i keep trying to memorize every detail of the moments i live in. in the soreness of my legs from standing so long at a concert, the chill of the night, the patterns of a tablecloth, the oily texture in my mouth after eating fried bananas. i keep trying to memorize the feelings, the quiet contentedness, the laughter, the excitement. i keep trying to memorize the people, their smiles, the way they speak, what makes them laugh. i’m constantly on the cusp of the next part of my life and that’s just so.. strange. but it makes it so much easier to find happiness no matter what’s happening to me, in a way? because i’m already kind of looking at life with those rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, simply because i know these are times i’ll never be able to live again, and these are people i might not always have, and that makes it so much easier to appreciate everything i might miss later.
hey would you ever do a "what if harry potter had been a girl" story? or a trans girl? i don't know how much gender would change things except other people's perceptions but...
Hermione went to the library, when Harry first confided in her. Whatever the faculty, the administration, or the Ministry believed or didn’t believe, the Hogwarts library gave the children what they needed and always would.
Hermione came back with books and books on gender in wizarding history, on the spells and words wizards had used for centuries or decades or mere years, and she and Harry bent their heads together and figured out what words Harry felt best told her story. From her hometown library, after that first summer, Hermione brought back memoirs and brightly-colored pamphlets that Harry read through instead of finishing her Potions homework.
When Harry looked in the Mirror of Erised, she still saw her mother, her father, all her gathered, lost kin. The specter of her father gathered up her hands in his. Her mother pushed back the long dark hair Petunia had always made her cut short and she called her beautiful.
When she looked into it again, after Devil’s Snare and winged keys, giant chess and Ron lying prone on the floor, Hermione wringing her eleven year old hands in the potion riddle room– When Harry looked into the Mirror again, she saw herself, just herself. The girl in the mirror winked and smiled and slipped the Stone in Harry’s pocket. No matter what other wishes and want laid on her narrow shoulders, at the end of the day the thing Harry wanted most was to help. Harry brushed one hand over the lump of rock in her robe pocket, and then brushed her other over her mess of hair, which was feet shorter than the girl in the mirror’s.
She woke up in the hospital wing, bedside table piled high with candy.
Once Harry and Hermione had sussed out between them what the words were for what was going on here, they had explained it to Ron. Harry didn’t come out to anyone else until partway through second year, though, at the height of the Heir of Slytherin nonsense.
She was fed up, then. She just wanted to be left alone, and this wouldn’t help with that, but they were all already staring. Keeping this to herself felt like a vice around her chest. Hogwarts was supposed to be better.
After, Ron came almost to blows with anyone who goggled or sniffed or rolled their eyes. Seamas learned to swallow his tongue. Draco Malfoy didn’t. Hermione wrote up an explanatory note about appropriate pronouns in her best penmanship and then copied it with flicks of her wand. With Harry’s embarrassed permission, she gave it to every professor Harry had or would ever have.
Colin Creevey stopped her in the Great Hall with a tug on her sleeve. She turned, shoulders rising, and the kid said in his piping voice, “You’re still my hero.”
That was better than it could have been, but she wasn’t sure she liked the “still.”
Peeves, though he was nasty about everything else–ickle firsties and orphan girls–got it immediately. For all six years of her Hogwarts tenure, he dropped water balloons on the heads of anyone who misgendered her. Professor Binns never quite figured it out, but he didn’t know any student’s name. Nearly Headless Nick gallantly and somewhat awkwardly called her lady and tried to hold open doors for her, despite the fact that he couldn’t open them.
Snape called Harry “Mr. Potter” for all seven years that he was in Harry’s life. Around year three, Ron stopped counting the detentions he got for his increasingly sarcastic responses to this.
The whispers about the Heir of Slytherin grew louder and louder, keeping pace with “Uh, I thought it was the Boy Who Lived?” Fred and George Weasley took it upon themselves to walk Harry to and from class when they could, talking loudly enough to drown everything out.
