romantic destiny

totally platonic ways to show ur platonic bro friend u care platonically - a guide by Steven G. Rogers

1. defy government orders and embark on a one man mission to walk from one country to another to save said platonic bro friend
2. listen to slightly more sensible friend when they suggest perhaps flying rather than walking, then jump out of plane directly into enemy territory to get to the bro friend
3. single handedly defeat a bunch of nazi’s using no more than determination and a tin foil shield to find the bro friend
4. literally jump over fiery pits of near certain death to escape back to relative safety with bro friend
5. refuse to fight for probably the first time in your entire life and drop ur defences rather than hurt ur bro friend any more than he’s already been hurt
6. have a phrase that sounds remarkably like a marriage vow - but obviously in a platonic way bc bro friend- that holds so much significance - platonically - that it resonates even through 70 years of brainwashing and torture and he remembers it before he remembers his own name
7. Become an internationally wanted fugitive but shrug it off like nothing because bro friend is still alive
8. Pull a helicopter out of the sky. With your own two hands. Nothing but ur own strength and determination.
9. Give up being what the world knows you as and expects from you, instead choosing him and choosing yourself. But like. As bro’s.

The night sky breaks open

We are lovers, you and I –
such is written
in the

But what do stars know of modern life,
with all its

how unpractical destiny can be?

All they do is shine –

- M.A.Tempels © 2016

One soul two bodies. Two people who are soulmates, who keep finding each other time and time again. Neither looking for love nor believing in fate yet always finding their way back to each other. One encounter left both hearts yearning for one another, the kind of yearning that no matter where they are or how far apart they may be they’d only rest until they’d find each other.
—  Leohearts

I was reading one of grimoire cards about Saladin, showing him fighting splicers at the gap in the wall and he started thinking of his lost comrades.

“As his axe bites, again and again, Skorri’s Iron Song haunts him. He calls upon Radegast’s strength. Perun’s sense of purpose. Timur’s questions. Felwinter’s cynicism. Silimar’s persistence. Gheleon’s reasoning.”

But where’s.. oh.

“Jolder’s smile. ”


He had his heartbroken and she wasn’t ready for love. But fate had other plans. On a ordinary day on a ordinary bus their eyes met. They smiled, they talked, they laughed. She made him smile and he made her eyes light up. They held hands, they shared, they watched the stars together. It was like they had known each other all their lives. They stared into each other’s eyes and then kissed, a gentle slow kiss that lasted seconds but felt like hours.
—  Leohearts

Where is the Check, Please! Regency!AU titled “Pies and Prejudice?” Who do I call to make this dream a reality? 

It’s the memories that’ll get you …

The way we remember everything so perfect,
so poetic, so dramatic and cinematic
Like we drifted because fate gave us no choice
As if we had the choice we’d still be together
Like every moment was pure bliss and every second apart is wasted time
We come across old love letters and cute pictures
Sit and reminisce and wonder how things got so twisted
hopelessly missing a love that never truly existed

It’s the memories that’ll get you.

—  Rafelina Michelle

She hears the skiffs roll in, feels her shoulders tense, feels her stomach drop.

“How’d they find us?”

Her Ghost blinks, once. 

“The train will not have time to prepare,” it says. “The pilgrims are unarmed.”

She does not answer; swallows, but her throat is dry. The skiffs disappear behind a distant bluff. If she had not been scouting ahead, she would not have seen their arrival. She bites her lip.

“They will want what we have found,” says her Ghost. “There will be Walkers.”

She stands, clenches and unclenches aching fingers. Works her jaw. Unslings her rifle.

It is a blocky, ugly thing. Its barrel is hidden beneath webbing and plant-detritus, she has covered its battle scars with mottled paint so that the glint of metal does not give her away. She checks the sights, adjusts the scope. Her hands betray her and the barrel wavers. She growls in disgust. Coughs, once.

“They’re going to ambush us. Right around that bluff, there. They know it’s only me; and that means it’s like you said: kill us all, without hurting what we carry.”

“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?”

“The Void comes for us all, Ghost. You can cower and wait, or you can run to meet it.”

