. She felt the material of his cowl… then the tears on his cheek.

“Don’t cry… I’m about to meet my friends again… and our baby… They’d be alone and afraid without their Mama…”

Bruce choked back a sob. At the mention of their unborn child, his heart shattered all over again.

He leaned forward and buried his face against her chest, breathing in her scent. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t stop the inevitable. And it was killing him.

“Don’t say that.”

His voice broke as his tears fell, unhindered now, leaving hot, wet trails down his face. He couldn’t hold them back. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. They hadn’t had enough time together.

“Please… I’ll do anything. Anything. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I need you…”

Avelynna-Chloe gently removed his cowl. Her fingers cupped his face. “If you knew about my life before we met… you’d think death is a kind of liberation for me… I’m just glad I had a few happy moments… and you were one of them…”

Bruce shook his head desperately, grasping her delicate hand in his. Tears fell faster, and he didn’t even try to stop them. He couldn’t imagine a world without her. He couldn’t imagine waking up to an empty house, an empty bed—without her bright laughter and smiles. He couldn’t imagine a life without all the things she had become to him.

“No. No, I won’t let you say that. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here… with me…”

Avelynna-Chloe brushed her thumb across his face, wiping away his tears. She smiled sadly, her fingers tracing the slope of his cheek, his chin, his lips, as if to map his face in her mind. She knew it was the last chance she’d have to memorize his every feature.

“Maybe in another life… where I’m not the Princess of Apokolips… Then I could have a normal life… have kids… a family of my own… with you…”

Something broke in Bruce’s chest. He hadn’t felt this powerless in years—not since his parents, not since Jason, not since Gotham had burned in a pit of fire and ash. He couldn’t see a way out of this…

He pleaded, his voice cracking, the pain in his heart turning dark. Unrecognizable. “If we have another life, I’ll find you again. I promise. I’ll do anything to have you—to make you happy. A life together, kids—a family, everything… Just promise me you’ll hold on. You can’t leave me. I need you. I can’t lose you—”

Avelynna-Chloe pressed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t drown yourself in pain… Just… consider this a failed political marriage… Forget about me… move on… live your life…”

The words hit Bruce like a dagger. Her voice was so soft—like she genuinely expected him to forget about her. Walk away. Find someone else to call his wife. Find another girl to bear his children. Give up. Move on. Continue the Wayne bloodline with a new Omega.

He’d rather be dead.

He gripped her hand tighter, like he’d never let go. “You’re not a political tool. You’re not a war prize. I don’t care about power games. I don’t care who you are, who your father is, what species you are—I don’t care about any of it. You’re my wife. My partner. Don’t ask me to forget. I can’t. You’re all I have. All I’ll ever want. I’ve never loved anything before you. I’ve never loved anything the way I love you. I won’t find someone else. Not now. Not ever.”

Her breathing grew shallower, each breath more labored than the last. Bruce felt her pulse flickering against his fingertips, growing weaker. Time was slipping away, and he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t fight this. He would trade anything—just to keep her alive a little longer.

Avelynna-Chloe rested her forehead against his, her lips barely brushing his as she whispered her final words.

“Don’t stop… fighting for justice… for the good… And thank you… for giving me something beautiful… before the end… I’m proud of you, and I love you…”

Her voice was barely audible now, nothing more than breath. She exhaled, like a sigh of peace—

The monitors flatlined.

Bruce’s world stopped.

He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He just held her—her weight sinking in his arms, limp and fragile—as the sound of the machines echoed the truth he refused to accept.

“No… no, please, Lynne… come back… don’t leave me…”

His face was buried in her neck, tears soaking into her skin as his heart shattered beyond repair. He was drowning. The machines kept screaming, the room kept spinning—but he couldn’t feel anything. Nothing felt even remotely normal.

He had never experienced a pain like this. It was worse than anything. It was the death of every future. Of every happiness. It was a future gone.

And here he was—holding her like he could still save her, as if loving her hard enough could bring her back.

But love wasn’t enough. Not this time. Not now.

Bruce didn’t know how long he had sat there. Her body was still warm. Every second, he waited to wake up—for it to be a nightmare. But the tears falling from his eyes were real.

The love of his life was gone.

He held her so tightly, his grip bruising. He couldn’t let go—he couldn’t bear to lay her body down. He couldn’t face the truth. Maybe if he just stayed there, forever… if he just never let her go… maybe he could still fix this…

The doors suddenly slammed open.

A man wearing a helmet stormed in, his red armor still marked from battle, his eyes blazing with fury—and heartbreak. Bruce could feel the god-level storm in his presence.

He had never met him, but he had seen the records.

Orion. Darkseid’s second son, and Avelynna-Chloe’s half-brother, exiled to New Genesis for years.

Orion’s gaze landed on the bed. On her. On the lifeless body of his little sister, still in Bruce’s arms.

Before Bruce could react, Orion’s fist collided with his jaw, knocking him backward to the ground. The sound echoed like thunder in the sterile room. Bruce didn’t fight back. Didn’t block. He just took it.

“You paranoid bastard!” Orion roared, towering over him. “You let her die!”

Bruce wiped the blood from his mouth, pushing himself upright. His chest heaved, but his voice stayed controlled. “Orion—”

“She was just an innocent Omega!” Orion shouted, his voice shaking. His entire frame vibrated with barely contained grief and rage. “You put that collar on her. You stripped her powers. You turned her into prey. All because you couldn’t trust her—because your damn fear was louder than everything!”

Bruce’s throat clenched. He looked at Avelynna-Chloe.

“She wasn’t even eighteen!” Orion spat. “She spent the last four years of her life in your cage. You let your paranoia make you cruel. Now—look at her.”

His knees hit the ground beside her bed.

“She’s dead. And her blood is on your hands.”

Bruce didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. His eyes blurred with fresh tears.

Because Orion was right.

He had failed her. He had broken her. He had destroyed everything they’d built.

The silent room felt like a nightmare. The beeping of the heart monitor. The hum of the IV machines. The sound of Orion’s heavy breathing. And the sound of Bruce’s heart, breaking into pieces.

Then—something clicked. One sentence. One line in Orion’s fury cut through the fog.

“She wasn’t even eighteen.”

Bruce blinked, stunned. His breath caught in his throat.

That couldn’t be right.

Darkseid had claimed her to be of legal age when he proposed the treaty. She had looked like a woman when they married. She had felt like a grown woman. There were childish moments—but overall…

He looked up, eyes wide. “What did you say? Orion—what do you mean, she wasn’t eighteen?”

Orion turned on him, eyes cold and tired and full of disgust. Without a word, he pulled a small device from his belt and threw it at Bruce’s chest. It clattered across the floor and skidded to a stop by his feet.

Bruce stared down at it—Apokoliptian tech, blinking with unreadable symbols. The screen flickered, displaying data: birthdate, age, lineage.

“Seventeen years, three hundred forty-one days.”

His stomach sank.

“Read it,” Orion growled. “See the truth she gave her life to keep from you—so your world wouldn’t shatter.”

Then he moved to the bed, lifted her body in his arms like she weighed nothing—like she was still the little sister he once held during storms. His eyes burned.

“She’s coming with me.” He said flatly.

Just like that—Orion was gone. The doors slammed shut behind him, and Bruce was left alone.

Alone with silence. With guilt. With the weight of everything he didn’t know.

Notes:

There will be a lot of explanatory information in the next chapter. And please don't freak out about Lynne being underage—her situation is like Vision being only three when he’s with Wanda. That’s why I put up the underage sex tag. 😂

Chapter 25: Once Upon A Time On Apokolips (I)

Notes:

Finally got time to go see Superman. Now I have to involve Guy Gardner, Krypto, also Ma and Pa Kent in this story at some point. 😙

The Batcave was quiet when Bruce returned, but the silence didn’t comfort him—it crushed him. Every shadow felt colder. Every echo of his boots against the stone floor was a reminder: Avelynna-Chloe was gone.

He set the Apokoliptian device onto the Batcomputer console. The metal still hummed faintly with residual energy—unfamiliar and ancient. He took a slow breath and began the decryption and translation process. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, parsing alien code with the same fluency he used on Earth’s most secure firewalls.

He remembered trying to hack Apokolips’ archives before. He had found nothing—not a trace of her. As if she had never existed.

Now he understood why.

Because everything had been buried in this one device.

The files started to load—

Classified logs. Scientific records. Genetic maps. Surveillance footage. Medical files.

His breath hitched as the pieces fell into place.

Seventeen years ago—just after Apokolips’ first failed invasion of Earth—Darkseid had been watching him. Studying him. And in the chaos of the battlefield… the tyrant had done the unthinkable.

He had collected a sample of Batman’s blood from the wreckage.

Suli—Darkseid’s wife—had been four months pregnant at the time.

Bruce’s DNA was injected into the fetus.

Into Avelynna-Chloe.

His heart stuttered.

She wasn’t just drawn to him by treaty, by coincidence, by fate.

She was his.

Biologically.

His knees nearly buckled. He gripped the edge of the console, knuckles white, as the next file opened.

She wasn’t supposed to be born an Omega. Darkseid had wanted an Alpha. A son with Batman’s intellect and Apokoliptian strength.

Instead, he got her. An Omega girl. A disappointment.

That was when the torture began.

Bruce watched, sickened, as file after file chronicled how her body initially rejected his DNA. How DeSaad had been ordered to force it in again and again—through agonizing procedures. How she was dragged from one experiment to another. How she had been waterboarded. Electrocuted. Injected with neurotoxins. Cut open. Her organs scooped out, replaced with synthetic monstrosities. Her pain and trauma had bleached her natural dark hair into that platinum-silver tone. She had grown at an unnatural pace—fully grown by the time she was three. Her Succubus and Siren forms… side effects of it all.

He saw the training logs. The punishment logs. The isolation cells. Her food withheld when she “underperformed.” Locked outside in the rain when she showed weakness. Her body malnourished. Her mind exhausted. Her soul scratched.

That was why she was scared of thunder. That was why she was smaller than normal Apokoliptians. That was why her hands shook. That was why she sometimes flinched when touched unexpectedly.

That was why her eyes always carried sadness.

Another document opened—her medical records. The language was harsh, clinical, stripped of emotion.

Apokoliptian physiology… twisted by centuries of war, conquest, and genetic manipulation. According to the records, their DNA had evolved with one singular goal: survival through domination. Reproduction wasn’t sacred—it was strategic. They were a species engineered to multiply, to create armies. And to achieve that, they resorted to inbreeding. Encouraged it. Genetic closeness, even incest, led to more powerful offspring—stronger soldiers.

Bruce read the line again. And again.

“Inbreeding often results in genetically superior progeny. Mutations are absorbed, strengthened, and passed on. Particularly within the royal bloodline.”

The next line stole the air from his lungs.

“Princess Avelynna-Chloe’s Succubus form dramatically enhances fertility. She is capable of conceiving quickly and easily. Each successful pregnancy increases beauty, power, and reproductive viability. Subjects like her are valued for their ability to carry and birth multiple cubs simultaneously.”

