The sound of muffled screams echoed through Wayne Manor.
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to laugh as Damian’s older brother — the ever-so-graceful Dick Grayson — clutched the armrest of the chair like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.
“You said it wouldn’t hurt!” Dick yelled, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.
“I said it would be worth it,” you corrected, holding up the wax strip like a trophy. “And look — smooth as a baby’s butt.”
Damian stood beside you, arms crossed, looking as unimpressed as ever. “Grayson, you are embarrassing yourself. You’ve faced assassins, death traps, and the Joker. Yet you scream at a piece of wax.”
Dick shot him a glare. “You try it, demon spawn!”
Damian smirked. “I do not participate in barbaric grooming rituals. My hair grows in perfectly regulated patterns.”
You snorted. “Sure, sure. Says the guy who uses five different combs for his hair.”
“That is called discipline, Beloved,” Damian replied coolly, then turned his eyes to Dick, who was sweating like a sinner in church. “What she is doing to you, however, is chaos.”
“Oh, come on,” you said, heating up another strip. “It’s not chaos, it’s self-care.”
“Self-destruction,” Damian muttered.
Dick peeked up nervously as you approached again, wax strip in hand. “Wait, wait, wait! Where are you—”
You blinked. Damian blinked. Dick blinked.
“Y/N! I swear, if I don’t survive this, tell Barbara I love her!”
You doubled over laughing, clutching your stomach. Damian was stoic for exactly three seconds before his lips twitched. He looked at Dick’s half-waxed chest, sighed, and said with absolute deadpan seriousness:
“You look like a plucked pigeon.”
That was it. You fell to the floor laughing so hard tears filled your eyes.
Dick, still holding the remaining wax strip like it was a cursed object, groaned. “You two are evil.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “Correction — she is evil. I merely supervise.”
You wiped your eyes and smirked. “Yeah, but you love me.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Unfortunately, yes.”
