Siren Song - Chapter Two

Meet Siren!

Jon could’ve made Centennial Avenue in a heartbeat. Hell, less than that, a mere flex of Kryptonian speed blurring him from the Galaxy Tower’s spire to the scene before Tyler’s lips had even cooled from their last kiss. The distance was a joke, a stone’s throw in superhuman terms. But he flew slower this time, deliberate and cursing under his breath, the night wind doing nothing to temper the fire Tyler had stoked. He was still rock hard in the suit, the insistent throb a distraction that demanded every scrap of focus just to keep the flight steady.

The bulge was nothing short of obscene, the suit’s tight, high-tech weave, engineered for invulnerability, not modesty, outlining every inch with merciless clarity. It strained there, no room for illusion; proud and unignorable. And to be frank, Jon was no small guy down there: ten inches of pure steel, girthier than Bane’s neck. He shouldn’t be that proud of it, he knew. It was just genetics, plain and cosmic: Kryptonians were universally, and Jon meant that literally, from Rao’s red sun to every yellow-starred world they’d touched, renowned for their cocks, a quirk of alien physiology whispered about in half the galaxy’s seedier cantinas. Dad was even bigger, a legend carved in locker-room lore among the Justice League’s guys. Jon regretted ditching the cape years back, too, traded it for that streamlined silhouette, all sleek efficiency and zero drag. He’d kill for it right now, drape the red banner like a smokescreen over the evidence, sparing the civilians below an eyeful of Superman’s very human distraction. He banked sharper toward the avenue’s flare, sirens keening clearer now, jaw clenched as he willed the blood south to behave. Focus. Duty.

Jon touched down on Centennial Avenue with the soft hush of displaced air, his boots meeting pavement that gleamed under the sodium glow of ornate streetlamps. Metropolis at its most polished, the thoroughfare a pristine ribbon of urban elegance slicing through New Troy’s upscale heart. The street was a model of meticulous order: wide and immaculate, not a stray leaf or gum wrapper marring the spotless asphalt, flanked by mature jacarandas and maples whose branches arched in perfect, manicured canopies. Sidewalks of polished granite swept clean by overnight crews bordered boutique facades and discreet high-rises, the whole stretch exuding that rare, curated calm where even the parked luxury sedans, sleek Teslas and Bentleys, seemed posed for a magazine spread. Elysium Jewels anchored the block like a jewel box itself, its facade a symphony of understated opulence: floor-to-ceiling windows framed in brushed gold, etched with subtle filigree that caught the light, the entrance a grand archway of smoked glass and marble veining that evoked ancient vaults reimagined for the elite. Inside, shadows hinted at velvet-lined displays brimming with treasures, but from the street, it all slumbered serene, a fortress of fortune untouched by the night’s grit.

Mr. Terrific had nailed it: two black-and-white cruisers from the Metropolis Police Department sat curbside, their light bars dark and silent, doors ajar, but no frenzy, no barked orders echoing off the trees. Other than the vehicles, though, nothing screamed chaos. No shattered vitrines spilling sparkle onto the walk, no wailing sirens fracturing the quiet (a silent alarm, then, discreet, as befitted the clientele), no cluster of gawking civilians or scattered debris. Just the avenue’s poised hush, broken only by the faint tick of cooling engines.

Jon thumbed his comms before stepping forward, “Superman on site at Elysium Jewels,” he murmured into the link, voice low to match the scene’s unnatural poise. “Confirming visual… looks too quiet for a heist. Proceeding inside.” Holt’s acknowledgment crackled back brief and affirming, and with that, Jon pushed through the unlocked door.

The interior of Elysium Jewels unfolded like a vault of vice and velvet: dimly lit under recessed halos of crystal chandeliers that dripped light like liquid gold, casting prismatic flecks across polished mahogany counters and walls paneled in burled walnut. Every surface a whisper of excess. Air scented with the crisp tang of high-end polish, display cases gleaming like altars to avarice: tiers of velvet trays cradling sapphires deep as midnight oceans, ropes of pearls that evoked forgotten sirens, and solitaire diamonds winking with cold fire from their satin thrones. It was the kind of sanctum where fortunes changed hands without a murmur, where the elite browsed in tailored hush, but now it thrummed with an undercurrent of wrongness, the quiet too absolute, the shadows too compliant.