Cubs. A pack.

His and hers.

They could have had a family. A powerful one. A real one.

He ran a hand down his face, grief clawing up his throat.

She had known.

She had carried that truth. And she had still chosen him.

Even though her very creation was a violation. Even though their blood would match. She never said a word. Never burdened him. She bore it all so his world wouldn’t shatter.

But now it had.

A choked sob tore from his throat.

They could’ve had a future—not born of war, but of healing.

Now it was gone. All of it.

And he was alone.

Again.

His trembling fingers clicked open another folder—surveillance footage hidden in a subdirectory.

The first video flickered to life.

Avelynna-Chloe stood in a corridor. Arms wrapped around herself. Her older siblings circled her like vultures. Kalibak grabbed her hand and threw her to the floor while Grail jeered. Grayven kicked her on the back. She didn’t fight back. Not until Orion stormed in, snarling like a beast and threatening them off.

But Bruce could tell—it didn’t last. The bullying returned once Orion was exiled.

Another video.

Combat training. Kanto and Mantis. Their blows were sharper. Deliberate. Avelynna-Chloe wasn’t being taught. She was being beaten. Used as a punching bag. She bled and staggered, still getting back up.

Another clip.

Avelynna-Chloe was playing dress-up. Granny Goodness sat beside her, adjusting a crown made of jewelry scraps. The Female Furies flanked them, clapping.

She was happy. A rare memory of comfort.

Another.

Darkseid’s concubines whispered behind Avelynna-Chloe as she passed.

“Curseborn.”

“Omega freak.”

“The mistake.”

Tigra bragged about how both Avelynna-Chloe and Kalibak were weaklings, her son Orion was more worthy to inherit the throne. Myrina compared Avelynna-Chloe unfavorably to her daughter Grail. Mortalla complained about being picked by Darkseid only because she resembled Suli and Avelynna-Chloe.

Another.

Steppenwolf. Smiling. Proposing to Darkseid that his grandniece should be handed over to him. “An Omega might be useful if properly bred.”

He wanted her.

The footage showed him trying to force himself on her—more than once. She struggled him off. And every time, Darkseid interfered—not to protect his daughter, but to remind Steppenwolf that she was his to dispose of.

Or to claim. “Her virginity is mine, in case I need her to replace her mother.”

Bruce’s stomach turned.

Another.

Neza.

Playing an Apokoliptian sport, similar to basketball. He scored, then tripped on purpose—flat on his face.

Avelynna-Chloe giggled. Bright and soft.

Bruce exhaled a huff.

Now he knew where her “always love people who willingly throw away their dignity just to make me laugh” came from.

Another.

Suli. Her mother.

Yelling at Avelynna-Chloe in a ceremonial chamber. “Such a hideous abomination. You should’ve been a boy like Kalibak. I should’ve strangled you with your damn umbilical cord!”

She flung acid from a sacred bowl. It hissed as it hit the stone near Avelynna-Chloe’s feet. The second time, she hurled the whole bowl. Avelynna-Chloe dodged. As if it had happened before.

Bruce’s chest hurt. That explained why she never truly believed no matter how many times he told her she was beautiful, why every once in a while she’d doubt his feelings for her.

Then he opened a final clip.

Dated a month before the peace treaty.

Darkseid sat on his obsidian throne, beneath were Virman Vundabar and Avelynna-Chloe’s grandparents—Yuga Khan and Heggra.

Vundabar—didn’t care that his daughter Malice’s corpse wasn’t even cold yet after the destruction of Zamaron—just busy kissing ass. “A stroke of genius, Your Majesty. Giving the Omega to Batman. He will never see it coming. She will be a distraction.”

Yuga Khan scoffed. “You imbecile. Do not underestimate that mortal. Apokolips tried twice and failed. Because of him. He is no god—but he made fools of gods.”

Darkseid glared at his father. “I do not expect Batman to fall for her. I expect him to hate her. She will break under his contempt and take her own life in his house—or he will end it for her. Then Earth’s door will open for the third invasion.”

Heggra folded her arms. “There’s risk. I searched her belongings. She packed birth control pills. What if she forgets? What if she falls in love with him? What if he falls for her?”

Yuga Khan sneered. “Of course he would. Mortals love useless things.”

“Again, what if she gets pregnant?” Heggra continued. “That’s technically inbreeding. A child born of both bloodlines could defy even you.”

Yuga Khan turned to her. “Perhaps if you’d given me a smarter son, we wouldn’t need to rely on such plans.”

Heggra snapped back. “I preferred Drax over this one. Too bad he killed his brother.”

Darkseid stood, eyes flashing. “Enough. One way or another—she has to die. If she doesn’t, I will send someone to finish her and blame the Bat. Let them bond—so we can sever it. If they breed, we will take the offspring.”

“Also to ensure she has nowhere else to run,” he added coldly, “I have already dispatched Parademons. To eliminate all Apokoliptian fugitives on Earth. Quietly.”

Yuga Khan and Heggra walked away, still shaking their heads. “Born under thunder,” they said. “That girl is an omen of doom.”

Bruce’s hand clenched the console so tightly that the metal cracked.

He thought he’d known pain. He thought the alley was the worst moment of his life.

But his parents had loved him.

Avelynna-Chloe had nothing.

Born into a palace of demons. Surrounded by power, but starved of affection. Abused by gods, ignored by titans. She had a family of immortals—yet she’d been orphaned from the moment she took her first breath.

No wonder she said death is a liberation for her.

Those scums called her weak, but they were clueless about her strength.

Love was her strength. She had every right to go insane, still—she chose kindness. Her heart stayed pure in the swamp of cruelty.

Bruce sank into the chair.

She was his wife. His love. His other half.

And he wasn’t the only one who let her die.

All of them pushed her to death.

Where was justice when she needed it the most?

He had given Joe Chill the mercy of the law, let him rot in prison.

But this?

No law or rules could contain what he felt.

He couldn’t wait that long.

Not anymore.

 

⸻

 

The reason Batman didn’t kill wasn’t just because he thought everyone deserved a second chance, or because he refused to become the same as the criminals he’d been fighting against.

It was also because once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Not the vigilante who once clung to a code. Not the symbol of hope who spared the guilty.

The man Bruce Wayne was now—the thing he had become—moved with one purpose:

ANNIHILATION.

The League of Assassins was first.

There were no warnings. No mercy. Just a string of corpses carved through the world like a bloody trail of absolution.

They tried to fight. Tried to run. Tried to offer him riches, secrets, peace. But Bruce wasn’t there for bartering.

They’d taken part in the organization that murdered her. They stood by as she was struck, whipped, violated.

So he executed them.

Not quick deaths—but deliberate ones. Hands-on.

He watched the light leave their eyes like he had watched it leave hers.

Some he choked. Others he dragged into dark alleyways with necks snapped. One he pinned to a wall with their own sword, impaled through the heart.

Justice wasn’t enough. It had to be vengeance.

And vengeance had to bleed.

Somewhere around the eightieth corpse, one finally squealed—gurgling through the blood pooling in his mouth.

“Ra’s… met with DeSaad… last month… deal… device to bypass the cave—”

Bruce stared into the guy’s face—bruised, barely recognizable.

Of course it had never been about those two missing men.

Ra’s al Ghul didn’t care about loyalty. He didn’t mourn. He used people like pawns on a chessboard—sacrificed them without hesitation. Even when it was his own daughter’s jealousy.

Bruce had prepared for this.

A humorless smirk cracked through his face.

Then—he shot the guy.

 

⸻

 

For the last four years, Wayne Manor had been a home. A place of history, legacy, and love. Now, it once again was a graveyard of ghosts—and Bruce had locked it down like a fortress.

He watched the feeds as Ra’s arrived. As his henchmen—nineteen of them—poured in like insects.

Bruce welcomed them with violence.

The first one died with a blade to the ear.

The second with a crushed windpipe.

The third… fourth… fifth… they didn’t last ten seconds. Their weapons didn’t matter. Their training didn’t matter.

Bruce was rage incarnate.

By the time he reached the grand hall, nine bodies were already cooling in their own blood.

The others ran.

He hunted them like a wolf. No survivors. No witnesses.

Then the doors opened—and there Ra’s al Ghul stood. Aged, but arrogant. Cloaked in robes.

“Detective,” Ra’s greeted, as if they were old friends. “You’ve made quite the mess.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He walked forward. Every step was a funeral march.

Ra’s smiled thinly, as if indulging a child. “You’ve always been so emotional. And she was a pretty little thing. Can’t deny that even I wanted to bed her. But too good for you, I suppose. Which made her the perfect target.”

Bruce’s fists clenched. “She was just an innocent!”

“She was your weakness,” Ra’s said simply. “Darkseid knew it. I knew it. That’s why I accepted his offer. You made yourself vulnerable. You fell in love.”

“You killed her.”

“I won,” Ra’s chuckled, eyes gleaming with sick pride.

Bruce lunged.

The fight that followed was brutal. Vicious. Ra’s was a master—centuries of knowledge and skill. But Bruce wasn’t fighting as Batman. He wasn’t holding back. He fought like a missile designed only to destroy.

He crushed Ra’s against the wall. Threw him through pillars. Broke ribs. Shattered a knee.

Ra’s tried to crawl.

Bruce grabbed him by the jaw and lifted him, inches from his face.

“She died in my arms,” he growled. “Calling for our baby. You think I’ll let you live?”

Ra’s spat blood. “You’ll lose yourself.”

“I already did.”

Bruce slammed his skull into the floor—once, twice—until the marble split and the old man crumpled. But he didn’t stop there.

He tore him apart.

The monster now was nothing but flesh, pulp, and bone.

Gone the father, the daughter was next.

Bruce didn’t touch her—didn’t need to. He used his wealth. His reach. His control.

Blackgate became Talia’s tomb.

The guards looked the other way. The inmates followed instructions. They beat her down in the bathroom. Sliced her wrists.

She bled like Lynne did—slowly. Helplessly.

Selina was no better. Same plan. Same death.

Justice didn’t cry. Justice didn’t apologize.

Justice suffered. Just like Lynne did.

Within one week, the League of Assassins was wiped out completely. Their scrolls were ash. Their names were erased—forgotten like a stain washed clean from stone.

Bruce stood before the Gotham Clock Tower, cape rippling in the storm. The rain dripped from his armor. Lightning flashed—Ra’s al Ghul’s gory corpse hung above him like a promise. A crucifix. A message to the city.

Batman had died with the Lost Sapphire.

What was left was something the world should fear.

And his next target was Apokolips.

Notes:

So the genetic relation between Bruce and Lynne is basically like Logan and Laura, or Soldier Boy and Homelander. I don’t know if that’s considered incest? Anyway I still put up that tag cause I’m kinky. 😇

Chapter 26: Once Upon A Time On Apokolips (II)

In the meantime, the funeral was held on New Genesis.

Bruce wasn’t invited.

He was forbidden.

