forlorn-kumquat  asked:

Tony/Rhodey - soulmate wingfic!

When they first meet–Tony stumbling into the dorm room alone and slightly fuzzy, not drunk but definitely tipsy, four hours after Rhodey’s parents have kissed and hugged him goodbye–Tony’s too young for his primary feathers to grow in with their final color.

Rhodey’s just finished growing in over the summer, a clean, deep metallic silver at the very tips of his wings. The rest of his wings are a deep, even brown, creating a sharp contrast.

Tony’s are a russet color, and folded so tightly against his back that Rhodey thinks is must hurt. It’s a month before Tony starts relaxing them around him.

Tony’s wings are small. It’s totally normal, Tony is small, and he’s still got ample growing to do. His primaries aren’t even fully in yet. But Tony takes a lot of flak for it, and tries to prevent others from seeing his wings.

He leaves them relaxed around the dorm room, though.

By the end of their senior year, Tony’s adult primaries still haven’t come in. Now they’re a little late, but it’s not unheard of and all sorts of things can delay wing growth. Stress, for example, although Rhodey would never mention it aloud.

Rhodey leaves, joining the Air Force, and Tony heads back to New York, at least at first. Obadiah wants to start showing him the ropes, because the company is going to be Tony’s soon enough. But Rhodey hears stories. Tony’s getting patent after patent, enough to make the military salivate, but he’s also on every tabloid across the globe.

On his first leave, his mother picks him up at the airport. He’s a little disappointed, not to see Tony, who said he’d be there. Something must have come up. Or he forgot.

He is a little surprised to see Tony waiting on his mother’s front porch, although he shouldn’t be. His mother pats his thigh. “I’ll go ‘round back,” she says. “Leave you two to catch up.”

He doesn’t understand why she’s leaving until he catches sight of Tony’s wings, flaring out a bit, probably subconsciously.

Tipped with silver.


Tony looks behind himself and grimaces. “Yeah. So. It looks like. Well. Only one way to know for sure.”

Rhodey stretches out his own wings, seeing the feathers alongside Tony’s. “That’s a match.”

Tony swallows. Rhodey’s close enough to watch his throat bob. “I…christ,” he says. “I didn’t think they’d ever come in, truth be told.”

“Impatient as ever,” Rhodey teases.

“I didn’t want them to come in,” Tony confesses. “Because I didn’t think…the odds of this…I didn’t want them to be some other color.”

Rhodey stares at Tony, watching the way his eye twitches when he runs out of determination to hold the stare. “God, I wanna kiss you,” he blurts.

Tony smiles, finally looking back. “Yeah?”

Without much thought, Rhodey’s wing caresses alongside Tony’s. Not something he’d do to just anyone. Not something Tony would let just anyone do. “Yeah.”

(I’m leaving this verse here but picture, if you will, Tony’s wings getting damaged in the bombing, or perhaps the ten rings clipping his primaries to try to destroy his mobility, and Rhodey finding him in the desert, matching primaries gone).

बीस से तीस की

किसी के लिए तीस की तो किसी के लिए साठ की पर मुझे तो यह बीस की उम्र सबसे मुश्किल लगी। बीस से तीस की। सपने हैं आसमान छूने के और हकीकत में हौसला दो कदम चलने का भी नहीं। लेकिन आँखें है कि ख्वा़ब देखने से नहीं हटती।

सुबह की शुरुआत ठीक-ठाक, शांति से होती है लेकिन रात तक आते आते दम निकल जाता है। पलकों पर आँसू यूँ जमा हो जाते हैं मानो, आँखों ने सदियों से कैद कर रखे हों और अब आजादी मिलने ही वाली है। हर तरफ सवाल घेरे हुए हैं। मंजिल क्या है? रास्ता क्या है? मिलना क्या है? अपना कौन है? आखिर किसलिए है ये दिनभर की जद्दोजहद? और आखिर में एक सवाल घर कर जाता है। असल में एक शब्द। ‘मैं'। क्या हूँ? कौन हूँ? क्यूँ हूँ?’ मैं'।