Jon’s eyes fell immediately on the outliers: two figures bound and gagged against the far wall, zip-ties cinching wrists behind backs, silk scarves, snatched from some display, no doubt, muffled over mouths in hasty improvisation. A women in the store’s signature crisp blazers, one with a name tag glinting “Elena,” and a older guy in MPD blues, his uniform rumpled but intact, badge askew. A quick sweep with his super-vision cut through the gloom, x-ray flicker peeling back layers to bone and beyond: no fractures, no contusions, pulses steady as metronomes, vitals humming with irritation rather than terror. They weren’t scared, not in the wide-eyed, adrenalized way of true victims; frustration etched their furrowed brows, annoyance flashing in the muffled grunts and eye-rolls they shot toward the center of the room, like commuters stalled by a late train rather than hostages in a heist.

Then Jon’s focus sharpened on the rest: the collaborators, five in total, moving with the eerie nonchalance of sleepwalkers in a dream: two clerks in the store’s posh uniforms, starched white shirts tucked into slim black slacks, vests embroidered with Elysium’s crest like liveried attendants at a black-tie gala; and two burly police officers, still badged and belted. They glided through the space in perfect, placid sync, opening the armored displays with skeleton keys. No rush, no barked commands; just calm efficiency, velvet cases sighing open under fingers that trembled only from the chill of AC vents overhead. Necklaces of alexandrite and tourmaline slithered into yawning black duffels like serpents seeking nests, earrings of emerald filigree plucked one by one and zipped away without a clink, bracelets of hammered gold coiling into the void, each piece vanishing methodical and mute. But it was their faces that twisted the knife: huge, beaming smiles stretched ear to ear, eyes crinkled in delirious joy, as if stuffing a fortune’s worth of sparkle into duffels was the pinnacle of bliss, the absolute highlight of their night. The clerks hummed tuneless little melodies under their breath, cheeks flushed with what looked like post-orgasmic glow; the officers chuckled softly to each other, one even pausing to admire a ruby pendant before tucking it away, like proud uncles at a family gift exchange. It wasn’t vacancy, it was rapture, the metahuman’s compulsion not just puppeteering limbs but flooding veins with euphoric venom, turning theft into a shared ecstasy. Jon’s jaw tightened, the three steps of the Psionic Anchor Hold flickering to life in his mind: breath first, deep and deliberate, drawing in the store’s polished air to steady the spin; core truth next, the unshakeable mantra of protection etching like steel in his gut: I’m in control of my own mind; and the emotional resonance: Dad’s steady voice, his hand gripping on Jon’s shoulder.

When they spotted Jon crossing the threshold, the collaborators froze mid-motion, their euphoric grins twisting into something sharper, more feral, the compulsion’s strings yanking taut. The police officers abandoned their duffels in a clatter of loose gems, hands snapping to holsters with mechanical precision. Pistols cleared leather in a synchronized blur, barrels swinging up to train on Jon’s chest, the “S” emblem suddenly a bullseye in their glazed stares. Two other figures flanked the fray, hulking silhouettes appearing from the shadows behind the counters: extremely muscular guys, built like escaped Atlas models, veins corded over forearms thick as Jon’s thighs, their black tactical gear straining at the seams. They mirrored the cops’ draw, but where the officers brandished standard-issue sidearms, these bruisers hefted heavy assault rifles.

Jon knew instantly, though, that those were just goons, meat-shield muscle bought or bent to the night’s whim. The real architect, the puppeteer with fingers in every frantic pulse, had to be the boy standing easy between them: poised at the heart of the chaos, his presence a silken rift in the air that tugged at Jon’s edges like gravity gone rogue.

The first thing Jon clocked about the guy was the absence of any villany getup. No garish suit, no skintight spandex clinging like a second epidermis, no domino mask or cowl to shroud his identity. He was dressed for a gallery opening or yacht party where the champagne flowed freer than morals: black high-waisted shorts that rode scandalously low on lean hips, baring acres of pale skin smooth as porcelain, almost luminous under the chandeliers’ kiss. Over that, a loose silk white blouse, the kind that draped like liquid moonlight, cinched just above the waistband into an impromptu crop top, the knot pulling taut to reveal a deliberate sliver of midriff: one teasing inch of taut, unblemished abdomen, a pale ribbon that drew the eye like a call. Around his neck hung the crown jewel, a diamond necklace that screamed old-world excess, a cascade of ice-white fire in flawless baguettes and a central stone the size of a quail’s egg. It had to be seven figures easy, the kind of bauble that even Lex Luthor might pause over. The thief fingered it idly now, thumb tracing the clasp with proprietary affection, as if he’d plucked it from the display not for the score, but for the sheer poetry of how it complemented his throat’s elegant arch. His eyes, knowing, lined with kohl that smudged like intentional sin, locked on Jon’s, and that smile widened, honeyed and hazardous.