Orion didn’t mince words. “If you set foot near her resting place, it will be considered an act of war. The Genesisian Council will not tolerate your presence. And I won’t hesitate to stop you myself.”

There was no room for argument. No plea that could soften the fury of a brother who watched his baby sister die in another man’s arms—chained, broken.

“She belonged to the stars,” Orion had affirmed at the end of the message. “Not to you.”

The Justice League didn’t have to wonder what Bruce would do.

Every hour, he scoured the Watchtower logs, looking for a breach point. Every port. Every fuel manifest. Diana caught him near the hangar twice. Clark intercepted him midair once. The team took shifts watching the sky, watching him, because they were all aware of a fact.

He’d burn half the galaxy just to stand at her grave.

But New Genesis was far beyond reach. Avelynna-Chloe was buried in a garden of sunshine and flowers. A temple of crystal was built in her honor.

She wasn’t just mourned.

She was worshipped.

And Bruce… was locked out of heaven.

The moment the Genesisian flags fell to half-mast, the moment the last mourners left that golden planet, the news broke like wildfire across the universe.

The Lost Sapphire was dead.

Just like that, the treaty cracked. Shattered into war.

Darkseid wasted no time.

The sky over Earth tore open like paper.

A rupture of flame and shadow split the stratosphere, revealing the firestorm of Apokolips.

Parademons blotted out the sun. Satellites dropped. Cities fell into panic. The League scrambled to assemble their forces, but there were too many. Too fast. Too prepared. They’d been waiting. They’d known this day would come—the day the princess between worlds disappeared.

Just when everyone thought Earth stood alone—

The Boom Tube opened.

And out marched the Genesisian army.

Tens of thousands strong. White and gold armor. Solar-powered weaponry. Led by Orion himself.

“I didn’t come for you,” he said bitterly to Bruce. “I came for her. She would’ve fought for this planet.”

Bruce said nothing. The darkness in his eyes was louder than any vow.

The two armies stood face to face. Tension hung like electricity in the air.

Darkseid landed on the ground. Tall. Monstrous. Eyes burning.

He lifted a hand to command the charge—

Then froze.

A faint glow pulsed from his chest.

Pink.

Everyone stilled.

Bruce’s breath caught.

Her chaos magic.

One by one, the rest of the Apokoliptian royals started glowing too.

Suli. Yuga Khan. Heggra. Steppenwolf. DeSaad. Vundabar. Kanto. Mantis. Kalibak. Grayven. Grail. Tigra. Myrina. Mortalla.

All of them.

The pink glow spread beneath their skin, veins lighting up like cracks in glass.

They dropped to their knees, clutching their chests, blood pouring from their eyes, their ears, their noses. They screamed as if their very souls were being ripped apart. Hands clawed at armors, at throats, at the air. One vomited blood and chunks of organ. Another tore their own face apart. Spines snapped. Bones burst through skin. Flesh boiled from the inside out.

It was horrifying. Gory. Unnatural. Unstoppable.

Within seconds, they were dead.

The Parademons stopped moving, hovering in confused stasis.

Only one remained.

Darkseid.

Crumpled in a pool of his own black blood. Trembling. Panting. Hands twitching.

“That useless Omega brat,” he growled. “She has defiled me… humiliated me… even in death!”

Bruce took a step forward.

Until he stood before the tyrant who had taken everything from him.

Darkseid raised his head slowly, lips curled in disgust. “Well, well. My son-in-law. Or should I say… co-father?”

Bruce didn’t blink.

“You ordered your own daughter’s death,” he said, voice low and deadly. “And your unborn grandchild.”

Darkseid scoffed—then paused.

“…She was pregnant?”

And he laughed. Not with joy. With madness. With hunger.

“I would’ve waited. Let the fetus grow strong. Then slit her open and ripped it from her womb with my bare hands. Raised it as my heir.”

That was all Bruce needed.

Rage exploded behind his eyes.

Without a word, he reached down, yanked Steppenwolf’s bloodied axe from the ground.

And swung.

The blade bit into Darkseid’s neck. Deep. Final.

With a wet crunch and a spray of steaming blood, the tyrant’s head was severed clean from his shoulders. It hit the dirt with a heavy thud.

The invasion ended before it began.

Earth was saved.

But this time not by its heroes.

By a dead angel.

 

⸻

 

The battlefield was still slick with divine blood when the Parademons dropped.

Kneeling.

Their thousands of wings bowed like shadows over ash as they turned toward Orion. They prostrated themselves before him, the sound of claws against scorched ground echoing like a grim hymn.

With a thousand hissing voices that seemed to scrape at the very air, they spoke as one:

“Emperor of Apokolips. We swear our fealty.”

Orion’s jaw clenched.

He’d spent his entire life trying to prove he wasn’t his father’s son. That he wasn’t Darkseid’s heir. That the fire in his blood would never eclipse the light of New Genesis.

Now the monsters of Apokolips knelt before him.

He said nothing, until one Parademon—small for its kind, with one wing crooked—stepped out of line.

“I have something,” it rasped. “Something… Princess Avelynna-Chloe left. Before she was married off to Earth.”

Orion narrowed his eyes.

Earth’s emergency response teams had begun arriving, setting up aid tents and containment zones. Medics were checking wounded civilians. The Leaguers were quarantining the corpses of Apokoliptian gods. News drones buzzed high above, already breaking the story of the sudden purge.

Orion raised a hand. “Follow me.”

The Parademon obeyed.

Bruce followed.

Orion noticed. He just sighed.

They arrived at the cliffs. Quiet. Out of earshot.

The Parademon unfastened the clasp around its armor. Reaching beneath the scales, it retrieved a small, glass vial—cloudy and still faintly pulsing with pinkish mist—and held it out.

“That was the poison,” it said.

Orion took it.

It still radiated. He felt it immediately. The chaos magic inside was so elegant, so delicately constructed. No one on Apokolips could have made something like this. Not even Suli.

“This was infused with a trigger spell,” the Parademon continued. “She gave it to me. Told me to pour it into the royal food storage. It would never activate unless there was a battle—unless their blood burned with adrenaline.”

“She planned this?” Orion said, voice hollow.

“She knew she wouldn’t come back,” the creature murmured. “She said if she died… they had to die too.”

Bruce’s hands curled into fists.

The Parademon bowed again. “There’s one more thing.”

It produced a folded piece of parchment—handwritten in soft ink, the corners singed slightly from heat.

Avelynna-Chloe’s will.

Orion took it quickly, eyes scanning the words written in both Apokoliptian and English.

“I, Princess Avelynna-Chloe of Apokolips, being of sound mind and body, declare this to be my Last Will. To my husband Bruce Thomas Wayne, I give the remnants of my sovereign inheritance. All accounts and vaults. I believe he will use them wisely to protect what’s left.”

Orion exhaled roughly and passed the will to Bruce. Their eyes met—something fractured between them. But not exactly hostile anymore.

“She was always too kind,” Orion said after a long silence. “Still gave them mercy. Let them eat and sleep and walk while her own life crumbled.”

“Your family underestimated her,” Bruce replied. “She was never weak. She struck when it mattered.”

Orion looked at the Parademon again. “You’ll speak before the Council. Swear this under the Source.”

The creature nodded. “As you command, my Emperor.”

Orion flinched at the title again.

Bruce held the will in both hands, reading over it for the hundredth time.

His fingers brushed the edge of her signature—a tiny heart next to her name.

That was how she signed everything.

His heart pounded like it wanted to break free from the cage of his ribs.

But he was still alive.

She wasn’t.

 

⸻

 

The elevator doors hissed open, casting Bruce in a column of low white light as he stepped into the Batcave.

He didn’t take off the cape. Didn’t unclip the gauntlets. Didn’t wipe off the dried blood or grime that clung to him from the battlefield.

His hand was still clutched around the crumpled parchment, corners fraying where he’d touched it too many times.

He dragged himself to the Batcomputer and collapsed into the chair, the leather groaning under his weight.

As the screens flickered to life, a chime echoed in the cave.

Notification: Incoming Transfer
Amount: 10,500,000,000,000 Credits (Equivalent: $10.5 Trillion USD)
Memo: “Apokoliptian Royal Inheritance — Disbursed as per Princess Avelynna-Chloe’s will. Approved by the Genesisian-Apokoliptian Joint Council. – Emperor Orion”

For a moment, Bruce just stared at the numbers. As if adding that much wealth to his accounts meant anything to him now.

It didn’t feel like justice. It didn’t feel like legacy.

It felt like the final insult.

“I don’t want your money, Lynne… I want you.”

A leaden silence settled in the cave.

Then Bruce reached for the console, typing fast.

> SURVEILLANCE ARCHIVES
> APOKOLIPS / OUTER SYSTEM ACCESS
> PLAYBACK: DATE - [One Night Before Earth Transfer Protocol Begins]

The footage started.

Dust. The iridescent glow of a planet wrapped in pain.

There she was.

Sitting on the edge of her balcony, in her pink sapphire castle. Her bare feet dangled over the ledge, her silver gown draped like melted metal, her fingers moving across the parchment in her lap—writing her own will.

Her expression was still. Peaceful, almost. A breeze lifted her hair. In the starlight, she looked even younger. So heartbreakingly fragile.

A scratchy voice broke the silence.

“Princess?”

The camera panned as a Parademon entered the frame—its wings tattered, one bent at the middle. The same one from earlier today.

Its voice held more concern than menace. “It’s late… You leave tomorrow. The journey’s long and harsh. Why aren’t you asleep?”

Avelynna-Chloe didn’t answer that. Instead, she beckoned it closer with a motion of her hand. “Come here. I want to help you.”

The Parademon hesitated. “You’re not healed. After Zamaron—your body—”

She smiled, that bittersweet smile she wore when she knew something had to hurt. “Your wings won’t survive if you don’t heal at least partway.”

She placed her palm gently over the bent wing. Chaos magic flickered to life—no longer the blinding pink blaze it was supposed to be. Just embers now.

The Parademon winced. She did, too.

Bruce could see it. She pulled her hand back, pressing at the spot just beneath her ribs.

The Parademon stepped back in alarm. “Stop. Please. Your injuries… your magic hasn’t regenerated. Your healing factor is degrading. If you keep using it like this, it’s going to—”

“Disappear?” Avelynna-Chloe said without fear. “Yeah. I know.”

She pulled a pink bandage from her satchel, carefully wrapping it around the Parademon’s wing. “It doesn’t matter. Once I set foot on Earth, Batman’s going to figure out a way to shut down my powers anyway.”

A brutal sting in Bruce’s chest.

She knew.

She expected him not to trust her. Expected the suppression. Yet she still chose to go.

The Parademon looked horrified. “Then your healing factor won’t last long.”

She shrugged. “It already hasn’t since Zamaron fell.”

“It’s not too late,” the Parademon whispered. “I can help you escape. There are tunnels under the castle still intact. Or—I can send word to Prince Orion. He’ll take you to New Genesis.”

