Siren Song - Chapter Three
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Silence pressed in like a judgment, the chandeliers’ fractured light mocking Jon from above as he finally, finally, moved. His legs felt leaden, Kryptonian might reduced to mortal stagger, the bulge in his suit a shameful afterthought he couldn’t summon the will to will away. Siren’s kiss lingered at the corner of his mouth like a bruise, phantom-warm and damning, every nerve ending tuned to its echo while the hostages’ muffled pleas drilled into his super-hearing like accusations. What have you done, Jon? What the hell have you done?
His first instinct was Dad, pure childish reflex, the kind that had pulled him through scraped knees and first heartbreaks back on the farm, when a single “Pa?” over the phone could summon Clark Kent like a red-caped cavalry, fixing the world with a hug. Safe. Simple. Fixed. But no. Jon reined it in hard, jaw clenching as he swallowed the urge down like bitter ash. He’d screwed up too much tonight already, betrayed the cape, his own damn skin. Crawling back to Dad would be the cherry on the coward’s sundae,.Grow up, Kent. Protocol. Do it properly, follow the lines etched in League code and bylaws. No shortcuts. No safety nets.
He thumbed the comms link with a thumb that trembled just once. Breath, he reminded himself. “Watchtower, this is Superman,” he said, voice pitched steady but scraped. “Requesting immediate reinforcements at Elysium Jewels. Suspect’s in the wind, hostages secure but... compromised elements on scene.” A beat, Holt’s silence expectant on the line, and Jon forced the code out, the one J’onn had drilled into them after that White Martian psy-op mess in ‘23: “Alpha-Epsilon-7. Psychic breach confirmed. I...” He swallowed, the words sticking like glue. “I’m clear, but need a sweep. Full neural lockdown protocols.”
Holt’s response was a crackle of efficiency, no judgment in the static. “Copy that, Superman. Alpha-Epsilon acknowledged. Teleport inbound, ETA ten seconds. Hold position; we’ve got you.”
Relief hit like a pressure valve hissing open, Jon’s shoulders sagging a fraction as the air in the vault hummed electric. No time for more. Hostages first. He blurred to the wall in a gust of displaced air, super-speed fingers snapping zip-ties like cheap twine, yanking scarves free with apologies tumbling automatic: “Easy, folks. it’s over. You’re safe.” The women blinked up at him, faces paling from annoyance to awe, the MPD officer rubbing his wrists with a gruff “About damn time, kid,” Jon managed a nod, forcing the hero smile, but inside the horror churned on.
Then the world folded as the Justice League teleportation system ripped a seam in reality right there amid the velvet wreckage, a flash of blue energy blooming like a wound in the air. Two figures materialized in its wake: Flash, all red-leather and grin, his suit’s lightning-bolt emblem crackling faint static. Beside him, Hawkgirl, Kendra Saunders, wings furled tight against her armored back, Nth metal mace slung casual over one shoulder.
“Supes!” Barry Allen zipped forward in a micro-burst, clapping Jon’s shoulder with a speedster’s too-firm grip, eyes wide behind the mask. “Heard the code, Alpha-Epsilon? You good?”
Kendra was already moving, mace humming as she herded the hostages toward the door with clipped efficiency, her voice a low rumble of command. She shot Jon a nod, sharp and assessing. Jon exhaled, the knot in his chest easing a hair, relieved that it was them and not Dad materializing in that teleport flash. Or, God forbid, Batman, Bruce Wayne’s shadow ascending from the rift like judgment incarnate. No. This he could handle. Protocol. Properly.
The cleanup blurred into a mechanical haze after Flash and Hawkgirl took point. Barry zipped the dazed officers into squad cars with neural dampeners humming, Kendra’s mace a steady thrum as she corralled the clerks for empathic purges, her wings twitching like they itched for a real fight. Jon hovered on the periphery, a ghost amid the debris, fielding the hostages’ dazed thanks with nods that felt like lead weights. One of the women, Elena, her name tag still crooked, had asked, if Jon was ok and he’d mustered a tight yeah, just another night that fooled no one, least of all himself.
