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iheartpetey · 8 months

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did HTH HQ start a fantasy league?? duh🙄

has the season started? no

do we care? no

get ready to be sick of me🥳

#HTH🧢🏒#HTH HQ🧢🏒#stick&puck #ferda #i’m trying to come up with dumb ass hashtags #i love my friends #hth on top #hth #fantasy league #nhl #it’s none of your BIZness🥝#i heart biznasty

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bedsyandco · 5 months

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SECRET'S OUT ☆ T. ZEGRAS

summary: in which you (yn) are a famous singer, dating Trevor and the world finds out about it.

note: i have some plans for this based on what the reaction to it is?? idk yet...we'll see. experimented a little with this one. it's something...

trevorzegras (summer '22)

liked by jackhughes, yourusername, and others.

trevorzegras: been busy

view all comments

colecaufield: with what? is the question...

jackhughes: no the question is with who?😏

spittinchiclets: teaser for the video coming up👀

jackhughes: free feet pics? truly blessing us

yourusername: weirdo

trevorzegras: thin ice bud

alexturcotte: does she sing you to sleep?

trevorzegras: NO

alexturcotte: oh? can she come sing me to sleep?

trevorzegras: she can sing at your funeral

ducksfan11: who is that??😭

user33: breaking a lotta hearts with this one

hughes43: trevor getting a gf was not on the hockey off-season bingo this year

user12: the boys' comments. I'm so confused😭

user30: yn liked and commented??

user77: no way it's her. how would they even know each other??

user18: she's was spotted at his games 2 times this year. this is old news

user38: old news? I've literally never heard about them being together before

yourusername

liked by trevorzegras, jackhughes and others.

yourusername: secret's out I guess. thanks @.spittinchiclets

view all comments

biznasty: we're sorry

user22: you guys literally had one job

biznasty: we're blaming the editor...

user44: ITS CONFIRMED!!

jackhughes: you could do better😏

deleted by yourusername

user87: jack's out here flirting with trevor's girl like it's nobody's business😭

hughesy86: he did say she was his celebrity crush👀

huggybear: she's also known him longer

user87: seriously??

huggybear: yeah. her brother and Jack are friends. he plays football

user11: this feels like a recipe for disaster

user99: no one gonna talk about the first PHOTO??

zzeegs11: hand placement��

#trevor zegras x reader #trevor zegras fic #trevor zegras imagine #hockey blurb #nhl blurb #hockey fic #nhl fic #hockey imagine

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rowdyhughesy · 1 year

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Baby what now?- TZ11

liked by: jackhughes,cam.york and others

tagged: jamie.drysdale, trevorzegras, cam.york

yn.bizzy: children were bored so we got drunk at Coachella✌🏼

colecaufield: where was my invite?🤧

→ yn.bizzy: we can get drunk everyday if you want cdog

→ colecaufield: sounds like a plan to me🤝🏼

biznasty: I raised you right

→ ryanwhitney6: the only thing you did right

→ yn.bizzy: tell em Whitt!!!

→ biznasty: forget I said anything. You’re evil

→ yn.bizzy: sorry no take backs old man😘

cam.york: this is living alright🕺🏼

jamie.drysdale: don’t go telling secrets now

→ fan1: what does it mean?!?

→ yn.bizzy: it means that Jimmy Bobby isn’t a snitch duh

trevorzegras: hot hot hot hot

→ yn.bizzy: I love you Zeggy🤍

liked by: lhughes_06, biznasty and others

tagged: yn.bizzy

trevorzegras: Business meeting🏌🏻

_alexturcotte: Always a pleasure

→ yn.bizzy: pleasure is all mine Turcsy

masonmctavish23: boss man😎

yn.bizzy: baby daddy🥵

→ biznasty: BABY WHAT?

→ yn.bizzy: it’s a joke don’t get a heart attack now

→ biznasty: demon

→ trevorzegras: yn.bizzy it’s like you’re asking for him to cut my dick off

→ yn.bizzy: never. I like it too much

→ biznasty: is it too late to put you up for adoption?

