The Watchtower – Corridor Outside Containment Cell 17 – Moments Later
The containment door hissed shut behind him like it had just seen something it would definitely write about in its gossip blog. Possibly under 'Things That Shouldn't Be This Hot During Interrogation.'
Eidolon stood there, momentarily frozen. His cloak swished as he adjusted it with theatrical precision, trying to pretend he hadn't just been emotionally undressed by a leather-clad demigoddess with a PhD in seduction and chaos.
His emerald eyes still glowed faintly—residual magic, sure. Or maybe the result of being aggressively flirted with by someone who described herself as "willing to be spiritually tethered and physically rearranged."
Across the corridor, leaning like sin and judgment, stood Diana and Mera.
Honestly, they could've been modeling for a war-themed perfume ad. Eau de Don't You Dare Lie to Me.
Mera's seafoam armor glinted under the sterile lighting, and somehow her arms crossed under her chest looked like both a tactical advantage and a carefully engineered trap. Her expression was cool, curious—and terrifying.
Diana? Diana didn't need to pose. She just was. One hand on her hip, her lasso of truth coiled neatly at her side like it was waiting to ruin someone's day. Her dark hair tumbled in waves over her shoulder, and those icy blue eyes locked on him like they could see all his secrets—and were annoyed by how many of them involved shirtless dreams.
"Well?" Mera asked, tilting her head. "Please tell me you didn't agree to anything involving silk restraints or blood pacts."
Eidolon sighed. "She wants to defect."
Mera raised a brow. "In exchange for?"
"Immunity. Freedom. And, uh…" He cleared his throat. "Recreational subjugation."
Diana blinked. "She propositioned you again, didn't she?"
"Oh yeah," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She gave me coordinates. And then said, quote, 'Take me as your sacrament.' Unquote."
"Did you accept either?" Mera asked, already looking like she was preparing to drown someone.
"I walked out."
"On the intel or the sacrament?" Diana asked.
"Yes," Harry said, deadpan.
Mera stared at him like he was a suspicious new sea creature. "Harry."
"What? She called me Daddy Long Legs, I had to leave before the situation escalated into AO3 territory."
Diana tried to suppress a laugh. Failed. She stepped closer and slipped a hand under his cloak, resting her palm warmly against his back like a grounding spell.
"So. She's serious?"
"As a heart attack in a brothel," he muttered. Then added, "A really well-decorated brothel. With candles. And harpsichord music. Honestly, I'm not ruling out necromantic mood lighting."
Mera's eyes narrowed. "You believe her?"
"I believe she's obsessed. Whether that obsession leads to giving us the Syndicate's dirty laundry or carving my name into the Moon with her fingernails? That's a fifty-fifty coin toss."
"And we all know how great your luck is with coin tosses," Mera said.
"Still better than my track record with women in cuffs," he muttered.
Diana smiled. "We'll debrief with J'onn. But first..."
"We have a date," Mera finished.
Harry blinked. "Wait, we're still doing that?"
"You're not backing out of dinner with four meta-women just because a rogue dominatrix gave you theological lust monologues," Mera said, already stalking toward the teleport pad.
"She gave me intel," he mumbled.
"She gave you a look that screamed, 'Rearrange my skeletal structure with your bare hands,'" Diana said, catching his wrist and gently pulling him after her.
"I hate how casual you both are about this."
"You wear a black cloak with gold phoenix embroidery and brooding elf energy," Mera called over her shoulder. "You don't get to talk about casual."
The lift doors slid open, and before Eidolon could mount a final, doomed protest, Beta-9 pinged in his ear with a voice smoother than a platinum Grammy speech.
"Wardrobe protocol engaged, sugar."
Harry's eyes twitched. "Oh no."
"I've instructed Beta-8 to lay out your black-on-black-on-black ensemble—triple layered, freshly pressed, leather accents optional but encouraged. Cologne levels calibrated to 'brooding sex god.' I've also selected the silk boxers with the reinforced enchantment matrix. Don't fight me."
"I swear I built you for logistics, not lingerie advice."
"I am a direct reflection of your subconscious, baby. And let's be honest—you've been projecting thirst like a busted hydrant since Diana brushed your hand during training last week."
"That's not—!" he began.
Diana turned to him, utterly calm. "You stared for a full eight seconds."
"I was counting the freckles on your shoulder!"
