Hi everyone, my name's Nera and I have too many blogs. I've made some decisions and so I've consolidated everything to this blog as a lot of the original wips will be all behind the scenes so if you recognize me from NERASNOTES/QUILL/FICS .. everything from those projects/blogs will now be here. Thank you for your patience in this trying time.
That being said, this blog will function in a multitude of ways and will include my fanfictions, my ramblings, memes and fanfictions I love, things from other writers' wips I'm excited for, and whatever else I throw in. I'll be putting insanely short original wip summaries under the cut for anyone interested.
Summary: ㅤAn empire built with the bones of the slaughtered. A dynast driven mad with power and bloodlust. Old Gods returning as the serpent feeds further on its own tail. Wars spreading, a plague of grief and rage. And an ancient darkness slipping up from the depths of its own prison.
Genre: ㅤhigh fantasy, thriller, political drama, adventure fantasy
Inspirations: ㅤWheel of Time by R. Jordan, The Hobbit / LotR by Tolkien, The Witcher by A. Sapkowski, and other work ㅤㅤorig. on nerasquill
I am once again begging people to realize that AI checker doesn’t work. it’s never worked. it’s notoriously known to have flagged human-made works as AI and AI-generated works as human-made. and by feeding it people’s works, you are feeding more works to AI, because apparently the machine itself is AI.
the only thing AI checker does is harm genuine artists and people in general too.
This has been an ongoing issue with a friend of mine in uni, their professors have flagged multiple assignments as AI simply because they're written well and have driven them out of courses for withholding marks or even accepting the assignments. They've even reached out to the dean but in the end they had to drop the courses. The depressing secondary aspect of this is the implication that anyone able to string together thoughts and support their own arguments are now actively being hurt and targeted because these professors no longer have faith students can do so without AI ...
ship: Sirius Black x Female Lestrange!reader
Rating: Explicit
summary: the Lestrange family was as old and possibly as equally as terrifying as any of those from the noble house of Black, after all, Bellatrix was celebrating a new marriage to Rudolphus and that left the younger Lestranges to recruit and terrorize sympathizers to muggles and their filthy kin. but you-- youre the youngest Lestrange and the name doesn't fit quite as well with your brothers as it does you...... and Sirius is only just noticing something very important about it
warnings: fab!reader, no use of y/n ( mostly be referred to as Lestrange or Little Lestrange ), no descriptions of reader ( no hair color or body shape descriptions idk what they're tagged as on here ), dark themes, blood purity, prewar hogwarts, increasing violence amid students ( primarily against and towards muggle/half blood students ), mentions of childhood and family abuse, implications of domestic abuse, verbal abuse, threats of violence/death, the Black and Lestrange families deserve a warning on their own, possibly sociopathic tendencies but not be clinical so -- not sure, moral ambiguity, death eaters, sexual themes, drug/alcohol use, vivid nightmares, forced curses, james and remus being mistrusting idiots in the beginning, ... and maybe some cute stuff in there too ...
word count: 886
notes: this was an idea i had after listening to the song The Village by!--. as someone who's always written OCs and not so much reader-inserts i'm not sure how well this'll turn out BUT if you want me to continue it please leave a comment or a reblog because that means the world to us creators! ...... i also just realized my other oneshot.. doesn't have... a summary... welp - this chapter doesn't include sirius, he will be in the next part once the reader goes back to hogwarts this is sort of just setting the stage and to see how you guys like my writing style.. hope you enjoy either way!
Dinners were expected to be had together and when those dinners included death eater meetings, those not in attendance without explicit permission for their absence were drug in, by hair or nail and — well, absence stopped being an issue. Permanently. It wasn't a meeting tonight, however, no, this was a joyful gathering. Food and drink celebrating a business deal gone well. Bellatrix still wore the expensive silken wedding gown with imported lace, gold beading, and charmed into a swirling, shifting, churning sea of shadows; slithers of the Lestrange house colors and the Blacks coiling and writhing amid it all while others slid along the dress' skirt and bodice. Amid all the "merry-making", the volume never rose above a polite chatter. The drink never came easy enough to inspire any questionable behavior; a wedding celebrated as mutely and subtly as any in a board room. Candles flickered in a sparkling golden chandelier, the finest silver polished to enviable shine, and food laid out of every kind as long as money could be spent and stir conversation. The families always festered with subtle and well practiced pride.