→ yn.bizzy: For you? Sadly yes

jackhughes: playin like a real baller

→ trevorzegras: showing em how it’s done😎✌🏼

📍Bedford, New York

liked by: yourbestfriend, _quinnhughes and others

tagged: trevorzegras, griffinzegras

yn.bizzy: mama Zegras is my favourite person

trevorzegras: I should be hurt but I’m not bc my girl and mom are best friends now

jamie.drysdale: It’s not me anymore!?

→ yn.bizzy: you can come in second place?

→ jamie.drysdale: I can live with second place

→ trevorzegras: I can’t, does that make me THIRD place?

→ yn.bizzy: trevorzegras number one in my heart forever, you can’t dump me now as previously stated you’ll have to pay for the laser removal

colecaufield: I’m gonna tell Kelly you replaced her

→ yn.bizzy: I’m still gonna be Queen Kelly’s favourite so sit down

→ _alexturcotte: I’m sat🙇🏻

→ brockcaufield19: bizzy has spoken

load more comments…

instagram stories:

#cockyrookieau series #trevor zegras imagine #trevor zegras insta edit #trevor zegras x reader

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elichatterarchive · 5 years

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Dave stumbles into the lab one night, crimson eyes half closed against the lamplight Dirk works by. ‘Saw the door was open. What’re you doing?’

Dirk doesn’t look up, face inches from the wiring that he’s tinkering with. ‘Working.’

‘Is that what we’re calling it? Looks to me like you’re obsessing,’ Dave tells him.

Dirk is almost knocked out by the realisation that he is, in fact, obsessing, and that his younger-older brother is most definitely about to save his ass.

‘Fuck,’ he breathes, quiet in the murky dark. When Dave flicks the lightswitch, Dirk has to glare behind his shades, teeth clenched for the duration of his adjustment. ‘What time is it?’ He grimaces a little harder. ‘What a dumb fucking question. We’re -’

‘-On a meteor, drifting through space,’ Dave finishes, pulling up a chair and sweeping a few pieces of metal out of the way, like they mean nothing (like Dirk hasn’t spent the better part of two days trying to make them mean something). ‘It’s half past go-the-fuck-to-sleep o’clock, dude. It’s a quarter to ‘you look like shit’. It’s-’

‘Bro,’ Dirk says, in a tone that isn’t quite as stoic as usual, and Dave clams up. They have a sweet little groove going at the moment -- ever since they talked things out, they’ve been twisting in tandem, a machine so fuckin’ sick it doesn’t even need oiling. They’re the rhyming words of the sickest bar this side of the apocalypse. They’re either end of a metronome. They’re Striders, for fuck’s sake.

Dave leans his head on the crook of his elbow, flat on the workbench. He (poorly) stifles a yawn. ‘Seriously, man. How long have you been holed up in here? You’re, like, drenched in shit. It’s nasty as hell. Not in a good way, either, like some mechanic working tirelessly to save his spaceship from the endless caverns of a dead planet. Like, you just look bad.’

Dirk takes a look at his grease-stained hands, curses the callouses on them to the old husk of Dave’s Earth and back. ‘A day or two.’

Dave whistles, low. ‘Shit.’

‘It’s not that bad. When I made him the stupid scrumbot, I was up working for almost a week. It was-’

The expression on Dave’s face cuts him off long before his own brain has the sense to. Shit, indeed. He says as much.

‘You’re making Jake something?’

He hadn’t specified, but Dirk supposes he doesn’t need to. The bent and singed scraps in front of him look very ugly in the light. ‘I’m trying to, I think. I keep running out of steam, which is very fucking stupid. You’d think I would know what to do when faced with a room full of robotic parts and pretty much all the fucking time in the world, but, you know something, Dave? I’m stumped. Completely and utterly goddamn stumped. Stumped out of my fucking brains.’