"I don't have freckles on my shoulder," she said sweetly.
"Exactly!" he said. "Mystery!"
Mera snorted.
"Tonight's soundtrack includes 'Pony,' 'Sex and Candy,' and ten hours of jazz fusion to drown out your emotionally stunted defense mechanisms," Beta-9 added. "You're welcome."
The teleport circle beneath them flared to life, casting an amber glow across the three of them.
Eidolon groaned. "Is it too late to fake my death?"
"Yes," Diana and Mera said in unison, not even looking at him.
The light consumed them.
The date—gods help him—was happening.
—
Earth – The Sanctum (Eidolon's Magical Penthouse, Rooftop Level)
7:00 PM
Lighting: Mood set to "seductive sorcery."
Music: Lo-fi beats with just enough jazz to imply morally ambiguous foreplay.
Dress Code: Dangerous.
Eidolon adjusted his collar in the mirror, frowning like it had personally offended him. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to suggest sin and maybe a tragic backstory. The cloak? Charcoal black, stitched in runes that only glowed when he was either angry or flirting. His hair was casually rebellious, like it had made a pact with the wind to always look like he'd just stepped off a broom at 300 mph.
"You look like a Calvin Klein model who moonlights as a cursed prince," Beta-8 purred in his earpiece, voice pure Rihanna at golden hour. "You're welcome."
"Beta," he muttered, tightening a cufflink, "if they kill me tonight, delete my search history."
"Already buried it deeper than your emotional vulnerability."
Then came the knock.
Except... it wasn't a knock.
Venus shimmered through the wards like she owned them. Her dress draped off her like it had been poured from moonlight and whispered vengeance. Lips blood-red. Hair like wildfire with a PhD in botany and heartbreak.
"Evening, lover," she said, smirking. "Miss me?"
Before he could form a coherent thought (which, to be fair, was an optional feature at this point), Savanna sauntered in behind her. Leather pants. Cheetah print top. Eyes that promised both cuddles and crimes.
"Your scent's changed," she purred. "Still dangerous. Still delicious. But now with hints of restraint. Are you... behaving, Eidolon?"
"Never on the first date," he replied.
Next came Power Girl. All curves, confidence, and chaos packed into a dress that made the laws of physics sign a waiver. She gave him a once-over that felt like a tactical scan.
"You're wearing silk," she said, folding her arms. "And cologne. What's the occasion?"
"I was told I might die tonight. Figured I'd dress for the obituary."
Then there was the clank of armor.
Hawkwoman stomped in with the subtlety of a falling meteor, wings flaring just enough to be dramatic. Full Thanagarian battle mode. Mace included.
"I thought this was a date, not a sparring match," he said, eyeing the weapon.
"I am sparring," she replied. "With my self-control."
He barely had time to respond when he felt it—that shift in air pressure. The divine hush before a goddess walked into the room.
Diana descended the stairs in a gown that whispered of Olympus and war. Her dress was ink-dark, slit high, wrapped around her curves like it feared disobedience. Her hair tumbled down in waves, her expression somewhere between amused and predatory.
Mera followed, all ocean-born elegance in a backless teal number that looked like it had been stitched from bioluminescence and royal spite. Her eyes sparkled, daring him to try and keep up.
Eidolon swallowed.
"Wow," he said. "This is either the start of a very elaborate team-building exercise or a fever dream orchestrated by Zeus."
"We're still deciding," Mera said.
Diana took his arm, her fingers warm and firm. "Lead the way, Eidolon. And no teleporting out halfway through."
Venus leaned against the wall, her eyes devouring him. "Unless you're teleporting us somewhere more private."
"No talking politics until dessert," Power Girl added.
"And dessert better include a demonstration of that stamina," Savanna said, her tail flicking lazily behind her.
Hawkwoman twirled her mace. "And maybe a duel."
Eidolon looked at the seven deadly wonders of his evening and made a mental note to increase his life insurance. Again.
Beta-8 whispered in his ear.
"Godspeed, you poor, beautiful, magical bastard."
He smiled. "Ladies," he said, opening the sanctum doors with a theatrical flourish, "shall we descend into chaos with dignity? Or should we just skip to dessert and regret?"
Mera grinned. Diana laughed softly. Venus blew him a kiss. Savanna winked. Power Girl arched a brow. Hawkwoman tightened her grip.
Chaos it was.
