Siren Song - Chapter One

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The summer heat clung to Metropolis like a lover’s breath, thick and unrelenting even as midnight crept in, turning the air into a humid haze that made Jon’s suit feel heavier than usual. He perched on the razor-edge ledge of the Galaxy Communications Tower, one of the steel-and-glass behemoths stabbing the skyline of New Troy, the city’s nerve center where deals were brokered in boardrooms and broadcasts beamed out truths (or approximations thereof) to the world. His boots dangled over the abyss, toes curling against the concrete lip, as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, letting the city’s pulse thrum through his veins like a second heartbeat.

Below and beyond, Metropolis sprawled in a glittering tapestry of ambition and artifice, its lights winking like a thousand conspiratorial eyes. To the east, the LexCorp spire loomed like a chrome monolith, its facade a seamless sheath of mirrored panels that reflected the night sky back at itself. Closer in, the Daily Planet globe crowned its squat, art-deco headquarters like a golden beacon, the rotating orb casting slow, sweeping beams across the streets. The West River snaked through it all, a dark ribbon veined with bioluminescent buoys and the fiery trails of barge traffic, its waters murmuring secrets from Suicide Slum to the hip docks of Bakerline, where superyachts bobbed like forgotten toys. On the horizon where the urban sprawl surrendered to the sea, Metropolis Bay shimmered, a vast, inky expanse flecked with the running lights of freighters and the distant flare of lighthouses, the ocean’s edge swallowing the city’s glow in a hazy indigo fade.

Fireflies of traffic zipped along elevated mag-levs, neon signs bled into one another in electric symphonies, reds and purples from dive bars in the East End, golds from the high-rises of New Troy. The whole city hummed with life: faint echoes of laughter from rooftop parties, the low growl of subways burrowing underground, the sharp cry of a distant siren that might summon him into the fray. Jon tilted his head back, the heat pressing against his skin like an invitation to linger, to breathe it all in before the night demanded he give back. For a moment, just one stolen breath, the weight of the world felt like wonder instead of warning.

Jon usually was alone during those patrol night, but today, he had the company of a boy, perched beside him on the ledge, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every shared breath. Tyler Tate was a pretty boy, the kind of pretty that hit like sunlight breaking through storm clouds: golden skin kissed by endless California summers (or so he claimed, with that easy grin), hair the color of ripe wheat tousled just enough to beg fingers through it, and a smile that could coax confessions from the stars themselves.

They hadn’t been dating long, just a couple of months, a whirlwind of stolen patrols and late-night diner runs, the kind of new that still buzzed electric under Jon’s skin. Tyler wasn’t even a full year into the hero game, fresh off a lab accident in some off-the-book startup that had rewritten his DNA. His codename was Apollo. Like Jon, Tyler drew his fire from the same celestial forge: where yellow sunlight supercharged Jon’s cells into feats of godlike strength and flight, it fueled Tyler’s in a wilder, more mercurial vein. He could siphon the heat from the air, from a summer sidewalk’s scorch or the star’s distant blaze, and transmute it into something alive, a shimmering golden energy that coiled from his palms like liquid aurora, bending the the fabric os reality to his whims. Telekinesis, at its core. He could lift cars and summon shields, threads of gold that could cradle a falling child as gently as they crumpled a thug’s getaway van into origami scrap.

It was the codename that had reeled Jon in, Apollo, whispered like a dare in the heat of their first joint takedown, a villain’s lair reduced to smoldering confetti under dual solar fury. But it was the boy himself, the real Tyler, all sharp wit and softer edges, that hooked him deep and made him stay, night after humid night like this one, chasing the high of shared silences over city lights.

Tyler was a lot of fun, the kind that cracked Jon open like a fault line after years of seismic restraint. They laughed until their ribs ached, over botched coffee runs where Tyler’s golden energy accidentally levitated the barista’s tips into orbit, or mid-patrol debates on whether Batman’s brooding was method acting or not. After the mess of his breakup with Jay, that painful, jagged thing that had left Jon adrift in his own skin… yeah, this was the antidote. Just fun. No grand gestures, no timelines etched steel. Tyler didn’t demand blueprints for their future; he just showed up with takeout and that grin, turning Jon’s guarded heart into something buoyant again, lighter than flight.

Almost everyone in Jon’s orbit had hit the brakes hard when the news trickled out. Dad, ever the moral compass, had pulled him aside in the Fortress’s crystalline glow, urging him to heal from the hurricane of his past breakup and give himself space before diving in. Conner, his genetic big-bro clone, had clapped his shoulder too firmly during a Smallville barn-raising, cautioning that rebounds were fine but not foundations for something lasting. Damian, fierce little assassin-turned-sidekick and Jon’s best friend, had been blunt over shawarma in Gotham, labeling it a reckless ricochet.