There’s a quiet that feels very heavy. Dirk doesn’t look up, and Dave doesn’t move for a long while.

‘You want me to appearify you a coffee?’ Dave asks eventually, and he blinks his huge red eyes like he’s actually bothered about the answer, and Dirk feels very much like he can’t breathe on this meteor anymore, like space is compressing him into a tiny little ball, like all his worst traits are surviving the squash. Fuck. Fuck, this sucks. He’s suddenly very thankful for his shades.

‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’

Dave gets up, pats Dirk’s shoulder a little awkwardly (like he’s worried that Dirk’s going to bite him, or something) (but that’s fair, honestly), and vanishes to acquire two cups of extremely shitty coffee. Good. Every appendage Dirk happens to be able to feel at the moment is shaking at a different frequency. He’s a radio turned to a station of static, buzzing away in his own brain. Almost against his own will, Dirk rests his head against the worktable and closes his eyes.

When he dozes, he dreams that, somewhere on Derse, a fire is engulfing a forest. He panics until he realises that he is holding a match.

The next morning, Dirk’s coffee is undrinkable. Literally. The film atop the drink has solidified into a kind of gelatinous mass, and Dirk has to kind of fight it out of the cup in order to rinse it out. It’s annoying, and not how he wants to be spending his time, but it makes for an easy life, and he’s found himself craving a little bit of simplicity recently.

Dave doesn’t mention the previous night, even though it must have been real fucking annoying to force that moronic machine to make two cups of sludge and carry them back before they grew skin only to find the second party snoring like a particularly old walrus, anime glasses askew. Dirk feels a surge of something strong for his fellow Strider, though he doesn’t label it just yet. Neither of them are ready for something like that.

Roxy greets him with a smile he feels somewhere in his hippocampus, sharp and hot. He nods back, has to keep himself from scanning the rest of the faces in the room. Instead, he sits by his friend, steals the first edible thing he sees on her plate and stuffs it into his mouth before she can snatch it back from him. With Roxy, things are certainly more painless than they could be (that is to say, he’s still trying to teach himself to look Jane in the eye. That is to say, Jake is not one of the faces in the room). He can sit shoulder to shoulder with her and across from Rose and know that he’s going to do better today.

From the doorway, Dave, who’s ushering the Mayor forward by their tiny shoulders, offers an expression that edges on unreadable. Dirk reads it, considers, gives it a five star review on Troll Goodreads and places an order for the sequel. Instead of a totally kickass and not-money-grabbing version two of a brotherly half-smile, the Mayor skitters over and delivers a dusty bottle of orange soda.

As Dirk twists off the cap, Jake and John join the group. His hands are too occupied to go white knuckled. He’s too busy thinking about building public transport for Can Town to choke on his first mouthful of Fanta. That’s progress.

It’s when he’s ready to go that the paranoia kicks in -- Jake has robbed him of his indifferent exit. If he gets up and leaves now, it’ll seem like he can’t wait to get out of any room Jake has entered. If he hangs around, it’ll look like he’s desperate to linger, like some sort of English-specific creep that gets his rocks off by lurking in the shadows and watching Jake do things. Dirk’s throat starts to close up, the way it does when he doesn’t know what to do.

He has to stress that this isn’t about Jake, or the fact that he still loves Jake (and probably always will), it’s about the feeling he’s getting in his head -- his entire head, behind his nose and between his teeth and curling through his eye sockets -- the feeling of being pulled apart, losing his grip on something. It’s the feeling he gets when he stops paying attention to his dreamself, but tenfold, twentyfold, fuckzillionfold; he’s somewhere between two places, stuck fast, anchorless.

He is, in fact, totally fucked.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. He’s just unsure. It’s a new feeling, and one he’s not fond of at that.

He stands up. No eyes follow him. His shoulders don’t relax.

Dirk finds himself en route to the lab.

‘You still in here, Bro?’

‘Yeah. Hey.’

