#sad little robins

[ghost-bxrd]

This one looks so silly right now but I gotta trust the process 💪😭🤣

[ghost-proofbaby]

kissing lessons

summary: you and robin have already shared several firsts as best friends: your first time holding hands, your first time cuddling someone, your first time flirting. so what's a little platonic kissing?

pairing: robin buckley x fem!reader

warnings: lots of sapphic pining, yearning, etc. assumed unrequited love. hopeless crushing. doing romantic things and claiming they're totally platonic when they very much are not. mentions of reading trying to conform to the 80s standards by dating a boy. reader is explicitly female (which should be given since robin is canonically a lesbian)

wc: 3.4k+

a/n: this one was a long time coming. it's based off of my own first kiss, loosely.

part 2

Being best friends with Robin Buckley has always been about growing – together.

Life has a plethora of lessons for young souls to learn in time, and some of those lessons were simply hard. The first time you picked up a musical instrument and attempted to play your very first note, and it sounded atrocious. Nothing like the movies, more difficult than you could have ever imagined. The first time you walked the halls of your high school, and the terrifying first wave of panic at the realization you’d need to learn the map of the lands in order to navigate that maze for the next four years. The first time you walked into a classroom all of two minutes late, and the first shatter of embarrassment in your chest as every eye in the room turned to you. The first time you trip over your own laces on your way to Chemistry, the first time you impulsively cut your hair with the kitchen scissors, the first time a boy asked you out as a joke, and the first time someone asked you out genuinely only to fumble over every single word. Your first school dance, your first time cooking pasta from scratch, your first time attending a concert without a chaperone. 

Firsts, firsts, firsts. Life is simply full of them, and they never get any easier or kinder, but having a best friend at your side certainly makes it all bearable. 

Robin Buckley was that rock for you. And you, for her. 

It’s sort of how you got into this mess to begin with. 

“It’s going to be weird, isn’t it?” 

“It’s not going to be weird unless we make it weird, Robin.”

“How can I not make it weird? Where would my lips even go?”

You’re both lucky that no one is home to hear all the shrieking currently occurring in your small bedroom. Only the posters on your wall and your teddy bear you’ve had since you were five are witnesses to the current predicament occuring. 

Robin had been the one to suggest it, in all fairness. Graduation was next week, and there had been a lot of reminiscing flying about. All the firsts, all the hopeful lasts, and all the fatal moments you needed to drag by the hair to the backyard and bury six feet under. 

The topic of conversation had veered pretty erratically, turning left towards that one stubborn B left on Robin’s postcard as a result of her refusing to attend her assigned tutoring for Geometry last year, and then sliding right as you’d huffed about that one girl who had been an absolute menace towards you sophomore year when you’d botched your improv solo at a band concert. But in the last five minutes, it had finally straightened out – it had finally begun to follow the trail of a line of remembering that no one else would ever be allowed to know outside of you and Robin. 

You’d brought up the first date you’d ever gone on. A ridiculous milkshake outing with some guy in your freshman English class that had left you feeling more confused than starry eyed or lovesick as the books promised. 

The date that had caused Robin Buckley to offer to hold your hand at random, in private moments, the week leading up to it. Just so you’d know how it felt. Just so you could figure out how to best intertwine your fingers with someone else’s without feeling terrible foreign about it all. 

It had been platonic. You both swore it had been, shrugging carelessly as you’d let your palm meet your best friends. 

And you’d felt more every time your skin brushed hers than you had the entire night with that boy. Spent the entire date wishing it was Robin’s knuckles bumping yours when you’d reached for that damn strawberry milkshake. 

“Against mine, I’d hope.” 

The dissection hadn’t ended at the hand-holding. Next, the two of you had wistfully recalled the sleepover in which you’d first decided to learn how to spoon one another. Robin had read about it in a magazine, you’d never had firsthand experience, and it just felt right to suggest. Robin had rambled for a good five minutes before you’d tugged her back into her bed and commanded her to just lay there as you figured out where you arm should go as your body curved along the back of hers. 

It had been nice. Really nice. 

