Siren Song - Chapter Nine

Enjoy and goodbye!

Siren’s trial had finally been scheduled.

It had been a chaotic mess just to set a date. After his arrest, he’d been transferred to a temporary meta-human detention facility outside Metropolis, black-site level security, power-dampening fields calibrated for the worst offenders. The District Attorney had pushed hard for Siren to wear a suppression collar in court: a sleek, League-approved device that would neutralize his pheromone abilities completely. “Public safety,” the DA had argued, citing the Elysium footage and a dozen sworn statements from compromised MPD officers.

Siren’s defense team, an army of razor-sharp attorneys from Wolfram & Ogata Metropolis branch that Jon had no idea how Siren could afford, the kind of firm that made billionaires nervous and governments sweat, fought it tooth and nail. They filed motion after motion, arguing cruel and unusual punishment, violation of meta-human civil rights under the Keene Act amendments, and selective enforcement. They dragged up half a dozen Supreme Court precedents: United States v. Meta Rights Coalition (2021), Luthor v. DOJ (2023), even an obscure 1987 ruling on psychic metas that had never been overturned. In the end, a federal judge, progressive and unafraid of headlines, sided with the defense. The burden, the ruling stated, fell on the detention facility and the court itself to ensure staff and personnel were screened for susceptibility. If the state couldn’t guarantee its own employees wouldn’t “fall prey” to a defendant’s passive meta-human trait, that was a failure of procedure, not grounds to strip the defendant of basic rights.

Then came the details of the trial itself.

The judge assigned to the case was the Honorable Venetia Carter, a no-nonsense, old-school lesbian in her late sixties with a reputation for razor-sharp rulings and zero tolerance for theatrics in her courtroom. She was a pioneer: one of the first openly LGBT judges to serve on the federal bench in the United States, appointed back in the early 2000s when such appointments still made headlines. To satisfy the DA’s lingering concerns about Siren’s abilities, Judge Carter had to sign more than a dozen affidavits, notarized declarations swearing under penalty of perjury that she experienced no sexual or romantic attraction to men whatsoever. Medical experts were consulted, psychological evaluations filed, and in the end, even the prosecution’s meta-human consultant conceded there was no risk. The DA, grudgingly, was satisfied.

Jury selection was another mess. The DA’s office pushed aggressively to screen every potential juror for sexual orientation, determined to stack the panel with individuals Siren’s pheromones couldn’t touch. They proposed detailed questionnaires and private voir dire sessions asking pointed questions about attraction to men, all under the banner of “ensuring an impartial trial.” Siren’s legal team once again erupted in objections. They filed emergency motions arguing that selecting (or excluding) jurors on the basis of sexual orientation constituted blatant discrimination, violating equal protection clauses and decades of civil rights precedent. They claimed the state had no right to probe into the private lives and intimate preferences of citizens simply to serve on a jury.

The battle dragged on for days, briefs flying, emergency hearings scheduled, amicus filings from civil rights organizations piling up on the judge’s desk. In the end, Judge Carter ruled largely in Siren’s favor: while limited questioning about potential susceptibility to meta-human influence was permitted, framed neutrally as “exposure to compulsion abilities”, direct inquiries into sexual orientation were struck down as unconstitutional. The DA was forced to rely on broader, less invasive vetting, self-reported comfort levels around meta-human defendants, prior exposure to psychic or pheromone powers, and general impartiality oaths.

Jon watched it all from afar.

He kept his distance from the news, muting alerts, avoiding the Planet’s headlines, letting the trial chatter fade into background noise. When the D.A.’s office sent a polished representative to the Hall of Justice in Washington D.C, carefully rehearsed speech asking if Superman would be willing to testify against the defendant, Jon declined. He told them there were already plenty of evidence: the compelled officers, the store employees, the security footage. His presence, he said, would only draw more chaos, more cameras, more speculation, more distraction from the facts. Batman hadn’t been happy, but Dad had supported him, and that was the end of it. Jon didn’t care how that made him look, he would never testify against Siren. Not in a million years.

