Description: When cowgirl meets cowboy after a year of no-contact and chaos ensues during storm season!
Rating: M (Mentions of blood and death in Tornadoes and storms alike, angst and loss of loved ones, car accidents, Tornado aftermath, and injury to characters, slight age gap (5 years))
Description: Her violence was silent. Until it wasn't.
"I'm fine."
"Fine is just another word for drowning."
Rating T-M (mentions of blood, child abuse, mental health, cannon situations of violence and the like. Loss of parents, hard of hearing/deaf character, poorly written fight scenes lol)
Back in 1939 the Court of Owls set out to create the first Talon, they called this initiative the Ghost protocol. Their product? everything they ever wanted in a solider for their nefarious schemes to keep their power over Gotham City.
Roberta Harris, Bobbie if you don't want to get shot somewhere important, never wanted this life. A 'criminal' to the world and a legend in the world of spy shit and black ops project's. The bomb in her head keeps her compliant with Waller's demands until Project Starfish wins her her freedom. What will she do now?
Or
A world in which an elderly lady moves to a small town in Washington state to get away from the superhero bullshit only to get pulled back in against her will. Growing along the way as a result.
sidney crosby pisses me tf off, like hi i’m sidney crosby and i’ve been the best player in the nhl for 21 years but i also could have been a gap model and i’m just getting sexier as i age, oh and i’m also the nicest person in the whole wide world with the fattest ass and everyone loves me, fuck you sidney crosby
trin and student dr struggling w ed and trinity notices? i feel like trinity is good at picking up on that stuff esp from being in gymnastics but maybe second guessing what she’s seeing now after the patient she had w mel if she’s overthinking
Control
Trinity Santos x student doctor!reader
Summary: A few skipped meals shouldn’t be enough to attract Trinity’s attention - or so you think.
CW: disordered/avoidant eating described (non-graphic), sensitive conversation, angst/comfort.
WC: 2.3k
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 (you are here!)
A/N: just as a reminder, these are not a singular cohesive story, more like a collection of stories connected lightly by details.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
The first time Trinity notices it, it starts with something so small that it’s almost nothing.
Trinity has something going on in the kitchen that smells warm and buttery, maybe even a little sweet. It drifts down the short hallway toward the bedroom while you’re halfway through pulling your scrub top over your head.
You smooth the shirt down automatically, tugging It straight where it catches at your waist.
The apartment is quiet except for the sound of dishes clattering together and the drone of the coffee maker.
You step in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall in Trinity’s bedroom, giving yourself a quick once-over. Your scrubs fit fine. They always do.
Still, you turn to the side, tugging at the edge again. It pulls a little tighter across your stomach than you want it to. You suck in a little, hold it for a second, then let it out again with a quiet breath.
“Breakfast is ready.”
You jump at the sound of Trinity’s voice right behind you and turn to find her leaning against the door frame, watching you. She’s already dressed, and the idea of her cooking in her scrubs would make you giggle if you weren’t busy flushing just a little at being caught.
You force a smile, reaching for your badge on the dresser. “You’re awfully quiet for someone cooking in the kitchen.”
“You’re awfully distracted for someone getting dressed,” she shoots back lightly.
You laugh and shimmy past her into the hallway. She follows you out of the bedroom and by the time you fish a cup out of the cabinet, she’s already back in front of the stove.
There are two plates on the counter, waiting for you. Eggs and toast, with what smells like cinnamon.
Trinity nudges one of the plates towards you with the tips of her fingers. “Eat.”
You shake your head lightly, holding up the mug. “Just coffee for me this morning.”
She pauses just as the forkful of eggs reaches her mouth.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” you say, following it up with a quick sip of your coffee. “I don’t really get too hungry in the mornings.”
Trinity sighs and pulls your plate toward herself.
“Suit yourself.”
You lean back against the counter while she eats, content in the silence and grateful for the heat put out by your coffee cup.
She finishes quickly and you dump the rest of your coffee into a travel mug, tucking it into the netted cupholder on the side of your backpack.