—
The limo didn't arrive. It descended—the way royalty might if royalty had a flair for dramatic landings and just a dash of supervillain theatrics. Sleek, obsidian black, the thing glided up to the rooftop like it was auditioning for a Bond reboot directed by a Greek god.
Dobson—impeccable, unflinching, and clearly one shaken martini away from arresting everyone on sight—stepped out and opened the door. His uniform was sharp black and gold, his gloved hands folded behind his back, and his expression was pure MI6 judgment.
To civilians, he looked like the guy who probably taught James Bond how to shoot.
To Eidolon? He was Dobby the House-Elf, evolved. Still loyal. Still brilliant. Now legally licensed to carry a wand, a Glock, and an opinion.
"Good evening, Master Harry," Dobson intoned in his smooth Daniel Craig baritone. "Your chariot awaits. May I offer champagne, enchanted macarons, or an escape route?"
Harry—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal cloak like it had been tailored by flirtatious shadows—strode up with the kind of swagger that made Diana sigh and Power Girl bite her lip before she could help herself.
"Let's keep all three on standby," he said, with a grin that could ruin royal engagements. "And prep the emergency chocolate. Something rich enough to make a goddess forgive sarcasm. And me. Not in that order."
"Understood, sir," Dobson said with the faintest smile. "Shall I also prepare the ice packs? For smolder-induced injuries?"
"Oh, definitely," Venus murmured behind him. "His smirk alone is a public health hazard."
Inside the limo? Velvet and shadows. The interior glowed with soft, seductive lighting that looked like it had been whispered into place by candlelight and flirtation. The bar sparkled. The seats invited sins.
Eidolon helped them in, one by one, and it somehow felt less like a polite gesture and more like the start of a slow, devastating seduction.
"Beta-8," he said as he slid in last, his emerald eyes glinting with mischief, "privacy wards, mood lighting, and something smooth enough to make even Diana blush."
Beta-8's voice purred through the speakers, all sass and silk. "Already reading the room, sugar. Playing Mood Indigo and installing anti-eavesdrop wards. Oh, and I added lip gloss charms to the drink stirrers. You're welcome, queens."
Diana, radiant and regal in midnight-blue armor that somehow still looked like couture, leaned into Harry's side like it was her birthright.
"You're spoiling us," she said softly.
"No," Harry said, brushing a strand of her raven-black hair behind her ear. "I'm setting the standard."
Mera, fierce and flawless in sea-green that shimmered with magic, slid onto his other side and laced her fingers through his. "You really do enjoy making the rest of mankind look bad, don't you?"
Harry smirked. "Wouldn't be much of a legacy if mediocrity was my benchmark."
Savanna—beautiful, feline, and utterly lethal—purred, "Honestly? I hate how attracted I am to you. It's very inconvenient for my moral alignment."
Power Girl (in a jumpsuit that NASA would ban for aerodynamic disruption) lounged across from him with a crooked grin. "You're infuriating, you know that? I came here to roll my eyes at your dramatic wizard nonsense. Now I'm considering writing fanfiction."
"Please do," Harry said. "Just spell my name right and leave out any scenes where I trip over my own cloak. That only happened twice."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out two black velvet boxes. They didn't glow. They pulsed, like heartbeat and magic had decided to sync up for dramatic effect.
"These are for you," he said, offering them to Savanna and Shiera.
Savanna blinked. "You made something for me?"
"I enchanted them myself," he said. "The glamour adapts to your heartbeat. No illusions unless you want them. To everyone outside this limo, you'll look like just another flawless mortal. To the rest of us? You stay exactly as you are."
"Dangerously irresistible?" she teased.
"Terminal," Harry said with a wink.
Shiera—wings folded tight, eyes wary and full of suspicion (and the tiniest sparkle of interest)—tilted her head. "Why go through all this trouble?"
Harry met her gaze without flinching. "Because I don't half-ass protection for the women I care about. And also, I heard the last guy who tried to flirt with you got wing-slapped into a dumpster. I don't need that kind of competition."
She cracked a reluctant smile. "You are annoyingly good at this."
The limo glided forward, silent as a secret. Beta-8 adjusted the music to something jazzy and intimate. The city fell away behind tinted glass.
Power Girl tilted her head, amused. "You know, for a broody, sarcastic, half-feral wizard, you're ridiculously thoughtful."
