Siren Song - Chapter Eight
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Four months later.
Lux had opened three weeks ago in the heart of New Troy, and Metropolis hadn’t stopped talking about it since. The city’s newest temple of excess was sleek, expensive, and impossibly exclusive: a collaboration between tech-billionaire investors and, as the gossip columns gleefully reported, the enigmatic Lucifer Morningstar himself as silent owner. The name alone had sparked endless headlines, some joking about deals with the devil for bottle service, others speculating on how exactly the infamous nightclub mogul from Los Angeles had expanded to the East Coast. Jon had only gotten in because Oliver Queen had slid two matte-black VIP passes across a Watchtower briefing table with a knowing smirk and a quiet, “You look like you could use a night off, kid.”
Now Jon stood in one of the private bathroom cabins on the top-floor lounge level, door locked, making himself presentable again. The bathroom itself was pure modern decadence. Everything was black marble shot through with thin veins of gold, lit by recessed LED strips that glowed a soft, shifting indigo. The sinks were floating slabs of polished obsidian, water flowing from invisible slits in the ceiling when motion was detected. Mirrors ran floor-to-ceiling, frameless, giving the illusion of infinite space. Even the air smelled curated: subtle notes of cedar, bergamot, and something faintly metallic pumped through hidden vents.
Outside the cabin door, the muffled thump of the club’s sound system pulsed through the walls: a deep, hypnotic bassline layered with shimmering synths and a vocalist crooning something sultry and half-intelligible. Every drop hit like a heartbeat, vibrating faintly in Jon’s chest even through the soundproofing. He could hear the crowd too, distant laughter, the clink of glasses, the occasional whoop when the DJ teased the next build. Closer, in the main bathroom area, two guys at the sinks were talking over the music, voices carrying just enough.
“…told her the bottle service was comped, man, she’s already texting me to come back to the table.”
“Careful, bro. That redhead with her is Luthor’s assistant. You do not want to piss that off.”
Water ran. A faucet shut off. The sharp hiss of a cologne spray. Footsteps, then the door to the hallway swinging open and closed, letting in a brief roar of music before it sealed again.
Jon finished buttoning his black shirt, fingers moving with calm efficiency over the last few buttons. He locked his belt in place with a soft metallic click, the fitted fabric settling over hips that still carried the faint heat of exertion. His cock was still half-hard inside his underwear.
The guy in front of him, some handsome, dark-haired stranger he’d pulled into the cabin ten minutes ago, was still completely naked, sprawled back atop the white marble toilet. Legs spread open, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, he looked… broken. Utterly spent. Eyes half-lidded and glassy, lips swollen, faint red marks blooming across tanned thighs and throat where Jon’s grip and mouth had been. A slow trickle of Jon’s cum leaked from his stretched, flushed hole, glistening under the shifting indigo lights, dripping lazily onto the floor below.
Jon watched it for a quiet second, a flicker of satisfaction curling in his chest.
“You okay there, buddy?” he asked.
The guy let out a weak, breathless laugh, more exhale than sound, and managed a shaky nod. “Yeah… yeah, just… give me a minute.”
Jon’s lips curved in a small, crooked smile. He stepped closer, brushing a knuckle lightly along the stranger’s jaw, tilting his chin up just enough to meet dazed eyes.
“Take all the time you need,” he murmured, turning his back to him. He unlocked the cabin door.
“Wait, shit, don’t go yet,” the guy said, voice hoarse, pushing himself up on trembling arms. “What’s your name again? Tom?”
“Jon,” Jon laughed, not offended. They’d met barely twenty minutes ago, names exchanged in the haze of grinding bodies and lowered lights. At least the guy had gotten close. Jon had no idea what his name was.
“Wanna get out of here, Jon?” the stranger pressed, a hopeful edge creeping into his tired tone. “I’ve got the penthouse suite at The Olympian Plaza. Room service, champagne, anything you want. What do you say?”
“Sorry, man,” Jon answered. “My boyfriend’s waiting outside.”
The guy blinked, surprise cutting through the post-orgasm fog. “You have a boyfriend?”
“Yup.” Jon glanced back, raising an eyebrow, a faint, challenging smile tugging at his lips. “That a problem?”
