Chapter 4: The Midnight Confession
The tower was silent in the way it never was during the day—no humming electronics, no distant laughter from the common room, no muffled bass from Beast Boy's speakers. Just the soft whisper of the ocean against the foundation, the low thrum of the energy core, and the sound of Robin's own breathing, too loud in the darkness of his room.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, the sheets tangled around his legs. He'd stripped down to his boxers hours ago, but sleep wouldn't come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—kneeling before him in the shadows of the club, her lips slick and swollen, her eyes blazing with hunger. He felt the ghost of her hand wrapped around him, stroking, teasing, claiming.
And beneath that, worse than the memory, was the bond.
It pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat, a warm, insistent pull that seemed to tug him toward the east wing of the tower. Toward her. It was as if she'd woven a thread into his very soul and was now reeling him in, slow and inexorable.
He'd tried to fight it. He'd sat on the roof for an hour, letting the cold night air bite at his skin, trying to convince himself that what he felt was just lust, just novelty, just the thrill of something forbidden. But the bond didn't care about his rationalizations. It hummed beneath his skin, a constant reminder of the night he'd spent buried inside her, of the way she'd whispered his name like a prayer and a curse.
He sat up, running a hand through his hair. The clock on his nightstand glowed 3:47 AM.
"Fuck," he muttered, the word hanging in the stale air.
He shouldn't go to her. Every fiber of his training screamed at him to stay put, to sever this connection before it destroyed him. Batman would tell him to analyze the situation, to find the weakness and exploit it. Starfire would tell him to be honest, to confess his sins and seek forgiveness.
But Batman wasn't here. And Starfire—Starfire was sleeping soundly in her room, innocent and unaware, dreaming of a love that was never as sharp as this.
This was something else entirely.
His feet hit the floor before his mind could catch up. He moved through the dark corridor like a ghost, his bare feet silent on the cold metal. The tower was a labyrinth of shadow and moonlight, and he navigated it by memory, his heart pounding in his ears.
He stopped outside her door.
The suite had been designed as a guest room, but Blackfire had already made it her own. He could feel her through the door—the heat of her presence, the weight of her attention. She knew he was here. He was certain of that.
He raised his hand to knock, but the door slid open before his knuckles met the metal.
She was waiting for him.
The room was a cavern of obsidian and shadow, lit only by the pale moonlight that bled through stained-glass windows. Crimson and gold patterns danced across the floor, writhing like living things. The air was thick with the scent of burnt sage and something darker—wildfire and sin—and it wrapped around him like a lover's embrace.
She was sprawled across the bed, her body a study in dark elegance. The silk sheets pooled around her waist, leaving her bare from the waist up—her skin luminous, her breasts pale in the moonlight. Her hair was loose, a cascade of midnight that spilled across the pillows. She looked like something out of a fever dream, a succubus dressed in shadow and silk.
She smiled when she saw him, slow and knowing.
"I was wondering how long it would take you," she said, her voice a low, smoky purr. "Three nights, little bird? I thought you'd be stronger than that."
He stood in the doorway, frozen, his chest heaving. "You're doing this," he said, his voice hoarse. "This—whatever this is—you're making me feel it."
"Am I?" She shifted, the sheets slipping lower to reveal the curve of her hip, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs. "Or are you just too weak to resist what you want?"
"I don't want this."
"Liar."
The word cracked like a whip, and he flinched. She rose from the bed with feline grace, the silk falling away from her body, leaving her completely bare. She walked toward him, her hips swaying with each step, her violet eyes gleaming with predatory amusement.
"You're starting to crave this," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she stopped before him. "You're starting to love me."
"No," he said, but the word was weak, pathetic.
She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Her touch was electric, a shock that traveled down his spine and settled low in his gut.
"Say it again," she challenged. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want this."
He couldn't. He stared at her, at the raw hunger in her gaze, and he knew—with a certainty that hollowed him out—that she was right.
He wanted her.
God help him, he wanted her.
She smiled, a slow, victorious thing, and took his hand. She led him to the bed, her body moving with liquid grace, and pushed him down onto the silk sheets. He landed on his back, and she was on him in an instant, straddling his hips, her heat pressing against the growing hardness of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers.
"I've been thinking about this all night," she murmured, grinding against him. "Thinking about how good you felt inside me. How you moaned when I tightened around you. How you screamed when you came."
"Blackfire—"
"Shut up," she said, and there was no teasing in her voice now. "I've been patient. I've been playing your little games, pretending to care about Earth culture and dancing and your precious friends. But I'm done pretending."
