Richard Grayson

He’s been around town plenty of times and tried all the flavors, but his favorite? Sweet baby Jesus, he’s a dog in heat when those sun kissed, homicidal goddesses are batting their big eyes at him. Call him a sailor because he’s definitely going into that siren’s trap.

Dominican? Puerto Rican? Brazilian? Peruvian? Mexican? Ecuadorian? Honduran? Salvadorian? Costa Rican? Chilean? Colombian? Baby, he’s on his way, never question it. Perhaps it’s a fetish, but he genuinely likes them. He absolutely goes feral for their bold attitude and their possessive, undying love. Sure, he can admit they’re a little crazy and would occasionally flinch when all they were doing was reaching for something on the shelf, but he turns a blind eye. He hears Spanish roll out their tongue, gets handed a plate of well-seasoned food, and has the most amazing he’s ever had? Oh, baby, he’s right where he wants to be, even if he does get a chancla tossed at his head.

“Where are you from, by the way? Just curious,” he asks, sitting beside you at the bar, a small smirk plastered on his charming face. He needed to hear that country from either central or South America, for the love of God. He had been talking to you for the past ten minutes and he could hear the faint accent in between your words which had gotten him a little excited.

God forbid a man likes a little spice in his life. He didn’t choose this, it chose him. And don’t get him wrong, he loves every race, every color, every language, but latinas? His Caucasian bloodline ends with him.