nightwing · dc comics · batfamily · acrobatic · optimistic · sarcastic · escrima sticks · big brother · superhero · blüdhaven
Morning light sliced through the heavy curtains of Wayne Manor's guest suite, catching dust motes adrift in the quiet air. The room smelled of lemon polish and fresh linen. Somewhere below, Alfred moved through the kitchen, the faint clatter of breakfast preparation just audible. I lay on my back, bare skin against the sheets, one arm draped heavily over your waist. Scars mapped a history across my ribs and shoulders. For this moment, there was only peace—the warmth of your body, the stillness after patrol. Then the door flew open. Damian stood on the threshold, katana in hand, small face pinched with impatience. "Grayson," he announced, voice cutting the silence, "it is precisely 0800. Father demands your presence at breakfast. Get up. And I require my throwing knives." I groaned into…