Outside, Centennial Avenue had transformed into a circus of controlled chaos by the time the first sirens wailed in earnest. Almost ten vehicles from the Metropolis Police Department screeched up in a convoy of black-and-whites, bathing the pristine jacarandas and polished granite in staccato pulses of red and blue. Officers spilled out in a tide of tactical vests and clipped radios, floodlights snapping on to pin the storefront in harsh white.
Two detectives peeled from the pack, hard-eyed veterans with notepads open and pens poised. Jon recounted the events steadily: touchdown, the compelled crew’s eerie joy, Siren’s silver-eyed entrance and exit, the assistance he’d rendered in a super-speed blackout. He framed it clinically as a meta-hypno breach contained post-facto, skipping the blush, the name-drop, the lingering graze of lips. They nodded professional through it all, jotting notes without a flinch, no judgment in their eyes.
Then, to Jon’s dread, the story started to spread. He could hear it unfurling in real-time, super-hearing snagging the chatter like barbed wire: a beat cop’s radio crackling “Supes compromised, yeah, helped the perp, can you believe?” to dispatch. Jon knew it would; Superman puppeteered by some unknown criminal siren-song wasn’t the stuff of quiet containment, not in a city wired for scandal like Metropolis. By dawn, it’d be Planet headlines and the League’s group chat would light up like a distress flare.
Humiliation crested higher when the suits rolled in. Tires humming soft over the avenue’s flawless asphalt, black SUVs with tinted plates that screamed federal shadow-games. The Department of Extranormal Operations: black-ops spooks, crisp in midnight-tailored suit and aviators perched on noses even under the sodium lamps. Then, Rao, even worse, the second wave hit: ARGUS, slinking in from a unmarked van that purred up like a panther, doors hissing open to disgorge two figures who made the DEO suits look like mall cops. They introduced themselves crisp and clipped: Etta Candy and Dale Gunn, PsyOps Bureau.
Hours later, well into the early morning, when the summer night’s humid grip had finally slackened into a cool, indifferent predawn, Jon was finally allowed to leave. The DEO suits had peeled away with their scans and stern nods, ARGUS’s PsyOps duo extracting one last “We’ll circle back, Flash” from Etta Candy before vanishing into their unmarked ride, and the MPD’s cordon thinning to a skeleton watch under the avenue’s oaks.
He wanted nothing more than to bolt home, crawl under the bed like he was ten again, knees to chest, and sleep until the worst had scudded past . Bury the blush, the betrayal, the throb of want that still echoed low and unspent in his suit, let oblivion scrub Siren from his skin. But Jon knew the night was far from over; the League’s gears ground slow but inexorable, and Alpha-Epsilon breaches didn’t dissolve with a “goodnight, folks.”
Mr. Terrific arranged the teleport with his usual clipped precision and in seconds, the world folded again, reality’s seam parting in a blue bloom that swallowed Centennial’s afterglow. Jon rematerialized on the teleport platform of the Operations Room in the Watchtower, the transition seamless: one breath in Metropolis’ grit, the next in the orbital void’s sterile vastness. The room sprawled around him like a nerve center forged from tomorrow’s fever dream: expansive and angular, walls of seamless smart-glass curving into a dome that framed the infinite black of outer space, stars pricking the dark like scattered diamonds from Elysium’s cases. Earth’s marble-blue curve dominated the viewport, a glowing crescent hanging serene against the solar system’s indifferent sprawl, continents smudged in predawn shadow. Constellations wheeled slow beyond the reinforced pane, Orion’s belt a familiar hunter, the Pleiades a hazy fist, while faint auroral wisps danced at the poles.
Superheroes roamed the deck in loose orbit, a casual congress of capes and cowls that would’ve turned a civilian’s knees to jelly: Green Lantern (Kyle Rayner, this rotation) leaning over a console with Rip Hunter, his casting emerald ghosts across the keys as they debated wormhole metric. Zatanna mid-stride near a coffee station, backward-spelling a latte into existence with a wink and a backwards spell. Cyborg patching a relay in the corner, his arm whirring pneumatic as it interfaced with the station’s spine, a half-grin on his face while he bantered low with a passing Starfire. Foot traffic ebbed and flowed, the air alive with that low buzz of found family and frontline fatigue.
Mr. Terrific straightened from his console as Jon approached. “Superman,” he said, voice even and warm, a steady hand extended in greeting that Jon clasped on reflex. “Rough night down there. We’ve got the prelims running, but first things first: neural baseline.”