“C’mon, Dr. Santos,” you say with a laugh. “If we’re late, I’m blaming your gourmet breakfast.”
“Bold move,” Trinity says, grabbing her keys. “Blaming your resident.”
As the two of you move toward the front door, she glances back toward the kitchen at the untouched plate still sitting on the counter. Then she flips the lights off and follows you out.
She doesn’t say anything about your untouched plate that morning, she just notices it.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
The second time Trinity notices it is in the break room.
Your shift has been busy enough that the morning has flown by in a blur of patient consults and lab runs. By the time things finally slow for more than two minutes, you’re halfway down the hall with a stack of paper charts in your hand when Trinity’s hand catches the back of your scrub sleeve.
“Come on.”
You glance over your shoulder at her. “What?”
“Break room.”
“I have charts -”
“Wrong, you have donuts.”
That’s enough to make you pause.
“Someone brought donuts?”
Trinity scoffs softly, and it’s laced with a laugh. “You think I’d be dragging you off schedule for anything less?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead she just steers you down the hall with a firm hand on your arm, the two of you giggling the whole way.
The break room door is propped open when you get there. Inside, the table in the middle of the room with an unmistakable large pink box.
Half the staff in the department seems to have the same idea.
Dana is leaning against the counter with a coffee, in mid-conversation with one of the nurses, and someone from radiology is already reaching for the last sprinkled chocolate.
“See?” Trinity mutters, nodding toward the box. “Savages.”
That makes you laugh.
Trinity steps forward and flips the lid open the rest of the way, scanning the remaining options with scrutiny. “Alright,” he says, pointing. “You want the maple bar or the chocolate glaze before someone else grabs them?”
You lean against the table instead, shaking your head lightly.
“I’m good.”
Trinity glances up from the donuts to you, confused. “You’re good?”
“Yeah,” you say easily. “I’m not really hungry. I had a big breakfast.”
For just a moment, Trinity doesn’t move. She just stares at you. Not in a way that draws attention from anyone else in the room, but long enough to scan your face, trying to understand the lie. Because she remembers the untouched plate sitting on the counter and the way you walked out the door with nothing but coffee in your hand. Coffee she happens to know is still sitting in the cupholder of your backpack right now.
Crossing the room, Dana is already reaching into the box and snatching that maple bar.
“Big breakfast?” she repeats approvingly. “Look at you, being responsible.”
You shrug one shoulder with a faux-humble smile.
“Trying something new.”
Trinity sucks her teeth quietly, reaching into the box and grabbing the chocolate glaze.
“Your loss,” she says.
You lift a hand in lazy surrender as you back into the hallway again.
“Enjoy.”
By the time Trinity looks up again, you’re already halfway down the hall toward the workstations with those paper charts in hand.
Dana glances toward the empty doorway, then back at Trinity.
“You letting your med student skip donuts?” she asks.
Trinity chews thoughtfully, her eyes drifting after you.
“For now.”
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
The third time Trinity notices isn’t just one instance.
It’s a pattern, the kind that only becomes obvious after a while when you’re really looking for something.
A week has passed, maybe two.
It’s been long enough for the emergency department to cycle through it’s usual rhythm: new patients, new shifts, but somehow always the same old Myrna. Long enough that Trinity almost convinces herself that the first two times didn’t mean anything at all.
People skip meals all the time in this job, there just isn’t enough time to sit down and eat. Coffee and adrenaline get most doctors through their shifts just fine.
But still, she notices things.
Lunch gets dropped off for the department and you suddenly remember three different things that need to be done right that minute.
A nurse offering you a sandwich and you waving it off with an easy smile and a claim that you ate earlier.
The same granola bar sitting in the pocket of your scrub shirt for three separate shifts.
Trinity tells herself it doesn’t mean anything because she knows better than to jump to conclusions. She’s seen what happens when doctors do that. Hell, she’s done it herself.
