You Weren’t Sure How It Started — Maybe He Complained One Too Many Times About Looking “fuzzy”

You weren’t sure how it started — maybe he complained one too many times about looking “fuzzy” in his selfies, or maybe you were just bored and holding tweezers — but somehow, Dick Grayson ended up in a chair in the middle of the Batcave, letting you shape his eyebrows.

You stood between his legs, brows furrowed in focus, one hand gently holding his jaw to keep him still while the other went to work.

“Don’t move,” you warned him. “I swear to God if you flinch and I ruin your arch, I’m shaving them off completely.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered dramatically, eyes fluttering closed — but then he puckered his lips into a stupid exaggerated kissy face.

You paused.

He opened one eye, grinning.

“Stop,” you muttered, biting back a smile.

Another kissy face. He leaned slightly forward like he was begging for a smooch.

“Dick.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re gonna get a tweezer in the eye.”

“I’m just saying,” he smirked, “you’re holding my face so tenderly. It’s giving ‘lover grooming his war-torn boyfriend’ vibes.”

You sighed, plucking another hair. “More like ‘tired nurse dealing with delusional patient.’”

“Ouch. But accurate.”

You stayed focused, trying not to laugh as he made another kissy face, this time with a wink. His hands were on your hips now, not trying to pull you closer, just resting there — warm, casual, intimate.

“Seriously, you’re going to mess me up,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek.

“You mess me up every day,” he whispered.

You pulled the next hair extra hard.

“OW—OKAY, I DESERVED THAT.”

⸻