He knew a lot of eyes were on him as the trial date approached. Dad checking in a little too often, voice gentle but searching. Batman running silent scans on his comm traffic (Jon could feel the pings). Mr. Terrific reviewing old Watchtower logs with that quiet, analytical frown. Damian dropping by unannounced with sharp questions disguised as sparring challenges. They all suspected the connection went deeper than the Elysium encounter, deeper than a single compromised heist. They noticed the subtle changes in his demeanor, the way he avoided eye contact or how he went quiet whenever Siren’s name came up in briefings.

But they couldn’t prove anything, and it was better this way. Just the mention of Siren’s name was enough to send Tyler into a fit. The hate he claimed to feel for the thief had only deepened with time, festering like an open wound. He never forgot #SuperCockGate, the headlines, the memes, the footage of Jon packing bags for a criminal like some whipped, lovesick fool. Every new development in the case reignited it. When the news broke that Siren was refusing to disclose the location of the stolen jewels, Tyler spiraled. Pacing the apartment, golden eyes flashing, fists clenched, he ranted about how they should “let me pay that bastard a visit, I’ll have him singing in five minutes.” Jon just listened, silent and neutral, face carefully blank, letting the words wash over him like background noise.

That same article carried the only piece of information Jon actually cared about: Siren’s real name was Joey Hart. He’d had no idea. In all the feverish hours they’d spent tangled together, on infinity pools and under Chinese sky, Jon had never thought to ask. Names hadn’t mattered then. Now, reading it on a muted news alert while Tyler vented in the kitchen, Jon turned the syllables over in his mind.

Joey Hart.

Such a plain, everyday name for the most beautiful, complicated creature he’d ever touched. Mundane, almost sweet. Small-town boy meets small-town boy.

Jon and Joey.

He liked the sound of it.

When the day of the trial finally arrived, Tyler had wanted to get away from the city.

He’d suggested a hike upstate, something quiet, wooded trails, fresh air, a chance to spend the day far from the media circus swarming the federal courthouse. Just the two of them, phones off, no headlines about Siren or old footage resurfacing, but Jon had declined. He’d mentioned patrol schedules, then softened it with a made-up excuse about dinner plans with his parents in the evening. They could go away for a couple of hours, sure, maybe a quick flight to the coast for lunch, but he needed to be back by nightfall.

Truth was, Jon had another meeting with Alan Scott that night.He felt he was close to breaking the Green Lantern’s ironclad will. Weeks of careful flirtation, lingering touches during “training sessions,” heated glances across briefing tables had worn the older man’s defenses thin. Alan still protested but Jon saw the cracks. Maybe even tonight. Jon wanted to please Tyler, he really did. He liked seeing that golden smile, liked the easy warmth of Tyler’s hand in his, liked keeping the peace in the life they’d rebuilt. But he would not waste the chance to fuck the old man. No way.

So they settled for a day at the beach. Jon begged Mr. Terrific (literally, hands clasped, best puppy-dog eyes) to let them use the League’s teleport system for a quick jump to West Street Beach in Laguna Beach as Tyler was still terrified of flying. Mr. Holt relented with a sigh and a warning about not making it a habit. They materialized on the sand just after noon, summer at its brutal, beautiful height. The beach was packed: rainbow flags fluttering, music thumping from portable speakers, the air thick with coconut oil, salt, and laughter. It was peak gay beach season, wall-to-wall muscled bodies in tiny trunks, sun-kissed skin gleaming, groups of friends sprawled on colorful towels, volleyballs arcing overhead.

Jon fit right in. He wore nothing but dark sunglasses and a royal-blue speedo so small it was practically a suggestion, fabric stretched tight over the heavy outline of his cock and the curve of his ass, leaving absolutely nothing to imagination. Tyler, in board shorts and a loose tank, kept shooting him half-exasperated, half-possessive glances. The guys were eating Jon alive. A pair of gym-built twinks in neon thongs “accidentally” set up their towels right next to theirs, spending the next hour flexing and stretching in Jon’s peripheral vision. A tall, bearded otter in red trunks brought over a frisbee that kept landing suspiciously close, each retrieval accompanied by a lingering smile and a “nice catch, dude.” A group of older daddies with salt-and-pepper chests offered them cold beers from their cooler, eyes raking shamelessly down Jon’s body while Tyler politely accepted.