Dave pushes open the lab door with a little more uncertainty this time. Dirk doesn’t blame him. It must look to Dave like he’d regressed straight back to making mindfuck-bots after the heart-to-heart that never was.

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Finishing something up. Check this out.’

Dave sits obediently (that rubs Dirk the wrong way, but there’s time for that later), blank expression the perfect canvas on which Dirk gets to throw his latest creation.

‘It only took me a few hours,’ he hears himself saying, as if he needs to justify doing something he enjoys, ‘so it’s not perfect, but I think it’s pretty cool.’

‘Just show me,’ Dave says, and Dirk nods. Right. Showing.

The small tin train blows a harmless puff of warm air before it starts to worm its way around the track, weaving, silver and snakelike, along the bends Dirk had carved from the shards and scraps of his last effort.

Dave can’t help but grin as he watches the carriages roll by. ‘Dude, sick.’

Dirk shakes his head. ‘Look in the windows, bro.’

‘You’re kidding me,’ Dave breathes, pushing himself out of his seat and kneeling hurriedly by the still-moving train. ‘Shit. Awesome. You even got John’s vacant fuckin’ expression. Wow, who’s that kid sat next to John? He’s hot as Hell, dude. Smokin’ as all the irons after a blacksmith pulls them from the fire with his fuckin’ catcher’s mitt bare ass hands. Hey, who’s that? Must be the cool kid’s ecto-brother. They got similar badass shades on. They’re taking this train to Biznasty City, population three, Mayor one.’

‘No, dude, they’re coming from Biznasty City. This is the train to-’

Dave’s mouth drops open, a soft little ‘o’ of surprise. ‘Can Town,’ he breathes, and Dirk nods.

‘You know it.’

‘This is awesome, Bro.’ Dave hovers for a second, and Dirk knows (almost instinctively) that this is where good brothers would hug, but they both seem to baulk at the last second, like wary horses sensing a storm. It’s alright. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

Dave grins, effectively waving away the awkward air. ‘You should show everyone else. We’ll move it to Can Town to show the Mayor. The little dude’s gonna straignt up fucking flip.’

Dirk nods, lets his brain bounce against his skill a few times. He feels like a car ornament. ‘Yeah. That was the plan.’

‘You should show him.’

‘I know. I will.’

‘In the morning?’

‘Yeah. I think so.’

Dave nods. Now they look like matching car ornaments. ‘Cool. You should get some sleep, Bro. You still kinda look like shit.’

They smile, quiet, tentative.

‘See ya,’ Dirk says to the back of Dave’s head, and stops the train with a flick of a switch. Once the wheels stop turning, he takes up Dave’s position, squints through the tiny windows at the figurines sat inside the carriage. It’s the best replica he could manage, pieced together from fragments of pictures and logical guesses. The mechanics of the room itself don’t matter all that much.

What matters is the miniature figurine of himself, sat serenely next to the figurine of a grinning Jake E.nglish.

For some reason, Jake’s smile had been easy to recall, but almost impossible to recreate.

The figurines don’t have history. The figurines aren’t even looking at each other. The figurines are vague, yet unconfusing, and, even if they are confusing, Dirk is going to be right here to clarify. Dirk is going to be the one to spread his hands in surrender, ask truce? and act like he could handle a refusal.

His finger lingers on the light switch.

It’s not nearly enough, but it’s a start.

Dirk turns off the light, takes himself to bed, and wakes up on Derse to the sound of rain.

#i legally deserve attention for this but the hs fandom is so scary #dirk tag.#dave tag.#long post /

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dreams-for-the-apoplectic · 4 years

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something i will probably never finish but like enough that im posting it anyway

Bro leans in the doorway of your room,

(and you see him from your periphery: boxers loose on bony hips and patterned with hearts, no shirt, can of orange soda in hand with shades neatly tucked on the bridge of a strikingly crooked nose)

and tells you,

(over the sound of the fans, three, overclocked on some jury-rigged upgrades he threw together last year when the air conditioner went schizo cherry apeshit, just like now, again, for the second time this week spewing out mad fumes all grey-black and choked from its old, dusty vents)

that you and he should just ollie outie of this midsummer popsicle stand and move somewhere the sun don’t actively to attempt murder you in the crispiest degree, KFC style.