Avelynna-Chloe’s eyes lifted to the stars above—burning white in the Apokoliptian night.

“I can’t be selfish anymore.”

Her voice cracked just slightly.

“Last time I ran, Granny, the Furies and the entire Zamaron planet paid the price. They tried to hide me, protect me. It cost them everything.”

She looked back at the Parademon.

“New Genesis tried to help, and they almost fell with us. Their armies are exhausted. Their cities still rebuilding.”

She placed her hand over her heart.

“And the marriage contract is sealed. My name’s already been written beside Batman’s. Even if I vanish… they’ll just replace me. Another girl. One has nothing to do with any of this.”

She gestured faintly to the sky.

“I can’t let that happen. I don’t want another soul out there to suffer the way I did. Not when I can bring peace… even if it’s temporary.”

Bruce’s throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe.

He had never known how much she had already given up before she ever looked him in the eye.

“But Batman—” the Parademon still tried to talk her out of this. “He’s unpredictable. And Darkseid has plans. If you step onto Earth, you’ll be caught in the middle. You’ll become the pawn in someone else’s war.”

Avelynna-Chloe smirked, tired but sharp.

“Darkseid won’t let me live. And I also won’t let them.”

She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out that small glass vial, held it up to the starlight, and began to pour herself into it.

Her chaos magic bled into the vial like liquid fire, swirling violently until the glass strained with pressure.

The Parademon panicked. “What are you doing?! You’re stripping your core! You’ll have nothing—”

She corked the bottle and shoved it into his claw. “Put this in their food storage. After making war with three planets at the same time, they have to rest for a while to recover. The poison will sleep. Until the adrenaline in their blood boils again. And then…” Her smile turned cold. “…I’ll have my revenge.”

The Parademon was shaking. “Ma’am, you’ll be left with no powers. No army. You’ll be stuck on Earth… under the roof of a paranoid man who sees you as a threat, surrounded by a bunch of his own enemies.”

Avelynna-Chloe handed it the folded parchment—her will. “I trust him. I trust the good in him.”

The footage ended.

The screen went black.

The will in Bruce’s hand fell to the floor.

So did he.

Fists clenched in his hair, teeth bared in a soundless scream as a wave of grief—so raw, so consuming—crashed down on him.

She was already dying when she arrived.

Already hurt.

She’d trusted him. Knew he wouldn’t understand her at first—and loved him anyway.

What did he do?

Put the collar on her.

Doubted her.

Choked her.

Let his enemies get their hands on her.

And still she smiled.

Now she was gone.

He was left alone with her blood money. Her last breath sealed in a paper.

None of it could bring her back.

Batman curled into the shadows of his cave.

And wept.

Chapter 27: Your Name Carved Into History, Mine Carved Into Your Grave

Notes:

Went to an anime con—absolutely not my thing, everyone there was ten years younger than me. 😅 So I’m back at superhero stuff, seeing F4. Lynne’s motherly vibe is going to be based on Sue Storm’s for sure.

Fifteen years had passed.

Time did what it did best—moved forward without mercy. Civilizations evolved, and the scars of war were slowly paved over by treaties and shiny new infrastructures. But grief, Bruce discovered, didn’t abide by the same laws of time. It burrowed deep, like a thorn under the skin, refusing to heal, refusing to be forgotten.

The $10.5 trillion sovereign grant Avelynna-Chloe left behind wasn’t kept in vaults or hoarded in offshore accounts. No. He didn’t touch it for himself—not a cent. It was turned into peace: distributed to fund programs that transform slums into schools, fund orphanages and hospitals across Earth, and even help rebuild distant worlds that once fell under Apokolips’ shadow.

“My future is yours,” that promise of hers was kept, in the form of memorial foundations, planetary relief networks, interstellar shelters for war refugees, education, food, and healthcare.

Bruce also dismantled the trafficking rings and executed silent sting operations that made entire crime syndicates vanish overnight. His enemies declined steadily, like rust peeling off metal in acid rain. They weren’t rehabilitated. They weren’t forgiven. Some surrendered. The rest… weren’t around to try.

People began to whisper that Batman had become something else entirely. That the moment his wife died, so did the last tether to his humanity. It dulled his edges, hardened the violence in his hands until it became something far crueler.

The Bat-Signal was always there, but Harvey Bullock and the whole GCPD scowled whenever Jim Gordon came near it.

Still, the public was grateful.

Statues were built in their name—the Lost Sapphire and the Dark Knight. They stand side by side, forever immortalized in silver and stone in front of the Hall of Justice. Her likeness was captured mid-laugh, hand resting gently near Batman’s clenched gauntlet. Tourists visited. Children drew her. Teachers told stories about the princess who gave everything for the people she had never met.

But Bruce couldn’t bring himself to look at a polished version of her that wasn’t living, didn’t sing to herself while brushing her hair.

When the world called her “the Lost Sapphire,” it hurt in ways language couldn’t explain.

To him, she was never lost.

She was taken. Torn from him by greed and blood and a war that didn’t want to end.

She was his.

He didn’t want to be a savior.

He wanted to be a husband. A father. He just wanted her.

And they buried her light in a coffin too far away for him to reach.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen anniversaries, fifteen Valentine’s Days where no hands were held.

Fifteen winters where Wayne Manor grew colder and colder.

The east wing remained untouched, sealed like a forgotten part of time. Bruce kept every single thing she ever touched. Her dresses still hung in the closet, wrapped in the scent of peach and milk. A half-burnt candle on the bedside table still bore the imprint of her fingerprints. A pink scarf—the one she wore when he teased her for dressing like it was summer in December—draped across the back of a chair. Her journals—full of beautiful nonsense and painful truths—hidden in a vault only he could open. Even the Post-its she used to stick to the fridge with reminders like “eat something, you bat goblin.”

Every morning he woke up, aching, and for a traitorous second—he forgot. He reached across the bed.

To touch her. To pull her into his arms.

But the spot next to him was empty.

Some nights, he walked into the kitchen and saw her.

Just for a moment.

Barefoot, hair up in that messy twist, singing softly under her breath while boiling water for tea.

She disappeared when he blinked.

Every time.

Now he barely went topside. Lucius handled everything at Wayne Enterprises. There were no more galas. No more press events.

The media had long speculated about Bruce Wayne’s mysterious “Asian” wife. Conspiracy said she died during the Apokolips invasion, that she was one of the millions who fell under Darkseid’s final push.

He didn’t correct them. He didn’t care what they believed.

The truth was far worse than any theory.

She was genetically altered to match him, created as bait to dismantle his resolve. She was already dying when she set foot on Earth. She could’ve escaped… but stayed to protect them all.

Some women tried to enter his life. A few even looked a little like her. But none of them stayed.

None of them could step into a heart that had already died with someone else.

As the world became safer, Bruce stopped attending League meetings. He sent instructions, encrypted reports, remote plans, and funded their expansion. The others understood. No one pressured him.

Clark visited every few weeks—flew in without knocking. Only Alfred dared to scold him. Until old age took the butler in his sleep.

The Batcave was Bruce’s tomb now.

He lived there more than he lived upstairs. The air was freezing, fitting for a man who no longer warmed to life.

He would replay surveillance footage.

Not the ones of her fighting or training on Apokolips. The mundane ones.

He had hundreds—no, thousands—of hours of her. Reading by the fireplace. Dancing alone in the ballroom. Making soup in the kitchen. Curling up on his cape while waiting for him to return from patrol. Writing. Kissing. Hugging. Smiling. Laughing. Yawning.

He memorized every second. Every breath. Every blink.

He punished himself with those memories. Because he’d failed her. Not just by failing to protect her—but by ever making her feel like she had to earn his trust in the first place.

She chose him. Even knowing the collar he’d put on her. Even knowing his paranoia.

She still believed in him.

He hated that.

He hated that he didn’t deserve her and yet she loved him anyway.

With all of her being. With every last spark of her magic. With her final breath.

He spoke aloud to the flickering screens all the time.

“Did you hear that thunder? You weren’t even scared of death, yet you were scared of storms.”

“They rebuilt Zamaron. I made sure of it.”

“I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve protected you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

“I miss you.”

As if she were still here.

As if she were listening.

Some days, he tried to eat. Most days, he didn’t.

Sleep was a luxury he didn’t permit himself often. And when he did, it came with her.

She came to him sometimes radiant, sometimes broken. Sometimes, he found her bleeding again in his arms. Her voice trembling. Her eyes wide with pain. But she always looked at him like she forgave him—when he couldn’t forgive himself.

He asked her once, in a dream, if she was afraid of him now.

“Why would I?” she whispered. “You’re still my Bruce.”

But the worst dreams—the ones that ripped him open—were the ones where she wasn’t alone.

She was cradling a child. Their child.

A baby whose face changed every time. A girl with her smile. A boy with his frown. Sometimes twins. Sometimes one.

They ran toward him, calling out to him with joy.

“Dada! Come play, Dada!”

He reached out for them—then woke up with tears soaking her pillow, fists clenched, blood crusted in his nails from where he dug them into his palms.

They were gone before he could say their names.

He never got to say their names.

He never even got to choose them.

With her.

The toys, plushies, and dollhouses she left—she never got to share them with their children.

He would never say goodbye.

To the girl who smiled when her heart was breaking.

To the young woman who walked willingly into the arms of a man who had no idea how to love her right.

To the princess who made him a better man, and paid for it with her life.

To the angel who saw something worth saving in him when he didn’t believe he had a soul.

To the unborn child he never got to hold.

To the life they almost had. The one he let slip away because he was too guarded, too consumed by the vow of a boy who didn’t yet know what love could be.

Because how did you say goodbye to the reason your heart still beat?

You didn’t.

You just kept breathing.

Even when it hurt.

 

⸻

 

Thirty years had passed.

Bruce, now in his seventies, had stepped away from the cape and cowl. His body, to the amazement of every doctor and every criminal who’d ever expected him to collapse before his time, remained strong—worn, yes, but not ruined. Perhaps it was discipline. Perhaps stubbornness. Or perhaps, as Clark once put it, sheer spite.

His joints cracked now when he stood. His eyes weren’t as sharp, and some mornings it took a few moments longer for his legs to cooperate. But every day, at precisely 8:00 AM, he reached for a whiskey decanter—one of many rituals in a house that had grown more still with each passing year.

That morning, he hadn’t made it to the bottle when the perimeter alarm gave a chime—not an intrusion, but a polite alert. A guest. One who knew the codes.

Bruce grumbled and made his way to the front doors. They hadn’t been opened in months.

Standing on the other side was a man dressed simply, no helmet, no cape. Just a presence that felt oddly weightless, like a man who had once mastered escape not only from prisons—but from pain.

“Scott,” Bruce said after a beat, stepping aside.

“Good morning,” Scott Free replied, stepping in. His voice was warm. Not pitiful, but understanding.

They settled in the living room, across from each other like old friends who hadn’t seen one another in far too long—and who weren’t sure whether they’d survive seeing each other again. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was shared grief.

