It was a partially botched mission which did this, one which you did solo — much to Dick’s disapproval — and ended up getting blasted with a weaponised aphrodisiac from a bomb a goon dropped when you knocked them out. Poison Ivy’s work, no less, which was why you were now thinking R-rated thoughts about your boyfriend.

Dick.

He’d been minding his own business, being a good ol’ boyfriend for you, he was that damn whipped, while your cells felt like they were on fire, you had an ache between your legs that you imagined being satisfied by your boyfriend who was, frankly, very much up to satisfy you if you gave the word.

Nothing could prepare Dick for the sight of you stumbling into your shared apartment, flushed and sweaty and clutching your stomach in pain, for which he instantly turned off the stove and rushed over to you to take a look at you— what the fuck was going on? What happened to his girl?

“Hey, baby— sweetheart.” He practically ran as he went over to you, cupping your cheeks— everything about him looked like such a snack right now, from his big hands to his muscles and lips and his very tempting thighs. Your brain was mush.

“Shh, what happened?” Dick was so worried, and he didn’t even know that you were currently staring at him like he would some Kentucky fried chicken, he was more concerned about the — oh, let’s see — the big-ass flush on your face and the pained whimpers? This is the last time you’re going solo.

Last time.