Her mind drifts back to the bulimic patient she nearly missed a while back. Mel practically had to spoon-feed her the diagnosis before Trinity finally put the pieces together because she’d been so focused on other things.
And for weeks afterward, Trinity had started seeing eating disorders everywhere. Every patient who said they weren’t hungry, every athlete who came in with a stomachache. It had been a while before she trusted her instincts again.
And then, of course, there’s the part she doesn’t talk about.
Years of her own early mornings, weigh-ins with coaches who talked about food like it was a negotiation instead of just basic nutrition.
It leaves a mark.
Enough that Trinity is aware of how easy it is to see patterns that aren’t really there.
Projection, that’s the word for it. Something med students love to throw around during their psych rotations.
So she tells herself that’s what this is. Projection. You’re a med student on an emergency medicine rotation. You’re busy. You’re stressed. You forget to eat sometimes. That’s all.
It has to be.
But every time she notices and does her best to dismiss it, the same quiet thought knocks at the back door of her mind, her instincts whispering to her over and over:
Something isn’t right.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
The fourth time Trinity notices, she knows she isn’t imagining it anymore.
You’d slept over the night before, which is becoming more and more common nowadays.
She had made breakfast again that morning and you hadn’t even looked at it. You’d just thanked her, taken another sip of your coffee, and asked if she was ready to head in once she was done.
She’d let it go in the moment, but by the time the two of you walk into the emergency department together, she already knows for certain that you haven’t eaten today.
This shift is busy from the start.
A steady stream of patients, nothing too dramatic but enough to keep everyone moving all the time. By mid-afternoon, Trinity is standing at the foot of a patient bed while you prepare a blood draw for a patient who looks mildly terrified of needles.
“I’ll be real quick,” you reassure the patient gently, tying the tourniquet. Your voice is calm and reassuring, the kind of bedside manner Trinity’s come to expect from you.
She watches you while you clean the site, unwrap the butterfly needle, and line everything up. Your technique is good. Steady.
At first.
Then your hand trembles.
It’s subtle, just a small shake of your fingers as you position the needle. Most people in the room probably wouldn’t notice, the patient certainly (and thankfully) hasn’t.
But Trinity does. Especially as she watches the tremor run through your hand again.
You pause, adjusting your grip on the needle, trying to steady it.
The patient shifts nervously on the bed. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Just -”
Your hand shakes again, this time harder to hide. You try your best to position the needle, but your fingers don’t cooperate. For a moment, you stare at your own hand, like you’re willing it to stop. But it doesn’t.
Your jaw tightens in frustration and you step back.
“Dr. Santos,” you say, keeping your voice even as you hold the butterfly needle out to her. “Would you mind taking this one?”
Trinity steps forward without hesitating. “Of course,” she says easily, doing her best not to alarm your already-alarmed patient.
She takes the needle from you and finishes the blood draw. It takes less than a minute.
“See?” she tells the patient lightly. “Not so bad.”
They laugh nervously, already relaxing.
As Trinity initials the vial, she chances a glance up at you. You’re standing a step back from the foot of the bed, your hands empty, and she notices the way you’ve curled your fingers into your palms like you’re trying to hide the shaking.
She says nothing. Not here, in front of a patient, that would be unprofessional. But she does feel a level of certainty settle into place anyway, because she knows you didn’t eat this morning, and she remembers the granola bar that went uneaten and the excuses, and now she’s seen your hands shake.
This time, she doesn’t tell herself she’s imagining things. This time, she knows.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
You step inside Trinity’s apartment later that same night, dropping your bag by the door.
You’re so tired that your legs feel heavy and your head a little fuzzy. No food all day and a coffee-only breakfast…and every movement of your body has felt like a treadmill you couldn’t step off.
You pause for just a second, catching your reflection in the mirror in the entryway of her apartment.
It’s a quick, almost reflexive look. Your shoulders slump as you take in the lines of your body and the way your scrubs sit.