Scott’s eyes wandered over the manor, at the dust-covered vases, the faded curtains, the sealed doors. But he said nothing of it.

Instead, he opened with a murmur. “You still drink at eight?”

“Would’ve been at five,” Bruce muttered.

Scott chuckled, folding his hands together.

They talked—first about the easier things. Galaxies stabilized. The reconstruction of New Genesis. The last time Clark tried to organize a reunion that Bruce ignored. How Diana now wandered among stars like a myth come true.

And then, like all real conversations between two men left behind, it circled around her.

Avelynna-Chloe.

“She still visits my dreams,” Bruce said, eyes cast to the side. “Sometimes I wake up thinking she’s in the next room.”

Scott nodded. “Me too. My Barda, I mean. But sometimes… sometimes it’s Lynne.”

Bruce looked up, a quiet tension in his brow.

“I had a crush on her, back then,” Scott admitted, a little sheepish. “When I first arrived on Apokolips, before I met Barda. First time I saw her, I thought she was… unreal.”

Bruce’s mouth curled faintly. Jealousy crept up, not hot and angry like in his younger years, but a familiar pang of possessiveness buried beneath sorrow. “Can’t blame you. She was gorgeous.”

“She was,” Scott agreed with a far-off look in his eyes. “I used to invent reasons to be near her. I’d bring her messages from Granny Goodness just so I could watch her roll her eyes. Once, I made up a diplomatic errand just to talk to her alone for two minutes.”

Bruce’s eyebrow rose. “And she let you?”

Scott laughed. “No. She sent Barda after me to chase me off. Said I was “too soft” for her. Told Barda to handle it.”

Bruce chuckled dryly. “Sounds like my Lynne.”

“I guess she knew what she was doing. That’s how I fell in love with Barda.”

They sat for a moment longer, old warriors sharing ghosts.

“She had this way about her,” Scott said eventually. “She never followed rules, but somehow made her own look like laws. I remember one time—do you know what she did during Darkseid’s court meeting?”

Bruce tilted his head.

“She put on gay porn on the main projection crystal,” Scott said, giggling under his breath.

Bruce blinked.

“She walked in like nothing was wrong. Sat down. Watched the entire room of tyrants and monsters completely lose it. Kalibak turned purple. Steppenwolf nearly tripped over his own axe.”

Bruce let out a soft, rasping laugh. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

Scott smiled sadly. “She got punished for it, of course. They beat her bloody. But she came limping back to her room that night, laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.”

Bruce exhaled, a long breath that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs. “She had fun in her own way.”

“Childish fun,” Scott agreed. “But necessary. That planet took her childhood. She had to make one up herself.”

Silence stretched between them. Not empty. Just reverent.

Bruce’s voice turned bitter. “Her pink sapphire castle still standing?”

Scott nodded. “They turned it into a museum. People visit it almost as often as the temple where she rests.”

Bruce smiled tightly. “If they knew where I live, they’d turn this manor into a museum too. Probably name every wing of the building after her fashion moods. That’s how much they adored her. It’s a good thing though, she would always have people around her while I can’t be there.”

Scott suddenly paused, his expression changing. Something glinted behind his eyes. The kind of glint that always came before an idea.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Scott…?”

 

⸻

 

Scott didn’t tell him where they were going.

Just that Bruce needed to come with him—no questions. He’d spoken to someone, pulled some strings. The temple would be closed for a few days under the guise of maintenance and sacred observance. Orion wouldn’t be there. He was on Apokolips overseeing state matters and had no idea Bruce would be setting foot on New Genesis.

It was entirely illegal. But it was right.

The Boom Tube opened before dawn. Scott didn’t let Bruce hesitate. He laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder and said, “It’s time.”

The transition was smooth—easier than expected. New Genesis was still as golden as ever, floating in its light-drenched skies, its horizon blooming with trees that shimmered in sunlight.

But the path Scott led him on was quiet. Through the gates of a high temple surrounded by marble towers and emerald gardens, the heart of the sacred mount where only heroes were buried. The temple itself—white stone and crystal arches—was under temporary closure for “cosmic adjustment of the astral lining,” whatever that meant. In truth, it gave Scott the chance to bring him here without anyone reporting back to Orion.

As they passed through the garden gates, a few Genesisian workers paused mid-repair, eyes lifting at the sight of Mister Miracle walking through with a stranger—an old, dark-haired man in a long coat. But no one stopped them. They just bowed slightly and returned to their work. If Scott Free said this man was allowed, then he was.

The garden was serene. And beautiful.

Bruce followed Scott past the glistening trees, into a wide open space lined with curved white stones that stood like monuments among thousands of blooming alien flowers and Earth-grown peonies. Here, the final resting places of the last war’s greatest warriors.

Bruce recognized the names even from a distance: Granny Goodness, Big Barda, Lashina, Stompa, Mad Harriet, Bernadeth, Gilotina, Malice Vundabar, Queen Aga’po, Race, Miss Bloss, and Neza.

His steps slowed only when they reached the highest tier.

There, framed in a crown of endless white peonies and burning rose-colored vines:

AVELYNNA-CHLOE “LYNNE” WAYNE
Beloved Princess, Friend, Sister, Mother, and Wife.

Next to her stood a tiny white marker, small enough to fit in the crook of Bruce’s palm:

Little Heir of Apokolips.

He didn’t realize his knees had gone weak until he had to brace himself against the pillar beside her grave.

The world blurred. His throat tightened until his breath couldn’t get through.

Scott spoke beside him. “The “Wayne” and “wife” part… I carved those after. Orion found out and punched me hard enough to crack my helmet.”

He glanced toward the horizon.

“But it was worth it.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

Scott glanced down at the graves again, then at Bruce. “She’s surrounded by people who loved her. But she never set foot on this planet. Never walked its gardens, never breathed its air. She didn’t get to choose this.”

His voice gentled. “I think she would’ve wanted something of you here. Of home.”

Bruce turned his eyes to him, filled with a gratitude that didn’t need words.

Scott patted his shoulder, then stepped back. “I’ll give you some time.”

Then he was gone, leaving Bruce alone beneath the glow of New Genesis’ eternal dawn.

The air stirred.

At first, it was nothing—a breeze. But then it shifted. The kind of wind that used to hit him when a particular girl, barefoot and laughing, came running across the manor lawn just to hurl herself into his arms. She always brought the wind with her. Like it followed her joy.

It rushed against him now, curling around his shoulders, stirring the flowers, rippling the hem of his coat.

A white peony lifted from its place on the stone path and fluttered up into the air—slowly, like it was carried by unseen hands. It landed in his palm.

He stared down at it.

Soft. Silken. The exact texture of her cheek when she leaned into his hand with that sleepy, dreamy sigh that meant she was safe.

The weight of all the years came crashing down in that single moment.

Her voice seemed to live in the wind.

“You finally made it! I missed you so much, old bat.”

Bruce fell to his knees in front of her grave and the grave of their child. The peony still clutched in his hand, his head bowed. His shoulders shook.

The grief had never gone anywhere.

He let it out now. Thirty years of it.

He wept like a man who had lost everything but still somehow lived. A husband at last before his wife, finally kneeling where he should’ve been long ago.

In the silence of the sacred garden, Bruce Wayne cried for Avelynna-Chloe Wayne—and for the little heir who had never had a chance.

And somewhere, in the rustle of flowers and the hush of wind, it felt like she was holding him again.

Chapter 28: The Darkhold And The Star Sapphire Ring

Fifty years had passed.

No more gods fell from the skies. No more cracked shields or burning cities. No alien fleets. No Parademons scream. No war cries.

The world healed. It moved on.

Children born today barely remembered the name “Darkseid.” The newer generations saw Batman as a museum piece from a darker time. They read his name in dusty books and heard whispers of a man who’d once patrolled Gotham in a storm of vengeance. Some said he died long ago. Most didn’t care.

But Bruce remembered.

He always would.

He was ninety-five years old now. A relic, yes—but still breathing. His body, beaten and broken, somehow still refused to stop. His hair was snow white. His eyes had dulled to a grey that looked like smoke. His muscles were long gone, but his scars remained—etched in his skin like a roadmap of violence and failure.

He used a cane. The doctors told him he might live to a hundred. They thought it was miraculous.

Bruce didn’t.

He lived alone in the hollowed bones of Wayne Manor. Everyone was gone. One by one, they’d drifted away, until only silence remained.

No visitors. No friends. No family. No voices.

Just the rustle of bats in the rafters.

Every day, he moved through the motions. He took his pills. Then descended into the Batcave—what was left of it, anyway.

What he did there absolutely wasn’t work.

He watched.

Old footage of her. Snippets of a life he could never get back. Most of them he’d seen countless times. He still watched them like a prayer.

But that afternoon—grey rain falling—he noticed a file he hadn’t seen before.

A file from decades ago. The day the Teen Titans came to report a mission.

He hesitated. Then clicked it.

It was the manor’s living room. The camera sat at a high corner, angled toward the doorway and the couch. A young girl stood near the mantle—cloaked in black, arms crossed.

Raven. It was her first visit. She looked awkward. Maybe she’d taken a wrong turn and wound up upstairs instead of the cave.

Another girl entered the room.

Radiant with her magnetic presence, wearing a long silk robe over her sleepwear.

Avelynna-Chloe offered Raven a seat, poured her tea. So naturally inviting. She didn’t see Raven as the daughter of Trigon. She saw her as a friend. They were the same age, after all.

They sat together on the couch, talking. Shy at first, but comfortable.

Avelynna-Chloe tapped the collar around her neck. “Without this thing, we could’ve had a magic contest.”

Raven gave a small chuckle. But then her eyes lowered.

She’d seen it.

The bruise.

Right at the edge of Avelynna-Chloe’s collar. Faint—but unmistakable. The fingerprint outline still lingered.

Bruce froze. His hand tightened on the armrest of the chair. He remembered that week. The fight. The panic attack. The way he’d snapped and—

Raven’s voice was cautious. “Is Batman… being cruel to you?”

Avelynna-Chloe looked at her.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t lie. Didn’t hide behind pretty words.

She smiled and said, “He’s not cruel by nature. He’s just hurt. So hurt that sometimes… he struggles just to stay human. And when he can’t… he hurts the one standing closest.”

Bruce stared at the screen.

The shaking in his hand had returned. The image blurred. Tears spilled down his face before he could stop them.

She’d defended him. Even bruised. Even with a stranger asking hard questions.

She protected him. From judgment. From himself.

It came pouring out—all the regrets. The collar, the rage, the suspicion. The moments he’d made her feel like a prisoner instead of a wife.

But the worst regret of all—he wasn’t there.

Not when it mattered most.

He hadn’t saved her. Hadn’t saved their unborn child. He had been too late, too blind, too afraid.

Now, this empty life was his sentence.

Alone.

For fifty years.

And counting.

 

⸻

 

At some point, Bruce fell asleep at the console. His cane leaned beside him. His breath slowed.

And, he was somewhere else.

He could smell her before he saw her.