You’d never gone out on another date after the Great Milkshake Catastrophe, as the two of you had called it. Robin claimed none of the boys at school could handle her eccentricism. Both of you, young girls fumbling about the world, starving for touch completely unaware. You told yourselves everyone cuddled with their friends. You told yourselves it was normal. 

But then, you’d switched positions, Robin being the big spoon as the teen magazine had described, and you swore your heart had burst when her arm wrapped around your waist and her fingers slotted between your own against your abdomen. 

You’d fallen asleep in that position. Awoken to Robin’s face pressed right into your chest as you’d spread out on your back. Ignored the flaky drool stain left behind on your skin when she’d finally joined the living once more. Pretended like you both hadn’t had the best rest of your lives as you’d clung to one another through fading dreams and subtle snores. 

It was normal, right? It had to be, because it was nice, and it had become a part of your normal sleepover rituals. 

Friends used each other’s boobs as pillows all the time, as Robin had defended. 

“Yeah, but, well-” Robin cuts off in her current stricken rambling, throwing her hands out around the air between you two, “What about when it’s more than just pecking? You know? All that gross shit, where tongues get involved and spit is exchanged and, oh God, should we be sucking on some mints right now or something? Oh my God, what if you’re allergic to my chapstic-”

Gross shit. 

The not-so-clever code word the two of you used whenever describing any sort of romantic interactions. Kissing, making out, sex. The things all of your peers were regular experiencing, sometimes even displaying in public, that the two of you only turned your noses up to. 

You didn’t want to suck the face off of Connor in your fifth period pottery class. The only person you could imagine on the receiving end of that that didn’t make your stomach turn was sitting right in front of you now, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as she clearly panicked. 

“I’m not allergic to passion fruit Lip Smackers, Robs.”

The switch to a passion fruit flavor was new. Robin had been using the strawberry flavor religiously prior, but had recently offered it to you with the excuse of your obsession with strawberry flavored things. 

And now, you’d been using it daily. Trying not to think about how many times her lips had been on it prior to yours. Trying not to think about how many ways you could twist it into some sick secondary kissing metaphor, to have your lips slick with the same sticky substance as hers had been so many times before.

Tried not to think about what Robin Buckley’s lips tasted like, period. Easier said than done when the thought crosses your mind every time you lick your lips moment after application, getting the faux sweetness all over your tongue. 

“You could be. And how would we even know? I can’t even drive! If you start to have an allergic reaction, I can’t even take you to the hospital! We don’t have a c-” 

You can’t do it anymore – any other day, you relish in the sound of Robin’s voice as she’ll squeal on and on about everything and anything. But not today. 

You cut her off with a kiss.

The very same kiss you’d both timidly agreed upon when you’d both realized graduation was next week, and neither of you had had your first kiss. 

The same deal as the cuddling. The same deal as the hand-holding. The same deal as all the pick-up lines and flirting you’d try out on each other, the same deal as all the sweet ‘love notes’ you’d write for one another and slip into backpacks and binders alike. 

The same deal as that fluttering in your chest every time she looked up at you at the local pool, eager to see if you’d witnessed her flip beneath the water. The same deal as all the nights you’d cried into your pillow after being pestered about if any boys at school caught your eyes, because you knew they hadn’t and they never would. Your eyes were already too busy, completely captured by the sight of the brunette now pressing her lips against yours. 

None of the boys at school could ever compare. 

Passion fruit and strawberry mingles within the short peck, freckled cheeks and nose smashing against yours in the most awkward fashion possible. It could be weird; it should be weird. 

It’s not. 

When you pull away, Robin is completely stunned into silence for quite possibly the first time in her life. And her lips are shining with some of your residual spit, and her cheeks are the perfect shade of rose that no actual flower could capture.

Mother Nature herself could never replicate the girl in front of you. The girl you’d been best friends with for six years now, the girl you’d pined relentlessly for for just as long. 

Only you’d just recently realized it. Somewhere between the lip smackers exchange and the movie night in which you’d intertwined your legs on the couch and felt the weight of her between your hips as she’d passed out. 