And you jokingly tell him sure, fuck it, anything is better than clawing my way up Fire Death Concrete Mountain aka Texas Mordor, clutching this bitchin’ ring of power and muttering all manner of rapturous obscenities and salacious innuendos for my precious. Sign me up Major Douchenozzle, I’ll shimmy my fine ass up this fabled air-conditioned igloo any day.

A week later and you've packed your shit, grabbed your ticket, and are hopping the next flight to Vermont.

(four hours, fifty-one minutes, seven seconds, and Bro practically jumps off the plane hyperventilating when you touch down. you didn’t know how much he hated flying. you’ve never been on a plane before; if you didn’t know better, you’d think he hasn’t either. and if you quirk an eyebrow just over the rim of your aviators, and the side of your mouth makes a confused downturn for a second or two at just how fucking strange that that is, well, that was just a trick of the light, and the light is a dirty liar.)

He and you stick out like sore thumbs here

(with Bro in a crumpled white polo and asshole jeans and dumb fucking anime shades, one hand in his pockets with an impassive, calculating kind of expression that you’re more used to than the panic, checking through tabs on Complete Bullshit for god knows what reason; you in the same shirt you wore yesterday, hair a meticulously crafted unkempt, posture slouching something awful as you bop right the fuck along to some sicknasty new bassline Jade dropped on you the night before, thinking of ways to remix it into this new beat you’ve been working on)

among a crowd of home-grown New England faces haughty white and upturned and staring down at you and Bro like some trash that just rolled in from Doesn't Fucking Belong Here, USA.

(the luggage belt is moving so slow, so, so slow, it’s like watching a retarded crippled snail attempt a marathon against the goddamn salt shaker, and you wish you could just shake off the lingering, disdainful stares these people give the two of you, and you can, and you do)

(except you don't.)

You’re rolling through Montpelier an hour later, crammed up in the shotgun seat of an old, dirty, piece of shit pickup Bro apparently had nesting in the airport storage unit,

(it’s a rust hulk straight out of the early eighties, all torn up vinyl and engine rattling, with tacky, outdated bumper stickers on the back and a pine air freshener that does nothing to mask the smell of two-decade old cigarettes, and somehow you aren’t surprised this is his car because it is exactly how you imagined it.)

(you want to ask why he had a car in bumfuck, vermont and not in houston. you want to ask him if he even knows how to drive, but you hold your tongue nice and pretty and settle into the split vinyl seat cover)

moving past the city limits and into the countryside, over the state border and into New York. You give Bro the ‘what the fuck are we doing out here, man, is this the setup for a horror movie or some shit, because I’m not down to being the unwilling accomplice to some new echelon of fucked up smuppet snuff’ look, your fingers tapping in 4-4 on the dash, not really nervous so much as habitual.

(he ruffles your hair with a smirking, mean kind of half-smile, all teeth and teasing and unnatural. you swat at him uselessly.)

And then the road is quiet, and the sky is misting grey. It’s all evergreen and shrubbery and dark soil here, and small towns by clear water: fishing ponds, creeks and rivers, and more wildlife roaming these secondhand backroads than you’ve ever seen in Texas. It starts to rain a bit, ghosting against the glass, and over the soft creak of the windshield wipers Bro asks you if you wanna put on some music, little man, heard you were working on a new track and can I get a sneak peak at that delirious biznasty? And fuck yeah you have, even if it isn’t quite done yet, and you plop your phone on the dashboard, and the drive is comfortable,

(and you cannot shake this feeling that something is wrong.)