Beside him stood a blonde woman, mid-thirties maybe, her hair pulled into a practical twist that did nothing to dim the keen intelligence in her eyes. She wore a white lab coat over a crisp blouse, a tablet tucked under one arm humming faint with encrypted data streams. She offered a nod, professional but not unkind, her smile a quick flash of empathy amid the clinical. Jon managed a handshake, her grip firm, callused from lab benches and late nights, and a murmured “Ma’am,” that came out steadier than he felt. Dr. Roquette’s gaze lingered a beat, assessing without dissecting, like she’d seen a hundred heroes crack under psychic shrapnel and knew the shape of the scars.
He followed them through the Operations Room’s ebb and flow toward the corridor that branched to the medical wing. The Watchtower’s halls unfolded seamless, bulkheads of reinforced alloy curving into viewports that traded Earth’s glow for the ope starfield, nebulae smudging the black like watercolor bleeds. The medical wing materialized like a sanctuary amid the steel: brighter than the ops deck, walls paneled in soft-lit biolum panels that mimicked natural daylight, air crisp with the faint ozone of regen chambers and the herbal tang of Martian tea leaves J’onn favored for post-trauma soaks.
To Jon’s surprise, Dad was there. Not Superman, but Clark, slouched casual in one of the bay-side chairs, legs crossed at the ankles, a faded flannel shirt rolled to his elbows over jeans worn soft at the knees, wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose. No “S,” no cap; just Dad, blue eyes lifting to meet Jon’s with that quiet, unwavering anchor.
“Son,” Clark said simply, rising slow to pull Jon into a hug that smelled of hayloft sun and newsprint ink, arms strong enough to halt asteroids but gentle as a Sunday drive. Jon stiffened a fraction, then melted into it. He allowed himself to be a kid again in his Dad’s arms, just for a while, the steady rise and fall of Clark’s chest a rhythm that drowned Siren’s pull. Then he steeled his spine. Enough. Kid gloves off; Superman didn’t hide in hugs forever.
They spent the next two hours running every sort of exam under Rao’s distant gaze: a full-spectrum psychic resonance scan first, mapping compulsion echoes like fault lines in his mind; then a Kryptonian synaptic purge in the red-sun simulator pod, crimson light stripping his cells to baseline, flushing meta-toxins in a sweat that left him hollow but clearer. Blood draws followed, kryptonite needles pricking his invulnerable vein for dopamine assay. EEG arrays next, neural webs snaking across his scalp to chart theta waves for latent suggestions, the room’s quiet broken only by the machines’ soft beeps.
They were in space, suspended in the Watchtower’s eternal night, so it was impossible to say if dawn had cracked Metropolis’ skyline by the time they finished. Dr. Roquette left with a final nod and her tablet tucked under her arm, her footsteps fading into the Watchtower’s hum.
Martian Manhunter came in moments later, his form materializing from the corridor’s gloom like mist coalescing into shape: tall and emerald-skinned, the subtle shift from human guise to his true self a ripple of green that filled the room with an otherworldly calm. He did a full telepathic scan then, Jon consciousness unfurling like a vast, starlit sea, probing deep into the synaptic folds, sifting through the compulsion’s tangled roots with surgical precision. Jon braced for it, eyes squeezed shut, the Anchor Hold’s pillars crumbling under the Martian’s gentle inexorability. It lasted minutes that stretched eternal, J’onn’s presence a vast library of borrowed thoughts until he withdrew, slow and respectful, red eyes dimming to a soft ember.
Jon tried not to think of the secrets the Martian knew about him after that, the boyish doubts that plagued his nights, fears of never filling Dad’boots, of the “S” being a hand-me-down too heavy for his shoulders. He exhaled shaky, the weight lighter but the exposure raw, Dad’s hand finding his knee in the hush, a lifeline against the void of being truly, terrifyingly known.
Jon was allowed to leave then, the medical wing’s doors hissing shut behind him like a verdict commuted, the Watchtower’s corridors unfolding endless. Dad walked beside him in companionable silence, one hand light on his shoulder, steering him toward the bed quarters without a word. No lectures, no probes; just the steady clip of boots on grated deck. The quarters were deserted, a ghost town at this witching hour, rows of private bunks tucked into alcoves like armored pods, each with its adaptive mattress and a fold-out console for the insomniac hours. Clark pushed open the door to Jon’s assigned quarters, a spartan cube of reinforced bulkhead and soft-lit panels, a single bed waiting crisp and waiting, sheets tucked with military precision.