“Nah, fuck no, don’t give a shit,” the guy answered at the same time, the words tumbling out with a breathless laugh, legs unsteady as he pushed himself upright. His dark hair was mussed, lips still swollen, a faint sheen of sweat catching the indigo lights. He looked wrecked in the best way, thoroughly used and proud of it.
“Can I at least get your number?” he added quickly, eyes lighting up with hopeful hunger. “I really wanna do this again.”
“Sure, why not?” Jon replied, casual as if handing over a business card. He fished his phone from his pocket, screen lighting up with a few unread notifications he ignored, and passed it over without hesitation.
The guy took it with trembling fingers, thumbing in his number with surprising focus for someone whose legs still looked like they might give out. He saved the contact as Fallon Harrington IV.
Damn. Jon would never have remembered that.
“Text me,” the guy, Fallon, said, voice softer now, almost shy as he reached for his discarded clothes.
“Nice meeting you, dude,” Jon replied, already turning toward the door, tone light and dismissive.
Beaumont leaned in slightly, lips parted as if expecting a goodbye kiss, but Jon was already out, the cabin door clicking shut behind him without a backward glance. He deleted the contact before slipping the phone back into his pocket, the screen going dark on a name that would never matter again.
The main floor thrummed with life. Patrons, Metropolis’s elite mixed with the merely beautiful, moved under strobing indigo and crimson lights: models in barely-there dresses grinding against tech heirs in tailored suits, influencers laughing too loud over glowing cocktails, a few recognizable faces from the society pages tucked into shadowed booths with bottles that cost more than most rent checks. Waiters glided through the crowd like ghosts, uniforms crisp black with subtle gold piping, trays balanced effortlessly, serving neon-lit drinks that smoked or sparkled or changed color with every sip. The music was a living thing: deep, filthy house beats layered with sultry vocals that promised sin in every lyric, the bass so low it resonated in bones, the drops hitting like physical waves that made bodies move on instinct. Up on the raised DJ platform, the night’s headliner, a masked figure in white silk, commanded the decks, building tension until the crowd roared with each release.
Jon cut through it all without effort, people parting instinctively for his height and bulk. He did a quick scan through the crowd, using his super-vision to cut through the strobing lights and writhing bodies like they were tissue paper. The bar was packed, he’d never get their drinks fast enough fighting through that chaos, and he’d already been gone longer than he wanted.
His gaze flicked across the room, cataloging glasses and bottles in an instant. A cluster of tech bros in the corner booth nursed glowing blue cocktails that smoked with dry ice. A silver-haired woman in diamonds at a high-top table sipped from a crystal flute of vintage champagne, bubbles rising lazy and gold. Two influencers near the dance floor shared a massive fishbowl of neon-pink punch, straws clashing as they posed for selfies. A lone guy in a tailored suit at the end of the bar swirled something dark and expensive Macallan 25, neat, from the label Jon could read across the room.
And then… bingo. A brunette waitress in a tight white dress that hugged every curve like liquid latex glided past a velvet rope, tray balanced effortlessly on one hand. On it: two chilled flutes of something pale gold and effervescent, garnished with thin twists of lemon peel and a single black cherry floating at the bottom. Exactly what he was looking for, the club’s house “Fallen Angel” prosecco blend, sweet and sharp and dangerously easy to drink.
Jon’s lips curved in a small, satisfied smile. In less than a second he had blurred forward and back, super-speed making the impossible effortless, the two chilled flutes of Fallen Angel now balanced safely in his large hands, pale gold liquid shimmering under the strobing lights, black cherries bobbing gently at the bottom. The poor waitress stood frozen where she’d been mid-stride, tray still extended, eyes bulging in confusion as she stared at her suddenly empty hand and then wildly around, trying to process what had just happened and where the drinks had vanished to. Jon laughed softly to himself, a quiet huff of amusement laced with a faint twinge of guilt. Poor thing probably thought she was losing it. He’d make sure to tip her generously later. For now, he turned and headed up the private mezzanine stairs, the bassline thrumming harder with every step, the crowd parting instinctively as he passed.
Tyler was waiting exactly where he’d left him, lounging in the shadowed VIP booth, golden eyes cutting through the indigo haze to find Jon instantly, pretty smile already blooming as he took in the drinks and the man carrying them.
“Took you long enough,” Tyler said, the words laced with lazy amusement rather than any real heat.
