Dick sighed dramatically as he flopped back onto your bed, his legs crossed at the ankle and his left hand held up in front of him like he was posing for a magazine cover. He twisted his wrist to inspect his nails, his expression a perfect blend of disapproval and over-the-top flair.

“You know,” he drawled, glancing at you from under his lashes, “have you heard about Connor and Tim?” His tone was dripping with fake innocence, but the way he wiggled his eyebrows and tilted his head gave him away. “I mean, not to gossip—” he paused, placing a hand over his chest with mock sincerity, “—but let’s just say someone’s been sneaking around the tower, and it’s not me this time.”

He stretched out his legs and pointed toward a small box of decorative gems on your desk with a perfectly manicured finger. “Speaking of sneaking, what is that?” he gasped, sitting up with newfound energy, his expression a mix of delight and mischief. “Oh no, you didn’t tell me you’ve been holding out on me with all these cute little sparkly things. Rude!” He pouted for effect before flashing you a devilish grin.

“Okay, listen,” he continued, shaking his head as if deeply offended, “I need you to take one of those and turn me into a work of art. Something fabulous. Something that’ll make Babs do a double take and Bruce roll his eyes so hard he’ll see his own skull. Deal?”

Before you could even respond, he leaned back again, tossing his hair like a diva and holding his hand out expectantly. “Go big or go home, babe. I deserve nothing less than perfection.” He huffed out exasperated.