─── 𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝓈he. minor. daughter of cain. ♑︎. maren yearly reincarnate. music &&. movie freak. short n' sweet. i ❤︎ superheroes! vinyl obsessed. cursed with shy girl syndrome. currently spinning: wallows !!
𐔌 ✉️⠀⠀𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒: open! but you can totally just say hi :p
┃ 𝓉reasure chest⠀┆⠀𝓂eet the siren⠀┆⠀𝑜cean's laws ⠀ ⊹
hi guys happy new year!!! i wanted to pop in and say thank you soooooo soososo much to everyone who’s enjoyed reading my fics these past few months. it means the world to me!!! <3 i may not reply to every comment or reblog but i swear i read all of them and they all literally make my day, thank you EVERYONE for letting me be able to achieve my silly little fangirl dream, i am endlessly grateful for all this love & support!!!
i hope all of U have an amazing 2026 MWAH ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡
hi bae!!
this is really random but will you be continuing summer sun forever?
It was my favourite fic of yours!
-xoxo
hiiii i honestly dont really have any future plans for summer sun forever atm im so sorry!!! 😓😓 that being said, thank you sm for reading it and liking it <3
a sprinkle of 🕯️ ⋆˚꩜｡ dick grayson decides the holidays are for one thing only: kissing you under every mistletoe he can physically stick to a surface. fluff fluff FLUFFF, soft!dick grayson (of course), established relationship, holiday shenanigans, so many kisses it's alarming!!⠀𓂃⠀( wc 0.8k )
a love letter⠀❤︎⠀writing domestic romance calls to me like the green goblin mask.. also i feel like i keep repeating the same 4 words in this soz 😓 ALSO i really need to learn how to write dick doing literally anything other than kissing every 10 seconds whoops. not that thoroughly proofread so there might be mistakes!!!
dick grayson treats december like it’s his personal olympic sport. or at least, that’s what it feels like when you realize there’s mistletoe hanging in places it has absolutely no business being.
the first sprig appears above the fridge. he’s not even trying to be subtle, big blue eyes flicking up, then to you, then back again, leaning against the counter with the least innocent look you’ve ever seen.
you roll your eyes. he beams.
“rules are rules,” he murmurs before leaning down to kiss you slow and sweet, the warmth seeps straight to your fingertips. he pulls back with a grin so bright it could probably power the whole apartment.
you think that’s it. one mistletoe. one kiss. festive silliness. but then the second one appears above the hallway light fixture.
it’s barely midnight when you find it, both of you shuffling through the apartment in your pajamas, looking for a mutually agreed and absolutely necessary midnight snack. dick freezes mid-step like a dog hearing a treat bag crinkle. you follow his gaze and spot it—another sprig, tied with twine that definitely wasn’t there this morning.
he turns, milking the moment with raised brows and exaggerated shock. “you see this, right? i’m not hallucinating it?”
dick doesn’t even wait for your answer. his hands slide up your arms to your shoulders, palms warm. he always runs hot, like he's immune to the cold everyone else suffers through. a strand of hair falls into his eyes as he kisses you under the dim hallway light. you follow him without hesitation, catching the lazy smile he presses into your mouth.
by the fourth or fifth, you stop pretending to be surprised. mistletoe show up everywhere—in the corner of the bookshelf, dangling from the curtain rod, clipped to the lamp by the couch. the whole place smells faintly of pine and hot chocolate and whatever candle dick lit earlier (you’re pretty sure he picks them for you). every time you walk under one, his touch finds you automatically: a hand on your hip, fingers brushing your cheek, an arm around your waist pulling you in with a teasing “wait— pause— regulations.”
he gets more smug each time.
his kisses get softer, too.
you catch him one morning, standing on the tip of his toes on the couch, balancing precariously as he pins another mistletoe above the window with a string of twine between his teeth. he’s in an old gray shirt that hangs loose on his shoulders and soft flannel pants, the fabric brushing his ankles. each stretch lifts the hem just enough to reveal a warm sliver of skin above his hips, the waistband sitting low enough to short-circuit your brain. his hair’s ruffled from sleep, shirt rumpled, and he looks way too proud of his plan. you clear your throat. he freezes.
“this is harassment,” you declare.
“i’m festive,” he argues, hopping down. then, quieter, “and i like kissing you.”
later, while you’re brushing your teeth, he steps in behind you, warm chest fitting against your back. he bumps your shoulder, and the mirror catches him grinning.
you already know what he’s looking at.
a tiny sprig of mistletoe taped crookedly to the top corner of the mirror with a piece of bright red tape.
“dick.”
“mhmm?” he hums, feigning ignorance.
“this is—”
“standard protocol,” he whispers, kissing the edge of your jaw, toothpaste be damned.
that night, the cold outside is bad enough that the windows haze at the edges. you’re curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your legs, laptop resting against your thighs. the christmas tree lights flicker beside you, softening out the harsh glare of your screen. you hear dick before you see him—the quiet pad of his footsteps, and the faint creak of the one floorboard he can’t sneak past. he rounds the corner, hair damp from his shower, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, cheeks flushed. he stops in front of you, hands tucked into his pockets, staring at you with something to say.
you tilt your head. “what now?”
he glances up. you follow.
another mistletoe. perfectly centered.
a smile spreads across his lips, small and ridiculously sweet, and it hits you square in the chest. he climbs onto the couch, nudging your laptop aside before sliding under the blanket next to you. he smells like vanilla soap and winter air and something so distinctly him you’d recognise it anywhere.
one hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing a slow line across your cheek. the other skims your waist, fingertips dipping beneath fabric to find skin. his palms radiate that unmistakable warmth he always has, sliding through you like he’s got his own sun tucked under his ribs. it’s almost unfair.
his mouth finds yours, peppermint cocoa sweet enough to make you dizzy—
—and then he tugs you closer, pulse steady against your ribs. the world slips away. just for now.
he leans in, pressing the sweetest, softest kiss to your lips, whispering into your smile:
After you posted the Clark Kent texting SMAU I was talking to this guy on Reddit 'cos his interview for a uni course is right after mine so we were talking about prep and he literally texts like Clark I've never seen any guy write like this
I think he thought I was a guy as well until I told him I was gonna wear a blazer and a skirt 😭😭
so hes an npc basically 😭 but he does really sound like clark LMAO