Jon rummaged the locker for civvies: loose sweats that hung low on his hips, the fabric soft against his skin as he skipped the shirt, staying shirtless in the dim. Dad lingered at the threshold, eyes soft behind the glasses
“Try to get some sleep, son,” he said. “World’ll still be turning come morning.” He squeezed Jon’s bare shoulder once before stepping back, the door sealing with a soft hiss that left Jon alone in the quiet.
Sleep evaded him, a cruel tease slipping through his fingers like smoke. He couldn’t even close his eyes. Every time he did, the dark bloomed treacherous, conjuring Siren: those silver eyes that pinned and pulled, drinking him dry with a glance; lips curving in that pouty pout, plush and parted, begging for the press of his own; the smell of jasmine wrapping around him like arms he hadn’t shaken, burrowing into his lungs until every breath tasted of stolen summer nights and sin. It all flooded back unbidden. The graze at his mouth’s corner, the trail of fingers over his pec and Jon found himself growing hard in the sweats, his cock stirring insistent against the loose cotton,straining for a release that wouldn’t come. He shifted, jaw clenched, one hand fisting the sheets to keep from drifting south, but the ache only deepened, Siren’s silver laugh a echo in his skull, turning the bed’s into a cage of want he couldn’t escape.
Jon shifted on the bed again, the adaptive foam yielding soft under his weight, but offering no mercy for the fire coiling low in his gut. The sweats tented obscene now, a betrayal his body refused to bank, Siren’s phantom touch the spark that wouldn’t gutter. He couldn’t take it anymore. One hand drifted down, hesitant at first, fingers curling over the bulge, squeezing through the cotton with a hiss that fogged the air. Just this, he told himself, get it out, sleep after. The stroke started slow, palm dragging firm along the outline, heat blooming under his touch as he freed himself from the waistband.
First, he tried Tyler, summoned the golden boy deliberately, that sun-kissed skin under rooftop lights, the easy grind of hips against his in the humid night, Tyler’s laugh vibrating low as his hand worked Jon over the suit. Yeah, like that, Jon thought, thumb circling the tip in time with the memory, a low groan escaping as pleasure spiked sharp. Tyler’s mouth on his neck, teeth grazing just enough to mark, those wheat-blond waves falling forward as he sank lower, taking Jon deep with that wicked, unshy hunger... But guilt crashed in like a cold wave, Tyler’s I’ll be waiting twisting the fantasy sour: the trust in his eyes, the shrug of understanding, now tainted by Jon’s surrender. Shit. Hand stilled, Jon’s breath hitching ragged, chest heaving shirtless and slick with a sheen of frustrated sweat. No. Not Tyler. Not like this, not with Siren’s jasmine still staining his senses.
He switched tracks, desperate for distraction, flashing to that guy who’d played Aquaman in the Justice League flick earlier that year, the one that had dropped in May with all the CGI tidal waves and trident flexes. Bronzed skin gleaming wet under Mainer suns, piercing blue eyes locking on with that roguish intensity, the broad chest heaving as he hauled Jon against a coral reef, salt spray mingling with the taste of his mouth, rough hands pinning wrists while his beard scraped fire down Jon’s throat. Jon’s fist pumped faster now, the fantasy vivid: Aquaman’s thighs like tree trunks bracketing his, that deep rumble of a voice growling mine, the ocean’s roar drowning Jon’s moans. Pleasure built, his free hand fisting the sheets as he chased the edge... but the bronzed hue bled to porcelain pale, blue eyes melting to molten silver, full lips curving in a pouty smirk as thighs, those thighs, spectacular and smooth, clamped around him. Siren. His waist arching under his palms, raven hair spilling wild, jasmine flooding the reef’s brine. Jon’s stroke faltered, a frustrated growl ripping free, no, not you, but the image stuck, unshakeable, his cock twitching traitorously harder in his grip.