Peach and milk. The scent that lived only in his memories. The scent that clung to her pillow, to her scarves, to his shirts.

There she was.

Lynne.

Her eyes were rose quartz—luminous and deep, like they used to be when she smiled just for him. She was barefoot in the dream, standing under a sky that didn’t belong to any world he recognized, all golden clouds and stars.

She looked like herself. Young. Whole.

Almost real.

He reached out, afraid to touch her cheek. But his fingers brushed it anyway, and he swore—for a moment—it was warm.

Her skin felt like how he remembered it when she would fall asleep in his lap. Her cheeks flushed. Her body curled around him like the center of his universe.

“I guess we match now,” she teased, lightly tapping his silver-white hair. “See? You’ve finally caught up to me.”

His throat tightened.

He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but no words came at first. He looked down at himself—old, bent, a shadow of who he was. His body worn and failing. His hands gnarled. He looked back at her, shame quietly folding over him.

“I look terrible,” he rasped.

“You look like you’ve lived,” she said, with that gentleness in her voice. “You’re still here, and that’s beautiful.”

She reached for his cane with both hands, playfully pulled him closer.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she drew him near until their foreheads touched. “You’re going to live to a hundred. I said that on your birthday, remember?”

“I do,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. “I… I miss you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just brushed her thumb over the lines of his face. He felt himself collapse into that touch.

“I miss you every day,” he choked. “The world’s at peace now. No more invasions. No more threats. But… I can’t take it. Not like this. I’m so tired, Lynne. I want to be with you. I want to come home.”

She kissed his hand, holding it between both of hers. Then she guided his palm to his chest, laying it flat over his heart.

“Haven’t I always been here?”

And just like that—

Bruce woke with a sharp breath, the air cold and brittle against his damp face. The dream slipped from his fingers—but the ache of her touch, the echo of her words, clung to him.

The chill of the cave was familiar, but something felt… different.

Then he saw it.

A pink light pulsed in the far corner. His eyes, dulled by age but sharpened by instinct, locked onto it immediately.

One of the old vaults. One of the most secure units he ever built—encryption so dense even he had forgotten the passcodes until his subconscious seemed to shake them loose. It hadn’t moved. Not in fifty-five years.

But now it was responding to him.

He stood, limbs protesting with every movement, and limped toward it. The cane tapped with each step, echoing like a metronome through the cavern.

Avelynna-Chloe’s Star Sapphire ring. The one he took from her, back when paranoia clouded reason. Back when he thought fear was a form of protection. He had crushed her phone and locked the ring away.

She never asked for it back.

She could’ve. She was brilliant enough to hack into every defense the Batcave had. But she never even tried.

Maybe she was waiting for him to return it on his own. Maybe she wanted his trust, not control.

And that wait… costed her everything.

The ring pulsed, casting pink light onto his weathered face as he opened the vault.

He understood now—why it chose her. A Star Sapphire ring didn’t respond to willpower, fear, or rage. It responded to love. Pure, unwavering love.

The kind of love that only she had.

“I should’ve given it back. You deserved it. You always did.”

The moment he said it, the ring lifted.

Weightless. Effortless.

It hovered above the vault, spinning. The light grew stronger, painting the cave in waves of sorrow. Bruce stumbled back, startled.

Then—deliberately—it drifted away, trailing a shimmer of pink behind it.

He followed.

Not to her old room. Not to the garden where she used to tend the flowers. Not to the library or the kitchen.

It led him to one of the guest rooms.

An unassuming door. Nothing marked it special.

The ring stopped in front of his old closet.

Confused, Bruce grabbed the handle. Inside were early suits, torn gloves, broken belts. Dust lay thick across everything.

But there, behind an old pair of boots, was something that shouldn’t be there.

A small pink notebook.

Glittery. Worn at the edges.

Unmistakably hers.

Her name was scribbled on the front in silver ink, a tiny heart beside it. That loopy handwriting she only used when she was writing something for herself.

He’d searched her room more times than he could count. Gone through every drawer, box, and journal she owned. But this… this was never there.

She must have hidden it here. In the place no one would look—not even him.

He picked it up, like it might crumble in his hands.

The ring hovered beside him, waiting.

He opened the notebook.

The first page: blank. The second, the third—also empty.

Until the very last one.

Doodles.

Messy, silly, and clumsily drawn.

Avelynna-Chloe was never good at drawing. She used to laugh about it, saying she couldn’t even sketch a stick figure, thanks to her “geometrylexia.” Yet she’d really tried here.

A pink wedding gown. Strapless, glittery, fluffy as hell.

A white suit, crisp and simple, with a little bat drawn near the lapel.

White peonies. His favorite to give her. Her favorite to receive.

Two rings—side by side, with a question mark scrawled beside them.

And next to them—

A stork carrying a baby.

His heart stopped.

They were married by arrangement. Political. Dry. No rings. No ceremony. No vows. No music. Just two lives thrown together.

He never asked if she wanted more. He never let himself believe she did.

But the date in the corner of the page—a month after he first told her he loved her. A month after he let his walls crack open.

This was her secret. Her dream. To walk down the aisle in pink, holding peonies, wearing his ring. To be chosen, not assigned. A real wedding. A chance to be his bride.

Even when she was too afraid to carry a child because of what Darkseid might do… she still drew that stork.

She still wanted to give him a family. A future.

Now, all of that—her hope, her private wishes—was in his hands.

He collapsed to the floor, cradling the notebook like it was the last heartbeat of her soul.

She had loved him.

When he failed her. When he hurt her. When he let paranoia drive every choice.

From the moment they met, she changed everything. He’d never known a love like that—so complete, so consuming. In every way, she was his other half—his mate, his wife, his partner.

And instead of protecting her, loving her, holding her, giving her the life she deserved… he broke her.

He broke her so badly, she couldn’t even tell him.

His voice came out hoarse. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please…”

He was pleading—begging. To the darkness. To her. Even though he knew it was useless.

The Star Sapphire ring pulsed beside him. Like it was trying to comfort him.

He looked at the notebook again. Three words were scribbled on the back cover in tiny, uneven strokes:

“I love you.”

He finally allowed himself to sob.

For her. For their child. For the wedding that never came. For the love she gave so fully.

And for the man he could’ve been, if he had only listened. If he had only believed. If he had only loved her the right way… while there was still time.

The ring suddenly hummed—deeper this time. Not just a vibration, but a resonance, like a whisper rising from a thousand-year grave. It tugged at Bruce’s mind, soft as a breath against his neck.

He clenched his jaw, fingers tightening over the worn edges of the notebook still open in his lap, her handwriting blurred by the heat in his eyes. He didn’t want to be pulled away from her voice, from the comfort of her memory.

But the ring—her ring—didn’t relent.

The pulse turned rhythmic. Like something alive. Calling him.

Bruce blinked through the haze of grief, vision clouded by unshed tears. With an exhale, he turned his head, gaze shifting to that corner of the closet again.

There, wrapped in cloth blackened with time, bound in a leather too dark to be natural, was another relic.

The air around it shifted.

The temperature dropped instantly. His breath fogged.

It felt like the closet had inhaled. Like the shadows themselves were drawing near to watch.

Bruce’s blood ran cold. He stared at the object as the journal slipped from his hands.

He knew what it was.

Not from experience—from legends. From archives hidden so deep in the Watchtower’s system that they required both magical and technological keys. Files he had read with narrowed eyes and an uneasy gut.

The Darkhold.

The Book of the Damned.

This thing has been missing for thousands of years, hunted by every mystic on the planet. Constantine would kill for it—or be killed by it. Zatanna once said even speaking its name in a ritual would risk opening doors that should never be opened. Etrigan wrote sonnets warning of its return. Kent Nelson and Stephen Strange both swore the multiverse would tremble if it ever surfaced again.

And here it was—resting in his goddamn closet.

Bruce blinked motionless, heart hammering. He remembered something Avelynna-Chloe had said:

“My mother kept secrets even the stars feared.”

Suli. The sorceress born from fractured timelines. The witch wielded chaos magic before passing it down to her daughter.

Of course this book was hers.

Avelynna-Chloe would’ve taken it when she fled Apokolips. Perhaps it was her final defiance—stealing the most dangerous magical artifact in existence and hiding it beneath her dream.

Had she known he would find it? Had she planned for this?

The thought pierced Bruce like a nail.

He reached for the book before fear could settle.

The moment his fingers touched the cover, he felt it stir—its presence sliding up his skin like frost. The book didn’t move. But it recognized him.

The room dimmed as he opened it.

The language on the pages looked like ink spilled from a dying god—jagged, clawing at the edges of reality. It was unreadable. Foreign.

Bruce’s whisper was strangely calm.

“Translate.”

The ring obeyed.

Pink light spilled from the gem, refracting across the ceiling in spirals. A chant began—alien, melodic in a way that made his skin crawl. The ring filtered the language, line by line.

A wave of pressure against his chest, stealing his breath. It felt like the book was drawing air from his lungs, drinking his soul.

Still, he read.

Old curses. Lost rituals. Prophecies written in blood. Demons who had no name. Stories of universes undone by a single incantation. Truths not meant for mortal minds.

And then—he found one spell.

“To remake what is broken, the soul must pay its weight in blood. Flesh for time. Heart for the stars.”

His pulse stuttered.

This was it.

A fracture spell. Not a resurrection. Not a summoning. A split in time—rewriting the thread of the universe for one change.

A reset.

He could go back.

To her.

Bruce stood slowly, muscles protesting. He moved like a man decades younger. Not because the pain was gone—but because something else had taken over.

Love.

He stripped off his shirt, folding it neatly and setting it aside. There was no altar. No circle. Just him. The Darkhold.

And a knife.

It was the same one he used years ago in the cave, when he carved the first cut into his arm to swear vengeance on the world that took his parents.

Now, he’d carve again.

He took a breath. Then cut.

The blade sliced clean.

Skin parted. Muscle followed.

He cut deeper. Into sinew, past nerves. Blood poured freely, soaking into the floor, splashing onto the pages.

The Darkhold drank it.

The room groaned.

He kept going.

Tendon peeled back. Bone gleamed through torn flesh. He carved until the pain blurred into something holy.

Then he raised the blade to his chest.

No hesitation.

This was for her. For their unborn child. For the life he failed to protect.

He plunged the blade in.

Through ribs. Through lungs.

His hand trembled—but held fast.

And with a grunt of effort, Bruce Wayne ripped his own heart out.

The world paused.

Then shattered.

Light exploded from the Darkhold, blinding and cold. Colors beyond understanding rushed past him. A scream of the universe tearing through space and thought.

Time fractured.

Everything unraveled.

Memories twisted into light. Blood turned to starlight. His soul broke and was reassembled across a thousand possibilities.

The universe condensed. Shuddered. Rewove.

One wish.

And Bruce?

Bruce chose Lynne.

Notes:

The angst officially ends here! I can’t hurt my Shaylas anymore. 😭 There’s only fluff and smut from now on, I promise.

