Since Yuuri’s Eros routine has progressed from mere sultry glances to actually licking his lips at Victor, I feel like this man won’t rest until he manages to give his coach a boner in the middle of an international ice skating competition.
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.
NASA finally sends a manned mission to Europa, but while investigating a crevice in the ice, they find a crashed Voyager 1. So if Voyager 1 crashed on Europa… what has been transmitting signals to Earth all this time?
Imagine a grown ass man Mccree, out of the blue during a mission prep, saying “I wish I coulda had a Quinceañera.” And Sombra looks really confused and then smirks and replies “That’s for a girl’s 15 birthday, tonto. Right, Gabe?” And she nudges Reaper who thinks for a second before in all seriousness saying
“Let’s throw him a damn Quinceañera.”
Concept: If the Warden dies killing the archdemon, their love interest finds that sometimes things happen that they can’t explain.
Zevran is this close to getting stabbed by a crow he’s fighting when there’s a crackle of electricity in the air and the man falls flat, dead. But when he looks around there is no mage in sight. The hairs on his arm stand on end for hours.
Morrigan finds Kieran playing with a toy Griffin one day. When she asks where he got it, he says it was from a man with his own eyes. And even though Morrigan tells herself she does not believe in ghosts, sometimes she can’t help but wonder if there is something lingering out of the corner of her eye, a man she once loved with a soft smile.
Leliana finds missions for the Divine dangerous but somehow, whenever she’s in a trap an arrow manages to strike true despite being an impossible shot, her enemy sets off a trap Leliana didn’t remember setting. When she prays she swears she can hear her own lute playing sometimes, a song she learned a lifetime ago.
King Alistair finds himself over his head sometimes and on those nights he will fall asleep on a stack of unfinished plans. When he wakes up, the plans are finished, notes written in a hand he is sure isn’t one of his scribes. A hand that once wrote him a love letter that he keeps hidden in his drawers.
Warden Alistair slipping as he fights of Darkspawn, tired from lack of sleep. A sword comes swinging towards his neck but instead of making contact with his neck there is a figure in his way catching it with their shield. A woman he only sees in his dreams now. When he reaches out for her, the Darkspawn slain, she is always gone.
So, instead of studying for my impending pathophysiology exam, I was thinking about what a goddamn badass Leonard McCoy is.
Actually, I was thinking about drug shortages. I am a resident in the United States. The United States of America. First world medicine, folks. And sometimes - all too frequently - I have to revise the treatment plan of a healthy patient undergoing elective surgery because I do not have access to the ideal drug.
In other words, I compromise.
That’s a sickening feeling, friends.
Which brings me back to Bones.
Bones, Chief Medical Officer on a five year mission in deep space, where no man has gone before. Bones, who cares so goddamn deeply. Bones, desperately filing requisition forms for medications that he has no hope of receiving in the foreseeable future. Bones, elbow deep in a unfortunate ensign that caught the wrong end of a blast in engineering, sweat dripping in his eyes, nagging thoughts of, “is his name Jason or Joseph?” Bones, mad as hell because medical takes another budget cut. Bones praying frantically to a god he doesn’t believe in, “oh, please, not again.” Bones, eyeballing a unknown species and making a quick judgment call, based on a hasty heart rate calculation and estimated weight, the effective loading dose of a - probably - renal toxic drug. Bones, hissing at Spock to shut the hell up, all the while making his own calculations. Bones, who years after the mission has ended, bolts up out of a dead sleep in a panic of adrenaline, because endless nights of call have made gentle awakenings impossible. Bones, staring dumbstruck at Starfleet Medical’s supply rooms. Bones, dedicatedly carting his tiny medkit on his hip, facing an alien world with a tricorder and a few hypos. Bones, hiding in his quarters for days, pouring over all of the federation’s published xenophysiology records, searching for a connection, wondering where it went wrong. Bones replaying the day’s scene in his mind, fear still gripping his chest as Jim sleeps peacefully in the biobed. Bones alone in the field, performing a bilateral finger thoracostomy on a blue-lipped yeoman who reminds him a little too much of Joanna (if somebody does not write this fic, I will). Bones, fresh out of med school, feverently murmuring his oath with conviction and wide-eyed naivety. Bones blaming himself. Bones bitching about the unpredictability of genetically modified antimicrobials. Bones needing a goddamn drink. Bones, contemplating the nuances of therapeutic nihilism. Bones, forcing himself to meet Jim’s eyes as Jim officiates a funeral. Bones, calculating pharmacokinetics in his head. Bones, knowing there was nothing to be done, but dammit, what if? Bones, painstakingly documenting his every discovery, every treatment plan, every failure and every triumph, for the next generation of medical professionals. Bones in his office with his head in his hands. Bones, absolutely giddy and shaking with relief, “Don’t be so melodramatic; you were barely dead.”
Practicing medicine is terrifying. Every day, I am horrified at the thought that I will not be able to provide for my patients. I love my field with every breath in my body, but the responsibility is overwhelming, and sobering.
Disease and danger, wrapped in darkness and silence, indeed.
“By golly, Jim, I’m beginning to think I can cure a rainy day.”