The second thing Jon noticed about him was that he was gorgeous. Holy cow. Not just attractive, not some polished pretty-boy facade; this was cataclysmic, a beauty that hit like a solar flare to the chest, stealing breath and bending knees in equal measure. Easily the most stunning specimen Jon had ever laid eyes on, and that was saying something, considering he’d met men, women, and every radiant variation between across a hundred alien worlds: the iridescent-skinned diplomats of Tamaran, the ethereal glow of Oa’s guardians, the fierce, tattooed warriors of Skartaris. None of them stacked up. This thief, this boy, he couldn’t be a day over Jon’s own age, early twenties at most, commanded the room like gravity incarnate.

Those thighs, Rao, spectacular didn’t cover it, a pair that Jon had never seen the likes of, slightly muscular in that lean way of a dancer turned predator, flexing just enough to promise they’d clamp like vices. His waist dipped tiny above them, a waspish cinch that a runway of models would slit throats to envy, narrow and nipped like it was sculpted for the span of big hands, (Jon’s hands, unbidden thought flashing hot), to hold and claim. Full lips curved in perpetual invitation, plush and bitten-pink, above a nose that was a delicate button of perfection, pert and aristocratic. Raven-black hair fell in artful disarray, tousled waves framing a face that begged to be ruined, and his eyes, damn, Jon actually went breathless at the sight, a stupid hitch in his super-lungs like he’d mainlined vacuum. Two big, round orbs of pure silver, molten and magnetic, locking onto Jon’s with obvious fun, pupils dilating like they were drinking him in. The thief’s gaze raked him slow, deliberate, a caress that bypassed skin and sank hooks into something primal, and Jon’s Psionic Anchor Hold wavered for a split second.

“Calm down, boys,” the thief said, his voice unfurling like a thousand silver bells chiming in unison, crystalline and hypnotic. “See that big S on his chest?” he continued, the words lilting with amusement. “That means your bullets won’t even tickle him.”

At that, the spell rippled outward. The police officers blinked once, twice, their beaming smiles softening the edges of confusion before snapping back to euphoric purpose; holsters clicked shut in unison, pistols vanishing like forgotten toys as hands returned to the task. The two muscular goons followed suit, weapons dipping low and then lowering fully. Their eyes melted into something softer, hungrier, turning toward the gorgeous boy between them with obvious devotion, gazes tracing his pale sliver of midriff like he was the sun they’d orbit till dawn.

“Good evening, Superman,” he purred then, direct to Jon, that bell-like timbre dipping lower, intimate now, as if the heist, the hostages, the whole glittering farce were merely prelude to this: them, eye to eye.

“You can still turn this around,” Jon said, stepping deeper into the vaulted hush, his voice pitched for authority. “No one’s hurt. If you stop now and let them go, I’m sure we can work a deal with MPD. Reduced sentence, maybe community service. Think about it.”

He aimed for confident, shoulders squared like it could armor his words, but when the thief smirked, Jon felt heat crawl up his neck, unbidden and traitorous. A blush, actual heat blooming across his cheeks, flushing the farm-boy fairness he’d inherited from Dad. Rao, what the hell was wrong with him? This wasn’t some flustered first-date fumble; this was Superman, face-to-face with a meta-thief mid-heist, and his pulse was tripping like he’d chugged a thermos of Mom’s jet-fuel coffee. The air felt thicker suddenly, laced with something beyond polish… jasmine, maybe, faint and floral, burrowing into his lungs like a hook.

“Isn’t this a little above your pay grade, Superman?” the thief drawled, voice dipping into mockery, head tilting just so. “I mean, there has to be some alien invasion brewing somewhere, no?”

“No job’s too small for Superman,” Jon shot back, the line tumbling out automatic. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to punch himself square in the jaw. What the hell? Heat doubled down on the blush, his ears burning now, and the thief’s smirk bloomed fuller.

