This blog exists for one purpose: to lift up good writing.
Mission:
I read widely across fandoms and reblog pieces that deserve more eyes: quiet gems, strong character work, sharp prose, writers doing something interesting whether five people saw it or five hundred.
Notes donât matter here. Quality does.
Method:
Each recommendation is queued for peak visibility, tagged with the original authorâs tags, and includes a short comment on what caught my attention.
If you want your work considered, or want to share someone elseâs, feel free to send an ask. Anonymous is open.
Meander:
Settle in and read something new! Help good stories travel a little farther than they would have on their own.
Bellatrix breaks free from Azkaban a year early and tracks Voldemort to the Albanian forests. Now, instead of Wormtail alone, Voldemort has someone with brains by his side in Riddle House, someone whose loyalty has never wavered. Canon divergence from PoA onwards.
Fiction recommendation:
Ruby Seed is one of those pieces that makes you sit back and go, âOh, youâre doing something dangerous here and I like it.â
The psychological control in this is unreal. Bellatrixâs voice is razor-sharp, the manipulation is beautifully, terribly precise, and the way the story lets Fudge think heâs the clever one is fantastic. The execution is skilful and engaging. I guarantee you'll find yourself physically leaning in.
I love how patient this story is. It doesnât rush any horror or power dynamics. It lets everything unfold sentence by sentence, lie by lie, until youâre fully inside Bellatrixâs head and delightfully complicit in watching her weaponise weakness. Itâs dark, intelligent, and deeply uncomfortable, and it absolutely knows what itâs doing every millimetre of the way.
If you like works that implicitly understand character psychology at a frighteningly granular level, this is a must-read.
what if Pandora Rosier were a Christian homeschooler in rural Indiana and still managed to fall in love with Lily Evans? check out my fic the earth abideth forever
chapter 10 is out now and I should be able to update fairly regularly now!
summary: Walburga Black says she can no longer homeschool Evan Rosier. She sends Pandora with him to public school and tells her to keep him on the straight and narrow. At public school, though, she encounters new temptations from the devil, like wanting to be friends with Lily Evans.
thank you so much to pinknbae and goldfishinabottle for beta reading this; I truly would feel like it was too weird to put on the internet otherwise
If you like quiet, emotional character work, the earth abideth forever is doing something really special.
This fic lives in the soft, painful space between people, especially Lily, whose interior life here is so beautifully and carefully observed it almost hurts. The Midwestern setting matters and is very much a selling point. The homophobia isnât abstract, and the homesickness is emotional rather than geographic.
What really stands out is the relationship between Lily and Pandora: tentative, off-balance, but carefully crafted. So much of their connection lives in implication, restraint, and things not quite said, which makes it feel so realistic.
This is a fic about growing up left of center, about wanting connection without knowing how to reach for it yet, and it trusts readers to sit with its discomfort instead of smoothing it over.
Thoughtful, grounded, and quietly devastating in places. A strong recommendation.
Title: Marzenie i tajemnica (A Dream and A Secret)
Characters: Quirinus Quirrell, Helena Ravenclaw (The Grey Lady)
Author: @mustakissa86
If youâre in the mood for a beautifully grounded, character-focused Quirrell piece, âMarzenie i tajemnicaâ by @mustakissa86 is absolutely worth your time. I read it through Google Translate and it shines through with clarity and intention.
It carefully imagines late-80s Muggle Studies Quirrell: young, ambitious, restless, and quietly brilliant in a way that feels canon and human. The story lets him exist fully in his own skin, not as a caricature or a plot device, but as someone caught between the life he has and the life he wants.
Thereâs a lovely, understated melancholy to his daily routine, paired with this slow-blooming sense of purpose as the Grey Lady steps into the narrative.
Their scenes are handled with a soft, old-world eeriness that fits both characters perfectly. Her mentorship feels earned, and Quirrellâs aching to prove himself hits with a weight that surprised me. You see the makings of the man heâll become without pushing him into inevitability.
And I rarely see anyone write young Quirrell with this much respect for his intellect and his curiosity. The research threads, the ambition, the lingering sting of his school years, it all meshes into a portrait thatâs a little haunted, and very compelling.
Truly a lovely piece. This is one of my favorite interpretations of pre-canon Quirrell that Iâve ever read.