Looking at her now sort of feels like realizing it all over again. Sort of like looking out over a precipice, and taking a deep breath, because you know you’re leaping off the cliff. No scared looks over your shoulder, no hesitation as you throw your foot out into mid-air. 

The kind of rush you’ve never felt with a boy, and never will. 

“Was that…” she whispers, voice hoarse before she clears it, batting her gorgeous lashes and taking the shakiest of breaths, “Was that good?”

“I dunno,” you lie, “I think we should try again.” 

It’s like a dance, you soon realize. Following her steps, guiding her with your own. She slides her way up closer, and you press your back against your headboard. Her hands are shaking when they brush your outer thighs, and your blood is racing as you tug on her elbows to guide her to straddle your lap. 

You both had said, after all, you needed to learn to be better kissers. That you couldn’t leave high school without having shoved your tongue down someone’s throat at least once. Your words, not hers. 

Your desperate attempt to make sure that someone was Robin Buckley. Your pitiful attempt to have the one thing you don’t think you’ll ever be allowed to hold. 

The weight of her on your lap is nice. The feeling of her lips returning to yours is nice. The way neither of your hands know where to go as you let your lips linger together a few seconds longer than the first time is nice. 

It’s far nicer than Connor from English could ever make you feel. It’s far nicer than that poor boy at the diner ever was, though he tried his best. 

You’re the brave one, when it’s all said and done. You’re the first one to let your palms settle at her hips, squeezing ever so gently to feel the softness beneath slot perfectly into your hold. You’re the first one to timidly include tongue, parting both your lips, trying to ignore the shivers running up your spine as all you can taste now is passion fruit lip smackers. 

Even with your own lip balm, you know your lips are horribly chapped. Dreadfully thirsty and desperate to absorb all the love you know isn’t yours to claim at this moment. Chapped lips, quivering hands, shaking breaths. Unsure movements and the ringing question in the back of your head of am I doing this right? 

Is she feeling what I’m feeling? 

Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. But she’s kissing you back. Her tongue is meeting yours in movements that are nothing like the movies, shy baps that you both will probably laugh about later. Kitten licks to test the waters. 

And then there’s the retreating. The rock of her body as she settles her weight closer to your knees, and her tongue is put away in favor of just letting her lips slot between yours in slow and lazy movements. You can feel every deep breath she takes through her nose between the kisses, you can smell her perfume seeping into your psyche every moment she spends so close to you. 

The only lesson being learned right now is that you were an idiot. You were an absolute fool, and you are absolutely in love with your best friend.

“Better?” she questions when she pulls away entirely, and you try not to whimper. Try not to show her how badly you want this, need this. 

You hate the silence and you nearly wish she’d start babbling again. You wish she’d give you a reason to kiss her and shut her up, if for nothing more than to taste passion fruit and yearning all over again. 

You’re quiet for a few beats, staring at her as your chest heaves and your heart begins to twist up into terrible shapes. “I… Yeah. Yeah. I think we’re getting the hang of it, don’t you?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” her nervous smile breaks, and you wish she wouldn’t continue the thought, but she does, “You’re gonna be a pro in no time, breaking boys hearts left and right when you kiss them like that.” 

You don’t want to break a boy’s heart. You want to break hers – you want to entirely implode her heart the way she has yours, and have the honor to know it was mutual. A mutual destruction you both dove into headfirst. You only want to kiss Robin like this, forever. You only ever want to know how right her hand feels in yours, not some guy who can’t even choke out the right words to invite you to the cinema. 

You want, and you want, and you want. 

And just as you bite your tongue, decide against pouring out all your affections all over your bed sheets and pulling her right back into you again, desperate to share air with her and only her, you can hear your front door slamming over. 

Robin has never moved so quickly in her life. Jumping off your lap, leaping to the edge of the bed as a feverish blush overtakes her entire body. As though she might be embarrassed, as though she might be regretful. 

You still haven’t moved from your position, back sticky with sweat against the headboard, when your parents walk past your open door and say hello. 