“God, I can’t believe they sent you to me,” the boy murmured. “You are so cute, Superman.” He took a half-step closer, the space between them shrinking. “Are you single?”

“Yeah,” Jon answered automatically, the word slipping free on autopilo. Then it hit, eyes flaring wide in his skull, a cartoonish boing of realization that nearly had him clapping a hand over his mouth. Oh my god ‘yeah’? What the hell, Jon? You have a damn boyfriend! Guilt slammed in like kryptonite to the gut, twisting the blush from fluster to full-on fire. “I… I mean, no. Not single.”

The boy’s smile widened yet, a slow unfurl of plush lips that promised secrets and sins in equal measure. “Oh, trouble in paradise?” he asked, closing the gap with a fluid sway of those spectacular thighs, the air between them turning electric, intimate.

He was close now, too close for protocol, for the Psionic Anchor Hold that Jon clung to like a fraying rope (breath hitching, core truth flickering under the onslaught, Dad’s resonance a distant thunder against this storm). And the scent of him... God, it washed over Jon in waves, jasmine blooming lush on a summer night, heady and hypnotic, petals unfurling under moonlight to drown the senses in sweet, inescapable allure. Wonderful, intoxicating, laced with something else, something that snagged deeper, primal: the warm, sun-baked earth of Kansas fields after a morning rain, fresh hay bales stacked in the loft where Jon had stolen his first awkward kisses; the rich, nutty bite of Mom’s morning coffee brewing in the apartment kitchen; the faint, salty tang of ocean spray from those rare family trips to the beach, wind-whipped and wild. Jon swallowed hard, the store’s hush pressing in, gems still vanishing into bags under those idiot grins, but all he could hear was his own pulse, hammering traitorously loud.

“We’re still getting to know each other,” Jon found himself explaining. “No pressure, you know?” He trailed off, the words hanging limp in the jasmine-scented haze, and for the second time in the five chaotic minutes since this boy had hijacked his night, Jon caught himself wondering what the hell was wrong with him. It had to be the guy’s superpowers... right? Some insidious meta trick bleeding through the cracks. But how? Siren hadn’t done a damn thing overt, no hand waves, no glowing sigils, no psychic shove that Jon’s defenses could’ve braced for. Just that smirk, lazy and lethal, and a flirtation that slithered under his skin like silk sheets on fevered nights, making his thoughts fuzz at the edges.

He gripped harder at his Psionic Anchor Hold, knuckles whitening in his mind’s eye. His breath dragged in deep, the store’s sterile polish a cold anchor against his tongue; core truth recited like a prayer under fire, control, I’m in control, the mantra a bulwark against the swell; Dad’s resonance, grounding, his voice saying I’m so proud of you, son, that day after’s Jon first patrol, now a whisper fighting upstream… but why the desperation? Control for what, exactly? The haze wasn’t a storm; it was a current, gentle and inexorable, tugging him toward... what? Who gives a damn? The doubt bloomed unbidden, casual as a shrug in the back of his skull. It was just a damn jewelry store, one that was probably insured to the rafters anyway.

“Oh, yeah, I get it,” Siren replied, his silver eyes crinkling with that too-knowing sympathy. “You’re too young to settle down. All that sky waiting to be claimed, all those horizons begging for your fingerprints.” He leaned in a hair closer, the knot of his blouse shifting to bare another whisper of that pale midriff, silk whispering against skin. “I’m Siren, by the way.”

Why was Jon trying to stop this guy again? The question sloshed foggy in his thoughts, duty’s flame guttering low, “Siren?” he repeated dumbly, his voice pitching soft and slack-jawed, like a kid caught daydreaming in class.

Siren’s laugh chimed low, those silver bells rolling through the air like a caress down Jon’s spine. “Well, no, that’s just the stage name.” He tilted his head, raven waves catching the chandelier’s fractured light. “I have a real one, though. What’s your real name, hm?”

Really, why the hell was he trying to stop him? Why wasn’t he helping? The traitorous whisper coiled tighter, Siren’s scent of jasmine and home and sin flooding his lungs like a drug. Just one step closer, one breath shared... what harm in that?

“I’m Jon,” he answered simply, not even registering the fracture in the sacred code, the ironclad vow every hero etched into their soul: protect your identity, always. It didn’t matter. Not here, not with Siren. Siren had asked, of course Jon would tell him; of course he’d bare the boy beneath the bold, the farm kid under the heroes league, because why wouldn’t he?