---

It isn’t an apartment, it’s a house in the goddamn woods; no, a fucking mansion in the goddamn woods, the design of it ripped straight from the personal architectural smutjournel of Frank Lloyd Wright, complete with white-foam waterfall and neo-American art deco pretension. Your mouth hangs open, and you know, you just fucking know a fly is about to buzz in that shit and set up a cozy little cottage, but you don’t care. This is straight wack, man.

(it looks vaguely familiar too, like something nostalgic stuck in your mental gears, cracked and rusted from disuse; something you saw once, a long time ago, in a place you can’t quite remember.)

Bro gestures you along along the concrete path, and you tell him no, wait, put the fucking brakes on Anime Goldilocks, what the fuck are we doing here, because this sure as shit can’t be where we’re living now, and I don’t wanna piss off the three bears. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and tells you in that deep southern mumble of his that, shit, kid, did you expect we’d just take a plane and end up in the same shitty apartment? And of course you didn’t

(even though you kind of did)

because that would be ridiculous, but-- you don’t know, you’ve been sharing a seven-hundred square foot living space with him for the past fifteen years. How are you supposed to react to a fucking mansion that just suddenly up and settled before you on delicate foundational popliteals and a stark-white concrete strapless all alluring and sultry? Just stand there stone-faced morose and stoic and fuck, that is exactly what you should be doing, isn’t it, because that was what he taught you, to

(stitch up the cuts slowly, careful with the needle and don’t fucking rush it, lil’ bro, even if they’re shallow you can’t just take it and jab that shit in, and for the love of god you gotta work on your dodge game, how the fuck do you expect not to get your ass served up sunnyside in a real fight?)

(̶̥̘͗̉̾̊͝ ̷̦̙̦͌͊̒́̍͛̀̀̈́́̚͘̕̚n̷̨̜̲͓̹̪͎̒͋́̊̎̐̍͌̆͘͝ͅͅͅ ̸̤̥̏́̌̑͒̈́̿́̃

̶̧̝͎̝͔͔̣̬͈̗̥̠̔̀͌̈́͆̒̇̋̋́̈́͐̈̚͝ ̷̡̛͕͚̰͉̦̼̤͍̘̝̹̮̩̈́̑̇̃̔͝͠ơ̷̡̧͔̘͇̖̫͉̳̳͖͇̰̻͗͛̿̋̾̏͘͝ ̸̨̧͈̱̫̩̲̦̭͖̿̃́̔͛̓̓͌̌͗̍̔̾͜ͅ

̷̢̮̮̠̠̬̖̙͈͋̍͛͆̔̈́̓̌̂̀͌̽͝͠ ̸̨̗̯̓͐̿̇͂͊̓́́̄̃̚͘͜͜.̷̲̙͓̮̮̬͓̈́̋͂͒̓̃͘͠͠)̸̧̖̪̦̥̪͙̫͍͙̩̻̺̩̒̌̈́͒͋͝ͅ

̵̬̯̪͛̓̈́̎̒́̂

It isn’t our house anyway, he says,

(and your mind slams on the brakes so hard you think you might flip this shit frontways, slam the roof on that motherfucker into the burning asphalt and skid off the edge of this brutal synapse fuckup.)

(you can’t remember what you were thinking. it’s blurry, and forgotten, and everything is normal again)

moving forward in long, atypical strides that you scramble to follow. The rain is still coming down, you realize, in a softer drizzle that dampens your shirt. Friend of mine lives here.

Holy shit, he has friends?

Yes, I have friends, you little shit, and you flinch when you realize you must have said that out loud. His arms flex, shoulder blades audibly popping with the contraction of muscle, and you flinch, and nothing happens. Her name is Roxy.

And shit, you guess that’s all there really is to say on the matter, because he doesn’t provide any further explanation and you sure as hell don’t ask. You duck under the porch roof and he raps a fat bar of knuckles on the door.

---

Roxy isn’t anything like you expect.

You don’t know what you were expecting, actually, considering you’ve only just heard about her, but she is perky and kind-eyed and so fucking sincere that the saccharine emotional font of exuberant delight that straight up sparkles from her is making you real uncomfortable.