They probably don’t even hear your sad and quiet excuse of a returned greeting, too enraptured by Robin’s own excited quip of saying hi. 

Your parents love her. Adore her in a way parents should care for their child’s closest confidant. They treat her like their own daughter, and Robin’s parents do the same for you. Once a month, your mothers meet up for mimosas over brunch and probably giggle about how lucky their girls are to have one another. 

You get it. You love her too. But certainly not in the way you should love your best friend. 

They finally leave, and Robin is quick to turn to you, eyes shining with all the stars and sunshine the Universe could have to offer, “That… um, thank you.”

“For what?” you laugh breathlessly, finally shifting forward, looking down at your thighs that had served as a temporary home to the girl who holds your heart, trying to swallow down any shame and all that rapid longing. 

“For… you know,” she smiles, a secret for the two of you to only ever keep, never sharing with the world. Selfishly, you almost enjoy the sentiment, “I’m sorry I was acting so weird about it before. You were right, it didn’t have to be weird unless we made it weird. I’m lucky to have you as my best friend, you know? And like I said, if you’re…. You know, doing that with boys, you’re going to be a certified heartbreaker. The world isn’t ready for my best friend. Besides! Another thing checked off the list, right?” she pauses, and you swear the smile has gone sad, but you can’t risk the projection, “Now we can both say we’ve done… that… before graduation! And-”

You speak before you can think better of it, interrupting her entirely, “I think I need more practice.” 

She stops in her tracks, eyebrows raising wildly and eyes turning to saucers, “What?”

“I think…” your head reels, desperate to come up with an excuse to kiss her again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. “I think I need more lessons, yeah? Like, I don’t know. More practice,” Oxygen evades you in desperation, giving your best puppy dog eyes, system in overdrive as you stare at her lips and your voice drops to a careful whisper, “My parents are out of town next weekend… Maybe we could try again then? Same time?” 

You swear her smile shifts, and you hadn’t even noticed the ingenuity in it previously until she dazzles you with one that must be real. As if you’ve just made her year, lightened her load, offered over your first born to the darling girl. 

“Well….” she moves her eyes across the room, focusing on a polaroid photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above the desk, “I mean, we did say lessons, plural. I can see if Steve will cover my shift on Saturday night if that works?” 

Am I doing this right? 

“That definitely works.”

Is she feeling what I’m feeling?

“Perfect. It’s a…. date, then.” 

“It’s a date.” 

It’s not. Only to you, never to her. 

But it’ll be enough. It’s enough to know next Saturday, she’ll be back here, in your bed and in your lap, getting that passion fruit chapstick all over your lips and shaking your chest from the inside out until it’s ready to burst. 

One day, you might be the brave one, when it’s all said and done. You’ll tell your best friend all the ways she feels so nice, and all the ways you want to capture that niceness in a bottle for the rest of your days. You’ll tell her the way you have no interest in the boys at school and how you’re cursed to forever be the heartbroken, never the heartbreaker, and only ever at her hand. The very same one clasping yours as she stands at your front door, thanking you vaguely once more, grinning ear to ear as she gives you three tight squeezes that are completely lost on you. 

Today’s not the day, though. Today is the day where you spend the night in your self-made cage, face buried in the pillow, noises somewhere between desperately muffled screams of frustration and dry sobs of torture leaving your lips as you picture the way she’d looked after the kiss. Her eyes softly shut, her lips still puckered, her neck entirely exposed as she tilts her chin back to look at your ceiling through her eyelids. Picturing the way that next time, you’ll try to convince her the two of you should learn the art of neck kisses. Picturing the way that next time, maybe you’ll grab her hips a little harder or let your hands wander a bit farther to her thighs. 

Tonight is the night you have no idea amongst your pity party, that Robin Buckley is on the other side of town, experiencing the exact same turmoil as she longs for the girl who tastes like her gifted strawberry lip smackers – the very same one Steve Harrington berated on her to get rid of when she’d vomited out all the ways she hates fake strawberry flavoring, but you love it, and she’d convinced herself if she bathed herself in enough of it, you might just want her the way she wants you. 

Tonight’s not the night, though. 