Even Alfred, Rao, Alfred had pitched in. The Wayne butler had waited until Jon swung by the Manor and, as Jon lingered in the kitchen, nursing tea that tasted like polished silver, Alfred had drawn him into the butler’s pantry with that impeccable discretion, voice low as aged scotch. He’d advised mending a fractured wing carefully, urging thought for the storms that new relationship might summon. Jon had only nodded, cheeks burning.

Only Mom had thrown her weight behind it. Fierce, unapologetic Lois, queen of front-page and no-bullshit advices. She’d caught him in the Planet’s bullpen one frantic lunch hour, headlines screaming about Lex’s latest “philanthropy,” and tugged him into her office with that Lane-family grip. “Go for it, kiddo,” she’d said. “Have fun. God knows you deserve it after that mess. Jay was sweet, but he was out of control. Be honest with Tyler, lay it all out: the patrols, the apocalypses, the nights you vanish into the blue. But listen: you don’t have to marry him. Or anyone. Not yet. Just... fly, kid. Let yourself burn a little.”

Jon didn’t know if he was in love with Tyler, not yet, anyway. Hell, maybe he never would be, not in that seismic, world-shifting way the comics always romanticized, the kind that could topple empires and change Earth’s spin. And It didn’t matter. Not up here, not with Tyler’s laugh still echoing faint against his lips from that stolen kiss. In moments like this, doubts shrank to specks, as insignificant as the pedestrians weaving through New Troy’s neon-veined streets, their worries just so much white noise against the thrill of now.

“See? I told you it’s a pretty view,” Jon murmured, pulling back just enough to grin, his arm slinging around Tyler’s.

Tyler actually scowled at him. It pulled a laugh from Jon. “It’s a high view,” Tyler shot back, voice pitched with that familiar edge of defiance, even as his fingers dug a little too tight into Jon’s thigh for balance. Heights were his kryptonite: not the radioactive kind, but the everyday terror that turned a god among men into a guy white-knuckling the edge of a rooftop like it might bite.

Jon had been delighted to discover it: the guy who could hurl trucks with a flick of golden energy, reduced to gritted teeth and a death grip at the mere whisper of altitude. Jon lived for flying, the rush of it, wind screaming past his ears like freedom unchained. It was the best part of the powers, bar none: that weightlessness, the illusion of touching the untouchable. He’d promised Tyler a thousand times over, thousands, that it was safe, that Jon’s arms were the unyielding scaffold of the sky itself. “Safer than a crosswalk in rush hour,” he’d tease, every time, pressing a kiss to Tyler’s temple as they lifted off. “I’d sooner let the planet crack than drop you.” And to Tyler’s credit, he wasn’t some shrinking violet playing at heroics. Every invitation to soar, every “C’mon, trust me” murmured against his ear, and Tyler would steel himself, nodding with that stubborn jaw set. Eyes squeezed shut like a kid on his first rollercoaster, face buried firm against Jon’s chest to blot out the yawning drop below. He’d always say yes.

Tonight, though, when Jon had blindfolded him, Tyler’s expectations had been firmly earthbound. A quiet overlook by the West River, maybe, or that hole-in-the-wall falafel joint in Bakerline with the twinkly lights strung like captured stars. Ground level, no vertigo in sight. Not this: forty stories straight up, perched on the knife-edge of the Galaxy Communications spire. He peeled the blindfold free with trembling fingers, eyes widening in betrayal and awe, and Jon couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped, half apology, half pure, selfish joy at the way Tyler clung, alive and electric in his arms.

“You know, fear of heights is a pretty bad phobia to have when you’re dating Superman,” Jon teased, his voice dipping into that playful rumble. He flexed his free arm around Tyler’s waist just a fraction tighter.

Tyler snorted, the sound muffled against Jon’s shoulder as he risked a sidelong glance down, then immediately regretted it, snapping his eyes back to the safer horizon of Jon’s jawline. “Eell, dating Superman has its perks. Have you seen that guy’s chest?”

The words landed with that trademark Tyler flair and pulled another laugh from Jon. Tyler had never been shy about it, never once pulled punches when it came to mapping Jon’s body with words that felt like touches: the sweep of his shoulders, the hard planes of his abs glimpsed under a post-patrol shirt, the way his thighs strained against jeans like they were daring the seams to give up. Jon loved that, making him feel seen not as the symbol, but as the man beneath.