Chapter 29: Zamaron (I)

Bruce opened his eyes.

The Batcave.

He lay on the hard stone floor, chest heaving, lungs dragging in air like he hadn’t breathed in centuries. The metallic tang of blood clung to the back of his throat, even though his body felt whole again. There were no wounds. No gaping cavity in his chest. No pain—just a phantom echo of it. Like his bones remembered what he’d done.

He pushed himself up with trembling hands, breath ragged, sweat cold on his skin. The hum of the computers greeted him. The slow drip of mineral water from the cavern ceiling. The low, constant thrum of the WayneTech generators buried deep beneath the manor overhead.

It was all exactly as he remembered.

But something felt different.

The cave wasn’t quieter. It wasn’t warmer. But the air no longer felt like a tomb. There was a lightness in it. Like the world had exhaled.

Bruce turned his head and caught sight of a reflection in the nearest monitor—just a glint of light against glass.

He stared.

It was him. But not him.

Younger.

His jaw was still sharp. The hard lines around his mouth had softened. His hair, though still thick with black, bore only the faintest touches of grey at the temples. The scar above his brow—where Avelynna-Chloe had once kissed him and murmured it looked like a crescent moon—was faded.

The man in the reflection looked hardened, but not ruined. Not yet hollow.

Not yet a widower.

Bruce staggered to his feet, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to confirm it was real.

He crossed to the console in four long strides, fingers flying across the keys as the system flared to life. His muscle memory took over. Passwords. Biometrics. Clearance codes only he knew.

The internal clock loaded.

The date hit him like a freight train.

Fifty-five years ago.

He was forty again.

Exactly forty-eight hours before Zamaron fell. Before the skies over Sector 1416 darkened with fire. Before the Star Sapphire Corps shattered across a burning moon. Before they took her. Tortured her. Married her off to him as a spoil of war.

This time—it wouldn’t be.

Bruce gripped the console edge, the fire in his chest spreading with each breath.

There would be no collar. No empty silences, no secrets tucked into journals she thought he’d never read.

He would not let fate write her suffering again. Not while he had blood in his body. Not while he could still fight.

He would protect her before it ever began.

He would deserve her before she was stolen.

When she stood before him again, it would be by choice—not by chains. She wouldn’t be married in a cage—she would be kissed in freedom.

He slammed his fist on the Justice League emergency beacon.

The console flared red, warning sirens flashing across the monitors. Location pings shot across satellites. The Watchtower’s emergency line lit up.

His eyes locked on the countdown screen as the system calculated his signal’s reach.

Forty-eight hours to alter the course of history.

To save the only girl he had ever truly loved.

 

⸻

 

In less than twenty minutes, the Leaguers arrived—Clark, Diana, Barry, Carter, Hal, Oliver, Arthur, and J’onn—all materializing in the Batcave through portals and transporters.

“Bruce,” Clark began, his eyes narrowing. “What’s going on? You activated a full-priority alert.”

Bruce was already halfway through suiting up, the segmented plates of the new suit locking into place with sharp clicks. “We’re going to New Genesis.”

That stopped the room.

Barry was dumbfounded. “Wait—what? Why? We don’t exactly have a—uh—standing invitation there.”

“You’ll get your answers.” Bruce’s voice was clipped, controlled, but there was an urgency under it that none of them could miss. He tightened the strap on his gauntlet and looked around the table. “But first, I need to know you’re in.”

Diana’s tone was even but probing. “New Genesis doesn’t just let people drop in. What are we doing there?”

Bruce hesitated. In truth, he’d been rehearsing this moment for decades. In the past life, he had never known about it before Zamaron fell. This time, he was going to rip the timeline apart to prevent it.

“I’ve… come across intel,” he said slowly. “Details about Darkseid’s next move. He’s planning an assault on Zamaron.”

Hal frowned. “Zamaron? The Star Sapphires?”

Bruce gave a single, curt nod. “He’ll wipe them out—the entire planet. No survivors. In order to capture Lynn—his daughter, Princess Avelynna-Chloe—back. If he succeeds, Earth will be his next target.”

That part, at least, was true. Darkseid had always moved in patterns, always escalating after a “personal” victory. And in Bruce’s mind, he could still see the ashes of what used to be Zamaron.

Arthur crossed his arms, skeptical. “How did you come by this intel?“

“I can’t explain that,” Bruce said, lowering his voice. “Just know that this isn’t a theory. I know it’s happening. And soon.”

J’onn asked. “How soon?”

Bruce met his gaze without flinching. “Forty-eight hours.”

That was the first crack in the skepticism. Even Barry stopped fidgeting.

Carter spoke up, his voice blunt. “If what you’re saying is true, we’ll need more than brute force.”

Bruce nodded. “Which is why we can’t just respond. We have to counter in a way that cripples his campaign before it starts. If we do this right, it’s not just Zamaron we save—it’s half the galaxy. We stop him here, we stop him forever.”

Oliver gave him a sidelong look. “And how are we supposed to pull that off? Unless you’ve got a cosmic nuke hidden in the cave?”

Bruce’s voice was iron. “We don’t need a nuke. We need someone who understands him. Someone who hates him as much as we do. A New God who might actually stand with us.”

He scanned their faces before saying it.

“The second son of Darkseid—Orion.”

In his head, the rest of the argument unspooled—fifty-five years of imagining this conversation. He needed them to see that this wasn’t just another one of his obsessive crusades.

“This is a chance we won’t get again,” Bruce continued. “Zamaron is strategically positioned to cut Darkseid off from two major invasion routes. If we save it, we gain not only an ally but a fortified planet willing to stand with Earth. The Star Sapphire Corps will owe us—and the New Gods will see us as partners instead of pawns. That kind of alliance doesn’t just happen.”

Silence stretched for a heartbeat.

Then Clark straightened. “We’re in.”

The rest followed without another word.

 

⸻

 

The Justice League boarded the fastest transport available—an interstellar cruiser on loan from the Green Lantern Corps. Its sleek hull shimmered against the void as Hal powered the engines to full, the stars blurring into white streaks. Bruce stood at the navigation console, fingers moving with precision as he typed a warning message for Zamaron, also the coordinates to New Genesis.

They were burned into his memory—not from maps, but from that one trip when Scott Free had taken him to visit her grave.

Diana’s gaze lingered on him. “You seem… very sure of where you’re going.”

“I am,” Bruce said dryly.

Clark glanced over his shoulder. “And you just happened to have the exact location of one of the most protected worlds in the known universe?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “I told you—I’ve been gathering intel on Darkseid’s movements. This is a part of the plan.”

He knew they were still skeptical, but he also knew how to sell a plan. More than half a century in the past life had given him plenty of time to think through every possible objection, every weakness in their trust.

Clark finally shrugged, though his eyes still searched Bruce’s face for something more. “Fine. Let’s hope you’re right.”

Hours later, New Genesis filled the viewport—vast green valleys and golden cities under a sky split by twin suns. The cruiser barely crossed the atmosphere before the Genesisian army swarmed them. Sleek airships fired warning blasts, and energy nets crackled around their hull.

“Not exactly a warm welcome,” Oliver muttered as the League disembarked on the palace landing field.

The soldiers didn’t wait for questions. They charged, weapons raised, forcing the League into defensive formation. Bruce moved fast but nonlethal, parrying strikes, blocking energy bursts, voice cutting through the chaos.

“We’re here to help!”

No one listened.

Then—

“Stop!”

The command rang out clear and sharp. The soldiers halted, parting to reveal a tall woman in white armor. Her red hair framed a face Bruce knew all too well.

She eyed the League, then landed her gaze on him. “Batman?”

Bruce lowered his guard. “Bekka.”

It had been about six years since Tartarus. A mission gone sideways, an escape he wouldn’t have made without her help. A brief, meaningless fling in the shadows between battles. He hadn’t expected to see her again. But they didn’t have time to catch up.

“We need to speak with Orion and Highfather. Now.”

Bekka’s brows drew together. “What’s this about?”

“Darkseid.”

That name was more than enough explanation.

Now they were in an open transport, rising above the city toward the palace’s gleaming towers.

While the League discussed strategy, Bruce approached Bekka. “How have you been?”

Her lips curved. “Good. I’m engaged now. To Orion.”

That made him pause—but only for a breath. “Congratulations.”

She tilted her head at him. “And you? Ever find someone?”

“Yes.”

Her expression turned curious. “Who?”

Bruce’s gaze stayed forward. “After this… I’ll become your brother-in-law.”

For a second, Bekka looked genuinely baffled—until it clicked. She laughed softly. “Lynne? So she’s the real reason why you came all the way to New Genesis? But how do you two know each other?”

“It’s complicated.” Bruce tried to answer without sounding like a creepy stalker. “Love at first sight.”

“Now you got me even more excited to meet her,” Bekka said, smiling to herself. “I’ve heard so many stories from Orion. Good luck dealing with him.”

Oh, he wouldn’t mind a protective brother.

He would win this time.

 

⸻

 

The throne room of New Genesis was carved from white stone that shimmered under the light of the twin suns streaming through the high windows. The air was crisp.

Orion stood before the dais in full battle armor, every inch the warrior prince. Beside him sat Highfather, robes flowing, his staff resting against the throne’s arm. Himon lingered near the steps, the lines on his face etched deep from decades of war planning. Big Barda loomed at Orion’s right, her sheer height and presence almost rivaling the guards flanking the hall. Scott Free stood close to her, restless, his hands twitching as though he’d rather be anywhere but still.

The League’s boots echoed across the polished floor. The moment Orion’s gaze locked on Batman, something electric passed between them—awareness of history neither cared to speak aloud.

“The infamous Justice League.” Orion’s voice was gravel-edged with suspicion. “What brings you here?”

Bruce didn’t waste time. “Darkseid is preparing to move on Zamaron.“

Murmurs rippled through the council. Himon’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Clark stepped forward. “We’ve confirmed Apokoliptian forces are massing on multiple fronts. Zamaron is the most likely target based on troop movement patterns.”

Himon finally spoke, his tone deliberate. “Our own spies have reported a military build-up. What we didn’t know was the destination.” He looked at Bruce. “If you’re correct, this changes things.”

Orion’s jaw tightened. “Correct or not, if Zamaron falls, so will the Star Sapphire Corps. And my sister—”

Barda’s eyes flickered to him, then to Highfather. “We can’t stand by while Her Royal Highness is in danger.”

Scott’s normally light tone stripped bare. “Father, send us. Send the army. If Darkseid takes Zamaron, it will be the first step toward something far worse.”

Highfather’s gaze swept over them, cool and unreadable. “We do not act on urgency alone. The cost of war is measured in more than lives lost—it’s measured in the future you destroy to win the present.”

Bruce’s gloved hands curled into fists. “Highfather, I’ve been studying this war for years. I know Apokolips’ strengths, but more importantly—I know their weaknesses. Darkseid can’t afford to overextend. If we strike now, while his army is stretched toward Zamaron, we have the best chance you’ll ever get to cripple him. End him.”