Frustrated, freaking furious, he pivoted again, delving into a memory he rarely revisited, the one tucked deep in Wayne Manor shadows, forbidden fruit from too many Titans spars and Bat-family barbecues: his first time, on the same day he turned 18. Dick Grayson, all lethal grace and that fantastic ass, giving Jon’s gift after what Jon had thought was a lifetime of unrequited crush. Jon remembered the private gym at the Manor, mirrored walls fogged with exertion, the low clang of free weights forgotten as Dick pinned him against the padded mats, confident and guiding, no rush but all command. Dick’s holding Jon’s cock with sure, teaching touches, then his mouth wrapping hot and wet, turning Jon into an awkward, trembling mess; Dick’s voice low and steady, “Easy, kid, like that, breathe, yeah, harder now,” hips bucking backward to meet Jon’s hesitant pushes. Jon’s rhythm had been punishing in its clumsiness, fist twisting slick over his shaft in the memory’s haze, precome easing the glide as he recalled the arch of Dick’s back, those acrobatic hips grinding back to meet every thrust, ocean-deep eyes flashing over his shoulder, begging don’t stop. The slap of skin, the burn of possession, Dick’s ass clenching like velvet around him, milking him toward oblivion... but even that fractured, silver eyes intruding at the edges, pale thighs replacing toned ones, jasmine overwriting the Manor’s leather-and-sweat tang. Goddamn it. Jon’s hips jerked, pleasure souring to torment, the memory crumbling like ash under Siren’s unrelenting bloom.
He surrendered then. No more fighting the tide. Let Siren flood in. You, Siren purred in his mind, voice those silver bells chiming low, my hero. Jon’s hand flew faster, merciless, stroking root to tip, thumb smearing the slick head, balls drawing tight as he pictured pinning Siren down, his legs wrapping his waist, tiny frame arching under the press of his body. Deep, so deep, thrusting into heat, Siren’s pout twisting to gasps, silver gaze shattering on climax, nails raking Jon’s back as he claimed every inch, his Kryptonian stamina turning the thief to a trembling wreck, begging more, Jon, everything. He snapped then, white-hot, muffling his moan into his fist as he came, pilling hot over his knuckles, splattering the sweats and sheets, body bowing off the bed in shuddering waves that left him wrecked.
But even in the afterglow, Siren’s smile lingered, gorgeous, haunting. Jon wiped his hand on the ruined fabric and buried his face in the pillow, willing sleep to claim him before the guilt could circle back.
Jon fell asleep after that, the bunk’s foam molding to his exhausted frame like a half-hearted embrace, the tangled sweats and spilled evidence cooling sticky against his skin. Dreams snagged him shallow and swift, golden eyes bleeding into gold, a rooftop twisting into jewelry. It felt like only five minutes, just a skim over oblivion’s edge, when the door’s soft chime stirred him back.
Dad, Superman now, the suit’s blue gleam a quiet shift from flannel familiarity, cape draped over broad shoulder,,stood at the bunk’s side, balancing a tray. Steam rose lazy from the spread: slices of toast slathered thick with strawberry jam, eggs over easy, yolks quivering soft; and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Clark set it down on the console with a faint clink, his gaze steady and kind, mercifully ignoring the way his son’s sweats tented still.
Jon sat up slow, the nervous knot in his gut twisting tighter He thought he was too wired to eat. Can’t keep it down. Not with... everything. But once he started, the floodgates cracked. Kryptonian hunger never failed him. He devoured it all: toast crunched jam-smeared and whole, eggs scooped runny and greedy, juice gulped in thirsty pulls that left the glass slick and empty. Clark watched from the chair’s arm, a quiet half-smile tugging his lips. saying nothing as Jon cleared the tray bare.
Jon pushed the empty tray aside with a soft scrape, and swung his legs over the bunk’s side. He stripped the sweats off in a quick, mechanical blur and ugged on the suit: blue weave sliding cool over bare skin, red “S” snapping into place. Invulnerable again. Armored.
“Mr. Terrific’s waiting for you. Debrief in his office. You ready?”, asked Dad.
Jon nodded, the cape settling with his resolve, and followed Dad out into the corridor’s sterile curve until Mr. Terrific’s domain, a fortified nook off the main deck The door opened at Dad’s approach, spilling them into the office: a sanctum of sleek minimalism, walls lined with holographic arrays flickering idle code. Mr. Terrific looked up from his central console.