“Jon?” Siren echoed. “As in Jonathan?”

Jon nodded, mute and mesmerized, and suddenly Siren was there, right in front of him, closing the last breath of distance with a sway that made the air hum. He was a good six inches shorter, his head tilting up to meet Jon’s eyes. Up close he was even more gorgeous, if that was remotely possible, those full lips parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of teeth, the tiny waist a magnet for Jon’s gaze, begging for the cage of his hands. The diamond necklace rose and fell with Siren’s breath, facets winking like conspirators, and Jon’s super-hearing caught the faint, erratic thump of his own pulse, drowning out the compelled crew’s soft, joyful murmurs.

“That’s such a cute name,” Siren purred, eyes tracing Jon’s face like he was committing it to memory, a private gallery of one. “It suits you, Superman.”

Jon grinned at that, wide, unguarded, the kind of boyish flash that crinkled his eyes and dimpled his cheeks, the one Tyler always teased him for saving only for hay bales and home runs. Siren’s perfume was inebriating, a heady fog now twisted into something darker, more insistent, flooding his lungs until every inhale felt like surrender. He liked Jon’s name. He liked it. The thought looped hot and hazy, a validation that warmed him from the inside out, chasing away the chill of the AC vents overhead.

“Hey, Jon,” Siren murmured then, voice dipping intimate, like they were the only two in the vault. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course,” Jon breathed, the agreement instant, instinctive, no room for the what if that should’ve blared like an alarm.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Siren, was there? Nothing at all. He’d betray the League in a heartbeat, spill Watchtower codes and watch the stars fall silent. Punch out Dad if it came to it, crack that unbreakable jaw just to buy Siren one more night of unmolested sparkle. Rewrite the constellations themselves, drag Vega closer to kiss Orion’s belt, all to spell out Siren’s name in eternal fire. Hell, he’d shatter the moon for a laugh, send tidal waves crashing in apology, or kneel in the Fortress’s crystal heart and beg Rao for a miracle that bent physics to Siren’s whim, all for the curve of that smile.

Siren raised his hand then, fingers extending like an offer or a command toward Jon’s muscular chest, the tips hovering just shy of the “S,” close enough that Jon could feel the phantom warmth, the air between them crackling with anticipation.

“It’s just that these guys are so slow,” Siren whined, lips pursing into a pout that was equal parts plea and provocation, begging to be kissed. His finger trailed lower still, dipping from the “S” to trace the meaty swell of Jon’s pec, the touch feather-light but incendiary, a spark that ignited Jon’s whole body in a blaze of liquid heat. Skin prickled under the suit’s cling, nerves singing as the contact seared straight to his core, chasing away the last frayed threads of resistance.

Jon could feel his cock stirring, hardening again, insistent, swelling against the skin-tight fabric of his suit with nowhere to hide. The weave betrayed him again, outlining every inch in obscene detail, that ten-inch girth straining like a confession he couldn’t recant, heat pooling low and traitorous as Siren’s silver gaze flicked downward, acknowledging the evidence with a subtle arch of his brow.

“Can you help me?” Siren asked, the words half-formed, breathy and unfinished. “You would be so much...”,

But Jon was already gone, the world snapping into crystalline stasis around him, time bending to his will as he moved faster than light, a blue blur that outpaced the eye and the ear alike. The compelled crew froze mid-hum, their beaming smiles suspended like wax figures; gems hung in mid-air, duffels yawning open in silent invitation. He snatched up one of the black bags in a grip that could’ve crushed steel, super-speed hands a whirlwind of precision, plucking rubies from velvet, coiling gold into neat nests, zipping earrings and pendants away in a symphony too swift for sound. The job Siren’s damn goons were too incompetent to finish was done in a heartbeat, the last sapphire vanishing into the void with a whisper only Jon could hear.

He slowed back to mortal tempo just as Siren’s sentence ghosted to its end, the vault exhaling into motion once more, the air humming with the faint ozone of his passage. Poor Siren, Jon thought, chest heaving under that lingering phantom touch, the bulge now a blatant throb he couldn’t summon shame for. He really needed my help.

“...faster,” Siren finally finished, the word ghosting out on a breathy afterthought.

His eyes snapped wide in genuine surprise, lashes fluttering once as realization dawned. Jon stood there, bag in hand, the heist’s remnants packed with superhuman efficiency, every gem accounted for in under a second’s span.