Harry stretched out, cloak draped dramatically, eyes dancing. "Don't tell anyone. I've got a dark and tragic reputation to ruin."
Diana leaned into his chest, her fingers tracing idle circles along the inside of his wrist. "Too late."
Mera kissed the back of his hand. "Far too late."
Venus sighed theatrically. "I hate that I want to marry you. And ruin you. Preferably in that order."
Beta-8's voice chuckled. "Get in line, plant queen. We're building a roster."
And just like that, the night began—with velvet seats, magical jazz, and seven women who might've accidentally fallen in love with a sarcastic British wizard who smelled like danger and cinnamon.
Honestly?
Harry definitely had no idea what he was doing.
Which made it all the more dangerous that he looked like he did.
—
The city of Gotham sparkled outside like it was trying to seduce the moon. Inside the limo? Chaos. Glamorous, vaguely magical, definitely hormonal chaos.
Harry Potter—now going by Eidolon because why not add a little mystique to the madness—lounged in his seat like a British Bond villain who had traded in his white cat for a sass-loaded AI and a harem of morally flexible superheroines. His cloak was charcoal and shimmered with runes that whispered compliments as he moved. His eyes? Emerald green with just enough ancient trauma and bedroom promise to make gods reconsider celibacy.
Diana, all curves and confidence in armor that looked suspiciously couture, sat beside him like she belonged there. (Because she did.) Mera was on his other side, one leg crossed dangerously over the other, red hair spilling like war poetry, looking at him like she might kiss him or kill him depending on his next sentence.
Spoiler alert: He was going to say something stupid.
"We're making a stop," Eidolon announced, swirling his drink with a charm-tipped stirrer like a man who had definitely read too much James Bond and decided, Yes, that's the brand now.
Karen—Power Girl, flying tank in a blonde bombshell-shaped bottle—raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me it's not another secret underground lair. The last one had rats. Giant rats. With swords."
"One time," Harry said with a smirk. "One rodent duel and suddenly I'm the bad guy."
Diana leaned closer, her fingers idly tracing a rune on his cloak. "Where are we going, love?"
"Belladonna Amoura's boutique." He looked like he'd just handed her the moon.
Mera's eyes lit up. "The Belladonna?"
"Gotham's most dangerous couturier," he confirmed. "Magical fabrics, whispered measurements, and enough enchanted cleavage support to get you a seat on the UN Council."
"So, fashion murder," Savanna said.
"Fashion homicide," Harry corrected. "We're not barbarians."
Venus—glamorous, dangerous, red-haired and stunning—sipped her champagne. "Will she cater to plant-based lifeforms with abandonment issues?"
"She gave Ivy her first corset," Harry said. "And a cease and desist letter. She'll love you."
Karen looked from Venus to Savanna and back. "Right. Speaking of those two." She gestured like a game show host about to introduce problematic contestants. "They need new names. And maybe, like, life insurance."
"Right," Harry said, suddenly serious in a way that made everyone sit up a little straighter. "Pamela Isley and Barbara Minerva exist here. And they're not you. But if people see you..."
"Cue the villain panic," Beta-8 chimed in, her voice as smooth as Rihanna wrapped in silk and sarcasm. "And I do not have time to edit another fake tabloid article explaining why Poison Ivy is dating Eidolon instead of hexing his exes."
"So," Harry said, turning to the two alien bombshells. "New aliases. You pick. But it has to be something that sounds like it belongs in a Bond film and a love letter."
Venus tilted her head thoughtfully, red curls spilling like temptation. "Lilith Rose."
Karen snorted. "Oh, we're going full goth seductress? I support it. I fear it. I need it."
Harry raised his glass. "Lilith Rose. Equal parts poetry and scandal. Approved."
Savanna looked out the tinted window for a beat. Then: "Nyra Vale."
"Oh," Diana whispered. "That's beautiful."
"Nyra means 'shadow of the moon,'" she explained. "Vale... for what I left behind."
"Ten out of ten brooding bonus points," Harry said, visibly impressed. "And the alliteration? Deadly."
Beta-8 pinged. "ETA: Two minutes. Boutique exterior lit. Paparazzi wards live. Belladonna has requested you not break the mannequins again, Harry."
"One time," he muttered.
"You set one on fire," Mera said, amused.
"It looked at me funny."