“Sorry,” Jon replied, sliding in beside him and handing over one of the chilled flutes. “The line at the bar was insane.”
The lie came as easily as breathing now, smooth, effortless, without even the faintest flicker of hesitation. He was used to it.
Tyler arched a brow, lips curving in a teasing smirk. “What’s the point of dating Superman if he won’t cut the line for me?”
Jon laughed. “Superman doesn’t cut lines. It’s against the code.”
“Oh yeah?” Tyler murmured, leaning in to brush a light kiss against Jon’s cheek then another closer to the corner of his mouth, lingering just long enough to promise his lips were next. “There’s a code?”
Jon felt the intent like a spark against his skin. He lifted his flute and took a quick sip of the Fallen Angel first, the prosecco cool and sharp on his tongue, sweet bubbles bursting with notes of lemon and black cherry. He wasn’t much of a drinker; human alcohol did nothing against his Kryptonian physiology. But he needed to wash away any lingering taste of the stranger he’d left wrecked in the bathroom cabin, the faint ghost of salt and skin that might still cling to his mouth. He’d barely kissed Fallon before dropping him to his knees, but Jon wasn’t taking chances.
Tyler could never know.
The last thing Jon wanted was to hurt Tyler. They were in a good place now, the scandal of #SuperCockGate buried under months of careful rebuilding, headlines faded to footnotes, the world moved on. Jon liked it, more than ever. It wasn’t love, he knew that now, with a clarity that should have unsettled him more than it did, and it would never be. But he liked being with Tyler: the easy laughter over breakfast in the apartment, the shared patrols that felt like old times, the way Tyler’s golden presence still warmed him on quiet nights. He wanted to make him happy. Keep him smiling. Keep things steady.
Maybe, that voice that sounded annoyingly like Dad whispered in the back of his mind, if Jon really wanted to make Tyler happy, he shouldn’t be cheating on him with a stranger in a club bathroom while Tyler waited patiently for drinks. Or in the grimy glory hole stall at The Pit. Or in any of the dozen other places Jon had fucked other men over the last four months: quick, filthy encounters in dark corners, hotel rooms, even a Watchtower storage closet once when the urge hit too hard.
Jon knew the voice was right.
He also knew he wouldn’t listen to it.
He lowered his flute, lips still tingling from the prosecco’s sharp sweetness, and turned to meet Tyler’s waiting kiss. Tyler’s mouth brushed his, soft and affectionate, tasting like citrus too. Jon kissed him back, slow and deliberate, one hand sliding to the nape of Tyler’s neck to deepen it just enough.
Tyler hummed contentedly against his lips, pulling back with a grin. “Superman doesn’t cut lines,” he repeated, eyes sparkling with affection. “You’re such a good boy, Jon.”
“I sure am,” Jon agreed, laughing easily as he leaned in to steal another quick kiss.
Tyler’s fingers threaded through his hair, tugging playfully, and Jon let himself sink into the moment, the familiar press of Tyler’s body, the easy comfort of it all.
Siren had been arrested by MPD two days after that night in the penthouse.
They’d spent the two previous days in a feverish, insatiable dream of sex, fucking nonstop. It was easy for Jon; his Kryptonian biology meant almost no refractory period, stamina that never flagged. Siren never asked for mercy, never wanted it, matching him thrust for thrust, moan for moan, until they were both wrecked and radiant.
Jon took him first on the rooftop of Gotham PD headquarters, missionary against the massive Bat-Signal projector, the cool metal at Siren’s back, the beacon’s lens dark and silent beneath them as Jon drove deep and relentless. They returned to the penthouse only long enough to throw on clothes, then Jon scooped Siren into his arms and flew across Metropolis, over the dark Atlantic, until they landed in the moonlit ruins of the Colosseum in Rome. There, amid ancient stone and echoing history, Jon fucked him again, hard and slow in the same ground where gladiators shed blood, Siren’s cries lost to the night as Jon claimed him under foreign stars.
Jon blinked, pulling back from the memory as Tyler’s laugh brought him back to Lux to the booth, the music, the golden boy smiling at him. He smiled back, clinking his flute against Tyler’s.