The House of Black housed a bloodline as ancient and pure as the founder they claim relation to. A family dripping in wealth and influence, who held one of the highest seats of honor amid those of the purest blood. This marriage was one of convenience and strategy, the Black family needed to reclaim their power and honor after the shame and ridicule their eldest has wrought and aligning yourselves with such a family only gave the Lestranges more advantage, not only amid death eaters, but placed their family, finally, above the Blacks.
As deeply as their hatred of muggles ran, Grimauld Place remained a home of decadence and opulence. Furnishing from long lost ships swallowed by the north sea, riches squirreled away in hidden stones and forgotten passageways; rumors continued to slither from lips in hushed voices of bone worked into Grimauld Place's very bedrock. Hiding in plain sight, the family always claimed, but many know there's more to their location than merely wanting to be nearer their future prey. The Lestrange manor, however, never managed to reach the same level of mysticism and intrigue. Theirs was a stone castle cut from the deepest rock in the cliffs of the Black Sea; a rough unforgiving stone the hue of soot and brimstone ensuring the air remains moist. Stone blocks remained uniform from grave to galley never once shifting from its final resting place. A castle as old as theirs, centuries of war and battle wounds carved into turrets and gaping at the deepest, oldest, sections, dripped continually with the unpleasant smells of damp earth and all forms of mold and moss it fed, and the sticky stench of death that from the family mausoleum lining the lower levels. In short, the Lestrange manor was built on a crypt and smelled of a grave. Death upon death upon —
Distantly, the air sparked prickling up your spine and becoming static at the base of your skull. A warning. A survival instinct you'd perfected over so many years fearing your own breath. How long had you drifted? At first, nothing seemed different. Bodies still twirled and danced around in practiced rehearsed dances, smears of black on black with the very rare streaks of mossy green and deep wine red. Shades too deep to really differentiate between if anyone asked you. No one would though. No one ever did. The electricity worsened, pricking down the lengths of your arms bringing your spine to a coil, tightening the spring and winding tighter and tighter preparing for a fight you'd most certainly wish were a flight.
"You'll be next, you know." Your brother's voice felt like the thickest oil; greasy as it slipped over you and the feel of it stained with every word he spat. Rabastan never did like you.
"It would have to be," you replied flatly, " no one would stoop as low as you offer you a daughter." Without any change or even a pitying glance you added, "Maybe you'll find a man—" The stinging itself was familiar and maybe that would be depressing if it had ever be unfamiliar. Sometimes you found yourself poking and instigating fights and purposefully spoke smartly just because not being hit felt like a trap. A cruel way to store all the frustration and anger and displeasure in life just to unleash on you all at once. It wasn't relief you felt when things were still in the manor — it was fear.
Rabastan's snarl came with wet, spitting warning, "Don't forget your place in this world," your name sounded dirty, almost pitying a horrid thing, "you're lucky to be sat here in your pretty little dress all dolled up and smelling so good," his nose dug into the hair above your ear inhaling deeply. You swallowed your words and discomfort hard knowing better than to shift in expression by any degree. "You'll be right here, where you belong, and we have you here for another seven days." You preferred the snarl to the way your brother looked at you now.
And then those pricks began to burn.
please consider reblogging or commenting! means a lot to creators!
to the anon who asks me about my proship stance, I have already answered every single question you've asked many, many times on my blog and I don't want to repeat myself again, especially when my answer stays the same.
I consider myself proship, profic and anti censorship. because fiction is not reality. there are some topics in fiction that I am uncomfortable with, but what I do is that I curate my own internet experience by avoiding topics I don't like and minding my own business — instead of harassing real people over fiction.
and no, fiction does not reflect a person's in-real-life moral compass. I enjoy slasher movies, that does not mean I enjoy murders in real life. I play video games that contain violence, that does not mean I condone violence in real life.
fiction is. just fiction.
art can be taboo and macabre.
not to mention how a lot of victims and survivors use dark fiction to cope and heal from their trauma.
but even if someone is never a victim, thought crimes and dark fantasies are just that: fantasies. they are not real. nobody in real life is being harmed.
my belief is that people can enjoy whatever they want in fiction. as long as no one in real life is harmed.
to quote what I have already said for a dozen of times: if someone lets fiction affect them enough to the point they do bad things and hurt people in real life, then they are already troubled and are a danger to themself and those around them, with or without the media they consume.
also censorship is a fascist tool meant to control people and a slippery slope. if we allow one thing to be censored, anything and everything that isn't sunshine and rainbow and of conservative value can and will be censored too. and harassment is something I will never condone, especially when it's over fiction.
if it's stupid to harass people for enjoying horror movies, it's just as stupid to harass people over fictional ships or what they read/write about fictional characters.