And hell, it wasn’t empty flattery. Jon had earned it, lately, poured sweat and grit into reshaping the frame he’d inherited, that lanky farm-boy build finally catching up to the power thrumming in his veins. It started with Dad in the Fortress’s red sun simulator chamber, that crimson glow stripping away the Kryptonian edge until Jon was just a guy again, mortal and aching, forcing his muscles to fire like they meant it. Dumbbells that would’ve crumpled under super-strength now bit back, each rep a burn that rebuilt him from the ground up: delts carving sharper, pecs thickening into something solid. Then came the spars with Conner, both of ‘em locked in those gravity-heightened gauntlets and boots Mr. Terrific had cooked up in the Watchtower’s lab level. CrossFit for gods, basically: weights cranked to multiples of Earth’s pull, punches landing like freight trains even through the dampeners, sessions that left Jon bruised and buzzing, collapsing into the Kansas hayloft with a grin that said worth it. He’d packed on the mass, still not Dad’s barrel-chested monolith, nor Mr. Wayne’s razor-wire physique, but definitely shed the twink he’d been when he first slung on the red cape.

“Yeah, that guy’s pretty jacked,” Jon agreed, the words dripping with mock humility as he arched his back just a touch, projecting his chest forward in a deliberate flex. The movement pulled the suit’s fabric taut across his torso, those newly earned muscular pecs outlined in stark relief against the bold red “S” emblem. The material clung to his skin like a second skin, every hill and swell kissed by the humid night air.

Tyler’s eyes raked over him with undisguised hunger, golden gaze darkening as it traced the lines Jon had fought for, lingering like a touch that burned. “If you keep doing that,” Tyler murmured, his voice dropping low. “I might actually forget about the height, Supes.”

“C’mere then,” Jon breathed, a grin tugging at his lips as he hooked a hand behind Tyler’s neck, drawing him in close. “Let me help you forget.”

Their mouths met in a kiss that started but ignited fast. In a heartbeat, Tyler was in Jon’s lap, knees bracketing hips as the ledge’s edge became their private throne, the city’s vertigo a forgotten thrill. The kiss deepened, heat blooming fierce and feral between them, tongues tangling in a rhythm that chased away the humid night. Tyler’s hands roamed greedy now, one threading into Jon’s dark hair to tug just sharp enough to elicit a groan, the other splaying wide over his chest, fingers digging into the suit’s emblem like he could claim the power beneath. Jon’s breath hitched against Tyler’s mouth, the world narrowing to the slide of lips, the press of bodies, the low thrum of solar-warmed skin igniting under his palms as he gripped Tyler’s hips, pulling him impossibly closer. Hotter, hungrier, the kiss turned molten.

They tumbled back together onto the rooftop’s unyielding expanse. Tyler sprawled half over Jon, their bodies slotting into a tangle of limbs and lingering kisses, the city’s ambient glow casting long shadows that danced across their skin. His fingers roamed with lazy intent, tracing Jon’s muscular frame, the swell of his biceps, the taut valley of his abs, mapping every inch like it was territory yet to be claimed. They dipped lower, deliberate now, landing over the insistent bulge straining at Jon’s suit, and Tyler’s palm pressed there, massaging Jon’s cock through the fabric with slow, firm strokes that sent sparks skittering up Jon’s spine.

Jon hardened under the touch, fast and fierce, the thick length of him swelling against the confines of the suit as a low groan rumbled from his chest. His hands weren’t idle, sliding down to cup Tyler’s pretty ass, fingers digging into the firm curve with a possessive squeeze, pulling him flush. He ground up, deliberate and demanding, their erections rubbing together through layers that did nothing to dull the friction. Unlike Jon, Tyler wasn’t suited up. He wasn’t on the Justice League roster yet, still slotted as backup muscle for the big crises, which meant he had nights off in spades, stretches of freedom Jon could only envy from the end of a patrol shift. So here he was in civilian threads: jeans that hugged his hips like a sin, way too damn heavy and restrictive for the summer night’s sweltering grip. God, Jon wanted nothing more than to strip them away, peel the denim down those golden thighs, free Tyler to the open air and the mercy of his hands, his mouth, the stars overhead.

They couldn’t, though. Not fully. Technically, Tyler wasn’t even supposed to be up here, crashing Jon’s solo watch. Jon was on the hook for Quadrant 53 of Metropolis, the Justice League’s grid slice that carved through the heart of New Troy, from the chrome-veined arteries of Centennial Park to the gritty underbelly of the East End docks. But it was a slow night, the kind where sirens stayed silent and the scanner hummed with white noise instead of white-knuckle alerts. Jon had missed his boyfriend, and damn the protocols if a quick detour couldn’t bend for that.

As if the Watchtower, the gleaming orbital sentinel soaring high above them in the void of space, had eyes on every illicit spark, Michael Holt’s voice cut through the sexually charged air like a scalpel, grumbling stern and unamused in Jon’s earpiece. “Watchtower to Superman. Watchtower to Superman.”