Trinity’s there before you even realize it. She’s leaning casually against the wall behind you with her arms crossed, looking mostly calm but entirely focused.
“Look at me,” she says quietly.
You freeze at her tone. The glance at the mirror turns into a stiff shake of your head.
“I said, look at me,” she repeats, leaving no room to argue.
Finally you turn and your eyes lift, meeting hers. You look exhausted, wary, and maybe even a little ashamed.
“You haven’t eaten today,” she says, her gaze hard on you.
“I had a busy morning,” you mumble. “Plus, I had coffee for breakfast, it’s fine.”
Trinity steps closer to you, her jaw set in a way that tells you she’s grinding her teeth. Her expression is otherwise soft, but her voice is tight, like she’s holding herself in check.
“This is happening every day. You don’t eat breakfast, or lunch, and that same granola bar is still sitting in your pocket from like a week ago. You’re shaking so much you can’t even hold a needle without me stepping in.”
You look down at your hands. “I’m fine,” you mutter.
“I don’t think you are,” Trinity says. “I want to know why, tell me why so I can help.”
Your chest tightens. Because saying it feels like giving a piece of yourself you aren’t ready to give yet. You shake your head.
“You can tell me,” she says softly, crossing the small space between you to put her hands on your arms. “I need to know, you know I’m not going to judge you.”
You take a shaky breath. “Because I…I just feel like - like I can’t control anything. Patients, outcomes, my schedule…everything is so chaotic, all the time. You…I don’t even know -” you falter, but you push through. “Even you - us. I don’t even know what this is, or where I stand. And I can’t control any of that. But this…this I can control.”
Silence falls as Trinity studies your face, taking in your words.
“Starving yourself isn’t going to make everything else easier,” she says quietly. “It’s only going to add another problem to your list.”
You swallow and your voice cracks a little. “I just feel so out of control, and I - I don’t know how to stop.”
Trinity bends so that she can look up at you, to see your face. “Then let me help you,” she says firmly. “Not because you can’t do it yourself. You don’t have to do it yourself, I’m here for you.”
You finally let yourself breath, let her presence anchor you. You open your eyes to look at her.
“And for what it’s worth,” she adds softly, “you don’t have to be perfect. You’re already enough.” She steps closer and wraps you in a firm, steady hug. One hand rests at the small of your back, the other on your shoulder as she holds you tightly.
You lean into her, sighing with both relief and exhaustion. The weight of being seen is heavy, but it feels good.
When you pull back enough to breathe, Trinity tilts her head toward the kitchen.
“Go sit,” she says. “I’ll make you something.”
You sink into the edge of the couch, still shaky, and she moves to the kitchen without a word. In minutes, she’s back with a small plate: half a banana, a few crackers, and a glass of water. Nothing fancy or overwhelming. Like she’s done this before.
“Start with this,” she says, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of you. “No pressure. Just eat something.”
You pick at the banana, hesitating a second before taking a bite. Trinity sits next to you on the couch, watching. Trying not to hover, but supporting. She doesn’t say anything else.
Nothing has really changed, at least not right this very minute. It’s not a solution, this is something that can’t be fixed in this moment. But it’s a start.
⟡ ───────── ⟡ ───────── ⟡
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 (you are here!)
babe when you go offline you can easily see how djt won the popular vote for a reason if you pay close attention. people support that man and more people id argue love him/tolerate him than actually hate him (as the current controversies show) queers for trump/mexicans for trump/blacks for trumps - you name it. the richest people in this country support this administration and there is so much money funneled into swaying people towards the right which is actively working. it truthfully comes as no surprise to see how little this stuff exists when you log off. everything online is so performative. just remember the people irl who “dislike” trump probably actually voted for him and that’s a hard pill i had to swallow early on
unfortunately, i know that many people in america support him. that doesn’t mean we should normalize it.
being from canada, literally everybody around here that i know/talk to irl despise him. we have morals.