She is not sure which of them she is trying to convince.

She re-loads the magazine. Wipes a speck of dust off the trigger guard. Closes her eyes and breathes in. Once, twice. She wonders if her Ghost can hear her heart.

“You have a great deal of faith in your Bow, Guardian.”

“Nope. Just a lot of faith in what needs to be done.”

“If they see us coming, we may meet the Void sooner than we’d like.”

“We’ll see.”

She radios back. Tells the Pilgrims to wait, to hold, not to move until they hear from her again.

Then she makes the long walk across the plateau, towards the bluff, towards the skulking Fallen. She stares at the dirt as she goes, squeezes the rifle grip with both hands.

Her Ghost does not speak.

She moves quickly, darts between boulders and uses City-tech to cloak herself from the floating gun platforms that still hang just above the cliff’s edge.

She stops. Sits. Leans her head back against a boulder, rifle clutched to her chest.

Pokes her head out. Counts.

“Are you ready, Ghost?”

“Are you?”

“Shut up.”

Takes a deep breath.

The Void comes for us all, she whispers.

Her eye is the rifle, and it is the agent of her will. Four coughs pierce the still, dry air. Four Vandals fall, and the magazine clicks, but their eyes are on her now and it is time to move.

She feels the pull of the void and lets herself go, steps through shadow before the Captains can react, buries three hungry rounds in a Devil’s helm, and the shadows embrace her again. She cannot be seen. She cannot be stopped. 

They fall back, scramble for cover behind the rocky outcrops that dot the steppes. Their sights cannot find her. They scream with fear and rage. 

She taunts them, always circling; finds the exposed head of a Dreg and removes it, picks them off one by one by one, feels each kick of the rifle deep in her chest, feels it echo through her bones; but when the Servitors drop she knows that it is time.

She leaves her cover, sprints across the exposed bluff. The Captains howl, and the Skiff tracks her with arc-fire, but the shadows protect her and there is nothing that can stop her now. A wire-crack echoes across the sky and she slides beneath a glowing bolt; she stows her rifle with a grace born of years of practice and the cliff’s edge beckons.

In the air, time slows, and the fear fades. Her hands move, unthinking. She imagines a Bow, and it is there; she pulls, and from the emptiness around her she draws an arrow of Light.

The LMG is set and sighted by the time she hits the dirt. The Fallen have recognized their mistake too late, and now the Tether holds them all. A single Baron raises its four swords in slow defiance, finds her with one furious, rolling eye.

She pauses.

The LMG thunders, and the Baron shakes; a leaf tossed in the waterfalls of the Cosmodrome. Fallen drop, purple tendrils sucking the Ether from their twisted bodies, and the Servitors are no more.

She skips behind a boulder, and the skiffs retreat. Silence. She pulls a bandolier with her teeth, stuffs a second mag into the LMG with shaking hands. Her knees feel weak.

Ozone crackles. More skiffs, overhead. One drops a Walker, and a warhead leaves a jumpship-sized hole in the cliff behind her.

The explosion knocks her flat and when she has found her breath again she snarls, pushes herself to her feet; hands steady now, dragging the LMG up through the dirt, slamming the magazine into place with a bloody fist. She tastes iron. One ear rings, and through the other she hears the whine of spooling Walker-fire.

Beneath her, the rifle barrel has bent in a fatal curve. Beside her, the Ghost is silent. Behind her, the Pilgrims wait for the road to clear. 

The Void comes for us all, she says aloud, and she grins and runs to meet it.

Don’t let go,
please, come closer.
Be the yin to my yang,
and let us dance
to this beat;
special frequency
meant for you and me.
Let us
ever faster – we spin,
                        we spin,
                        we spin,
                        we spin,
the heat of our passion
fuses us together.
May life elude us no more
we realize
this is where we belong,
this is why we were
No matter the distance
we are connected,
as we embody
exact same energy.
When love is all,
and all we
need to
be –
this is who we are,
what we’ll always
Yin to my yang,
yang to my yin,
come closer,
let’s give in  
—  Clarity, by M.A. Tempels © 2016