After the Colosseum, they flew back across the Mediterranean under cover of night. Siren, voice hoarse from screaming, had murmured against Jon’s neck about needing a bed, real sheets, something softer than weathered marble. With a lazy wave of his hand and that bell-like voice laced with pheromone promise, Siren charmed the female night concierge at the Anantara Palazzo in Rome into handing over the keys to the presidential suite, no ID, no payment, no questions. The suite was all imperial opulence: high frescoed ceilings, a canopied bed big enough for emperors. Siren collapsed into it almost immediately, naked and marked and glowing, pulling Jon down with him. Jon held him while he slept, exhausted for a human body pushed past limits, thumb tracing idle circles over bite marks on pale shoulders. Jon didn’t need rest the way Siren did, but he stayed anyway, breathing in jasmine, memorizing the way Siren’s lashes cast shadows on flushed cheeks.
Morning came soft through heavy curtains. Jon flew them to Paris next, Siren laughing into the wind the whole way, landing on a quiet rooftop near the 11th Arrondissement. Breakfast was at Ten Belles: buttery croissants that flaked like gold leaf, fresh strawberry jam, and black coffee for Siren and Jon a triple-shot cortado pulled for Jon. Jon wanted to go back to the suite in Rome, back to bed, back to slow, lazy hours of mapping every inch of Siren with hands and mouth until the thief begged again.
But Siren wanted more. He wanted it all.
They spent the next forty-eight hours chasing the sun across the globe, fucking like rabbits in every city Siren’s whims demanded.
First Venice. Siren charming a private gondola at dawn, leaving the gondolier flushed and compliant, the canals still and mirror-flat under a pale sky. Jon took him in the velvet-cushioned stern, water lapping softly against the hull as Siren rode him slow and deep, moans swallowed by morning mist rolling off the Grand Canal. The gondolier kept his pole steady in the water, eyes fixed ahead, but his obvious hard-on strained against his striped trousers, pretending not to hear the rhythmic gasps and slick sounds echoing behind him. Then Tokyo, neon bleeding into twilight as they landed on the rooftop garden of a private ryokan in Shibuya. Jon pressed Siren against the glass railing overlooking the endless city lights, fucking him from behind while Siren’s palms left foggy prints on the pane, breath fogging in rhythm with every thrust.
Bangkok was next, humid night air thick with incense and street food smells. They found a rooftop infinity pool at some exclusive hotel Siren talked their way into, water glowing electric blue. Jon held Siren against the edge, driving into him while the skyline glittered and the pool lights painted their joined bodies in shifting turquoise. Finally, under a vast desert of stars, Jon carried Siren to the Great Wall of China, landing on a remote, restored section far from tourists. Ancient stone cool beneath Siren’s back, the wind carrying Siren’s cries out over the endless rolling hills as Jon, claimed him under the same sky that had watched empires rise and fall.
They already knew the MPD would be waiting when they returned to the penthouse. After two days of Jon being completely off-grid, Damian had finally tipped off the police about Siren’s location. Jon had expected it; Damian’s loyalty to the Bat-code ran deeper than any friendship, and Jon’s silence had been answer enough.
Siren didn’t look worried at all. Jon had explained it carefully on the flight back from Rome: the task force would be hand-picked, every officer vetted for zero attraction to men, straight men and lesbian and aces, anyone Siren’s pheromones couldn’t touch, but Siren had just laughed.
“This isn’t my first dance with the police, darling,” he’d said, stealing Jon’s pet name with a wicked grin. “All it takes is one closet case and I’m a free man.”
Siren made him promise, silver eyes serious for once, that Jon would leave before the sirens got close. The last thing he wanted was to drag Jon deeper into the mess he’d made.
Flying off that balcony alone, no Siren in his arms this time, was the hardest thing Jon had ever done. He wanted nothing more than to descend like the fist of an angry god, scatter the cars, crush the men who dared try to take Siren away from him. The urge had burned in his veins, heat vision flickering at the edges of his vision, fists clenched hard enough to dent steel.
He didn’t.
He hovered high above the city instead, watching red and blue lights converge on the tower, watching the elevator lights climb to the penthouse floor, watching until he couldn’t bear it anymore and turned away, flying east until the sirens faded behind him.
Jon took another sip of the Fallen Angel, letting the sweet burn chase away the ghost of that night. Tyler was still talking, something light about a new solar flare forecast, golden eyes bright and trusting.
“Wanna dance?” Jon asked.
Tyler’s grin lit up. “Hell yes.”