“Shit,” Siren said, his voice shedding that sultry, bell-like veneer for something more real. He beamed up at Jon then, head tilting into the light, and it was the most gorgeous smile in the world: a flash of straight white teeth that hit like sunlight breaking through Metropolis smog, warm and disarming, turning the thief’s predatory poise into something achingly boyish.

“You’re my hero, Jon,”

“Anything else?” Jon asked, eager, too eager, voice pitched hopeful, the bag dangling forgotten from his fingers as he leaned in a fraction, pulse thundering in his ears, ready to rewrite the stars or reroute a river if it meant chasing that beam a little longer.

“Hm...” Siren hummed, drawing it out like a tease, his tongue darting to wet those plush lips before he bit down on the lower one. His eyes trailed downward then, unhurried, raking over the “S,” the curves of Jon’s abs, settling bold and brazen on his crotch where his cock tented the suit obscenely. “Super all around, huh?” Siren said, the words purr edged with wicked appreciation.

Jon only smirked back at him, boyish curve of lips sharpening into something hungrier, more primal. Pride swelled hot in his chest for the Kryptonian heritage that ran thick in his veins, the alien gift that made him more than man, more than myth. Jon didn’t care about the obscenity of it, the exposure; he reveled in it.

He’d never wanted to be with someone so badly as he wanted to be with Siren in that moment, the urge crashing through him like a solar flare to the gut, incinerating every barrier, every vow. Jay was a faded snapshot, lost to the haze. Tyler, the rooftop warmth, the I’ll be waiting, wiped clean, irrelevant as yesterday’s headlines,all dissolved in this singular, searing need. Siren was the only gravity now, silver eyes and pale thighs pulling Jon into orbit.

He wanted to scoop Siren up in his arms, cradle that tiny waist in his hands, feel those spectacular legs wrap around his hips as he launched them skyward. Straight to the penthouse suite at The Olympian Plaza, the gilded aerie atop New Troy’s crown jewel, where marble floors gleamed like moonlight and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the bay’s indigo sprawl. Lock the doors, dim the lights, and spend the rest of the night showing Siren his devotion, peel away that silk blouse with his teeth that could shear steel, map every inch of skin with a mouth hot enough to melt diamonds, pin him to Egyptian cotton sheets and drive home the gospel of Kryptonian sex: never-ending stamina that outlasted dawns, thrusts like thunderclaps tempered to trembling ecstasy, hands everywhere at once, super-speed fingers teasing edges until Siren begged and shattered, reformed in Jon’s grip. No holding back, no restraint, no leash. Just worship, bodies slick and spent under the suite’s chandelier glow, the city none the wiser to its savior’s fall.

“I’m good, though, thanks,” Siren said, the words landing like a Darkseid punch to the gut, shattering Jon’s fevered fantasy in a crack of cosmic finality.

Jon blinked, mind reeling in the vacuum left behind. He didn’t... understand? No? The offer hung unspoken, a plea dying on his tongue, but Siren was already turning away, fluid as smoke. The two muscular goons lunged forward without a word, snatching up the duffels Jon had filled in his super-speed blur, the black fabric bulging heavy with stolen riches as they slung them over broad shoulders.

“Wait, wait,” Jon stammered, the plea tentative, stepping forward on instinct, hand half-extended like he could bridge the widening chasm with sheer will. “I can fly you out. You like flying?” The words tumbled desperate, a last-ditch tether. Visions of Siren in his arms, thighs clamped tight against the wind, silver eyes wide with thrill instead of dismissal.

Siren didn’t even glance back, that gorgeous profile averted as he sauntered toward the door. “You’re sweet,” he tossed over his shoulder, the dismissal light as air but sharp as shattered diamond. “But I’ve got a car waiting outside. Can’t let a superhero know my address, can I?”

He was leaving. Panic bloomed sharp in Jon’s chest, something visceral, a gnawing anxiety that clawed up his throat like withdrawal from a drug he hadn’t known he’d craved. Siren’s scent lingered, taunting him from the empty air, and Jon stood frozen amid the grinning puppets and muffled hostages.

“Siren, wait,” Jon called out, the words cracking desperate from his throat, rawer than he’d meant, echoing off the walnut walls like a plea from a man half-drowned. “Can I... see you again?”