Then Hermione got Petrified and the Heir whispers stopped abruptly. Harry, if she hadn’t been busy with Ron trading off reading their assigned textbooks aloud to Hermione in the infirmary, might have felt gratified that the whole school knew how much this bushy-haired kid meant to her. Alright, so they thought she might murder Muggleborns with a mysterious monster, or sic a snake on her opponent in a dueling club? But they knew she wouldn’t hurt Hermione for anything.
In the Chamber, she met Tom Riddle. He was supposed to be her mirror, though she didn’t quite know that yet. He was supposed to be her shadow, the chain around her ankle, the other half (or another eighth) of her story and his soul.
Ginny had been trying to speak for months– to tell someone, to open the diary and the bag under her bed full of chicken-blood-stained robes and to thrust them into the light. But Percy had shushed her, all his assumptions orbiting his own importance to her story. The teachers had patted her on the head. She had been frightened, eleven years old with Tom whispering in her ear, guiding her hands.
Harry had been trying to speak for years– to explain to someone the way she did not feel like Dudley, like Vernon, like the boys in the locker room at school. Hermione had listened. Hermione had given her books and books of people who felt like her. Ron had listened, and taught her wizard’s chess, and kicked Draco in the shins.
But here Harry was, standing alone– a red-haired lump at her feet, dark robes sodden with moldy water. Hermione was frozen. Ron was trapped behind a rock fall and Tom was pacing, gloating, glowing. Ginny was breathing. Ginny had to be breathing. Harry was going to save her. She had to, because no one had listened to the kid, not even Harry.
The phoenix tears left no scars on Harry’s arm. Riddle, the Chamber, the life going out of her, everything that had happened in that long year– none of it left scars on Ginny, or at least none that anyone could see.
When Harry got back to 4 Privet Drive that summer, she suffered through Aunt Petunia’s annual hair cut and then she curled up with Hedwig and wrote a letter. She wrote about the Muggle candies she missed when at Hogwarts, and how her cousin thought she was weird for being excited about summer homework. She asked Ginny how she was.
Ginny wrote back after a long week. She didn’t answer the question, but she wrote about helping Dad on the car, about the apple harvest coming, and Fred and George playing pranks on the ghoul in the attic.
I take a lot of photos of this horse, and although he can look rough and tough, he is my baby. It’s been 15 years now that we have been together and it’s been a lot of thick and thin. He lost the eye 5 months after I got him, and we were left to relearn life and see where we could go. He was my event horse, then show jumper, and now just my best pal. He has taught me a lot, but most of all not to give up when the going gets tough. He’s my boy. My Traveller.
I never used to read sad love quotes before you came along.
I never understood them. I was always the type of person who figured that if something doesn’t work out – you move on… Why sit around being miserable because one person left your life when you can quite easily go out and find someone else?
But I get it now.
I understand it in the most terrible way.
I now know why people write sad love quotes… why they obsess over the past… why they can’t let go… why pain follows them like a stray dog for years afterwards…
It’s because you know the person you lost isn’t replaceable. There’s no one else like them… there never was before and there never will be again. That’s why they’re called the love of your life… because you only get to meet someone like that once in a lifetime.
That’s why people write sad love quotes.
They’ve just lost the most amazing person they’ve ever met… how can you possibly get over something like that?
Okay. I’m so sorry guys, I know it’s been about 80000 years since I’ve posted but I’ve just had really bad writers block and I’ve been really busy with work and school and whatnot but here it is.
This was a request from an anon: “Could you please make an imagine where the reader is given to Mistah J because they were in debt to him. He immediately because super obsessed with her, but the reader is very scared of him <3 <3″
This is like decently close to the request just i couldn’t figure out what to write. I’m sorry!!!!!
“Please, no Mr. Joker, I’ll give you anything. You can have anything.” You saw the man beg for his life, for another chance. It disgusted you to see him like this. To see the man you once knew as your father beg for drugs. You shook your head in disgust and turned away. You had no idea why but he insisted you be there with him, maybe it’s ‘cause he knew it could very well be one of his last days, if not his last.
“Anything?” The green haired man purred as he circled your father. Your father nodded and looked you in the eyes as if he were apologizing. Confusion clouded your mind as to why he would be apologizing. Maybe it was for being a shitty father, or for making you witness this horrid interaction.
