Chapter 2: The Aftermath
The silence stretched like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.
Robin lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his mind a shattered kaleidoscope of images—the wig tumbling through the air, the violet eyes gleaming with triumph, the smug curl of her lips. She was still on top of him. Still connected. He could feel every inch of her, the slick heat of her body wrapped around his softening cock, the weight of her thighs against his hips, the slow, deliberate pulse of her inner muscles as if she were savoring the last drops of his surrender.
"You're still inside me," she murmured, her voice a low, throaty rasp against his ear. "And you haven't pulled away."
His hands were still on her hips. He hadn't moved them. He should shove her off. He should scream, rage, summon the others. He should do a hundred things that his body was actively refusing to do.
"I felt it," she continued, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath hot and wicked. "When the wig came off. When you saw my face. That lovely, thick cock of yours twitched inside me like it was saying hello."
A flush of burning shame crawled up his neck, but beneath it, buried deep in the marrow of his bones, was something else. Something darker. Something that had been awakened and was now clawing its way to the surface.
"You're insane," he managed, his voice hoarse, cracked.
"Mm." She shifted her weight, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made him gasp despite himself. "And yet your body disagrees with your mouth."
She was right. God, she was right. He could feel himself stirring again, that traitorous pulse of blood and hunger, hardening inside her despite every rational thought screaming at him to stop. She felt it too. Her smile widened, a predatory slash of white teeth in the dim light.
"There he is," she purred, grinding down on him with a slow, circular motion that drew a strangled moan from his throat. "There's the real Robin. The one who doesn't care about duty or loyalty or the sweet, innocent princess waiting in the next room."
"Don't," he gritted out, but his hips betrayed him, tilting up to meet her.
"Don't what?" She leaned down, her lips hovering just above his, her black hair falling around them like a curtain of night. "Don't tell you the truth? Don't remind you that you're fucking the wrong sister and loving every second of it?"
"I don't—"
She cut him off with a kiss. Not gentle. Not questioning. She swallowed his protest whole, her tongue invading his mouth with a force that left no room for argument. He should bite her. Should shove her away. Instead, his hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into the firm flesh, dragging her closer.
She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips shiny with their shared spit. "You want me to stop?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. His body screamed no. His mind screamed yes. And in the space between, he made the most dangerous choice of his life.
"No."
The word came out raw, broken, barely audible. But she heard it. And her eyes lit up with something that wasn't just triumph—it was hunger. Real hunger. The kind that devours.
"Good," she breathed. "Because I wasn't going to stop anyway."
She sat up, planting her hands on his chest, and began to move. Not the frantic, dominant rhythm from before. Something slower. Deeper. A languid, torturous grind that dragged every inch of him through her heat with excruciating precision. Her head fell back, her raven hair cascading down her spine, and she let out a low, guttural sound of pleasure that vibrated through his entire body.
"Fuck," he groaned, his hands sliding up her thighs, over the sharp blades of her hipbones, clutching at her waist.
That only made her smile. She opened her eyes, fixing him with that violet stare—those eyes that had haunted him from the moment they'd first met, not with warmth, but with challenge.
"You like this, don't you?" she asked, her voice a silk-wrapped blade. "You like knowing that Starfire could never do this to you. Could never make you feel this way. She's too soft. Too gentle." She rolled her hips, a sharp, punishing grind that made his vision white out for a second. "Too fucking innocent."
"Shut up," he gasped.
"Make me."
He surged up, grabbing her by the back of the neck, pulling her down into a brutal kiss that was more teeth than tongue. He rolled them over, reversing their positions, pinning her beneath him with a force that surprised them both. Her eyes widened—just for a second—and then narrowed with something like approval.
"There he is," she whispered, echoing his earlier words back at him. "The Boy Wonder finally grows claws."
He didn't answer. He just fucked her. Hard. Deep. Angry. Every thrust was a betrayal, a punishment, a confession. She took it all, wrapping her legs around his waist, her nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. The pain was exquisite, a sharp counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure of her body clenching around him like a fist.
"That's it," she hissed, her voice cracking with pleasure. "That's fucking it. Use me. Hate me. Fuck me like you mean it."