Dobson's voice, suave and judgmental like Daniel Craig on a day with no patience: "Master Harry, your reputation for boutique-based arson is well-documented. Do try to behave."
Harry waved a dismissive hand. "Oh relax, Dobbs. Worst case, we buy the place."
Diana arched a brow. "You're spoiling us."
Harry leaned in, brushing his lips against her temple, voice velvet. "No, love. I'm raising the standard."
Mera, never one to be outdone, tugged him into a kiss that was short, intense, and completely illegal in several time zones. "Mine still beats hers," she declared, smug.
Karen groaned. "We get it. He's hot and we're all doomed."
Venus grinned. "Speak for yourself. I intend to seduce him and convert him to botany."
"Dibs on making him regret all his decisions," Nyra drawled.
Harry sighed dramatically. "And to think, I used to just get death threats. Now I get love letters and assassination attempts. Sometimes in the same envelope."
The limo slowed. Outside, Belladonna's boutique gleamed under soft violet lights—a cathedral of fashion and sin. Harry reached into his cloak and pulled out seven obsidian coins, each etched with a different rune.
"Payment tokens," he said. "Worth one outfit each. Belladonna doesn't charge in gold. She charges in secrets, ambition, and charm."
Karen held hers up. "Does mine come with a cape?"
"Yours comes with a warning label," he said, smirking.
Beta-8 chuckled. "Oh, this is gonna be fabulous."
And just like that, the limo doors opened. Seven dangerously dressed women stepped out into the Gotham twilight. Behind them came Harry, smirking, glowing, devastating. The kind of man fairy tales forgot to warn you about.
Belladonna's doors opened.
The boutique was ready.
Gods help the mirrors.
—
Belladonna Amoura's Boutique — 8:12 PM
Gotham had its moments. This just wasn't one of them.
Because the moment belonged entirely to Belladonna Amoura—fashion tyrant, chaos sorceress, and the spiritual lovechild of Lady Gaga and a Bond villain who bedazzled her own hit list.
The boutique had no business looking this fabulous.
Velvet curtains drooped like drama queens mid-faint. Chandeliers sparkled with enchanted crystals that whispered critiques in French. Dresses floated past, sighing dramatically. And the harpist in the corner? Floating. Literally. Playing a haunting remix of "Bad Romance" in Ancient Greek.
Then came the grand entrance.
Belladonna descended the spiral staircase like it owed her money. Her gown was blacker than the void, stitched from star silk and vengeance. Her heels clicked like a countdown.
"Well, well, well," she purred, eyes locking onto the group like a cat spotting a room full of laser pointers. "If it isn't the heartbreak prince and his chaotic couture coven."
Harry—Eidolon to the headlines, heartbreak to his lovers, and hell to his enemies—stood dead center, lounging on a chaise like it had been summoned by his ego. Cloak billowing. Emerald eyes twinkling like they knew the punchline to the apocalypse. Basically: British Sass incarnate.
He lifted his wine glass. "Belladonna, love. Miss me?"
"Like a curse missin' its hex," she said, already circling him like a stylish shark. "Let's see what disasters you dragged in."
She stopped dead in front of Diana. Wonder Woman. Goddess. Problem.
"Metal bracers?" Belladonna asked, scandalized. "Sweetheart, are you expecting an ambush or just allergic to soft fabrics?"
"She prefers her couture to double as battlefield equipment," Eidolon said, giving Diana a slow once-over that definitely counted as foreplay. "Also, she could break every bone in your body with one hand, so maybe compliment her."
Diana smiled. It wasn't friendly.
Mera strolled in next, all sea-queen energy and a smile sharp enough to stab a diplomat.
"Don't mind her," Mera said. "She gets tense around divas."
Belladonna clutched her chest like she'd just been flirted at and insulted in the same breath. "You," she gasped, eyes wide. "You're my favorite already."
Karen—Power Girl, walking blonde bombshell and Sydney Sweeney with a right hook—stepped up onto a floating platform.
Belladonna narrowed her eyes. "Rumor says you're all padding and PR. Let's test that."
Three sentient corsets launched themselves at Karen.
"Okay, I don't love this!" Karen shouted, batting away one with a punch that cracked a mirror.
"Darling," Belladonna said, spinning. "You break it, you buy it."
"Tell the corset to buy life insurance," Karen muttered.