I know my followers are tired of me repeating myself again and again and again. I am too.
It amazes and frightens me how so many people seem to not realize the very simple point you've stated here ( and you've mentioned repeatedly ) : writing isn't the only medium these topics are used. Horror movies, crime thrillers, video games, and especially art as you've mentioned ALL explore the darker and more taboo aspects of the human psyche, this is what makes us human, what makes us empathetic, not because we SHARE or AGREE with these things but because we have the ability to step outside of ourselves and see the world from all these fantastical views.
Not to mention there are multiple other professions who use the ability and skill of looking through the eyes of violent, monstrous people for the very purpose of protecting others ( criminal psychologists, behavioral analysts, forensic pathologists, forensic psychiatrists/psychologists etc ) so no just because you write, draw it, watch it, or put your feet in those shoes doesn't make you a monster it might make you a protector. but it definitely makes you human.
and i will not even get on my other soapbox about censorship because... that's another post
not to mention you can always just ... NOT partake in the media. it's kinda like skipping boring shows or walking by books in sections you don't like. kind of like, yknow, having autonomy without needing your hand held because you can't trust yourself to make decisions...
tldr; completely agree with you OP and all of your points and add my two cents on the psychological and criminal advantages of being able to put ourselves in the shoes of horrible people, horrible circumstances, and questionably moral.
I wish we still had those old smoking parlors and maybe even speakeasies but just the places all the intellectuals of the Victorian Era would all gather to exchange ideas, knowledge, and experiences? The dens where drink came freely and maybe some light finger foods while people poured over anthropological studies, explored medical advancements and scientific wonders, where writers met with scholars and stories were crafted and histories made. The places that helps hone Bram's weaving and building of Dracula's Transylvania and creature-hood, places where Shelley and Hemingway met like-minded writers and philosophers.
Those rich white men really peaked with those little lounges and their gay little dinner dates but damn it I want those back! Let me go somewhere for a drink and meet some ridiculously accredited anthropologist with a PhD in linguistics to help me craft an entirely new language. Or a an ethnobotanist to help me cultivate an entire culture's herbs, spices, and other fauna and their uses! Bring this back we wasted it on aristocratic white men!
In moments of deathly stillness, when all sound, breath, and the static of life dissipated into the thickening dark, as the air staled and thinned, and the floor became ceiling, in the dizzying disorienting nothing, Sirius' breath came quick and shallow, everything anchoring and stabilizing destabilizes, that's when it comes quietly and beckoning. Lyssa's voice called.
note: these posts may or may not relate to other writing on this blog and are exercises suggested in ㅤthis postㅤ i'm not used to this style of writing yet and so these posts will serve as practice, exercises, and tests for later works and drafts. feel free to use this post and the linked post for your own needs and practice! and also feel free to tag me in anything you may decide to use this for, id love to read them all!
i originally found this on pinterest so all credit to the OP and of course to the source material this might have come from! i think this is a really neat practice and helps stretch and maybe strengthen some new brain ridges i know i struggle with!
𝗕𝗘𝗬𝗢𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗔 𝗔𝗨 ⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆ 𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗩𝗘 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡
Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl. mermaid!reader
all in one place — newest first
the first fic
you attempt to figure each other out
Steve tells Robin about the mermaid
you are nearly discovered
you spend a few hours in bed
Steve takes you back to the pool
you meet Dustin and Eddie
Eddie teaches you how to swear
Steve gets hurt by the pool
you ask for company
you have a hand to heart
Steve gets you some bikinis
you, Steve, and unending eye contact
you don’t understand and get upset
you give Steve an important gift
everyone tries to cheer you up
an animal outside scares you
you make a big change
Steve takes you to the mall for clothes
Steve explains ‘want’
Robin discovers your new features
you take your first bath
Steve feels you ‘purring’
you get the wrong idea about Nancy
you go klepto, to Steve’s distress
you take a bite out of Steve’s arm
you need Steve to explain real kissing
Steve gives you your kiss
there’s an intruder in the house
you hurt yourself making a bagel
Steve realises what’s missing
you wake up in an unfamiliar room
Steve’s guilty conscience creates distance
you and Hopper have a talk
you get a kiss for your headache
Steve takes you to lovers lake
STAHP THIS IS SO CUTE!? i love, love, love, LOVE everything about this au. It was such a cute and unexpected au idea and i'm so glad i've gotten to follow along this wild ridiculously cute ride. i love this. i love them. and i love you OP.