Oh, damn, not now, Jon thought, the words a silent curse tangled in the haze of Tyler’s touch, his body thrumming with the edge of release he wasn’t ready to chase. But duty was the unforgiving chain around his neck, always yanking first, before pleasure, before privacy, before the simple sin of stealing a moment. He disengaged his mouth from Tyler’s with a reluctant drag of lips, the separation pulling a soft, frustrated sound from both of them, and tapped the comms link with a thumb. “Superman here,” he managed, voice pitched steady despite the gravel of want roughing its edges. “What’s up, Mr. Terrific?”

Tyler didn’t miss a beat. His mouth simply migrated south, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of Jon’s neck, teeth grazing just enough to stutter Jon’s breath. And more importantly, Rao, so much more, his hand kept its rhythm, massaging Jon’s cock through the suit with that unhurried insistence, fingers curling firm and knowing, coaxing the hardness to throb hotter under the friction.

“Ongoing robbery in progress at Elysium Jewels on 435 Centennial Avenue,” Mr. Terrific’s voice continued, crisp and efficient over the comms, slicing through the haze of Tyler’s touch like a cold front rolling in. The words landed like a gut punch, and Jon actually had to bite back a frustrated groan, swallow it down hard before it escaped and broadcast his distraction to the eye in the sky.

A damn robbery? Usually, he wouldn’t mind; no job was too small for Superman, and he’d dive into a bodega heist with the same fire as an alien armada. But right now, with Tyler’s hand working him over the suit in strokes that bordered on merciless, damn, Jon couldn’t muster a single care for diamond necklaces or luxury watches glinting under display lights.

“Can’t the police handle it?” Jon asked, injecting a thread of hope into his tone as Tyler’s lips curved in a knowing smirk against his pulse point.

Holt paused, just a beat, long enough for Jon to picture the man’s arched brow in the Watchtower’s sterile glow. “I thought that too, but... it looks like once they arrived on scene, they started helping the burglar. That suggests...”

“Metahuman,” Jon completed, the word landing like a concession, defeated and heavy in the humid air. He was completely hard in Tyler’s hands by now, but he knew it would have to wait. Protocol was etched in blood and bylaws, a covenant forged with law enforcement in smoke-filled conference rooms: if powers were twisting the scene, it fell to a Leaguer to contain the bleed. No exceptions, not even for this.

“Hypnosis?” Jon suggested. His voice faltered mid-breath, pitching higher, cracking on a surge of pleasure that ripped through him like heat vision, Tyler’s fingers curling just right, pressing firm against his cock through the suit’s grip. He scowled down at Tyler, blue eyes narrowing in a glare that held zero heat, all frustrated plea, but the boy only smirked back, like he’d timed the twist just to watch Jon unravel.

“Yes, that must be it,” Mr. Terrific agreed, his tone steady and professional, blessedly electing to ignore the inexplicable hitch in Jon’s pitch. “How are your Psionic Anchor Holds?

Martian Manhunter drilled that into the roster last quarter, a the telepathic lockdown he cooked up after the White Martian psy-op in ‘17. Ground your mind in three anchors: breath, core truth, and the nearest ally’s resonance.

“Up to date,” Jon confirmed, the words clipped but steady, forcing his focus back to the comms even as Tyler’s hand lingered. “Okay, I’m on my way.”

“Make contact when you touch ground,” Mr. Terrific replied, his voice a final anchor of protocol in the static. “Be careful out there, Superman.”

The line clicked dead.

“You,” Jon growled, scowling down at Tyler again, blue eyes flashing with a mix of exasperation and heat, “are a damn menace, Tyler Tate.”

Tyler only smirked up at him, unrepentant, his hand finally easing off with a parting squeeze that nearly undid Jon’s resolve all over again.

“Need to go save the world?” Tyler asked.

“Save a jewelry store,” Jon corrected, voice dropping softer now, edged with real apology as he sat up. “Ongoing robbery. Sorry.”

Tyler just shrugged, “I’ll be here waiting,” he said, simple and sure, golden eyes holding Jon’s with a promise that tugged at something deep.

They kissed again, one last time, meant to be a quick peck, a brush of lips to seal the interruption, but it stretched, deepened, turning ravenous in a heartbeat. Tongues sliding hot and desperate, hands fisting in fabric and hair, devouring each other like the minutes were thieves stealing them away. Jon had to muster every ounce of willpower in his arsenal, the kind that would make Hal Jordan tip his hat in respect, to finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling ragged in the space between.

“I’ll be right back.”

CHAPTER TWO

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If you’re ready to see what happens when duty calls and a certain silver-eyed thief crashes the party, Chapter 2 is already live and waiting for my paid subscribers. Upgrade today for full access to the rest of the story Trust me, things only get hotter from here.