Title: Marzenie i tajemnica (A Dream and A Secret)
Characters: Quirinus Quirrell, Helena Ravenclaw (The Grey Lady)
Author: @mustakissa86
If youâre in the mood for a beautifully grounded, character-focused Quirrell piece, âMarzenie i tajemnicaâ by @mustakissa86 is absolutely worth your time. I read it through Google Translate and it shines through with clarity and intention.
It carefully imagines late-80s Muggle Studies Quirrell: young, ambitious, restless, and quietly brilliant in a way that feels canon and human. The story lets him exist fully in his own skin, not as a caricature or a plot device, but as someone caught between the life he has and the life he wants.
Thereâs a lovely, understated melancholy to his daily routine, paired with this slow-blooming sense of purpose as the Grey Lady steps into the narrative.
Their scenes are handled with a soft, old-world eeriness that fits both characters perfectly. Her mentorship feels earned, and Quirrellâs aching to prove himself hits with a weight that surprised me. You see the makings of the man heâll become without pushing him into inevitability.
And I rarely see anyone write young Quirrell with this much respect for his intellect and his curiosity. The research threads, the ambition, the lingering sting of his school years, it all meshes into a portrait thatâs a little haunted, and very compelling.
Truly a lovely piece. This is one of my favorite interpretations of pre-canon Quirrell that Iâve ever read.
Tags: Friends to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, longing, feelings denial, dual POV, allusions to smut further in the story
Summary: You always had a thing for Santi, the quiet one in your group of friends, until he drives you home and the carefully crafted distance between you dissolves into thin air
Authorâs note:Â
âš Starting tomorrow Iâll be joining the #DrabblesChallenge hosted by @thedrabblecollective! Before diving into the actual drabbles, I wanted to share this little intro story to give you some context about our main characters and where theyâre at when the first drabble begins.
Itâs my first time ever publishing something, so Iâm both super nervous and ridiculously excited đ«Ł So any love or words of encouragement will mean the world to me đ
Endless thanks to my soulsister @berryispunk for the gorgeous moodboard she made for me (Iâm obsessed!!) and, most of all, for being an endless source of inspiration and the reason I finally found the courage to share this. None of this would exist without her đ«¶
She had always been there, on the edges of the group. She had known Frankie through Bee, when her best friend and the pilot had started dating, and from there, she had quietly slipped into the orbit of the Millers, and of Santiago GarcĂa.
 Santi.Â
Quiet, calm, impossible to read, and yet impossible to ignore. From the very first moment, there was something about him that held her, a stillness that contrasted with the chaos of the others, and a way of looking that seemed to see more than what was obvious.
Years of gatherings, dinners, and shared laughter had woven a strange closeness between them: they had known each other what feels like forever, and yet, they had never really been alone. There were always friends around, conversations that pulled them both along, and an invisible thread that kept them orbiting without colliding. She had seen him with other girls; he had glimpsed her fleeting romances, none of which had ever filled the quiet space that had always existed between them, though neither of them would admit it.
In her heart, she kept a small, sweet hope, discreet and delicate, that he might see her as more than a friend. She had buried it as many times as she had tried to ignore it, convinced Santi would never look at her that way.Â
And yet, there she was, watching him at that gathering, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence and wondering, once again, if he had ever noticed her the way she had always noticed him.
When the rain began to tap against the pavement, the group dispersed, umbrellas popping open and hurried goodbyes all around. And then it happened: Santi, always so calm, so aware, offered to drive her home. Alone, for the first time. Without the barrier of the group, without the safety of routine.
For the first time, the orbit shifted just enough for something to change.
Fic Rec:
In Your Orbit is a beautifully paced, quietly magnetic friends-to-lovers slow burn.
What always strikes me in @rhapsodyofdarkness's work is the musicality in the prose. Each beat feels timed to an emotional shift, the way a good piece of music carries you.
Santi and the narrator orbit each other with an aching, careful distance thatâs tender and painful at the same time. The longing is soft rather than dramatic, and the restraint is what makes it hit. The piece has a real gift for letting you feel the unsaid.