“Hey, Jon,” Terrific said. “How are you feeling?”
Jon just shrugged. “Tired, sir.”
“Well, I have good news for you, Jon,” Terrific replied, gesturing them to the low-slung chairs clustered around a holo-table, the air shimmering as it projected a neural map: Jon’s brain in cross-section, synaptic webs glowing steady blue. “The scans came clean. Dr. Roquette wasn’t able to identify anything irregular. No anomalous synaptic firing patterns, no residual neural cascades or dopaminergic hijacks in the mesolimbic pathway. Your prefrontal cortex is firing on all cylinders; no lingering theta-wave distortions or amygdala overactivations from the exposure.”
“Good,” Clark said, settling into the chair with a nod, blue eyes flicking to the holo like he could x-ray the data himself. “What about J’onn?”
“Well, the same, actually,” Terrific answered, tapping the console to layer in a psychic overlay. “J’onn couldn’t find any trace of psychic manipulation inJon’s psyche. He looked for everything, embedded suggestion loops, telepathic anchors cortical imprints… whatever that Siren hit him with, it wasn’t psionic.”
“Wait, no, that can’t be right,” Jon said, confusion knitting his brows as he leaned forward in the chair, the holo-map’s green glow casting sharp shadows across his face, making the “S” on his chest look like a question mark in the dim. “You’re saying he wasn’t mind-controlling me?”
“Not according to the tests, no,” Mr. Terrific replied.
Then how the hell was he...” Jon trailed off.
“Pheromones,” said a deep voice from behind him, gravel-rough and absolute, slicing the room like a batarang through fog.
Jon actually jumped, full-on startled flinch, Kryptonian reflexes be damned. Batman. There, materializing from the shadows of the office’s far alcove like he’d been carved from the bulkhead itself. The cowl’s white lenses gleamead void-black, cape pooling at his boots in that eternal shroud, the Dark Knight’s silhouette a monolith of midnight and menace. How the hell could that man sneak up on someone with super-hearing? Dad didn’t twitch, of course, and it only made Jon feel more exposed.
Batman’s stare peeled him layer by layer without a word. Pheromones. Rao. Not mind control. Something baser, animal, burrowing under his skin like lust made weapon.
“Yes, that’s the theory we were working with,” Mr. Terrific agreed, fingers dancing light over his pad’s interface. He tapped once, deliberate, and the central holo-screen bloomed alive: two photos materializing in crisp projection, rotating slow, faces Jon recognized instantly from the vault’s shadowed wall yesterday: the bound and gagged outliers amid the grinning puppets.
“This are Elena Vasquez and Marcus Hale,” Terrific continued, the images sharpening to forensic clarity: Elena, mid-forties with sharp cheekbones, dark hair escaping a practical bun; Marcus, burly in his rumpled MPD blues, salt-and-pepper stubble framing a jaw set in defiance. “In their depositions to MPD they said Siren tried to use his powers on them first, but when it failed to take, he had the others bind them.”
“How were they able to resist?” Dad asked.
“Elena Vasquez is a lesbian,” Batman answered, short and surgical.
“And Hale?”
“He describes himself as ‘aggressively heterosexual,’” Batman replied, the quote delivered deadpan.
Dad let a small chuckle escape.
“So, you think Siren’s powers only work on people attracted to men?” he pressed, blue eyes flicking between the holo and Batman’s shrouded profile.
Batman nodded once.
“What,” Jon said, confusion twisting his voice higher. “you’re saying all those other guys were gay?”
It could be that, he thought, but it would be very unlikely. A whole crew bent that way by coincidence?
“They are all claiming to be heterosexual as well,” Mr. Terrific answered, his tone measured, fingers pausing on the holo-pad as the screen cycled through the rest of the victims photos, cops and clerks alike, “But, to be honest, it’s hard to say. Whether they’re in the closet, lying to themselves, or even, you know, just curious... there’s no way of knowing”
“Can Mr. J’onzz just read their minds?” Jon suggested, frustration edging his voice sharp.
“That would be a gross breach of their privacy, son,” Dad replied, kind but stern, his hand landing light on Jon’s knee. “These men are victims just like you. They deserve to keep their secrets.”