Siren stopped at the door, one hand on the smoked glass, the night’s humid breath curling in like an uninvited guest. He turned and his eyes locked back onto Jon’s, and just like that, the anxiety lifted, a knot in his chest loosening under that molten gaze, calm flooding in like cool rain on scorched earth. Jon’s breath evened. Siren was looking at him again. That was enough.

He closed the distance once more. “I loved meeting you today, Jon,” Siren murmured. “You’re a sweetheart. That boyfriend of yours is a lucky guy.”

Jon furrowed his brows, confusion knitting deep, a sharp tug in the fog, Tyler’s name surfacing like a half-remembered dream, distant. What boyfriend? Tyler? The thought soured instant, bitter as ash on his tongue. Screw that. He didn’t need a boyfriend, didn’t need those easy laughs or rooftop waits or the weight of trying. He needed Siren, only Siren.

“Please,” Siren said then, a plea wrapped in command, “don’t follow me. I want you to stay right here, okay?”

He rose up on his toes and leaned in, lips brushing the edge of Jon’s mouth in a kiss that was feather-soft, feather-devastating: a graze of plush warmth against the corner, tasting of salt and sin and summer nights unbound. Jon’s world narrowed to that point of contact, fire lancing straight south. His cock was throbbing, on the verge of exploding against the suit’s merciless cling, like it could punch through the fabric, through the planet if it meant more. He moaned low, unbidden and wrecked, the sound rumbling from his chest like thunder trapped in a bottle, hips twitching forward on pure instinct. Siren’s lips on his skin felt like a blessing, divine and damning at the same time, the kind of grace that could fell gods, leaving Jon adrift in the aftershock

Siren pulled back from that edge-of-a-kiss graze, silver eyes lingering one last beat on Jon’s flushed face, memorizing the ruin he’d wrought, before turning fully toward the door. He pausing mid-stride to cast a glance over his shoulder at the compelled crew, those beaming puppets frozen in their post-heist tableau. “Thank you for your help, boys. Sorry for the mess.” he said to the police officers who stood there, stock-still amid the emptied cases, their grins softening into something wistful, adoring, as if his praise was the only paycheck that mattered. He waved and they waved back in eerie unison. One of the officers, a grizzled sergeant with salt-and-pepper stubble, actually crumpled: tears spilling free down his cheeks as he watched Siren glide away, the thief’s silhouette swallowed by the threshold. The muscular goons lumbered after him without a word, duffels slung heavy over their shoulders, weapons dangling forgotten like children’s toys, their devoted stares trailing Siren like lost hounds scenting home.

Jon wanted to cry too, the ache blooming sharp behind his eyes, a hot prickle boomed with the void Siren left in his wake. He wanted to go after him, bolt through that door faster, chase the jasmine trail down Centennial’s pristine oaks to bask in his presence again. But above all, above the throb in his suit and the traitorous twist in his gut, he wanted to stay. Siren had said it clear: don’t follow me. So that’s exactly what Jon would do, no matter how it clawed at him, how every super-cell in his body screamed to defy, to pursue, to please. Only Siren’s will mattered now, a gravity well Jon couldn’t, wouldn’t, escape.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. Minutes? An hour? Time had blurred into a meaningless smear, Jon’s super-senses dulled to the thrum of his own ragged breaths and the faint, fading ghost of jasmine clinging to his suit. The compelled crew shuffled aimless now, their euphoric grins cracking at the edges into bleary confusion, one officer blinking down at his empty holster. The hostages’ muffled protests sharpened into clarity, zip-ties creaking as they strained against the wall, eyes wide with the dawning what-the-hell of it all.

Then it hit, sudden, seismic, a crack in the fog like rock shattering under his fist. Reality rushed back in a cold flood: the duffels he’d packed himself, gems vanishing in his blur of servitude; his name spilled like state secrets, Jon, offered up on a silver platter. Siren’s will a leash he’d worn willingly, eagerly. Horror gathered in his chest then, a black-hole vise that squeezed his lungs.

Oh my God. The hell did I just did? The thought echoed hollow as Jon staggered a step, hand flying to his mouth like he could scrub the thief’s taste away. Siren’s smile lingered in his mind’s eye, gorgeous, damning, while the store spun slow around him, the “S” on his chest no shield but a brand of his shame.

It wasn’t much, much later, that Jon remembered that Tyler was still waiting for him at the Galaxy Communications Tower rooftop.

CHAPTER THREE

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