“You can have my daughter,” he stated simply. You eyes snapped open and your back straightened.
“Excuse me? No you can’t have me and what the fuck dad?” You said in disbelief.
“Oh she’s feisty, I like her. You’ve got yourself a deal there Mr. You can keep your life, and your drugs, in exchange for this lovely creature,” he said as his looked you up and down, drinking in every detail of your body.
“No. Dad what the hell is wrong with you? You’re not actually serious are you?” Your voice dropped as the look in his eyes confirmed that he was in fact serious about selling you to the Joker.
“I’m sorry Y/N. There’s nothing else I can do,” he muttered, embarrassed that he had gotten to this point. Your heart broke as you watched the man you once looked up to pick drugs over his own daughter.
“Oh we are going to have so much fun together little miss Y/N,” the Joker snarled in your ear. You flinched as his hands came down on your shoulders.
“Dad… How could you?” He looked down in shame and walked out of the room without a word. Tears were streaming steadily down your face as you stared at the door he had just left through.
“Hm. Dads, am I right?” The Joker broke the silence in the room. “Hi doll face, I’m the Joker, the man that your father is seriously indebted to, and you belong to me now! You can call me Mr. J,” he said, extending a hand towards you as if to shake hands. You glanced down at his hand and ignored the offer. “Oh sweetheart now that’s just rude. That won’t fly doll. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Gonna have to teach you a lesson then. Take a seat,” he said as he pulled you down to sit next to him. His face got serious and you knew you were in trouble. “You belong to me now. That means you do what I want, when I want, and where I want. If you disobey me sweetcheeks, you get punished. Are we clear doll face?” He gripped your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. You nodded and he released your face. “What’s your name sweets?”
“Y/N,” you said simply. He stared at you with a bored look as if he was expecting you to say more. You stared back in defiance and he let out a long displeased groan.
“Not a talker are we? I can change that y’know,” he said with a maniacal smile as he pulled his shiny gun out of the holster under his jacket. He lifted the gun and caressed your soft cheeks with the cool, hard metal. You stared him dead in his crazy eyes as he tried to scare you with the powerful weapon in his hands. His face fell as he realized you weren’t scared and you wouldn’t open up to him. “Now tell me doll, am I gonna have to find some other ways of getting you to open that pretty mouth of yours?”
“Fine. What do you want to know. You get three questions, choose wisely,” you said, boredom dripping in your words. Your father had dragged you in to a world of guns and violence, this was not the first time you had been threatened at gun point and you had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.
The Joker raised his non-existent eyebrow and stared you down. He was vastly impressed by your cool composure and lack of fear. Most in your shoes would be trembling, begging for their dear lives but you, you just sat there, bored with his games and his old intimidation tactics.
“And who do you think you are making demands?” He sneered angrily.
“I’m just trying to get this show on the road. Question one, two more to go. Like I said Mr. J, choose wisely.”
“I like your spunk sweetcheeks. Alright, why aren’t you scared? Most people would be terrified out of their minds, why not you?” He inquired.
“You’re not the first basket case my father has pissed off. I’ve been tied down, beat, interrogated, the works. I’m used to it now. My father owes a lot of people a lot of money but what they always fail to realize is that I mean little to nothing to him. I must admit, I’m a little impressed. You’re different than the others. He’s offered me up before y’know? No one’s ever agreed but you, you fell for it,” you explained. He stared at you with a confused look spread across is tattooed porcelain skin. “Stop staring,” you said.
He stared at you open mouthed and went to wrap his hand around your neck only to retract quickly. “You doll, are special, that’s for sure. I can’t wait for all the fun we’re going to have. Last question, do you like the left or the right side of the bed?” He threw his head back as he howled with laughter, his infamous laugh ringing through your ears and the small room you two were seated in.
You rolled your eyes and mentally groaned at the stupidity of this man. “Right,” you said as you got up from the small couch. “Can we go now? I would really like to get out of here and take a shower. I’m assuming there’ll be towels and whatnot ready for me? Clothes maybe?” He shook his head at you and wrapped his hand in your hair and yanked back.