If you like slow burn, emotional precision, and stories that work by atmosphere as much as plot, In Your Orbit is a great series of drabbles to enjoy.
tags: Regency AU!, Longing, Mr. Darcy level pining, Frankie has no rizz but too many feelings, Period-typical attitudes, Slow burn, protective!Frankie (adding tags as we go)
summary: He came to the ball as a stranger in borrowed finery, but the moment your gloved hand brushed his, Frankie Morales felt something shift in him he had no words for yet.
author's note: This is Chapter 1 of Grace & Gravitas! The story is already nearly finished, so weâll have about three to four parts in total, depending on how much I end up writing. Itâs heavily inspired by my Roman Empire, Pride & Prejudice, and let me tell you, writing in Regency-era language is not for the weak. Anyway, enjoy! <3
word count: ~ 2,3 k
â read on ao3 too â
If someone had told Frankie that he would one day be expected to attend balls and exchange overly polite pleasantries as though his life depended on it, heâd have said heâd sooner catch a bullet on the battlefield again.
This was not where he belongedânor where he ever imagined himselfâand yet here he stood, feeling indefinitely out of place. The guests were courteous enough, their gazes skimming past him with the practiced indifference of the ton, but he caught the way some of the ladies tried not to stare. Their fans fluttered. Their eyes traveled over him. Not in disgust, but in something perilously close to condescension. As if trying to decide exactly what sort of creature he was.
He felt like a wolf in borrowed finery. He had always despised the higher peerage; he knew too well what they thought of someone like him. The bastard son of a maid and a lordâan indiscretion tucked away and then shipped off to become a soldier. That was all he had ever been permitted to be.
And yet now, after the death of an uncle he had never met, Frankie found himself the owner of four thousand hectares of land he had never set foot on. He had barely known the manâs name, certainly never his face. Not until the funeral, where strangers offered him condolences and congratulations in the same breath.
Lord of Greywood Estate. That was his new title.
Suddenly he was the one receiving bows rather than giving them. He was handed ledgers full of numbers he barely understood and greeted by staff waiting for instructions he did not know how to give. It was foreign. And frankly, terrifying.
Tonight was no different. The tailcoat felt stiff across his shoulders, the cravat too tight around his throat. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, lingering far from the center of the ballroom, half-hidden behind an absurd arrangement of roses whose heavy scent gave him a dull ache behind the eyes.
Music swelledâviolins and flutes weaving delicate patterns above the hum of laughter and the bright shimmer of chandeliers that felt much too dazzling for a man like him. He adjusted his collar for the seventh time. It still felt like it belonged to someone elseâsomeone polished, uncalloused and unburdened.
But then movement at the edge of his vision.
Green. A deep, dark green, luminous in candlelight.
A gown. A woman he did not know.
You.
You moved through the crowd with a quiet, natural grace that stood in stark contrast to the rehearsed elegance around you. Beside you walked another silhouette until she drifted off and left you alone. Your hair was pinned neatly, but one curl had escaped, soft against your temple. He envied itâabsurdlyâthat tiny rebellion against the rigid rules of the evening.
Frankie had only a view of your back, but it was enough to pull him out of himself. Enough to make him blink twice, as though unsure whether you were a trick of the light or something conjured by a mind desperate for something real among all this pastel opulence.
He remained rooted where he was, though every fiber of him wanted to step forward. To follow the rare sight of you.Â
To say something. Anything.
To make you feel less alone in this room full of polished strangers, now that the figure beside you had slipped away.
But Francisco Morales was a man of few words even on a good day, and tonight felt like a battlefield disguised in silk and etiquette.
Still, he kept glancing at you.
When you tucked a stray curl behind your ear. When you smoothed the ribbon of your glove. When someone approached you and he felt himself tense until they turned away.
It was absurd, truly.Â
He triedâtruly triedânot to follow you with his eyes again, but when your silhouette drifted a touch closer to the periphery, he felt the shift in the air before he even saw you. Like an unknown, strong gravity he never witnessed before.Â
Someone was approaching him. No, you were.
You werenât looking directly at him at first, merely moving toward the refreshment table where he happened to be standing near that ridiculous vase of roses. He straightened instinctively, as though remembering too late that he was meant to look like a man who belonged here. Even if he felt anything but.
Your gloved hand reached for a glass of punch at the exact moment his did.
Your fingertips brushed his knuckles.
Just the softest graze, silk against callus.