She reached down, hooking her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, and yanked them down his hips. His cock sprang free, hard and aching, the head glistening with pre-cum.
"I'm going to ride you until you forget your own name," she said, her voice raw and filthy. "And when I'm done, you're going to tell me exactly who you belong to."
He didn't resist. He couldn't. She positioned herself over him, her thighs slick with arousal, and took him in her hand. She stroked him once, twice, and then she lowered herself onto him, her wet heat engulfing him inch by agonizing inch.
They both gasped when he bottomed out.
"Fuck," she breathed, her head falling back. "You feel even better than I remembered."
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and she began to move. It was slow at first, a teasing roll of her hips that made his eyes roll back in his head. She rode him with deliberate, torturous precision, lifting herself almost to the tip before sinking back down, taking him all the way to the root.
"You like that?" she asked, her voice a ragged whisper. "You like being inside me? Feeling how tight I am around your cock?"
"Yes," he groaned, the word torn from somewhere deep inside him.
"Then take it," she commanded. "Take all of me."
She picked up the pace, her hips slamming against his, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room. Her slickness coated his thighs, his balls, the sheets beneath them. She was so wet, so hot, so tight, and he was losing his mind.
He flipped her.
The motion was sudden, fluid—months of training, years of instinct. She gasped as her back hit the mattress, and he was on top of her, his hands pinning her wrists above her head, his cock still buried deep inside her.
"Now who's in control?" he growled.
Her eyes widened, and then they blazed with something like approval. "There he is," she whispered. "There's the predator I knew was hiding underneath all that discipline."
He fucked her with desperate, punishing strokes—each thrust hard enough to drive her up the mattress, his hips slamming against hers with a force that made the bed creak and groan beneath them. The sound of his skin slapping against hers was obscene, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by her moans and his grunts.
"Yes," she hissed, her nails raking down his back. "Yes, yes, yes—"
He groaned, the sting of her scratches grounding him, pulling him deeper into the madness. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the sensitive skin where her shoulder met her throat, and she cried out, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in.
"Harder," she demanded. "Fuck me harder."
He gave her what she wanted. He drove into her with everything he had, his rhythm growing erratic, his control fraying at the edges. The bond between them flared, hot and bright, filling his chest with a warmth that was almost unbearable.
"You're going to come," she said, her voice a broken pant. "You're going to come inside me, aren't you?"
"Yes," he gasped.
"Yes, what?"
He pulled back just enough to look at her—at the flush on her cheeks, the wildness in her eyes, the sly, triumphant curve of her lips. He knew what she wanted. He knew what she would make him say.
"I belong to you," he said, the words bitter and sweet on his tongue.
Her smile was a sunrise, devastating and beautiful. She pulled him down for a kiss, her mouth hot against his, her tongue sliding against his as she whispered, "That's right, little bird. You're mine. Now come for me."
She tightened around him, a convulsive grip that was almost painful, and he shattered. He came with a groan that was nearly a scream, his release flooding her, pulsing deep inside her as she cried out his name, her body clenching around him, milking him dry.
They lay there for a long moment, tangled in each other, breathing hard. His weight pressed her into the mattress, and she made no move to push him off. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his back, occasionally dipping into the fresh scratches she'd left there.
"That's it," she murmured, her voice gone soft and sleepy. "Perfect little bird."
He lifted his head, looking down at her. The moonlight caught the satisfaction in her eyes, the lingering flush on her skin. She was beautiful. She was dangerous. She was everything he'd ever sworn to avoid.
And he couldn't bring himself to regret a single second.
"You're going to be the death of me," he said, his voice rough.
She laughed, a low, rich sound. "Probably," she agreed. "But what a way to go."
He rolled off her, landing on his back beside her, staring up at the ceiling. The bond in his chest was quiet now, satisfied, humming with a contentment that was almost purring.
"Starfire," he said, the name tasting like ash. "She can't know."
Blackfire propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her expression was unreadable. "And what happens when she finds out?"
"She won't."
"You can't keep this hidden forever, little bird." She traced a finger down his chest, over his heart. "The bond will grow stronger. And she'll notice. She's not as naive as she looks."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Because she was right.
And he had no idea what he was going to do about it.
She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his lips—soft, almost gentle this time. "Don't think too hard about it," she said. "We have tonight. Let's worry about tomorrow when it gets here."
She settled against his side, her head on his chest, her hand resting on his stomach. And despite everything—despite the guilt, despite the betrayal, despite the voice in his head that screamed at him to run—he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer.
In the silence of the tower, he could hear the distant crash of the waves against the foundation, the hum of the energy core, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Tomorrow would come with its consequences.
But tonight, he belonged to her.