They slid out of the booth and made their way to the crowded dancefloor, bodies weaving through the press of patrons until they found space in the crush. The DJ had just dropped an old Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance,” pulsing and dramatic, the kind of song that made the whole club surge like one living thing. The beat hit hard, synths sharp and addictive, Gaga’s voice wailing about wanting someone’s love in the worst way.
Tyler turned into him immediately, hands sliding up Jon’s chest, fingers curling into the open collar of his black shirt. Jon’s arms wrapped around Tyler’s waist, pulling him flush, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, as they started moving together. It was easy, familiar: Tyler’s hips rolling in that fluid rhythm he had, Jon matching him step for step, bodies grinding slow and deliberate to the filthy drop. They kissed in the middle of it, Tyler’s hands roamed up into Jon’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head, deepening the kiss until Jon groaned low against his mouth. Jon’s cock hardened fast, all for Tyler this time. He pressed forward deliberately, letting Tyler feel it, grinning into the next kiss when Tyler whimpered and ground back harder.
A couple of guys drifted closer as the song built, tall, confident types in fitted shirts, eyes raking over them both with obvious interest. One slid in behind Tyler, hands hovering like he was about to join the grind; another reached for Jon’s hip, fingers brushing boldly over the bulge straining his jeans. Jon shut it down instantly, firm but polite with an easy smile. “Taken,” he said, loud enough to carry over the music, pulling Tyler tighter against him possessively.
In front of Tyler, Jon would play the role perfectly: attentive, affectionate, turning every advance away without hesitation. Devoted, hungry only for the golden boy in his arms. The perfect boyfriend.
Jon was far from it.
The first time he cheated was three weeks after Siren’s arrest.
It was close to 4 a.m., and he had just finished patrol. He was tired but still wired, adrenaline singing in his veins from the fight. A meta with seismic powers had torn up three blocks trying to rob a Cadmus off-site lab; Jon had gone in hard, trading blows that cracked concrete and shattered windows, finally pinning the guy with a flying tackle that drove him through a warehouse roof. The rush of it lingered, muscles pumped, heart pounding, every cell buzzing with leftover power. He didn’t want to go home, not yet. Tyler would asleep in his apartment and Jon had promised to drop by after his shift… but Jon was horny. Achingly, insistently horny. The fight had left him hard-wired for release, cock half-stiff in his jeans, mind replaying flashes of violence and dominance that twisted easily into something darker.
He wanted to cum.
Instead of walking home, he veered toward Suicide Slum, toward the kind of place he’d never admit to knowing about. A dimly lit bar called The Pit, tucked in an alley where the neon flickered and the patrons didn’t ask questions. Suit off, jeans and hoodie looked like any other restless guy looking to burn off steam.
It didn’t take long.
A stranger at the bar, older, bald, eyes that lingered too long on the cut of Jon’s arms and the stretch of fabric across his chest, slid a whiskey neat across the scarred wood. Jon accepted it with a nod, though the alcohol would do nothing against his Kryptonian blood. Words were few: a murmured thanks, a shared look that carried all the intent either of them needed. The guy leaned in eventually, voice low and hopeful, asking what his Jon’s name was, if was still in college. Jon turned him down.
He wasn’t here for conversation.
He crossed the unmarked door at the back of the bar instead, the one he’d clocked the moment he walked in, the one that led to a narrow corridor he knew by reputation but had never stepped into before. The Pit’s glory hole setup was infamous in certain circles: anonymous, filthy, no questions.
The place was pitch dark to human eyes, just a faint red glow from an exit sign at the far end, the air thick with the stale scent of sweat, lube, and bleach that never quite masked what happened here. But Jon’s heightened senses cut through it effortlessly. He saw everything: the scuffed linoleum floor sticky underfoot, the row of six narrow booths on either side, thin plywood walls with circular holes cut at waist height, some already occupied. He heard everything too: the wet, rhythmic sounds of mouths working in the booth to his left, muffled moans and the occasional choked gasp; heavy breathing from the right, a low grunt as someone finished; the creak of cheap wood as bodies pressed closer to the holes, the faint rustle of zippers and belts in the dark.