The good ones here in the states also DESPISE the man. Unfortunately the administration and our leadership is not representing what everyone thinks. That I can say for sure. And we are fighting. But it’s true. There is a lot of performative stuff out there that sways the groups the he is actively targeting into supporting him.
I was in Chicago of all places one time and in a bar. I was getting hit on by a black guy and he delved into politics early like dude. But he went on and on about how Orange is a business man and how America needs his business smarts to help us get out of our poor economical status, he’s gonna get us out of this inflation bullshit yada yada yada. And I was just looking at him, like, you know he wants you gone right? You and every other person that isn’t rich let alone POC. He was serious though. Deadly. He meant every word. It’s insanity, I wish I was kidding
I’m still thinking of fleeing to Canada. It’s real thought. More so by the day
summary : when baker!reader gets woken up at 2 in the morning with a complaint from her sweet baby about a stuffy nose and a case of the sneezies, she brings her to the er, down the block from her bakery- meeting your customer crush, jack abbot- black scrubs, blue glove, silver hair, and delicate hands taking care of your sleepy daughter
WC : 1,575
when your daughter woke you up, the analog clock beside you read- 2:13 am. you were in a deep slumber, due to the long nights you have been working at the bakery all week. Her tiny hands came up and tapped your arm with tiny “mommy”s in between.
“mm what's wrong baby ?” you ask her, sitting yourself up and reaching over to turn on your lamp as she crawls into your bed, lying right beneath you.
“nose is — stuffy mommy” she says laying under you, sniffling and rubbing her palms across her nose
“alright, let me feel your forehead." you say, placing the back of your hand onto her forehead. She is literally burning up.
"woah. okay baby, l- let me go get the thermometer, see if its above 97, if. so we have to go to the hospital."
“okay mommy”` she replies low and soft.
when you came back with the thermometer, you already had a feeling what it was going to say. And of course, you were right—her temperature was well above 97. It read 100 degrees. Seeing the numbers made your heart sink a little. even though you were still half asleep and trying to shake off the fog in your head, you knew you had to move quickly.
still groggy, you slipped into a pair of sweats and pulled on a hoodie, not even bothering to fully wake yourself up first. You shoved your feet into your slip-on shoes, running on pure instinct at that point. Then you turned your attention to her. You carefully helped her into her pants and shoes, guiding her arms through her sweatshirt. Wanting to make sure she stayed warm, you added a jacket over it, zipping it up snugly. Even through your exhaustion, your focus was completely on making sure she was comfortable and taken care of.
the drive to the hospital was exhausting, your daughter kept sniffling and. sneezing and the sound of the car ticking drove you nuts. Your eyes are heavy and when you get to the ER, passing by your pretty bakery with the lights off. you park your car outside the florescent lights off the er. you grab your daughter out of her car seat and carry her inside to the front desk, her head lying in the crook of your neck.
it was less crowded then you had thought it would be at this time which was a good thing for you and your daughter, more so that she can be seen soon enough and good for you so you can get back to sleeping.
“hi, hon,” the receptionist says, her voice warm and familiar as she looks up from behind the desk. she offers a small, reassuring smile, the kind that instantly makes the place feel a little less overwhelming. “what can we help you with today?”
"uh i took my daughter's temperature at home. It was 100 degrees, she's been sneezing all night and she's complaining that her nose is stuffy as well. you say, still cradling her in your arms.
"sounds like the flu sweetie- just take this form and fill it out then bring it back to me." she says handing you a clipboard with paperwork and a pen. "will do, thank you." you say taking the clipboard with the one empty hand you have and taking a seat to fill the forms out. when you're with the form , you hand it to her with a small smile going to sit back down with your daughter, the 2 of you closing your eyes trying to sleep as you wait until you're called by a nurse.
"(reader) ? we are ready for you !"
you wake from your short-lived slumber at the sound of your name being called, the nurse’s voice gentle but firm. you blink away your exhaustion and shift your daughter higher in your arms, her heat burning on your skin
“(reader) ?” the nurse repeats with a soft smile.