You startled, looked up and Frankie felt something inside him snap taut.
Your eyesâclear, bright despite the candlelightâwidened in that polite, surprised way society women do when they accidentally touch someone. But it wasnât embarrassment or disdain he saw.
It was curiosity. Warm. Real. Disarming.
âOh, my apologies,â you murmured, dipping your head the slightest bit. âI did not mean to intrude.â
âNot at all, my lady,â Frankie said, voice low, steady in a way he didnât feel. âThe fault is mine.â
For a heartbeat you both held the glass, neither claiming it nor letting go, as if the universe had contrived the worldâs most fragile standoff. Then you withdrew your hand gently but his skin still felt warmed where your hand had been.
You seemed about to walk away until Frankieâwho rarely spoke unless he had toâheard himself say:
âForgive my mannersâmay I offer you this one?â
He handed you the glass with a small bow, more respectful than practiced. You hesitated, then smiled. A soft, unsure little thing that hit him harder than any pistol ever had.
âThank you,â you said, accepting it. âThatâs very kind of you.â
Frankie cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the weight of every unfamiliar etiquette rule pressing upon him.
He should introduce himself. Right? That was the custom.
âI amââ His jaw flexed. This still felt foreign. âFrancisco Morales. Lord of Greywood Estate.â
Your lips parted just slightly in recognition. His title was new enough that people still reacted, but there was no awe or calculation in your expression. Only polite interest and something else. Something that made his pulse thrum more than it should.
âIt is a pleasure, Lord Greywood,â you said with a graceful curtsey. âI am Miss Maine.â
He liked the way your name fit against his teeth. He liked the way you looked at him even more. Not like an oddity, nor a burden, but a man.Â
You glanced toward the center of the ballroom, where dancers shifted in perfect coordinated symmetry, but your eyes drifted back to him just as quickly.
âI hope you are enjoying the evening,â you said, and though it was a polite question, there was a flicker of amusement behind it. As though you already suspected the truth.
Frankie huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh. âEnjoying might be too strong a word, miss.â
Your smile widened. âThen perhaps this evening has been long for the both of us.â
The both of us. That simple phrase caught at something deep within him, tightening like a vice around places he had not believed could still stir.
Before he could form a reply, another womanâs voice chimed across the hall calling your name. Pulling you back toward the safety of the crowd, where a young woman was expected to stay, for lingering at the fringe without a chaperone was a liberty society would not overlook.
You inhaled softly, half-apologetic. âI must go,â you said, stepping back. âBut I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, Lord Greywood.â
He bowed his head, but his eyes didnât leave yours.
âAs am I, Miss Maine.â
You turned, disappearing into the sea of silk and polished manners.
For the first time all evening, Frankie felt something like steadiness return. As though this nightâthis brief, unexpected momentâhad finally offered him a truth in the midst of the foolish absurdity his life had become.
***
In the days that followed, Frankie attended every social gathering of the seasonâmore than he had ever stomached in his entire lifeâeach one endured in the quiet, stubborn hope that you might appear again.
But you never did.
Instead, he found himself rewarded with gossip.
Whispers drifting through drawing rooms and card tables, sliding like poison between fans and teacups.
Whispers about you.
Your modest upbringing.
The absence of a distinguished family name.
The loss of your parents.
That your heritage was not entirely English, just as his was not.
And worst of all: that you were ânearly past the ideal age for marriage,â spoken with the kind of pity that made his jaw clench.
The words spread through him like bile.
These cruel, careless opinions tossed about by people who had never spoken a kind word to you. Spoken where you could not defend yourself, and where he was not permitted to.
He stood there, hands tightening behind his back, swallowing fury he had no right to show.
Because he had known you mere minutes. And already the urge to shield you from every vicious whisper was sharper than anything heâd ever felt.
He endured several gatherings in this manner, jaw tight, expression unreadable, until one evening the whispers grew too bold.
He had taken refuge near the refreshmentsâalways a safer cornerâwhen a cluster of ladies nearby lowered their voices. Not enough. Their words reached him with ease still.
ââŠthe poor creature has no family to speak of, hardly a suitable match.â
âAnd so dreadfully near the brink of spinsterhoodâŠâ
âHalf-foreign besides. One must be charitable, of course, but such prospectsâŠâ
What came next was laughter, airy and unkind, as if their remarks held no offense in them.