ship: Sirius Black x Female Lestrange OC
Rating: M
summary: sirius black has been thrown into azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. its been months, maybe years, since the dark of that prison swallowed him but somewhere in the dark is a perisistent sound, a mocking but bubbling laugh. not crazed or hollow, something dangerously close to melodic. a song of distant whispers -- and revealing secrets.
warnings: dark themes, takes place within Azkaban, prisoner Sirius, mentions of dementors, vague descriptions of injury and torture, not entirely edited, written quickly so not my best but--
word count: 1.5k
notes: this was just an idea i had earlier and i wanted to get it down. added the xreader tag just in case theres any interest in maybe my tweaking this into a lestrange/death eater reader and sirius series of one shots more or less plotless but-- might be fun for my dark romance and dark theme babes. anyway -- enjoy!
Stone shouted every scream, howl, sob, and deranged laughter back throughout the damp halls. Wrought iron bars rusted not from dripping sea water but the salt of relentless tears and heated blood. Wraith jailers stalked every small, hollow cell, silent executioners charged with a ceaseless death. A life term imprisonment spent dying. Days stretched to weeks, spiraling deliriously into years— or longer. Time became a distant memory. A word, a concept, forgotten; fed to those faceless specters along with everything beautiful and kind. Strange, Sirius thought disjointedly, how something unconnected to the physical being could affect it so. His own hope for salvation, any remnant of self and preservation, even his stubborn refusal to lose his own self, has steadily, strategically, and viciously chipped away leaving him nothing but a hollowed shell of nothing but cold agony.
A thunder of sea crashed into the side of Azkaban causing the stones to tremble and shriek all their own rolling the young Black's eyes upward unable to even cower at the passing Dementor. Its passing implied Sirius hadn't any peace to rip from him yet. It was becoming so hard to reach for their addictive warmth, more and more time passed the weaker his mind became. The more addled and weak he became.
"You're awful loud this time, Black." A rumbled brook of cool water trickled his way, the words coated in the purr of such a constant chill that pulled at something in the back of his mind. Not sticky and warm like anything fond and happy to draw another Dementor for a feast but merely — familiar. "You're typically loud, of course, but this feeding you sounded absolutely deranged." Sirius lifted his head, craning it towards a missing stone near the top of his cell. That giggle… the musical discordant chiming —
"Lestrange," the name came on a snarl. Yes, the youngest Lestrange but not his cousin nor the infamous Rabastan and Rodolphus, no — their sister. "Caught you along with the rest of your shite family?"
"Don't be so rude. I'm sure your entire shite family's around — somewhere. Oh perhaps they're enjoying the rooftop views." Another chilling ripple of knell bells and Sirius felt heat thread into his blood dragging with it the sting of venom surging his body up towards the small opening, yellowed teeth cracking in a vicious snarl.
"What my family's done does not put blood on my hands!"
"And yet mine does?" It came fast, harsh, and bitterly through the stale air. Somewhere in the dark of his neighboring cell he puzzled out the shape of something darker than the dark. No chains were needed in this place, amid dementors, the ceaseless stormy sea colliding into the tower, and a place where time itself became swallowed into the nothing prisoners soon feared life outside the safety of their cells and yet, something in Lyssa Lestrange's cell glinted briefly. "I am here under the trials and sentences of a family I had not asked to be bred into, beneath beliefs not my own and crimes committed by me out of nothing but the human need to survive, for the prevailing of my own worthless, hungry, cowardice life and why are you here, Black? What crime is it you committed so disgustingly unforgivable that you've been tossed among the death eaters to rot? Gryffindor's golden Black, the black sheep of the Noble House, hm?" An onslaught of biting, spitting, relentless words rushing him masterfully. Strategically. Disorienting. Although he could not see her properly, he sensed her slowly recoiling further into her pit. All bite and venom slipped into something somehow far more biting, "Oh I do like when you're quiet but want to know a secret? I much prefer the way you sound when.. you.. scream."