One day, the kissing lessons will simply be kisses. One day.

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[mikakuna]

imagine being so insensitive that you would blame a child for their death and openly talk about how badly behaved they were right in front of their grave. oh and on said child's birthday-- the day he would've turned 18 years old. you spend your first official late child's 18th birthday calling him brash and impulsive, implying he got himself murdered, instead of mourning the fact that today is the day your dead son would've reached a major milestone in his life.

[celaenaeiln]

Batman: *to the Justice League* This is Robin. He's in my care from now on.

Robin Dick: *emitting light from his smile* hi!

Justice League: Awwww! He's really cute but Batman, are you sure about this?

Batman: I've never been more sure.

JL: okay...

Dick: I'm robin! i'm 8! And you guys are the coolest people ever!!

JL: *melting into a puddle of love*

Hal Jordan: Man, how'd you pop out a kid like this bats?

Dick: He didn't. I adopted him.

Hal: what?

Dick: He's under my care now, all opinions and complaints about his behavior go through me.

Hal: uh. Well in that case, I feel for ya kid because Bats is a-

Dick: denied.

Hal: what?

Dick: your complaint is denied. rejected. unforgiven.

Hal: .....???

Dick: bye.

Batman: *tearing up behind his mask* Best. Decision. Ever.

[fakakta-art]

I screamed out, "How'd it get this bad?" And the thunder answered back; "If you know not what you lack Then you must un-turn your back Your inside is overcast You are tethered to your past And it must feel like fucking hell To be a patchwork of yourself"

The Thunder Answered Back by Gabby's World

[piratefishmama]

Steddie meeting years later down the line after going their separate ways, reuiniting at some dog park where they're both calling their respective dogs names and those dog names happen to be--

"EDDIE, GET BACK HERE!!"

"STEVE, DROP IT, GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!"

[nightwolf14292]

As much as I love TimKon, I prefer TimBern and it's mainly because of this:

“Bernard says I sacrifice myself like it's a bad thing.”

“But it's all I've ever known.”

“All that my family has ever been taught.”

Tim, out of all of the BatFamily members is the one that never really had a choice.

Bruce had a choice to become Batman. He almost retired, until things went badly again and he realized how much more awful Gotham would be if he did.

Dick had a choice to become Robin. When Bruce fired him he could've finished college and lived a normal life, but he chose to continue on as Nightwing.

Jason had a choice to become Robin. And while his mind had been messed with after being dunked in the Lazarus Pit, he had a choice to become Red Hood, too.

Damian had a choice to become Robin. He fought hard for the role, and seems to genuinely enjoy doing it.

Tim didn't have a choice to become Robin. Yes, no one actually forced him into the role, but he saw what had happened to Bruce after Jason's death (such as how he became more violent), and knew that Bruce needed a Robin to keep himself sane. He tried going to Dick, but Dick said the best he could do was help as Nightwing as he wasn't willing to be Robin again. So Tim felt like he had to take up the role, because Batman, his greatest hero, would lose it if he didn't.

Tim also didn't have a choice to give up being a vigilante, unlike the others. When he got replaced as Robin, Bruce was trapped in time and everyone but him thought he was dead. He didn't have Dick's experience of going out soul searching and deciding that being a hero was what he wanted in life, he had to almost immediately take up a new secret identity and start going on missions so he could find out what happened to Bruce.

I love TimBern so much, because Bernard is Tim's connection to civilian life. If you're a hero dating a hero, even when you're being civilians and doing civilian things, there's always going to be the knowledge of who you both are really, and the missions you've been on together (Such as Tim looking at Kon and remembering things like when he tried to clone him because he was ‘dead’). I feel like with Bernard, Tim can be a full on civilian and forget about the hero life for a while, and that makes it special.

Also I just think Bernard is neat :3

[robinfollies]

Been really pondering Fantoccio and the cursed citizens lately… like, if you’re stuck in a city for 15 years with some of your only company being these cursed globby versions of the people that used to surround you normally, you’d start to Notice Things that remind you of who they used to be, right?