He did. He lost himself in her, in the impossible heat of her body, in the way she met every thrust with equal force, her hips rising to meet his in a rhythm that felt ancient, primal. The bed groaned beneath them, the energy field flickering with the violence of their motion.
"You're going to come inside me again," she said, her voice a breathless command, not a question. "I can feel it. You're so close."
"Fuck you," he gritted out.
"Already there," she shot back, a wicked grin splitting her face. "Now finish what you started."
He wanted to hold out. Wanted to prove he had some control left, some shred of autonomy. But she was too much. The way she clenched around him, the way her nails dug into his back, the way her eyes burned with that terrible, beautiful fire—it was overwhelming. He came with a broken shout, his body shuddering above her, spilling into her with a force that left him weak.
She followed moments later, her back arching off the bed, a long, keening cry tearing from her throat as she convulsed around him, milking every last drop of his climax with a series of rhythmic contractions that made his toes curl.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of ozone and spice and sex. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to card through his hair with a surprising gentleness.
"Better," she murmured. "Much better than I expected."
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
She laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound that caught him off guard. "So many things. But right now?" She shifted beneath him, a little wiggle that made him grit his teeth as his still-sensitive cock slid through her slickness. "Right now, I'm very, very satisfied."
He pulled out of her with a wet, obscene sound, rolling onto his back beside her. The cold air hit his skin, raising goosebumps. He stared at the ceiling again, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of his sanity.
"I should hate you," he said quietly.
"But you don't." She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and something softer. Something almost vulnerable. "Do you?"
He closed his eyes. "I don't know what I feel."
She reached out, tracing a finger down his chest, over the scratches she'd left behind. "Let me help you understand, little bird."
His eyes snapped open. "What?"
She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her, utterly naked and unashamed. Her body was a work of art—lean, powerful, marked with the evidence of their passion. She looked at him like she was sizing up a new conquest.
"On Tamaran," she began, her voice taking on a storytelling cadence, "when a warrior claims a mate, it's not a matter of simple romance. It's a matter of biology. Of destiny." She smiled, slow and wicked. "We enslave our lovers. Body and soul. It's how we're made."
The words hit him like a physical blow. "What?"
"It's true." She shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the weight of her words. "When a Tamaranean woman takes a man—truly takes him, with all the fire and passion we possess—something happens. A bond forms. An unbreakable connection." She reached out, cupping his jaw. "You felt it, didn't you? When you came the second time. When you looked into my eyes and saw me. Not Starfire. Me."
He shook his head, trying to deny it. But he couldn't. Because she was right. There had been a moment—brief, terrifying—when everything had shifted. When the pleasure had surged, and his soul had felt like it was being woven into hers.
"No," he whispered.
"Yes," she countered, leaning in close. "You're mine now, Robin. My mate. My mate." She kissed him, soft and almost tender. "And the best part? Your beloved Starfire doesn't know. Not yet."
He stared at her, his mind reeling. "Why?"
She pulled back, a calculating gleam in her eyes. "Because I want to savor this. I want to watch you struggle. I want to see how long you can pretend that this"—she gestured between them—"doesn't mean anything. And when the time is right, when you've fallen completely, utterly, irreversibly in love with me..." Her smile widened. "We'll tell her together."
"You're insane," he repeated, but the words felt hollow.
"Perhaps." She slid off the bed, her movements fluid and graceful as she began gathering her clothes. "But you'll find, little bird, that insanity is far more interesting than sanity ever was."
He watched her dress, his body still humming with the aftershocks of their encounter. She was right about the bond. He could feel it now—a strange, warm thread connecting them, pulsing with a life of its own.
"Go to sleep," she said, pausing at the door. She looked back at him, her violet eyes gleaming. "Dream of me. I know I'll dream of you."
The door hissed shut behind her, leaving him alone in the darkness.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling the foreign presence of her bond tugging at his chest. Somewhere in the tower, Starfire was sleeping peacefully, unaware of the betrayal that had taken place just feet away.
And Robin? Robin was left with the terrible, exhilarating knowledge that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life—and he couldn't wait to make it again.