अजीब सी उलझन है। पता नहीं बात समझानी नहीं आती या कोई समझता ही नहीं। दिल में बोहोत कुछ है कहने को। पर कहें किसे? सुने कौन? समझे कौन? किसी को कुछ बताओ भी तो ‘सलाह’ के ढेर लगा देता है। किसके पास है वक्त इतना कि कोई इत्मिनान से सुन ले। हर कोई एक लड़ाई लड़ रहा है। पता नहीं यह लड़ाई जिंदगी से है, वक्त से या खुद से।

ठहराव नाम की चीज ही नहीं है। जो भी है पल भर के लिए है। बंजारे सी जिंदगी हो चली है। कोई भरोसा नहीं कि रात भी वहीं बितेगी जहाँ सुबह हुई या सुबह भी वहीं होगी जहाँ रात बीती।

ना मंजिल का पता है। ना रास्ते का। बस चले जा रहे हैं।

Roughly Translated:

Thirties for some while sixties for others, but it is the age of twenties that I found the most difficult. Twenty to thirty. Dreams are to touch the sky and in reality, don’t have the courage to take two steps on ground. But eyes don’t shun dreaming.

The beginning of the morning is well, calmly but it is breath taking till it comes to the night. Tears are collected on the eyelids as if they have been imprisoned for centuries and now they are about to get freedom. The questions are all around. What is the destination? What’s the way? What would be the result? Who is mine? What is the reason for this? And finally a question entrenches in the heart. Actually a word. ‘I’. What am I? Who am I? Why am I? 'I’.

There is a strange confusion. I do not know, if I’m unable to make others understand or it’s that nobody wants to understand. There is a lot in the heart to say. But whom to say? Who will hear? Who will understand? Even if you tell someone, then he gives a heap of 'advice’. Who has so much time that they can hear it patiently? Everyone is fighting a fight. Do not know if this fight is with life, with time or with self.

There is nothing like stability. Whatever there is, it is for the moment. Life has become like a gypsy’s. Nothing is known that if night will be spent at the same place where the sun rose or the sun will rise at the same place where the night is spent.

Unaware of the destination, path. Just going on.

a concept: alec wakes up in a canoe. simon wakes up naked in bed with magnus bane. the day starts terribly for everyone involved (and doesn’t get better as the hours go on).

some fun things that happen in this goofy magical scenario where ALEC AND SIMON SWITCH BODIES (where, for Reasons™, simon isn’t a daylighter and the functions of the parabatai rune are expanded for maximum fun and drama :D) - 

  • simon obviously screams in terror when he wakes up with magnus kissing the line of his jaw. he actually falls off the bed in his haste of getting away, tangled up in magnus’ luxurious sheets; he shouts: “what are you doing? what am i doing here? why am i naked” and magnus, confusion and concern blossoming inside him says, “alexander, are you all right?” panicking, simon looks down at his body and sees that he’s covered in runes and what are - dear lord - bite marks from magnus’ mouth. 
  • he can’t help but sound hysterical as he says, “i’m simon! you know, your favourite fledgling vampire who you took to india and left alone with your pet cobra??” and really, that’s all magnus needs to believe him because 1) magnus never gave this much detail when recounting to alec his visit to india and 2) alec loses his words when he’s anxious, not turn into this talkative mess.
  • “okay,” says magnus, all desire immediately banished to be replaced with a mild horror. he realizes that his attraction to alec must be tied up with a love for alec’s soul because knowing it’s simon in that delectable, sprawled out body with eyes blown wide does absolutely nothing for him. “okay, first of all, we need to find where alexander is and get this mess sorted out. second of all - we’re never going to speak about the last three minutes for as long as we both live and i’m open to just removing this entire incident from both our memories-” simon could cry of relief. “yes,” he says, nodding furiously. “lets get going on both of those things.” 
  • alec actually wakes up first and he wakes up hungry, grumpy, and in a damn canoe, which is not what he was looking forward to at all when the last thing he remembers is kissing magnus’ forehead and drifting off to a contented sleep. he figures out what’s going on as soon as he tries to leave the warehouse and almost gets killed by the sunlight. “this is a joke,” he says out loud to no one in particular, looking at his blistering hand with a dawning horror. he touches his mouth and feels the sharp poke of a fang. “this is a fucking joke.” 

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It occurred to me today (as I almost licked a dry highlighter to re-hydrate it) that we, as a species, put our mouths on a lot of shit that we ought not to put anywhere near our mouths.

