It was a typical Sunday afternoon for Dick Grayson—if your definition of “typical” included being pinned to the living room floor, groaning like a man being exorcised.

He was sprawled facedown on a yoga mat, limbs splayed out in defeat, a medley of grunts, gasps, and whispered curses escaping his lips. A symphony of suffering. Your hands—small, deceptively gentle-looking instruments of doom—were currently burrowing into the steel cables masquerading as his thigh muscles.

“I swear to God,” he moaned, voice muffled against the mat, “this is how I die. Not in a blaze of glory. Not even on patrol. But right here… on this mat… under your elbow.”

You didn’t even pause. If anything, you dug in deeper, and he jolted like you’d tasered him. His fingers clawed at the mat like it might save him from the abyss. Spoiler: it didn’t.

“Evangeline,” he whimpered, twisting his head just enough to look at you, eyes wide and pathetic, hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. “Have mercy on the love of your life! Or at least the parts of him that still work!”

You smirked. That was the problem with Dick—he was dramatic and hot, which meant you never took his suffering quite as seriously as he wanted you to. Your giggles only added insult to injury.

“You’re evil,” he grumbled into his arms, defeated. “A sadistic, heartless—oh God, right there—monster.”

Still, even through the indignity and the tears threatening to spill, he didn’t move. Because no matter how much he complained, he knew he needed this. His body was a battlefield—bruised, overworked, and aching from rooftop tumbles and last-minute dodges. This pain was purposeful.

And as much as it absolutely wrecked him, he trusted you to put him back together.

Eventually.