His cock was already fully hard by the time he slipped into an empty booth and locked the flimsy door behind him, his heart pounding not from fear but from the raw, electric thrill of crossing one more line he could never uncross. He didn’t have to wait long. Jon fed his cock through the hole and almost immediately a warm hand wrapped around the base, fingers struggling to circle the girth.
“Fuck, man, you’re huge,” a muffled voice rasped from the other side, low and awed, breath ghosting hot over sensitive skin.
Jon could have used his x-ray vision, could have peeled back the thin plywood wall in an instant to see exactly who was on his knees for him. But he didn’t. The anonymity was wild, intoxicating in a way nothing else had been since Siren. No names, no faces, no consequences.
“All yours, dude,” Jon murmured, hips shifting forward slightly in invitation.
The guy didn’t hesitate. His wet mouth closed around the head, eager, clumsy, taking him deeper than he was ready for. He choked almost immediately, a wet gag echoing in the narrow corridor, teeth scraping lightly along the shaft on the pull-back. It was far from the best blowjob Jon had ever gotten, sloppy, overeager, the guy gagging every time he tried to take more than half, rasping teeth again and again in his enthusiasm. But it was enough. More than enough. The sheer filth of it, the darkness, the stranger’s desperate sounds, the way he kept trying anyway, choking and drooling and moaning around Jon’s cock like it was the only thing that mattered sent heat surging through Jon’s veins. His hips rocked forward in shallow thrusts, chasing the wet heat, the anonymity fueling him harder than skill ever could.
It didn’t take long. Jon’s breath hitched, a low growl building in his chest as the pressure crested. He came with a sharp groan, hot, thick pulses flooding the stranger’s mouth, spilling over when he couldn’t swallow fast enough, streaking his face, dripping down his chin onto clothes and the grimy floor below. Jon kept thrusting through it, milking every last wave until he was spent, cock twitching in the cooling air. He pulled back slowly, tucking himself away as the guy on the other side coughed and gasped, still anonymous, still just a voice in the dark.
Jon didn’t say anything else.
He just zipped up, unlocked the booth door, and walked out, leaving the stranger painted and panting, another secret swallowed by the shadows of The Pit.
The guilt never came. Not then, not on the walk home as the city lights blurred below, not when he slid into bed beside Tyler and let those warm, familiar arms wrap around him in sleepy welcome.
That was the first time.
It wouldn’t be the last.
In fact, the second time was even easier.
A quick scroll through Grindr during a slow patrol and twenty minutes later Jon was pushing open the door to a cramped dorm room in Metropolis University’s Hawthorne Hall. The guy was a hot nerd type: slim, dark-rimmed glasses, messy brown hair, already stripped down to boxer-briefs and blushing hard when Jon stepped inside. Jon fucked him senseless on the narrow twin bed, deep strokes that had the guy moaning like a whore into his pillow, knuckles white on the headboard, body shaking with every thrust. The poor roommate sat across the room at his desk, headphones half-on, pretending to focus on a laptop screen glowing with an open document: a half-finished essay on “The Ethical Implications of Meta-human Interventionism in Post-Super Powers Global Conflicts,” footnotes scattered, cursor blinking mid-sentence.
“Don’t mind me,” the roommate had muttered when Jon paused at the door, voice strained but resigned, eyes fixed firmly on the screen like it was the only safe place in the universe. Jon did just that. He tuned out the frantic typing, the occasional stifled cough, and lost himself in the tight heat clenching around him, hips snapping harder, hand fisted in the nerd’s hair as he drove him into the mattress until the guy came with a muffled scream into the pillow, body spasming, sheets ruined.
After, Jon zipped up, ruffled the nerd’s hair with a casual “thanks,” and left without another word, the roommate still hunched over his keyboard, pretending the last forty minutes hadn’t happened. Jon flew back to his post ligher, the night air cool against his skin, already scrolling for the next notification.
He didn’t keep his conquests to civilians, no. Jon found himself an equal-opportunity lover, and the superhero community soon discovered it had just as much shot at his cock as anyone else.
One unforgettable night, he had a threesome with Midnighter and Apollo (the original) in their sleek, high-rise apartment somewhere above the clouds. Jon was buried deep in Lucas, powerful hips snapping forward in a steady, relentless rhythm, while Andrew towered behind him, golden and radiant, big hands roaming over Jon’s sweat-slick pecs, kneading the heavy muscle, pinching nipples until Jon growled. Apollo’s mouth was hot at his neck, teeth nibbling sharp along the tendon, tongue soothing the sting as he murmured filthy praise against Jon’s skin.