And just…imagine our first contact with a new alien species. Everything is going swimmingly, things are fantastic, one of the aliens remarks that they knew all those stories about how weird humans are were just made up by the other aliens to pull their legs…

…and then one of the humans licks their thumb and uses it to rub at a dirty spot on someone’s face, and yeah, now the human delegation has some explaining to do.

Submitted by: @forlorn-kumquat

Theory: Kirk’s ripped shirt in the newer movies doesn’t have small holes because it’s improperly portraying just how horribly he can destroy his uniform, it’s because he’s just at the beginning of his shirt-ripping career. From what I understand, even the beginning of TOS is set much later than the most recent of the new Trek movies, so Kirk’s still a bit new at this.

I choose to believe that, given time, this alternate version of Kirk will also eventually master how to properly rip his shirt during a mission, and will one day make it back to the bridge in a shirt of which nothing remains but the collar and one sleeve clinging to it with a sort of forlorn determination.

The AMAZING commissioned piece from @istehlurvz of my Cassian Highborn expatriate, Valkurius Salonius in a before and after defection back-to-back.

He looks AMAZING and PERFECT oh my god, I can’t stop looking at it, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

shakespeare aesthetics

romeo and juliet: suburban july. scraped knees, bruised knuckles, blood in your teeth. bare feet on hot concrete. restlessness. your high school’s empty parking lot. love poems in your diary. a window open to coax in a breeze. burning inside. an ill-fitting party dress, a t-shirt you cut up yourself, the time you tried to give yourself bangs. biking to your friend’s house. bubble gum. gas station ice. the feeling that you’ve met before. rebellion. a car radio playing down the street. cheap fireworks. a heart drawn on the inside of your wrist with sharpie. switchblades. red solo cups. dancing in your bedroom. screaming yourself hoarse. running out of options. the forlorn-looking basketball hoop at the end of the cul-de-sac. climbing onto your roof at night while your parents are asleep. flip-flops. a eulogy written on looseleaf. the merciless noontime sun.

hamlet: speaking in a whisper. holding your breath. a browning garden. a half-remembered story. furniture covered with sheets. fog at dawn, mist at twilight. losing touch. the ethereal space between winter and spring. the soft skin at your temple. the crack in the hallway mirror. things you’d say if you knew the words. uncombed hair. books with writing in the margins, books with cracked spines, books with lines scratched out. prayers on all souls’ day. a chipped ceramic bathtub. a cold stone floor. uncomfortable awareness of your own heartbeat. the sparrow that got in your house. shadows. the creek you played in as a child. a dirty night gown. a big black t-shirt. a collection of your favorite words. soil under your nails. ghost stories. the strangeness of your own name in your mouth. deep silence. exhaustion. a cliff with a long, long drop down.

twelfth night: wicker deck furniture. new england summer. big dark sunglasses and a blonde bob. a storm over the ocean, patio umbrellas flapping in the wind. chlorine smell. muffled laughter. sarcasm. starched cuffs. day drinking. bay windows. the idea of love, love for the idea of love, love for love’s sake. hangovers. wandering over the sand dunes. a vagabond with a guitar, a crab fisherman with tattoos, a pretty boy with a slackened tie. a light house. growing too close. boat shoes. feeling yourself change. finger guns. big floppy sun hats. double-speak. a song you keep listening to. turning red under their gaze. margaritas drunk on an inflatable pool lounger. string lights on a balmy night. sleepy june days. fights you’re unprepared for, hope you weren’t expecting, pranks that go too far. bad poetry. pining. pool noodles. becoming less of a stranger.

macbeth: the space where your grief used to be. a bird that’s lost an eye. old blood stains. heavy blinds. the smell of sweat, the stillness after battle. a fake smile. a curse. the taste of metal at the back of your tongue. your house, unfamiliar in the dark. a dusty crib. a sulfur smell. an orange pill bottle. streaks in the sink. a black cocktail dress. your hand on the doorknob, shaking. chilly breeze. crunching from the gravel driveway on a moonless night. clenched hands. a rusty swing set. a flashing digital clock stuck on 12:00. a snake that crosses your path, an owl that watches you, a dog that runs when you approach. red smoke. dark clouds. cool steel. tile floors. footsteps in the hallway late at night. a baggy suit that used to fit before. visions. insomnia headaches. nursery rhymes. being too far in to go back now. 

