You didn’t think bed chem existed until you met Dick Grayson. Your best friend introduced him to you when he helped her move in with you, and you’d sworn you could’ve dropped to your knees right there. He was a Greek god with those muscles, effortless charm, the way he called you pet names, his Pantene commercial-level hair, pearly whites, baby blues— ugh, you were hooked. You were hooked, line and sinker, and you wanted him.

Wanted him badly.

Everything about him made you wonder what he’d be like if you ever got him in your bed — he radiated ‘good at sex’ and it was fucking killing you — and you wondered that in your bed every night. What those soft, full lips would feel like, all of it, and it killed you some more. So when he called you, you picked up immediately. “Hey, sweetheart.”

Even his voice had you swooning. Luckily, he felt the exact same way, because you were fucking killing him too.

Dick couldn’t get you out of his head, the way you smiled, laughed, and he swore he couldn’t get the image of him ravishing you out of his head. Like mentioned before, you and Dick were the perfect living example of bed chem. “Are you free this week, darlin’?”

God, he hoped you were. His eyes closed, waiting for your response because — oh, baby — he was down bad for you. He was hooked on you like you were a drug and he fisted his sweats in hope that you’d say yes.

Please say yes.

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. You just had to say yes— if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to live yourself down.