[ghurab-alzilal]

*Damian and Raven spending an afternoon of video games together after defeating Trigon *

Damian: Wait a minute! Witch girl, I require your tutoring.

Raven: What? Do not think that with distractions you will be able to win.

Damian: No, listen. What is it calling when you look around and you aren't filled with a festering rage?

Raven: ...

Raven: Being happy?

Damian: ...

Damian: That's it! I'm happy.

[doodles-in-sand]

getting back into drawing after exams have bird siblings

[ghost-bxrd]

Jason opens his mouth to retort when his phone starts ringing.

And not any kind of ringing, no. It’s the fucking Spooky-Scary-Skeletons song.

This is a goddamn nightmare. He should have stayed in bed.

He has exactly two options.

One, not pick up.

Which would be a good option, the best option, if it were anybody else. Because Jason knows the fucker isn’t above trying to ring up the manor itself if he feels slighted.

Two, pick up. And suffer the most awkward birthday congratulations since… well, last year.

Jason glares at each and every curious Bat watching him from the sofa as he excuses himself and heads into the hall, pressing the green button with a long suffering sigh.

“What?”

“It has come to my attention that you have not yet contacted my daughter for your name day well wishes.“

Jason thunks his head against the wall.

“I’m busy.”

“I am aware,” Ra’s says smoothly, and Jason just knows the bastard is stirring his sinfully expensive blend of tea with some golden spoon, “And yet this has not stopped you before.”

“Is there a point to this call?”

“Yes. Do make sure to call my daughter soon. She is being quite insufferable.”

Righteous indignation rises inside Jason like hot coals.

“She isn’t—“

“She has disposed of three potential tutors since this morning,” Ra’s cuts him off, and Jason’s mouth snaps shut, “Yes, I do consider this to be insufferable. And your brother has brought it to my attention that the likely cause of her irritability is your lack of communication.”

“I’m busy.” Jason repeats, but it sounds petulant even to his own ears, “Look, I’ll call her as soon as I get out of here, ok?”

“Make sure that you do. Finding instructors is a difficult enough task without my daughter culling half their numbers before they even stepped across the threshold.”

“Maybe mom wouldn’t have to dispose of them if they were skilled enough to evade her.”

“Oh, some of them were,” Ra’s says drily, “But it proved to be for naught when she decided the your brother’s pets hadn’t had enough sustenance for the day.”

…so, maybe Jason should have called.

— silly little outtake of chpt X of What You’re Longing For (you claim to abhor)

[moongothic]

Et tu, Nico Robin

The way Crocodile reacts to what Robin says here is so interesting though, and I don't mean his decision to kill her, no, I do mean how he reacts

Like yes, as he says a few pages later, he "never trusted anyone from the start", Crocodile had been fully expecting someone would betray him eventually. And that does reflect in his calm demeanor in this whole scene, how he just accepts it and what'll happen next

But what interests me is how he seems almost... slightly sad? Which would be a natural reaction for someone to have if their belief of betrayal being unavoidable and eventual was confirmed like this. But also, it's not really an emotion you'd expect to see from Crocodile (even if it's mild and barely noticable)

Thing is though... Like Crocodile had made it a huge point how He Did Not Interact With His Minions Directly. He went out of his way to hide his identity to ensure success for Baroque Works, that's why he had Robin send out all the orders and borderline running the organization for him. It's why he ordered his agents to go hunt down the Strawhats and stop Vivi, to stop his identity from being leaked out and so that he could take over Alabasta without WG interference. But Crocodile isn't stupid. Surely he must have considdered it. Thought about the possibility. That Robin could've been the one who leaked out his identity to Vivi in the first place, that she had betrayed him already. After all, Robin was supposed to be the only one who knew who "Mr 0" really was.

And so in this moment, when Robin claims the Poneglyph does not mention Pluton at all... I wonder if this would've been confirmation in Crocodile's mind of Robin's betrayal, of her leaking his identity out in the first place. Yes, he says he's getting rid of Robin because she's not delivering on information about Pluton as promised, but that could be because he can't say for 100% certain if his suspicions are right; he can't read the Poneglyph so he can't tell for sure if Robin is telling the truth or if she's lying and intentionally withholding the information. He can't say for 100% certain Robin was the one who leaked his identity out either, it's just that if she had been planning against him this whole time in secret then of course she would refuse to co-operate here, of course she'd withhold the location of Pluton from him.