Every few minutes someone new drifted by, complimenting Jon’s “insane shoulders,” asking if he competed, brushing sand off his thigh with fingers that stayed a second too long. Jon played nice: friendly smiles, easy conversation, always turning just enough to keep Tyler in the frame, hand resting casually on his boyfriend’s knee like a claim. More than once he imagined distracting Tyler long enough to drag one of those guys into the public bathrooms at the edge of the sand. Pin him against tile, yank down a trunk, fuck him quick and hard while the ocean roared outside and Tyler waited innocently with towels. When Tyler finally headed up to the boardwalk stand for popsicles, a gorgeous Black guy in low-slung white trunks caught Jon’s eye from ten feet away. Tall, ripped, skin like polished mahogany, smile bright and knowing. He held Jon’s gaze, licked his lower lip slow, and started walking over.

Jon’s cock twitched against the blue fabric.

He almost did it. Almost stood up, murmured an excuse to the air, followed that smile into the shadowed changing rooms and took what was offered right there but, at the last second, he stayed put. He could be faithful for an afternoon. Tyler deserved that much.

And if things went according to plan, he’d have plenty of fun with Mr. Scott later tonight.

Tyler was exhausted when they finally teleported back to the Kents’ apartment in Metropolis, the sun and the hours of swimming and laughing in the surf had drained him completely. His golden skin still glowed with the day’s warmth, but his eyes were heavy, steps slow as he kicked off sandy flip-flops in the foyer. Jon watched him with that practiced, affectionate smile. He asked if Tyler wanted to crash there for the night, already knowing the answer: Tyler never felt comfortable sleeping over when Mom and Dad were home.

Tyler shook his head, yawning, and said he’d head back to his place. Jon nodded and offered to walk him home.

The whole way across the city, Jon’s mind wasn’t on the sunset afterglow or Tyler’s tired, happy chatter about the beach. It was on the courthouse downtown, on the trial that had been playing out all day while they’d been gone. He was curious how it had gone. Exoneration was impossible, too much evidence, too many witnesses, but Jon wondered about the sentence. With a good lawyer (and Wolfram & Hart were the best), overcrowding in meta facilities, and Siren’s lack of prior violent offenses… with luck and good behavior, Siren could be free in just a couple of months.

The thought settled explosivein Jon’s chest.

When they reached Tyler’s building, a modest high-rise in Bakerline, Jon didn’t let him walk up the six flights. Without asking, he scooped Tyler into his arms bridal-style, strong and effortless. Tyler let out a startled laugh, arms looping around Jon’s neck, pretending to protest for half a flight before settling against Jon’s chest with a contented sigh, head tucked under his chin, golden hair brushing Jon’s jaw. Jon carried him the rest of the way in silence, feeling Tyler’s steady heartbeat against his own, the familiar weight and warmth of him.

When they were about to enter Tyler’s apartment, the door to the neighboring unit swung open.

Jon didn’t know much about the girl who lived there, just that her name was Liv, a chubby Asian young woman in her mid-twenties who always seemed to be carrying takeout bags or wearing oversized hoodies. She poked her head out, dark hair tied in a messy bun, eyes lighting up when she spotted them.

“Hi, Ty, Hi, Jon. I thought I heard you guys,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “I have something for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Tyler asked, brow furrowing in confusion as Jon set him gently back on his feet.

Liv had already disappeared back inside her apartment. She returned five seconds later, holding a plain white envelope.

“Some guy came by like half an hour ago,” she explained, walking closer. “Told me to deliver it into your hands.”

To Jon’s surprise, she held it out to him.

“To me?” Jon asked, even more confused, taking the envelope automatically. His name was written on the front in neat, unfamiliar handwriting: Jon Kent.

“Yup,” Liv confirmed with a shrug and a small smile. “Jon Kent, he said. Made a point of it.”

Jon thanked her, managing a polite nod as Liv retreated back into her unit with a quick wave to Tyler and a curious glance at Jon before the door clicked shut.

Tyler looked at him, still puzzled. “Secret admirer?”