much ado about nothing: the high drama of small towns. a pickup truck, military supply duffel bags in the hall, hugs all around. tulip bulbs. a wraparound porch, a pitcher of iced tea. barbecue. a rubber halloween mask. someone on your level. indian summer. ill-timed proclamations. stomach-clutching laughter. rushing in. not minding your business. crepe paper. white lies. secrets written down and thrown away. southern hospitality. homemade curtains in the kitchen, a sink full of roses. hiding in the bushes. old friends. the wedding dress your grandma wore, and her mama before her. a dog-eared rhyming dictionary. camomile with honey. the intimacy of big parties. lawn flamingos. gossip. a crowded church. friendly rivalries. unfriendly rivalries. shit getting real. love at five hundredth sight. not realizing you have a home until you’re there. 

king lear: cement block buildings. power lines that birds never perch on. the end of the world. useless words. rainless thunder, heat lightning, a too-big sky. arthritic knuckles. broken glass. chalk cliffs. the pulsing red-black behind closed eyes. something you learned too late. wet mud that sucks up your shoes while you walk. a cold stare. empty picture frames. empty prayers. the obscenity of seeing your parents cry. a treeless landscape. bloody rags. grappling in the dark with reaching hands. the sharpness at the tips of your teeth. the blown-out windows of skeletal houses. decay. jokes that aren’t jokes, shutting up, holding your tongue. prophecies. aching muscles, tired feet. stinging rain. invoking the gods, wondering if the gods are listening, wondering if the gods are dead. white noise. shivers. numbness. the unequivocal feeling of ending.

a midsummer night’s dream: wet soil/dead leaves smell. listening to music on headphones with your eyes closed. wildflowers. the distant sparkle of lightning bugs. a pill somebody slipped you. fear that turns to excitement, excitement that turns to frenzy. mossy tree trunks. a pair of yellow eyes in the darkness. night swimming. moonlight through the leaves. a bass beat in your chest. a butterfly landing on your nose. a kiss from a stranger. a dark hollow in an old tree. glow-in-the-dark paint. drinking on an empty stomach. a twig breaking behind you. spinning until you’re dizzy. finding glitter on your body and not remembering where it came from. an overgrown path through the woods. cool dew on your skin. a dream that fades with waking. moths drawn to the light. giving yourself over, completely. afterglow. the long, loving, velvety night.




1. desolate or dreary; unhappy or miserable, as in feeling, condition, or appearance.

2. lonely and sad; forsaken.

3. expressive of hopelessness; despairing:
    forlorn glances.

4. bereft; destitute:
    forlorn of comfort. 

Forlorn comes from Old English forleosan, “to abandon,” from for- + leosan, “to lose.”

“In these forlorn regions of unknowable dreary space, this reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of extreme cold.”
- Francis Spufford, I May Be Some Time: Ice and the English Imagination


Harry Styles’ solo album might be the most anticipated debut this side of the millennium. Following years as the bullseye in the global behemoth that was One Direction, the singer is taking center stage with a self-titled effort that’s a classic cocktail of psychedelia, Britpop, and balladry. If it was a color, it would be the baby blue of Jimi Hendrix’s Fender Stratocaster or the soft pink of Mick Jagger’s suit when he performed on “Top Of The Pops” in 1971. It’s rock and it’s roll, but it’s also soft and sensitive. Produced by Jeff Bhasker (Kanye West, Fun.) it’s a record that could force the position of mainstream radio by ushering in a reprise of proper music — ensembles, verse-chorus-verse, rich instrumentation, or, basically, Adele’s bag of tricks.

Despite the red herring of lead single ‘Sign Of The Times’ (it clocks in at just under six minutes in length), the album is a short shrift 40 minutes and contains ten songs that are largely about women. Unlike Robbie Williams and Justin Timberlake before him, there’s a deepened millennial sensibility to being a leading man. Harry is a sensitive soul; A post-Drake phenomenon; A serious pop performer with enviable vocal chops and a gifted ability to convey a song’s emotional heft. He oozes class, ease and a sense of import without thrusting forth from the hips, or wreaking of a self-satisfied sense of boyband emancipation. Both respectful of his past and nervous for his future, “Harry Styles,” the album, looks both ways. - Variety

Read on for a track-by-track:

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