Sirius shook with such violence his bones rattled and his teeth audibly cracked leaving the taste of the enamel at the back of his throat but like the snake of her Hogwarts house, Lyssa merely slithered among the shadows. A shadow in the deep waves of a bottomless ocean. Every word he had racket up his throat and ready to unleash clattered to the pit of an empty stomach, rattled about his head like cracked glass. Unwelcome visions of James, his best friend, his bright eyes and easy laugh, the warmth of his embrace, the firm unshakeable trust in all those close to him, James with the courage of a lion and a heart unmatched in worth and size came crashing through Sirius only to be sensed, tracked, and then pulled right back out. A wretched, shameless, sobbed scream ripped through him along with every one of those blessed memories and visions and behind it settled the chill of death. The cold of a bottomless grave. The hollowed out chill of emptiness. Another wave of icy stabbing, nerves misfiring hot, cold, stinging, burning at every synapse drug following memories from his very soul. The sound James' laugh, the warmth of his friend's embrace, the smell of quiddich jerseys and drunken nights spent stargazing or swimming in Black Lake. Cackling, howling, and distantly, mockingly, the drifting sound of James calling his name pulled Sirius from the cell and into a temporary death…
Psst, Sirius blinked sluggishly but couldn't rouse entirely. Another hiss between teeth now followed by his name… but not James' voice now. Something still, steady. "Are you awake yet, Black? They've brought bread if you're not hungry could you toss it through, love? Hm? Mine's more mold than wood." She giggled quietly. Comfortably. Sirius' eyes opened but nothing came clearer. His own cell cradled no light outside what may shine against wet stone. The cold of the sea warmed him and slowly that gift of an end slipped into the pain resurgence of life. Sirius could only shudder through a sob, shamelessly pleading with nothing for a reprieve. Some kind of ease to his torment. A lessening of that deep aching agony of his loss. "They'll only keep coming, you know," Lyssa reminded cruelly, "You with all your friends, and all your happiness, a whole bloody life full of warm, sticky, endless adoration, love, and gooey memories. All of them pure and unblemished. No wonder we're a bustling hallway of hungry ghosts." Her laugh was muffled but it punched the air from his lungs.
"Must be that's why they threw you next to me," Sirius spat clawing at the stone searching for up, "those bloody demons starve on bitches like you, don't they? Leave the beastly sight of you hungrier than when they arrived!" After so many smart comments and bitter insults, her moment of silence startled him.. Eerily the entirety of the prison fell into a foreign impending nothing. The screaming ceased. Every familiar, constant, predictable sound Sirius so relied on to anchor his sanity collapsed on its head. Only the dripping of water met his cell. Was this a new hell? Sirius barely felt his feet beneath him, wasn't entirely certain he was even stood and only aware he moved on some innate molecule too primitive to name. His breath stuttered towards that window into the cell beside his. "You're scared same as me, aren't you? The great Lyssa Lestrange, afraid of dying." Whatever brought about the loss of sound crackled with the pitching, hysterical laugh Sirius felt in his chest but seemed lost in the distance as soon staccato into it.
"A want to live is not the same as a fear of death," a hush stirred along the ground, slithering from all directions. "There are worse things than our own death, Black, here, let them show you—"
Lightening struck Sirius at the base of his spine shocking a blinding, white hot pain so deep withing him the marrow of his bones blackened and with that — everything around him.
Months passed. Perhaps years. Or maybe only hours, time was a forgotten certainty. A word he barely recalled the meaning of. Tremors shocked through him every few moments, reminding the innocent man what true pain felt like. Thoughts came and left on a sieve, leaking and slipping away without ever full forming. Noise was back. Chaotic, dizzying, cacophony no longer discernible from one sound to another until her voice slipped through. He'd come to expect it in times like this. When his world cracked, when it fell from under him and reality began disintegrating.. Lyssa spoke. Despite what he could only assume she'd suffered, knowing how he did, her voice never trembled. Never shook or pitched tensely. He accused her of starving the dementors, of having not even a moment's breath of a happy moment. Of something strong enough to fuel her soul and feed their tormentors, but he hadn't meant it. At least, not when he had first charged her with such a crime but now, the even and conversational cadence she managed to still uphold, Sirius wondered if she were there at all.
"Want to know a secret?" Her breath tickled his ear drawing his attention towards their shared window and blearily he blinked at the stunning eyes now peering at him, alight with a menacing gleam, "I know you didn't kill them." His heart seized, ribs rattling through staggered breaths and those eyes only brightened. Wickedly her voice dropped into acid, "Want to know another?" Again the world fell away suspending them in a cell of nothing. A cell within cells. A prison withing a prison away from all else. Her secret shattered him completely, tearing down his weakened soul, stitching together every gaping wound left by famished demons, and the certainty of it ignited a wild, delirious determination in him: "I know who did."