Jon forced a light laugh, tucking the envelope into his back pocket without opening it. “Who knows?”

Tyler accepted it with a yawn, unlocking his door. He stepped inside, flicking on the entry light, and Jon followed, planning on one last kiss, something slow and sweet to cap the day before heading home to shower and change for his meeting with Alan Scott… but the envelope in his back pocket felt heavier now, insistent. It wasn’t heavy, but there was definitely something inside. Jon pulled it out, turning it over once under the soft hallway light. Plain white, no return address, just his name in that same neat handwriting. He tore it open and a single piece of heavy cream paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Jon bent to pick it up.

There, in elegant, flowing cursive that looked like it belonged on old-world invitations, was an address:

Penthouse Suite, The Aurora Tower, 1 Celestial Way, New Troy

Nothing else. No signature. No message. Jon’s pulse kicked once, hard, against his ribs. The Aurora Tower was an exclusive, ultra-luxury tower in New Troy, known for housing Metropolis’s untouchable elite. It wasn’t far from the Echelon Spire, barely a mile as the crow flew, or as Superman did.

“Holy shit,” Tyler said suddenly, voice sharp with disgust. “Look at this. That motherfucker.”

Jon glanced over. Tyler was staring at his phone, face twisted in anger, thumb scrolling furiously.

Heart beating even faster, Jon was at his side in a millisecond, super-speed making the distance vanish before Tyler even blinked. There, open on a tweet from a major news outlet, the headline screamed: SIREN EVADES PRISON. MORE TO COME LATER. Timestamped just an hour ago.

“I can’t believe those morons let him escape. Jesus Christ!” Tyler ranted, pacing now, phone clutched like he wanted to crush it. “After all that bullshit trial? He probably charmed some guard. Ugh, that fucking freak.”

Jon ignored Tyler’s tirade about Siren, the words washing over him like distant static. His focus narrowed to the envelope still in his hands, plain white, unassuming, but suddenly heavy with promise. He tore it open further, tipping the contents into his palm.

Something shiny and heavy tumbled out: diamonds, dozens of them, held together in an intricate platinum string.

A necklace.

Jon knew that necklace. It was one that had draped Siren’s throat like a crown during the heist. The one worth seven figures, stolen right under his nose. The one Jon had helped pack away in a super-speed blur.

His thumb traced the facets, cool and sharp under his touch, as Tyler’s voice faded to nothing.

He moved without even realizing it, feet carrying him across the apartment floor like an invisible tether had looped around his waist and pulled. When he came to a stop, he was standing by the open window, the cool evening breeze slipping in from the city below, carrying the faint hum of traffic and the distant wail of a siren. It was like that night at Elysium: irresistible, a force stronger than any Kryptonian strength yanking at the strings of his will. Except this time, there were no powers involved, no pheromone-induced craze clouding his mind. This time, it was all Jon. All him.

“What are you doing, Jon?” Tyler asked from the doorway, voice soft with confusion.

Jon looked back at him.

Beautiful, golden Tyler. Wheat-blond hair messy, eyes warm and trusting, that easy smile starting to crease his face like he thought this was just another quirky moment in their life together. Jon was happy with him, he truly was. He could see it all stretching out: quiet nights like this turning into years, a ring on Tyler’s finger, growing old together in some sunlit apartment, laughter and light and a perfectly happy life. Safe. Steady. Golden.

But Jon wanted more.

Like Siren had said that time after eating croissant at Ten Belles, Jon wanted it all. Tyler was the life he should want. But Siren was the one he did.

Without a word, Jon turned back to the window. He stepped onto the sill, wind tugging at his shirt, and glanced once more at Tyler, frozen now, confusion shifting to something sharper, more afraid.

“Jon?”

Jon leaped.

The air caught him, familiar, freeing, carrying him up and away from the apartment, from Tyler’s voice calling his name one last time. He flew fast, streaking toward New Troy, the Aurora Tower rising like a beacon in the dusk.

All of it. Jon wanted it all.

And he would take it.

The End

—

This is it for our Jon! Thanks so much for reading along; your support made this story possible. It’s been a wild ride, and I’m grateful you came for it. See you guys on my next story, Heartbreaker.