She hugged you.

She hugged you and you liked it.

(and she hugged Bro too, made his spine go all weird fucking c-shaped wrongness as she crushes him against her chest, calls him Dirk like she fucking owns him.)

You’re ushered in as she turns on heel and sways away with a tipsy strut, sauced and sauntering and high stilettos tapping on the dark hardwood. She tells you to drop your things by the door, she can set each of you up with a room in a bit, and Dirk, honey, we have got so much catching up to do, I haven’ seen you and the lil’ guy in ages, and god yer both so fuckin’ tall I forgot about that bit,

(christ on the cross, she can speak at a mile a minute, accent a thickly laced New York staccato that matches Texas about as close to the intersection of nil and fuckall as you can get without running head-on into traffic.)

and Dirky, Dirkle, Dirk-a-licious, oh my god come here right now, I gotta show you this badass shit I‘ve been working on, it’s fuckin’ lit as hell, it has got switches and gizmos and all of the cool techy shit I know you swoon over, and you need to check out this code I wrote because you know I’m not about to trust anyone else to parse my sick lines, so come ooooooooooooon and there they go, Bro dragged stiff as cardboard across the floor by the hem of his fucking shirt. He gives you a side-eye look that says crosses somewhere between ‘don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back’ and ‘help me.’

You shrug and flip him off and leave him to his fate. His death glare could kill a lesser man.

(holy shit.)

And then, quite suddenly, you are alone.

It’s not quiet, you notice - just a more subtle murmur than the scream of a city, made emptier without Roxy to fill up the room. Slow, churning movement below signals the languid rush of water as it tumbles beneath the floorboards and off the cliffside. Some woodland creature skitters in wet dirt beyond the window pane, which filters in ghost-grey light and shakes a bit when a particularly heavy set of raindrops hit.

You shuffle about awkwardly, and glance around for a second,

(the interior is lavishly decorated, you notice. posh white starkness for fineass digs. sir asshole the stone swamp wizard sits plainly in the foyer, nested in arcane robes of the dimwitted and tacky. a cat is nuzzled up at the foot of some kind of bronzed vacuum. the whole place smells like perfume and vodka. it’s kind of intoxicating.)

before deciding the panicked, lingering gaze is kind of stupid, and waiting for Bro to come back like a pining factory girl in the nineteen-forties writing sappy missives to the brave boys in Okinawa was lame as shit, so you flop down on the couch, all loose, gangly puberty limbs and feigned indifference and the muted light of your phone glaring back at you. You pull open a pesterchum window, shoot a few messages to Harley,

(some off-the-cuff rap cooked slow on these sick fires, like just put some whip cream and a goddamn cherry on that shit and call it a sunday. you also make sure to attach a file for the new sbahj comic you’ve been working on. you’ve lovingly dubbed the new arc ‘the spaztastic furry hatesex maelstrom,’ and you hope know she’ll love it.)

and Egbert,

(and you admit, muddled up in tangents and similes that take forever just to get to the goddamn point, that you actually took his recommendation and stuck through the bitterly tasteless cinema assassination of the week. you even wrote a shitty review for it on one of your ironically maintained critic blogs, and send him a link)

(you won’t admit you laughed at groundhog day. he will never let you live it down. never.)

and Lalonde,

(who is on, surprisingly, because you know she has school right now, and fuck if the flighty broad doesn’t take every swat of the educational ass whooping with a snide, condescending seriousness that has a way of getting just under your skin. she wants to go to Harvard, or Cornell, or Oxford, because she is smarter than you, and John, and maybe not Jade but damn is she close.)

(she doesn’t respond either, though, so you cast the thought away and send her some custom made memes deep fried in a hundred layers of crystalline jpeg illegibility and wait, fuck, holy shit)

and then someone is standing over you, peering with an appraising interest, like they’re looking at a slab of beef splayed out dumb on the chopping block. And you don’t flinch, you really don’t, even though you’re about five seconds away from flipping this shit backwards and kicking dust up as you run for the hills.