“Now listen here Y/N, just because you’re not scared of me doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be. I’m sure you’ve heard of some of the things I’ve done and trust me honey, I can do worse,” he spoke in a deep, threatening voice. You felt the tip of his gun press against the center of your back. You had to admit that you were a little scared. The other men you dealt with were nothing like him. He was deadly, ruthless, and he could crack at any moment. “Now that we have the all cleared up let’s get this show on the road shall we?” His mood switched instantly.
A while later you pulled up to a lavish place. You were unsure of what to expect from him but you figured it shouldn’t surprise you that he lives in such an extravagant set up. He pulled you up from your elbow and you followed him inside. It was beautiful as you had expected upon seeing the outside of the house. Gold everything, marble counters, purple accents strewn around the house.
You glanced around, taking in what would be your new house.
“It’s beautiful,” you mumbled to yourself mostly. His hands came down on your shoulders in a gentle way, his hands travelling up and down your shoulders. You leaned your head to the side allowing a pleasant stretch to the tense muscles of your neck. “Do you live here all alone?” you inquired.
“No, the maid lives here, a few of my more trusted henchmen, for security measures. Not that I couldn’t protect myself, just don’t wanna do all the work myself,” he answered. You hummed in acknowledgement and continued to scan the room around you. “The room’s upstairs, I already had some of my men pick up your stuff from your father’s place, if you need anything else just tell me and I’ll send someone out to get it,” he said as he walked to the kitchen. You nodded, and dragged yourself up to what looked like a spare room. You plopped down on the bed and let out a long sigh.
So this is what my life is like now, you thought to yourself, looking around the lavish room. Joker stepped up to the doorway and stared you down before sitting down next to you on the big fluffy bed. “Why am I here Joker?”
“Please, call me Mr. J, Joker sounds… Too formal. I want you here because you’re a beautiful girl, your father did me wrong, and I want to make him pay.”
“Hah… Well jokes on you Mr. J. My father doesn’t care about me. Keeping me here is doing nothing but giving him the chance to shamelessly waste away without me yelling at him. You’re doing him a favor,” you explained. He nodded and spread a wide silver grin across his pale tattooed face.
“Y’know doll, maybe I just want your lovely company,” he said sarcastically.
“Y’know, maybe I just can’t stand your company,” you retorted. Before you could react, his hand came across your skin with a harsh sting. The force behind it made you fall back and place a tender touch on your cheek. You looked down, cowering away in fear. You loved to put on the tough girl act. Sure, you had dealt with crazies but nothing that ever came close to the Joker.
A slow tear dripped down your soft cheek. His eyes widened at the realization that he had made you cry. “Can you please leave me alone,” you muttered.
“Shit Y/N are you okay doll?” His voice was a bit quieter than before.
“Please just leave.” You were shaking, terrified to be in the same room as this psychotic, dangerous man.
“What’s wrong sweets?” You looked at him with a look of disbelief.
“You just slapped me across the face. If I’m being totally honest, I’m terrified right now. You scare the living daylights out of me. The moment I saw you I was scared for my life. I don’t want you in here. If I’m going to have to live with you I want to be left alone… I don’t want to be scared for my life. Please just go…” He looked at you, shock on his face.
“Alright. If you need something you can let someone know.” He placed a hand on your hunched back and left.
A small part of you felt bad for banishing him from your life but it wasn’t right for him to treat you in such an awful manner. You let out a sigh and laid down on the comfortable bed. Before you knew it you had slipped in to a deep sleep, forgetting about the disaster your life had become.
Okay, so I just finished reading both series and I was already speculating what Amren was when I read that SJM had told one of her readers already and they had freaked out. This means that we must already know what sort of creature Amren is without needing much more explanation. I also read that SJM confirmed that ACOTAR and TOG are in the same megaverse, so their separate dimensions can hypothetically be reached through, say, a wyrdgate.
Therefore, after careful deliberation and mulling over each character, all still fresh in my mind I have come to the conclusion that the best bet for what Amren’s true form is…. Manon.