“yes—yes, that’s us,” you answer quickly. “her fever’s still really high, i think
“we’re going to take good care of her,” the nurse assures you. “come on back with me.”
the doors swing open, and you follow her into the emergency room. steady beeping of monitors fills the air somehow awaking your sleeping daughter
“its gonna be okay baby” you whisper, cooing her back to sleep brushing damp hair from her forehead. “mommy’s right here no worries.”
The nurse takes your daughter's temperature, blood pressure and other medical procedures, she asks you a few questions about your daughter as she charts them, assuring you the doctor should be here in 10 to 15 minutes.
the doctor steps into the room a little after, when you look up you cannot believe your eyes. and apparently neither could he. Your daughter's doctor was the one and only jack abbot. the one man who whenever he comes into your. bakery you turn into a little girl on the playground with her crush.
Not to mention he looked unfairly good — tight black scrubs stretching across broad shoulders and strong arms, silver-light curls fell effortlessly onto his forehead, and softening features that might have been intimidating.
you both stare at. each other with a bit of confusion for a second before the nurse cuts the tension
"do you- guy uh know each other ?" she asks , stopping her typing at the standing computer.
"yeah uh - this is (reader), she's the one who runs the bakery where i get all the sweets from." Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck , releasing a loud sigh.
"oh wow seriously ?!" her face lights up. "your sweets are delicious, whenever dr abbot brings any in i melt! ! I'm begging you to make a cookbook-" she starts rambling before the snap of Jack's gloves sliding on cuts her off and she gulps loudly, turning her direction back to the computer.
"alright, (reader) tell me what's up with this angel." he says, sliding in the stool closer to you and your daughter placing the stethoscope on her chest and back.
"She came into my room complaining about having a stuffy nose and she said she was sneezing, when I checked her temperature. was well above 95, she hasn't coughed yet or at all so i'm not sure if that counts for something." you say telling jack as he just nods his head, eyes fixated on yours.
"well that's good , no coughing right now could mean that we caught the flu early before it progressed to anything worse like serious antibodies or anything else. since she's young , it would have been a lot worse- good thing you listened to her and brought her in." he says , sliding backwards towards the nurse telling her what to update in your daughters charts.
"does she have her flu shot?' he turns back around to ask you
"yeah she does." you reply back low and quiet.
"and do you know if there is somewhere she could have gotten the flu ? home, school ,family members house?" he continued asking questions. as the nurse leaves to assist others.
"uh i think school. i've been working at the bakery so late this week i haven't even had time to hang out with her after her school days im exhausted dr abbot, i hate that i cant be there for her all the tim-" you cut yourself off as your eyes start to water.
Jack notices. and stands up to come beside you on the bed and rub your shoulder.
"shh it's okay , i'm pretty sure you're doing fantastic, it's okay to have to work. don't punish yourself, you're an amazing mom. (reader)" he reassures you , rubbing slow circles on your back.
"and i- i don't think it was at home because it's just me and her and i don't get sick that often." you manage to say.
jacks eyes light up when he hears you say it's just the 2 of you. There's so much he just found out about you tonight. He didn't know you had a daughter nor did he know you were single. Tonight was wild for the both of you clearly.
"it's most likely from school, sweetie. kids are filed with bacteria, don't stress it though, she has her shots. I can just send you guys home with some light antibiotics and give you an ice pack right now for her fever." he says getting up, large palm leaving your back.
"id love that dr abbot. thank you so much for your help." you smile at him
"of course (reader)." he says, taking a tiny pen pad out of his back pocket and clicking a pen, writing down his phone number on it.
"you call me if anything is wrong. the waiting room is crazy in the morning." he says handing you the paper, his calloused fingers touching yours, delicate as he slides away.
"thank you. and I will, of course. stop by the shop soon , i have a new pastry i want you to try, since my treats are so good you give them out to your coworkers." you giggle as you stand up with your daughter in your arms, sleep once again.
"oh you know i'm always there." he chuckles, turning around to leave. as he heads toward the door, he pauses.