You can tell this girl is nasty. She is stygian lips and white-blonde hair and violet eyes that politely inform you that this is indeed the fucking slaughterhouse, that you guessed it right, and you’re about to get served up with a side of collard greens and barbecue sauce.

So of course the first words out of your mouth are 'sup, Rose.

Wait, wh

(you see her past the glow of a verdant sun, because even a double universe killing superbomb can't outshine her. cascading orange silk stitch wrapped in a star-shimmering supernova of violet eyes and pallid skin. it's like a goddamn angel come from the heaven; a smirk beneath the hood and fire in her belly. she is the fucking sun now, and nothing can even fucking compare.)

at.

(what the fuck.)

What the fuck.

(what the actual fuck dude.)

Do I know you? Her voice is just dripping contempt.

And you don't fucking know her. She isn't here. Rose is a billion lightyears off in the gay space commune, deep encoded digital vaporware that went out of style twelve fucking years ago. She is a string of chat logs and embarrassing Fruedian slips that didn't happen, no, Rose, you don't have undercover mother-lust.

And she is here.

You've never even seen her picture, but you know. You know far beneath the skin, something deeper than blood or bone or anything else seething something above that spiritual core. You know on a fucked kind of metaphysical. It's self-evident. It cannot help but make itself true.

Uh.

Shit.

Shit dude fucking say something. She’s just standing there, and the downward curvature of those lips is about to break out of the spatial plane and into some hyper paranoid fourth dimension. You guess she has a right to be weary. Your gangly ass is seated firmly in her territory.

#homestuck #dave strider #bro strider #rose lalonde #mom lalonde #decided i should probably fulfill the whole 'occasionally write things' part of my blog that has kinda been neglected since like 2017 or so #and this has just been sitting abandoned in a google docs since like early 2019 or so but i like it enough that i figured fuck it why not #so here you go #my requisite one writing thing that i post a year #it will probably never be finished #enjoy i guess?

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habstragic · 7 years

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soph i've been seeing all these INCREDIBLE suggestions for a hockey boys video, and i have a couple that i want to share!! here u go: nicky and ovi throwing water balloons filled with pink paint at each other, nicky is doing his ovi cackle as ovi chases him around. biznasty dancin in a crop top and heart glasses. flower "styling" (read: fuckin up) tanger's hair and tanger tackling him when he sees the results. squidnose intently attempting to decorate a layer cake wearing a lacy apron.

LISTEN!!! all of these are INCREDIBLE and PERFECT! consider: nicke is blushing as ovi tries to reach out and finger paint a pink heart on his cheek. sid is poking his tongue out slightly in concentration as he precisely measures out the correct amount of icing sugar. there is a smudge of flour across his nose. biznasty is winking and pouting at the camera as he dances on the hood of a pink cadillac. tanger is wearing a romper.

#i literally never want to talk about anything else again for the rest of my life #replies

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ghost-toast · 7 years

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do u have... any hockey podcast recs....!!

At the moment I’m listening to the Steve Dangle Podcast ( @stevedangle ) which is more focused on the leafs, but is basically just a bunch of guys getting over excited about hockey. Sometimes they get very hyperfocussed on stats and contracts and the like, (which I tend to zone out on) but they’re very entertaining to listen to, and during regular season they upload like two hours twice a week.

I also listen to Ms Underestimated ( @msunderestimated ), which is a very pens centric podcast, but I think they give a really interesting female point of view on hockey and hockey culture. They’re also less focussed on stats and a bit more light-hearted than some podcasts I’ve tried to get into, and they’re both very funny.

There’s also Spittin’ Chiclets, which has like inside perspective of the NHL, but I don’t really like it? I don’t really like the hosts, but they’ve had biznasty on there twice so make of that what you will.

That’s really all I’ve got, I hope these fit what you’re looking for :))

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rowdyhughesy · 1 year

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Welcome Finley - TZ11