John Constantine sucked cock like a pro, on his knees in a dimly lit London flat that smelled of cigarette smoke and old magic, trench coat pooled on the floor, that trademark smirk wrapped around Jon’s length as he took him deep with practiced, devilish skill. But unfortunately, Constantine was a total top. “No way yer gettin’ near me bum with that monster, lad,” he’d drawled in thick Cockney, exhaling smoke as he eyed Jon’s cock with equal parts wariness and hunger.
Jon changed that very quickly.
Before the night ended, he had the Brit bouncing on his cock, Constantine’s lean frame impaled and riding him hard, blond hair wild, cigarette forgotten in the ashtray as he moaned Jon’s name like a prayer turned curse. Jon’s hands gripped narrow hips, guiding the rhythm, thrusting up to meet every desperate drop until Constantine shattered around him, walls clenching hot and tight, voice breaking on a string of breathless, blasphemous praise.
And still, the guilt never came.
His next conquest would be Green Lantern Alan Scott; he was sure of it.
Jon had been laying it on thick for weeks now, finding excuses to drop by the JSA brownstone for “mentor sessions,” lingering after League briefings, offering to help Alan test new ring constructs in the Watchtower training room. He turned the charm up to eleven: easy smiles, lingering looks, casual touches that lasted half a second too long. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Even Tyler had noticed. One night, curled up on the couch after a movie, Tyler had nudged him with a foot and asked, half-teasing, half-curious, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the old Green Lantern lately. What’s up with that?”
“Nothing big,” Jon had said, shrugging with practiced nonchalance, pulling Tylercloser until golden hair tickled his neck. “Just hearing his stories from the old days. Guy’s got history.”
Tyler had hummed, accepted it, and let it drop.
Truth was, Jon was ravenous to get the older gentleman into bed.
Mr Scott kept denying him, always gently, voice warm with that old-school chivalry, saying he was “too old for a kid like you, Jon,” or “I’m flattered, son, but I’m from a different era.” But Jon saw the cracks: the way Alan’s eyes lingered on the stretch of the suit across his chest, the faint smirk when Jon flexed just a little too obviously while demonstrating a move, the subtle flush under the silver temples when Jon leaned in close to “study” a ring projection. Jon had never been with a sixty-year-old before. He was dying to know what tricks the old boomer could teach him. Mr. Scott wouldn’t hold out much longer. Jon could feel it every time their eyes met across a briefing table, green ring glinting, blue eyes darkening just a fraction.
Still, the guilt never came.
Jon wondered why, sometimes, in the quiet moments between patrols or when Tyler’s head rested heavy on his shoulder during a movie. He was still him, the same farm boy who’d never sworn until high school, who’d sat in the Smallville Baptist pews every Sunday with Grandma Kent’s hand patting his knee during the hymns, who’d carried orphaned kids on his shoulders after disasters because he wanted to make them laugh. He still had a strong sense of justice. Still wanted to take down the bad guys. Still extended a hand to those he thought could be saved, believed in second chances for everyone except.
It was only that one part of him that had changed. That quiet, ingrained voice, the one raised on Kansas values and Sunday-school lessons, that had once insisted he behave, keep it in his pants, honor promises made in front of friends and family and God. The part that had demanded fidelity, monogamy, exclusivity as the bare minimum of decency.
Gone. As if those two feverish days with Siren had reached inside him and erased it completely, burned it out like weeds under heat vision, leaving fertile ground for everything else to grow unchecked. He still did all the things a good boyfriend should do. He took Tyler on dates, rooftop picnics under the stars, quiet dinners at hole-in-the-wall spots Tyler loved. He met every friend college colleague Tyler wanted him to meet, charmed Californian friends over video calls, remembered birthdays and inside jokes. He listened when Tyler vented about missions gone sideways, held him when he cried after losing a civilian he couldn’t save, shielded him instinctively the second danger appeared.
Perfect, on the outside. Devoted. But that missing piece the one that should have whispered you’re hurting him, stop, remained silent.
Not guilty.
Just certain that this, this careful balancing act, this life of open secrets, was exactly who he was now.
And maybe, deep down, who he’d always been waiting to become.
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