"try to get some rest too. doctors’ orders.”
you laughs softly. “is that covered by insurance?”
he smirks, smug yet soft. “i’ll see what I can do.”
the ‘well what did you expect’ reaction to the u.s. mens post-win-shitshow is so frustrating cause. actually i think these are really unique circumstances we’re living in and it’s more than just oh white man is republican, and i think a lot of people are normalizing the acts of this administration by acting like it isn’t. the shit happening over here has gotten so undeniably egregious so yeah it is a bit devastating seeing them party with ultra mega super evil overlord’s henchman who is playing an active role in ripping people’s lives apart, and then going above and beyond locker room talk by also parading it around on the internet after the fact. i literally do not give a fuck how drunk they were these are grown ass men who fully know what they’re doing.
and none of that is even to mention the side issue of the hughes brothers, whose mother has played and is STILL playing an active role in the expansion of women’s sports, going on their little pr zoom calls and media availability and glazing women in sports just to turn around and punch down on them with neo-hitler himself.
nuance exists but it does not exist here. having grown up in the south as a leftist like yes it is so complicated seeing people you love turn out to be morally inept pieces of shit but these are rich white men you do not know. there’s a major difference between not really knowing where they stand vs now having it splayed out in front of you. you do not need to support them. frankly i hope not a single man in that room feels the touch of another human being for the remainder of their lifetime.
Imagine you meet Quinn Hughes and punch him in the face. Imagine Jack Hughes tries to come to his brother’s rescue and you punch him the face too. Imagine you’re escaping in your getaway car and run over both the Tkachuk brothers ✨🫶💕
dare i say the nhl paid nbc (the network jimmy airs on) to have quinn on the show because host of late night shows can’t really say “ no” to guest that have some sort of pull with the network.
oh yea it wouldn’t surprise me at all. but fallon is also spineless so idek if it would have taken much convincing LMAO. i’d bet they paid nbc to get him on snl though
also quinn saying “we played in the greatest hockey game anyone has ever watched or played in” is 1) simply NOT TRUE and 2) the most narcissistic thing u could say about a game YOU PLAYED IN?? like woahhhhh can we get an ego check in minnesota pls 😭 someone take him down a peg rn
I know this was always who he was, he - like many others, was very good at hiding. Or just throwing up smoke screens. But ever since he got traded it’s like his ego has sky rocketed or he just feels more comfortable ti be more of an asshole because he’s on a better team now?
I used to live the Hughes brothers and their staunch support of their mother and their claim that SHE is the one who gave them their athletic abilities and got them to where they are. What a fucking shame man. Just heartbreaking
heise said it was awesome to have vance watching games. people were talking in fucking circles trying to defend ellen hughes as if she didn't have a hand in raising her sons. like. lmao.
some people on the women's team publicly carrying water for the men's team - it is time to remember that what, 53% of white women voted for trump too lmao
in my post from last night, i mentioned i loved the hughes. not anymore.
i have lost every last bit of respect for anyone from that team.
why are you cosying up to the director of fbi in your locker room after your victory? why are you on a call with that criminal you americans call a president? why are you laughing at a misogynistic joke made by that evil man about inviting the women's hockey team when you have claimed to support them all this while?
i'm serious. i'm so disappointed by jack and quinn. plain misogyny aside, your mother coached the us women's hockey team and led them to a victory. and, you're laughing at a misogynistic joke made about them by THAT man?
reposting stories about the support from such political figures in the political climate that your country has rn is reprehensible.
and quinn following conservative accounts, following emily austin who made a whole video about supporting ICE at the grammys??? like, i haven't even talked about them being buddies with the tkachuks.
i understand that an olympic victory can cause you to be swept away by adrenaline and excitement but outing yourself as evil and someone with no morals is certainly a choice.
and, no, the excuse of them being stupid and uneducated and politically unaware DOES NOT APPLY HERE. i'm not even american yet i know that this isn't the type of stuff you do.