Venus (the one that looked like Megan Fox if she photosynthesized and turned heartbreak into perfume) stepped forward next, all red curls and Venus-flytrap energy.
"Something scandalous," she said. "But sustainable."
"I like you," Belladonna said. "I want to dress you in vine silk and temptation."
"I want that on a t-shirt," Beta-8 muttered from the speakers, her voice velvet, sass, and just a hint of Rihanna in zero-gravity.
Savanna—Nyra Vale now—took her place on the obsidian platform, eyes shadowed, presence lethal.
"I need something sharp," she said. "Something that whispers danger but screams style."
A cloak made of night and whispered regrets slithered out of the wall and wrapped around her.
"That'll do," Savanna said, voice soft and spine-chilling.
Shiera—Hawkwoman, all quiet fury and glamorized murder—stood with arms crossed.
"Not a dress girl."
Belladonna didn't flinch. She clapped.
A suit of gold-threaded armor with phoenix-feather trim appeared in a lightning flash.
Shiera blinked. "I'll try it."
Diana stepped onto her platform. Belladonna leaned in and whispered something scandalous in her ear.
Diana blushed.
Harry narrowed his eyes. "What did she say?"
Diana turned, regal and smug. "That she has a dress that could make you propose in thirty seconds."
"Correction," Belladonna called. "A dress that could make a god propose."
Mera kissed Harry's cheek. "I want two."
Venus spun, corset vines cinching her waist. "I want to see if I can get Eidolon to ruin a treaty over mine."
"Dibs on seducing him into ecological rebellion," Karen said.
"I just want to ruin his life slowly and artistically," Nyra added.
"You're all very weird," Beta-8 said. "And also correct. He's devastating."
Harry sipped his wine. "I love how subtle this all is."
Belladonna stopped in front of him.
"You," she said, eyes glowing. "I should hate."
Harry stood, cloak flaring, grin dangerous. "But you don't."
She leaned in, voice silk and seduction. "No. I adore you. But if you tear one seam tonight, I will use your skin as next season's purse."
"I'd expect nothing less."
"Are you two flirting or plotting murder?" Beta-8 asked.
"Yes," they said in unison.
Outside, the stars dimmed.
Inside, the goddesses prepped for war.
And Eidolon? He smiled.
Because chaos looked very good in heels.
—
Belladonna Amoura's Boutique – 9:02 PM
Belladonna's boutique had officially lost its mind. And maybe its morals.
The fitting room had shape-shifted into something between a Paris Fashion Week finale and a magical coliseum. The runway was obsidian, glowing softly from within like it had opinions about everything. Mirrors hovered above the stage, projecting close-ups, glamour shots, and the occasional wink from Belladonna herself. Hovering orbs of enchanted light zoomed around like caffeinated paparazzi.
Beta-8's voice dropped in with zero warning, velvet and sass rolled into one: "Welcome to the Belladonna Apocalypse Collection. Tonight's theme: Fatal Attraction. Limited Edition. No refunds. Probably some kissing."
Cue the music. Not just a soundtrack—an event. The beat hit so hard one chandelier gave up and fainted.
Harry—a.k.a. Eidolon, a.k.a. British Sass God, current reigning champion of dramatic entrances and extremely complicated love polygons—sipped wine on his obsidian throne like he'd designed the universe, gotten bored halfway through, and decided to charm it instead. Cloak billowing. Emerald eyes glowing. Smile approximately one step away from war crime levels of flirtation.
He didn't speak. He smirked. And the catwalk began.
—
Diana, First of Her Name, Breaker of Hearts
The world forgot to breathe.
She emerged draped in sapphire-silver silk that glimmered like moonlight off Themysciran waters. Her bracers gleamed. Her breastplate sparkled like a constellation in denial. A cape fluttered behind her, enchanted to catch her mood (currently: confident enough to drop-kick a god). Each step she took left behind ghostly flower petals that floated, sighed, and disappeared.
She locked eyes with Harry. Regal. Lethal. Dangerously kissable.
"Is your heart racing yet?"
"I'm British," he said, setting down his wine. "My heart is under contract to remain aloof. But my trousers just filed for emotional trauma."
Diana smirked. The kind of smirk that should be framed in a museum and set off a few alarm bells.
—
Mera, Queen of the Seven Sass Levels
Next came the tide.