The room stilled. Orion turned toward him fully now.

Bruce stepped closer, the shadows of his cowl deepening over his eyes. “This is the window. The one time you can take the war to him instead of waiting for him to bring it to you. If you hesitate, you’ll lose it—and your sister.”

Orion’s voice was fierce. “I will not lose my sister.”

Highfather’s gaze shifted to him sharply, but Orion didn’t back down.

Barda glared at the dais. “We won’t get any chance like this ever again.”

Scott took a step toward Highfather, his voice steadier than usual. “You know Lynne wouldn’t hesitate to fight for us. You think she’d want us to stand here debating while the war reaches her doorstep?”

Highfather’s staff tapped lightly against the stone, the sound echoing. For a long moment, no one spoke.

“Very well,” he said at last. “We send the army to Zamaron. But this will be done under my command.”

The decision was made, but the atmosphere in the throne room didn’t ease. If anything, it became heavier, like the moment before a storm broke.

Highfather rose from the throne, leaning on his staff. “We move at dawn. Until then, you will prepare. Himon—summon the war council.”

Bruce’s mind was already running combat simulations in precision.

The war council chamber was a vast circular room, the walls lined with starmaps and holographic projections of Apokoliptian troop movements. The floor was inlaid with glowing circuitry that pulsed faintly, feeding data from the central table to every terminal in the room.

The table itself was a masterpiece of Genesisian technology—maps shifting in real time, Apokoliptian fleets represented as flickering red formations, their movement lines like veins of blood spreading through the galaxy.

Bruce stood with his hands braced against the table’s edge, studying every detail. His gaze moved from troop markers to supply lines to planetary choke points.

Barda entered first. “Our scouts put Darkseid’s vanguard three cycles from Zamaron’s orbit,” she said, stabbing a finger toward the red arc on the map. “We intercept here.”

Bruce shook his head. “No. That’s too far out. You’ll meet them at full formation. They’ll have time to adjust their strategy mid-battle. You need to catch them before they finish deployment—right here.” He tapped a point near Zamaron. “Their ships will bottleneck. Less room to maneuver.”

Barda gave him a sharp look, but there was no hostility—only professional interest. “That’s a choke point. You’re gambling on their arrogance.”

“I’m counting on it,” Bruce said evenly.

Orion entered then, helmet under his arm, the faint hum of his Astro-Harness following him. “Funny,” he said, his tone clipped, “I don’t recall putting you in charge of this fleet, Batman.”

Bruce didn’t look up. “I’m not in charge of the fleet. I’m showing you how to keep your people alive.”

The tension in the room tightened like a drawn bowstring.

Barda’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “Play nice, boys.”

Scott slid into the chamber a moment later, his easygoing demeanor oddly at odds with the war map glowing beneath his hands. “He’s not wrong, Orion. That choke point’s saved my skin before.”

Orion didn’t respond immediately. He was watching Bruce—measuring him, weighing how much of this was about tactics and how much was about something else. Or… someone else?

Finally, Orion exhaled. “Fine. We take the choke point. But if your calculations cost us the battle—”

“They won’t,” Bruce cut in, his voice final.

Because he had spent a lifetime studying this battle in grief.

Because he would not fail her.

 

⸻

 

The sky over Zamaron was torn open by war. Explosions split the heavens, molten fire painting the violet skies red. Each blast rippled through the atmosphere, shaking the planet’s foundations and shattering towers that once stood as proud monuments of love and sisterhood. The home of the Star Sapphire Corps—once radiant with serenity—had become an unrecognizable wasteland.

The warning from the Justice League had come too late. Even with preparation, there had never been enough time. The Parademons descended in waves like a living plague, a swarm of claws, wings, and shrieks that blackened the horizon. Their talons shredded through crystalline buildings, dragging Zamarons screaming into the air. The ground quaked beneath the chaos, every tremor carrying the scent of burning stone and blood.

And in the middle of it—Avelynna-Chloe.

She stood at the epicenter, her aura colliding against itself. The violet-pink light of the Star Sapphire ring pulsed from her chest, radiant and protective, but entwined within it a darker energy writhed—her chaos magic—unstable, alive with hunger. The two forces repelled each other like mismatched magnets, straining her body with every breath.

Omega Beams erupted from her eyes, carving brutal paths through the Parademon ranks. Each strike tore through flesh and armor, yet hesitation weakened her aim. She bent the blasts away at the last second, refusing to obliterate them completely. They were not innocent, but they were not wholly guilty either. They were her people, mutated, enslaved to Darkseid’s will. Her heart faltered, even as her enemies closed in.

The pink storm of her ring expanded into a cyclone, shields and spears made of light orbiting her like satellites. But the chaos clawed for dominance, feeding on her pain, whispering that destruction was easier than restraint. Love sought to save, chaos sought to consume. She could not hold both much longer.

One by one, the sisters beside her fell. Star Sapphires she had trained with, fought with, laughed with—cut down beneath claws and fire. Every life lost tightened the fracture in her heart. They were not just comrades—they were family.

Her vision blurred, her breath coming ragged. Then came the blast—an eruption that scorched the earth where she stood. She had just enough time to shove a small Zamaron child out of the fire’s path before the force consumed her. Her body slammed against the stone, skin torn, bones screaming, her Star Sapphire light flickering like a candle in storm winds. Her chaos magic snapped uncontrolled, spilling sparks that singed the earth.

For the first time in her life, a goddess thought of prayer.

Then—reality itself split.

The Boom Tube cracked the sky, spiraling open with a roar like collapsing mountains. Its light bathed the battlefield in blinding white, and from within it marched salvation.

“Form up!” Bruce’s voice cut through the carnage.

Hal’s emerald willpower carved a wall through the enemy ranks, constructs forming titanic barriers that shielded civilians and soldiers alike. Diana’s sword sang, each stroke a perfect arc. Clark burst through the clouds, a crimson comet, smashing through the air to intercept enemies before they reached the ground, his arms carrying Zamaron survivors to safety before he returned to the fray. Arthur rose from the crumbled streets like a storm, his trident spinning. Barry was everywhere at once, a blur weaving through the chaos, disarming bombs before they detonated, guiding civilians out of the crossfire with gentleness. Carter’s mace cracked, his wings beating the air with thunderous force. Blood and ash rained from the feathers as he hurled another Parademon into the dirt. Oliver’s one arrow after another split through armor, every shot found a weak joint, a seam, a gap. Even J’onn, silent and grim, unleashed psychic firestorms into the Parademon horde, folding minds in on themselves until their ranks collapsed from within.

As the Justice League surged onto the field, so did the New Gods. Orion hurled himself into the swarm with fists. Beside him, Barda fought like a fortress come alive—her massive frame and Mega-Rod reducing enemies to broken carcasses, her war cry shaking the battlefield. Scott’s mind was sharp as lightning, conjuring traps of impossible design, boxes of light that snapped shut on wings and weapons, turning entire squads into prisoners in seconds. Bekka was steel wrapped in grace, her blade gleaming with celestial fire, Genesisian soldiers rallying at her back. They fought as a unified storm, discipline and fire blending into a wall of defiance that made the Parademons falter.

Granny Goodness strode forward, the Female Furies at her side. Lashina’s coils broke necks with every strike. Stompa’s footfalls shattered the ground, crushing Parademons beneath her boots like insects. Mad Harriet danced through them with laughter that chilled bone, her claws a blur of carnage. Gilotina’s slash opened flesh like paper. Bernadeth’s Fahren-Knife burned hot as it sank into a Parademon’s chest, smoke curling from the wound before she yanked it free with a sneer. Malice Vundabar darted low between Parademons’ legs, tripping one with her whip before strangling it Their eyes, every one of them, were on Avelynna-Chloe.

“FOR HER!” The ancient matron thundered, “For our princess!”

Their loyalty had shifted, once Darkseid’s dogs, now wolves unleashed for his greatest betrayal. They hurled themselves against their former master’s army, their fury unshackled, tearing Parademons apart with a savagery born of vengeance.

The Star Sapphires—those who yet lived—rose with renewed strength. Queen Aga’po herself summoned vast constructs of crystalline beauty, her regal form channeling the collective power of her corps into weapons the size of mountains. Miss Bloss flung fields of radiant blossoms that exploded into shields, protecting wounded soldiers. Race charged like a meteor of violet light, scattering enemies before her, while the Zamaron soldiers rallied with fresh fire, emboldened by the reinforcements at their side.

Bruce moved differently from gods or warriors. Where others struck with power, he moved with calculation. Every step was chosen, every strike a solution. His eyes scanned through the smoke, searching not for enemies—but for her.

Through the fire, through the dust, he saw it: the flickering pink glow of a single Star Sapphire.

His pulse spiked.

Lynne.

His body moved like instinct. Years of war had taught him to see only what mattered. And what mattered was her.

He tore through the battlefield with the ruthless efficiency of a predator, his every strike clearing the path. When he reached her, her blood had already stained the ground, her body trembling with weakness, her aura sputtering like a dying ember.

She stirred, her eyes meeting his—confused, pained, yet alive.

“You—” Her lips formed questions she had no strength to ask.

“Don’t talk.” He pulled her into his arms, her head pressed against the bat insignia on his chest. The warmth of her blood soaked through the suit, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’ll make it through this,” he swore, his tone a vow carved in stone. “We’ll make sure of it.”

Her head shook. Her voice was a ghost. “Just… make it stop…”

His chest heaved once. His words fell like a strike. “Then marry me. Marry me, and I’ll stop the war.”

Her breath caught—too weak to protest, too weak to comprehend. Instinct moved her head, the faintest nod, before unconsciousness claimed her.

Panic surged through Bruce. He gathered her up, holding her as though the world itself was trying to take her from him. Every step he took was agony, his own blood spilling freely, but he carried her through fire and ruin, shielding her body with his own.

Debris collapsed around them. Explosions rattled the air. But he walked with precision, each movement deliberate, each breath bent toward one purpose: her survival.

A ruined structure offered cover. He lowered her gently, her body limp, her aura flickering weakly like a star fading in dawn. His hand trembled as it brushed her cheek.

“Don’t you dare leave me again,” he whispered, a prayer he did not know how to speak.

Pain raged through his ribs, his vision blurred, but he stayed. He pressed his bloody hand against her pulse, the thrum was the only tether keeping his own body from collapsing.

The war roared on around him, but his world had narrowed to her. Only her.

When his knees buckled and the dark edges crept closer, voices cut through the haze.

“Batman!” Orion’s roar. The League’s presence.

But he refused to yield, his teeth clenched against pain. “No… I stay. We finish this.”

“We’ll carry the fight,” Orion vowed. “You rest, Wayne. We’re not losing Zamaron.”

The battle surged, the tide turning as gods and warriors carved through the Parademon plague. Bruce allowed his eyes to close—just for a moment—his hand never leaving her pulse.

She was alive. They were together.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay—I’m such a lazy ass. 😅 I’ll make it up with hot smut in the next chapter. 🔥