Had Robin told him Pluton's location here, perhaps Crocodile would've continued to believe (or hoped, at least) that Robin hadn't been the one to backstab him. But Crocodile does not trust others. Even if he can't know for a 100% certain, Robin not delivering on the information he had been promised did make it more likely she had been the one to backstab him to begin with. And this time, unfortunately, he was right in his beliefs. Robin did betray him.

Et tu

[thenightisland]

[loveyoufictionally]

I’d just like a glimpse in to the alternate universe where Jason living won the poll. Is the grass greener over there? Is Bruce nicer to Jason there? Does Sheila live? Does he stay with Bruce? Does he feel loved at all??????

[helpimstuckposting]

Coffee shop AU where Nancy keeps getting love letters written on napkins and can’t figure out who it is. She thinks it’s maybe Jonathan because he’s artsy and probably good with his words, or Steve who’s getting Eddie to write them but neither really make sense. Robin helps her try and sleuth out the admirer but they keep hitting dead ends because Robin is deliberately sabotaging the hunt. She doesn’t want Nancy to figure out she’s the one writing the letters because she’s much better at talking on paper and doesn’t want to ruin the friendship they’ve just barely started

[rockingrobin69]

Draco Malfoy: avid reader, passionate horse-lover, biscuit-inhaler, and always, always composed. Even when stuck in his old ancestral home for a dreary season, and especially when things start spinning out of control. With creepy Lord Riddle and weird murderous schemes and, worst of all, rude stable hands intent on 'saving' the proverbial 'day'. Yes, he's keeping oh-so composed, thank you for asking. Victorian era sort of mystery with murder! Romance! Horses! Humour! And Draco who's finally learning to, ah, let go of the reins.

In Defence of Good Taste

Choice tags: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Draco Malfoy is a brat, Draco Malfoy is a horse girl, dom/sub, mystery, secret identities, how to say gently: daddy issues

Excerpt:

“Hold!” a voice he didn’t recognise. Draco paused with a curious brow raised. “No-one’s allowed to take this mare. You’ll be so kind as to put her back, my lord.”

“How do you mean?” Draco frowned.

“She’s the young sir’s own horse, and he doesn’t allow anyone to ride her. If you’re a guest of Lord Malfoy’s, then you’re free to pick any of the other, most excellent steeds.”

Draco didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged. “Are you saying Isolde is not most excellent?”

“Well, if you ask me, she’s a little bit prissy, terrible temperament, and altogether not so—hey!” when Draco rounded behind her and stabbed an accusing finger in the man’s chest. “You’re—oh.”

“Oh,” Draco breathed out, dangerously. “Oh, indeed. One more word about my horse, and I’ll—who even are you?”

The man—boy?—gulped, bright green eyes wide behind round glasses. “I’m Harry. And you’re—”

“Draco,” as venomously as he could spit it. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh.”

He was shorter than Draco, but wider, a strong-looking build. Possibly around his age, give or take a year or so. Dark skin and darker hair, wide brow and respectable jawline. And stupid, as was painfully obvious from his remarks about the world’s best horse. “You’ll have to apologise, of course,” Draco smiled icily.

“I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t realise—”

“To the horse.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry opened and closed his mouth twice. “To the—horse?”

“Apologise to Isolde. For someone to speak of a divine creature so coarsely is an offence to nature herself. Apologise, now.”

Harry’s mouth was slightly open. He had very red lips. “I,” he said, and gulped, “am. Sorry. Isolde.”

“For speaking so coarsely,” Draco offered helpfully.

“For speaking so coarsely. You are of course a divine creature and I regret besmirching your name with my foul mouth. Is that enough, my lord?”

Read In Defence of Good Taste, new-shiny wip, prologue and chapter 1 posted on AO3!