Keep in mind, this would be Manon thousands of years after the war with Erawan in which she fell through a wyrdgate into the ACOTAR world as the cauldron was creating it. She was then trapped there and ensnared into a Fae body and went berserk, doing enough wrong to get her sent to The Prison. When she escaped, she knew that by now, Dorian and all her friends were probably long dead but never lost hope of returning to her realm.
There are a couple different points to back up my theory:
1. The blood drinking (emphasized by her particular love for goat blood which is what she and the Thirteen hunted and ate while in the Ferian Gap)
2. Her disinterest in other people, especially advances from men as (hopefully) she is still harboring her love for Dorian perhaps and not wanting to bother with the fae of this realm when her heart belongs in another dimension
3. She can read the Book of Breathings, written in a long forgotten language that everyone had forgotten. However, perhaps with everything in the war, Manon learned to read Wyrdmarks, as it was necessary for winning, and never quite forgot how to decipher it. Though after thousands of years she needed to brush up a bit before being able to read and translate the book. Or it could just be the dialect of Erilea that she has forgotten over the millenniums and must now remember how she had talked, and how she had read, feeling more and more sorry for Elide as she struggled to remember the way words were spelled and how the letters looked because she hadn’t realized how difficult it was to not be able to read.
4. Her automatic softness towards Feyre after she opened up about what happened with her family and what Tamlin had done to her, reminding Amren of a girl, thousands of years ago in another dimension who had also been abused and treated wrongly. So she gave Feyre the amulet to help her without even knowing her more than twenty-four hours. She just couldn’t help herself, there was so much Elide in that thin, Tamlin-wrecked girl that arrived at the House of Wind.
5. The fae body she is trapped in is the exact opposite from Manon’s, “several inches shorter than me [Feyre], her chin-length black hair glossy and straight, her skin tan and smooth and her face - pretty, bordering on plain - was bored’. This is in direct contrast to Manon, who has long, white hair, and a pale complexion, also quoted by Dorian that ‘he’d never seen anyone so beautiful’. Not to mention the eyes, Amren’s silver eyes battling with Manon’s deep gold. Whatever spell trapped her in that body, made her the opposite of what she once was, forcing her to hate this cage not only for the Fae exterior but the lie is portrayed over her once revered beauty.
6. She joins a court that can fly so that she might once again feel the wind in her hair after so many years under a mountain in the dark. Also reminding her of her Thirteen, cleaved apart before darkness could claim them and away from her Abraxos who is left without a rider for the remainder of his life. But if I go too much into this one I’m gonna cry.
7. The jewelry ties into it somehow, probably. I’m thinking that she went through the wyrdgate using either The Amulet of Orynth or the Eye of Elena and it somehow got lost in transit. She had idly mentioned she was looking for a rare piece of jewelry once to Dorian and he has been buying the rarest pieces he can find for her ever since, knowing it is to somehow help her return.
I’m not 100% sure where the powers came from, perhaps simply appearing in this realm or coming with the body, maybe gifted to her from Dorian, or honed from millennia in The Prison. Or any other twist SJM wants to play.
TL/DR Amren is Manon trapped in another dimension, in another body, apart from everyone she loves and has been trying to get back to for the past five thousand years +
omg you guys my likes section is almost EXCLUSIVELY mad sweeney
i………………………………love him so much and AG was so satisfying BUT IT TOO IS OVER
that being said, i’m still going to spend most of the summer doing American Gods work, because it was so refreshing. after the wringer spn put me through, i really was trying to make mountains out of molehills. i do have a few spn comic ideas to get to, tho!
SO IN REGARDS TO SPN CONS I’M WORKING! my plans for the rest of the year (which are subject to change, but this is the basic overview!) are:
CHICAGO, IL JULY 14-16
MINNEAPOLIS, MN AUG. 25-27
PITTSBURGH, PA SEPT. 8-10
NEW ORLEANS, LA OCT. 27-29
WASHINGTON, DC NOV. 10-12
sanfran might still be on the table, but it’s a bit too far off to tell right now. i love seeing everyone’s faces with my traveling comic show HOWEVER i might need a month to get my bearings at some point :’)
anyway here’s that gif of me with my cat band again