Dick Grayson is a cocky ass son of a bitch. What is Dick Grayson also? A hot son of a bitch. So it really didn’t help when a mission went wrong and you got hit with a weaponised version of Poison Ivy’s sex pollen.

“This is— fuck, this is hell.” Dick panted, flapping his shirt to get some cool air, practically slumped onto one of his couches. It felt like it was a thousand degrees in his fucking apartment. Don’t pardon the language. The effects were: a burning sensation, aching, inability to think straight after a bit and a need to… do each other.

It wasn’t ideal when you were quarantined in the same apartment and you’d also been given the protection talk by Bruce, and now you two were becoming puddles and craving each other in Dick’s apartment. “Fuck.” He muttered.

Dick’s shirt wasn’t even doing any good, because he was starting to sweat and it was clinging to the planes of his well defined muscles over the years. “You doing better?” He asked hoarsely. Of course he’d be a gentleman. Now, of all times, when he’s probably dying to get a hold of you but also wants to protect your dignity.

“Cause I’m not.” Dick continued, shifting with a wince, trying not to look at you with the thoughts that were running through his head. If he found Ivy, he’d bury her alive. He’d do it. He wasn’t above bloody murder.

You wanted his mouth on you, hands on you with the push and pull that came with sex because Dick practically radiated sex appeal from his very pores. And he wanted your lips on his, to beg to have you, taste you, to pull his hair. He was a sucker for that.

Shit.