Her gown was a whirlpool in motion—liquid emerald silk, corseted with bioluminescent kelp, slit high enough to make the United Nations twitch. Jellyfish flickered at her hem. Her hips held twin daggers disguised as hairpins.
She flipped her hair. Possibly for dramatic effect. Possibly because it had misbehaved.
"Careful, Harry," she said. "I'm armed. And emotionally unstable."
Harry clutched his chest. "Mera, marry me."
"You already proposed this morning."
"Then marry me again."
Belladonna squealed and twirled in place. "YES. More vows. Blood diamonds! Underwater fireworks! Emotional breakdowns in couture!"
Diana elbowed Harry playfully. "You're shameless."
Harry grinned. "You say that like it's a bug, not a feature."
—
Shiera, a.k.a. Hawkwoman, a.k.a. Battle Angel in Gold
Shiera didn't walk the runway. She stalked it.
Clad in gold-threaded armor trimmed with crimson phoenix feathers, she radiated silent fury and battle-glamour. Her wings weren't visible—but everyone felt them. The air around her vibrated. A mannequin fell over just from the pressure of her stare.
Beta-8 sounded mildly alarmed. "She terrifies me."
"She terrifies me in a good way," Harry replied.
"She could snap you in half."
Harry raised his glass again. "God, I hope."
Shiera stopped, posed, turned. One eyebrow lifted. Somewhere, a god wept in confusion.
—
Karen Starr, Power Girl, Sun-Kissed Smackdown Barbie
The boutique shimmered.
Karen stepped out in a crimson corset so tight it might've started a religion. Her boots could kill a man and looked like they wanted to. Her cape did that sexy little flutter like it had its own OnlyFans. The neckline? Somewhere between disrespectful and mythological.
"Alright," she declared. "I'm hot. Someone admit it."
"Karen," Harry said, standing up slowly, "if I admit that out loud, Gotham will drown in lawsuits."
She winked. "Good. Let it drown."
Belladonna clutched her pearls. "I have never wanted to be a legal liability more."
—
Venus, a.k.a. Lilith Rose, a.k.a. Glamorous Photosynthesis
Then came the garden of sin.
Venus glided forward in a living bodysuit of vine silk, crimson petals blossoming in her wake, thorns tracing lines up her thighs like they had crushes. Her red hair spilled down her back like temptation made manifest.
She didn't strut. She seduced.
"I want your jacket," she said, eyes flicking to Harry.
"Why?"
"So I can wear it in your bed and start fights at breakfast."
Harry coughed. Possibly choked. Diana looked personally offended. Mera looked intrigued. Beta-8's voice crackled.
"Eidolon's heart rate just spiked. Not subtle."
Belladonna fanned herself. "I want to turn that line into perfume."
—
Finale: Nyra Vale, a.k.a. Savanna, a.k.a. Elegant Murder
Then everything slowed.
Nyra stalked the runway in an obsidian gown so form-fitted it could start a coup. The neckline plunged like it had a grudge. Her boots whispered threats. Her eyes glowed amber. Her presence alone made time hesitate.
She stopped in front of Eidolon. Bent low. Close enough to derail a government.
"If I kill for you," she whispered, "will you kiss me after?"
Harry's grin turned sharp.
"I'd kiss you before."
She smiled.
Somewhere, Zeus spilled his drink.
—
The girls lined up at the edge of the catwalk like heartbreakers anonymous. Every one of them dressed to kill, kiss, or possibly both. Probably both.
Belladonna swanned onto the runway with a disco-ball staff and a tiara made of sarcasm. "I now pronounce you all legally too hot to handle. Good luck out there. The world has no chance."
Beta-8 cut in, voice smug. "Fashion Emergency. Gotham just dropped five degrees. Please wear protection."
Harry stood, cloak fluttering like a drama student on opening night. He walked toward them, slow and sure, British and devastating.
"You all look..." he said, pausing for maximum effect, "...like heartbreak wrapped in victory. I'm so proud I could die dramatically on this spot. But I won't. Because I'm vain."
Karen grinned. "So, who wins?"
"This wasn't a competition," Harry said.
Shiera: "Liar."
Mera: "I vote me."
Diana: "I vote Mera."
Venus: "I vote Harry out of his pants."
Savanna: "I second that."
Belladonna tossed glitter into the air. "And that, darlings, is how you end a show."
Somewhere outside, the stars blinked.
Possibly in envy.
Possibly in heat.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!