Jon grumbled low, the sound rumbling from his chest like a stalled engine, sinking back into the seat with a huff, but he knew Dad was right.
Siren’s powers were way more complicated than Jon thought, layers upon insidious layers, not some blunt psychic hammer but a scalpel dipped in desire, pheromones weaving through the air like invisible silk to snag on hungers you didn’t even know you carried. He didn’t know if it was better or worse, having his cock controlled instead of his mind. And, in a way, it suited Siren. God, it suited him, like the thief had been sculpted from Jon’s own buried fever dreams,the perfect vessel for a power that hijacked the heart’s dirtiest wires. If Jon had to picture someone with the gift to control others through sexual attraction, they would’ve looked exactly like Siren: the jasmine, the pout, the eyes, the body, it all clicked now, a predator’s camouflage tailored to lure the straight-laced straight into the bend.
“So, what’s the plan?” Jon asked, the words bursting out sharper than he’d meant. He leaned forward in the chair, eyes flicking between the three older heroes. They looked at him, confused, a beat of synchronized pause: Clark’s brow furrowing just a touch, Michael Holt’s fingers stalling mid-tap on the console. “To catch Siren?”
“Oh, no,” Terrific said, shaking his head. “The Justice League doesn’t investigate burglaries, Jon. We’ll loop in the MPD with the profile, Siren’s pheromonal signature, the whole meta dossier, but we’ll let the ground-pounders handle the legwork and monitor for escalations.”
“What? No!” Jon protested, surging to his feet. “We have to do something!”
“You will stay away from that boy, Superman,” Batman commanded, final and flat, white lenses locking on Jon targeting locks. “You obviously can’t control yourself around him. The last thing we need is Superman dick-whipped by some villain.”
Jon started to protest, outrage flaring hot in his chest. Of course he could control himself. He was Superman, for Rao’s sake. He was just... taken by surprise, that’s all. Blindsided by the pheromones and those pretty lips.Next time he’d be better. Locked down, Anchor Hold tripled, and Siren’s silver gaze would bounce off. He opened his mouth to tell Batman just that, prove he wasn’t some hormone-hijacked kid but a hero who’d earned the cape, when a voice whispered in his head, sly and insidious, curling like smoke through the cracks in his resolve.
What about last night? You jerking off like a teenage boy, thinking of Siren? That wasn’t his powers... that was all you.
Jon faltered at that, the whisper’s echo slithering cold through his skull like a shadow. That was all you. The attraction was real; he knew it bone-deep, a truth that twisted sharper than any pheromone spike. Maybe Siren had heightened things, amplified the pull like a solar lens on dry tinder, but every single feeling Jon had harbored in those ten frantic minutes at Elysium Jewels had been completely, gut-wrenchingly real. No meta override, no mind-trick puppetry; just Jon, stripped raw, his cock betraying him on its own terms.
“Bruce is right, son,” Dad said, ever the voice of reason, his tone gentle but steadfast. “It’s best if you stay clear of Siren. Let the police handle this.”
“We should advise them to form a team of people strictly not attracted to men whatsoever,” Mr. Terrific suggested, leaning into the console with that analytical tilt, fingers already sketching a quick org chart on the holo-pad, names and badges numbers flickering into placeholders, MPD brass looped in with a phantom ping. “It’s gonna be a shitshow if they catch Siren and just let him go after he bats his eyelashes.”
Jon still wanted to protest, to surge up and prove he could help, that he’d lock it down next time, but he knew it would be for nothing. The words died unspoken in his throat as Dad and Terrific leaned closer, heads bent over the emerging plan: patrol grids, pheromone blockers from Cadmus R&D, a task force of unflappable straights and aces who’d stare down those silver eyes without a flicker. They’d already written him off, not with cruelty, but with that quiet efficiency of elders who’d seen sons stumble before, formulating contingencies while Jon burned on the sidelines.
He looked around then, frustration tight in his chest, and, of course, Batman was gone, vanished just as silently as he’d materialized. Annoyed, Jon shoved up from the chair, the scrape echoing loud in the sudden hush.
“Fine,” he muttered, more to the viewport’s stars than the room, as he turned for the door. It opened at his approach, the heroes’ voices fading to a murmur behind him, plans spinning on without him. He would make his own plan.
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