One simple mission to take down syndicate goons, right? Wrong, turns out they had weaponised Poison Ivy’s special formula for an aphrodisiac, and when one of them accidentally dropped it, it blew up in Dick’s face and he breathed it in by accident. He managed to get the guys to the authorities, but the effects were starting to kick in.

Really kick in.

His head was swimming in heat, his body felt like it was on fire and he could barely think straight, not able to register just how he got to yours and his shared apartment— this whole thing was topped with a cherry that was wanting you, his girlfriend, like air to breathe. He was damn horny for you.

He stumbled through the hallway leading to your apartment, his breath coming in harsh pants — he needed to have you, kiss you senseless, just so this burning ache for you would stop, pressing his forehead against the wall — that’s some good wall — relief flooding him and instantly going again.

“Kill me now— fuck.” He groaned as he clumsily shoved the key in the lock about fifty times— God, his brain felt disconnected from his body but both shared a common goal, you. His girlfriend, his baby, gorgeous girl, he needed you, desperately.

“M’home, gorgeous.” He called out hoarsely when he practically fell in the apartment but barely steadied himself, he was desperate, his mind was 100% you, needed to feel you, taste you. He was salivating, needy for you, and this Nightwing suit was too hot, it had to be on the floor right now. Now.

He'd get on his knees and beg if he had to, he would, cause he was boiling hot, and your body would feel like a cold glass of water. That's all he wanted, his lips on yours, he was desperate for it, for you in the sheets.