Frankieâs grip tightened around his glass until the crystals along the rim thrummed. He knew he had no rightâno placeâto intervene outright. But he could not remain silent, either.
He stepped forward. Not into their circle, not enough to draw scrutiny. It was just near enough that politeness required acknowledgement.
âLadies,â he said with a courteous bow of his head.
They startled, fans snapping open like shields.
âLord Greywood,â one tittered. âWe did not see you there.â
âNo,â he replied mildly, âthough I confess I could not help overhearing mention of Miss Maine.â
Their eyes widened in surprise that he would admit such a thing.
Frankie continued, voice even, almost cool, but carrying an unmistakable weight: âI had the pleasure of meeting Miss Maine at the ball last week. I found her conversation gracious, her manners impeccable, and her character⊠quite distinguished, if I would have the right to judge.â
A beat. The faintest tremor of discomfort among the ladies.
He added, with polite finality: âIt is a rare quality, I think, to remain kind in a world that does not always offer kindness in return, especially without a title attached to one's name.â
He bowed again, cordially, and wished them a good evening before he walked away.Â
And though his pulse thudded hot beneath his collar, he forced his expression back into its usual stoic calm. He could not defend you openly, not without risking your name, not without revealing just how fiercely he already cared.
But this he could do.
A small correction. A gentlemanâs rebuke wrapped in courtesy.
Something told him it would not be the last time he had to offer it.
***
It happened on an evening when Frankie had nearly given up.
Another ball. Another room full of glittering ball gowns and suffocating etiquette. Another night of forcing himself into conversation with men who thought too highly of themselves and women who looked at him as if he were some fascinating but slightly dangerous specimen.
He had resigned himself to enduring the hours, jaw set and posture stiff, when the doors at the far end of the ballroom opened.
And you stepped through.
Frankie stopped breathing, stopped moving. The noise of the room dimmed to a dull, distant hum.
You were dressed in soft shades of ivory and sage, subtle but luminous, the candlelight catching in your hair like it had been waiting for you. You looked calm. Self-possessed. A little nervous. But most of all radiant in a way that made his chest tighten painfully.
For a moment he simply stared, rooted to the spot as though heâd been struck.
You came.
The thought nearly buckled his knees.
He had imagined this moment a dozen timesâeach version more foolish than the lastâbut none had prepared him for the force of it. The realness of you. The way the room changed around you, as though everything had shifted its orbit to make space.
He wanted to approach, speak to you. But his body refused to move, a soldier frozen by orders he hadnât yet received.
You were speaking with a blonde girl next to you now. The same one that called out your name last time he recognized. She was smiling a polite little smile and Frankieâs palms grew damp inside his gloves.
Finally he forced himself to cross the room. Every step felt like marching through waist-high water.
You turned just as he reached you. Eyes widened, recognition softening your features, and Frankie felt his pulse hammer against the edge of his collar.
âLord Greywood,â you greeted gently.
He bowed. Too stiff, too deep. Too much a man not used to bowing in silk. You dipped into a curtsey that was far more graceful, and he swallowed hard to steady himself.
He cleared his throat, more gruffly than he intended.
âMiss Maine.â
A beat of silence, then another. The air pressed around him, thick with the scent of flowers and candle wax and the faintest trace of whatever perfume clung to your skin.
He hadnât rehearsed this beforehand, wasnât even sure he could speak without revealing too much. But his body moved before his fear could stop him.
âIf⊠if you would permit me,â he said quietly, âI should like to ask for the honor ofââ
He cleared his throat again.
ââa dance.â
His voice failed him despite his efforts, and your friend at your side quickly stifled a laugh behind her fan.
Your lips parted, surprised.
He braced for refusal. He always braced for refusal.
Fic rec:
What makes the piece so lovely is the gentle bloom of romance. A brush of fingertips at the punch bowl. A glance that lingers longer than it should. And the quiet fury Frankie feels when societyâs gossip turns unkind toward the woman heâs drawn to.
Berry writes longing with beautiful restraint. The ballroom scenes are immersive, the tension simmers, and Frankieâs voice is so human in a world trying to make him something heâs not.
If you like slow-burn, respectful yearning in a richly built period setting, this is a gorgeous read.
