#lazared

[soracities]

Jeremy Radin, from "Lazar Wolf the Butcher" (poem written during staging of Fiddler on the Roof at Paper Mill Playhouse, shared on his IG page) [ID'd]

[thekaiserroll]

Wrestling with the king

[prodition]

“ this place sucks. ” cain's probably entirely too picky — but that's what happens when the best coffee you've ever had was brewed three hundred years ago. he turns to look at @lazared, eyebrow raised. “ does yours taste burnt? ”

[daeniradraconis]

I was thinking of a request with one of the hughes brothers (your choice!! I cannot choose between them) x reader who works for the team in some capacity, where reader gets injured by a stray puck or something and their love interest totally outs himself by caring for/being protective over reader.

Obviously only if you think this is interesting!! Love your stuff!

Thank you for requesting! 💖 Hope you will like this as well.

Secrets and Slapshots Being the Devils’ photographer had its perks. You got to stand on the ice, snap the team’s best moments, and—most importantly—spend extra time with Luke Hughes. Not that anyone knew why that mattered. You and Luke had kept your relationship a secret for seven months, a choice born of practicality (dating a player while working for the team? Tricky) and a bigger, messier reason: your older brother, Curtis Lazar. Protective was an understatement. If Curtis found out you were with Luke—the youngest Hughes brother, no less—heads would roll. So you stuck to sneaky glances, stolen moments, and hushed talks behind closed doors.

It worked. Until it didn’t.

You were by the boards during practice, camera raised, framing a shot of Nico roofing a puck when—BAM. A rogue slapshot rocketed toward you, too fast to dodge. Pain exploded in your shoulder, sharp and blinding, the force slamming you back into the boards. You stumbled, vision blurring, a choked gasp escaping as your arm went limp, fingers buzzing with static. Your camera dangled from its strap, barely gripped in your good hand. Nausea surged, and you pressed your palm to your shoulder, trying to breathe through it.

The rink went quiet, then erupted.

“OH SHIT—”

“YO, YOU GOOD?”

Dawson Mercer skated next to you, panic etched on his face. “I didn’t mean to—I swear—”

Before you could respond, a furious shout cut through. “WHO THE HELL HIT HER?”

Your stomach dropped. Luke.

You looked up just in time to see him charging across the ice, stick tossed aside, eyes blazing.

“Ohhh, shit,” Jack muttered nearby. He knew his brother rarely got angry, but when he did, it never ended well.

“Luke, no—”

Too late. Luke’s fist crashed into Dawson’s jaw with a sharp crack, the sound cutting through the air. Dawson’s head jerked to the side, his body stumbling back as his hands flew up on instinct. For a second, he just stood there, blinking, dazed—like his brain hadn’t fully registered the hit yet.

“BRO, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT—”

“YOU HIT HER WITH A PUCK—” Luke’s voice trembled, fists still tight.

“IT WASN’T ON PURPOSE—”

“DOESN’T MATTER—”

Jack, Nico, and Bas lunged, grabbing Luke’s jersey as he strained toward Dawson, wild and unhinged.

“DUDE,” Jack groaned, wrestling him back. “Chill—”

“NO,” Luke snapped, still fighting against his teammates and brother’s hold. “HE HIT MY GIRLFRIEND—”

And then everything stopped.

Your heart slammed into your ribs. Girlfriend. Seven months of secrecy, gone in one furious outburst. You wanted to sink through the ice, but the way Luke stood there—chest heaving, daring anyone to step up—stirred something warm beneath the shock.

Jack’s jaw dropped. “Wait—YOU’RE DATING HER?”

Luke’s face went crimson. “I—uh—” He instantly knew he’d messed up.

Jesper skated closer, laughing hard. “Dude, you just outed yourself.”

“I hate all of you,” Luke muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

Jack smirked at you, eyebrows raised. “Damn, took a puck to the shoulder and you’re dating Luke? Talk about bad decisions.”

You rolled your eyes, pain slicing through as you tried to laugh. “Thanks for the concern.”

Luke was beside you in a flash, hands hovering, unsure where to touch. “Baby,” he said, voice low and thick with guilt. “Does it hurt badly?”

“Yeah,” you gritted out. “Like hell.”

His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to Dawson with barely-leashed anger. “I’m gonna—”

“Luke.” You grabbed his hand with your good one, squeezing weakly. “Accident happens. Breathe.”

But before Luke could get a word out, a sharp whistle cut through the air.

"What the hell is going on?"

Great. Just when you thought things couldn’t get worse.

Here came your worst nightmare—your brother, Curtis.

Your stomach sank as he skated over, gaze flicking between you, Luke, and Dawson—still rubbing his jaw, half-guilty, half-amused.

“Someone explain why Hughes punched Mercer,” Curtis demanded, voice edged with steel.

Luke straightened, completely unfazed. “He hit her with a puck. She’s hurt.” 

Curtis’ eyes softened briefly as they landed on you, cradling your arm. “You okay?”

“It hurts,” you admitted, wincing, though you forced a smile for your brother.

His jaw ticked. Then he turned to Luke. “So you thought swinging was the move?”

“Yeah,” Luke said, his voice casual but there was something sharp in the way he spoke—like he didn’t quite understand why Curtis was making this harder than it had to be.

Curtis stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he sized up Luke. The anger in his chest flared, but it was something else that was settling in—he knew. He’d pieced it together, the secret clicking into place. He just needed to hear Luke say it. “Why do you care so much, Hughes? What’s she to you?”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Luke said, his tone firm, yet there was an undeniable fierceness behind it as he locked eyes with your brother. “And I love her.”

The tension in the air grew heavy, thick, like the calm before a storm. In the distance, you could hear the guys muttering, probably betting on how long it’d take for things to escalate—whether Luke would end up with at least a bruise or if he’d walk away unscathed.

Curtis blinked, his gaze flicking between you and Luke as the weight of the words sunk in. You held your breath, your heart pounding, bracing yourself for the worst.

Before you could process it, Curtis lunged.

It was all instinct—your body moving faster than your mind. You stepped between them just as Curtis’s hands shot out, the force of his momentum catching you off guard. His palms slammed into your injured shoulder with a sickening crack.

Pain exploded through your body, white-hot and blinding. A sharp cry ripped from your throat as you hit the ice, your arm going completely useless beneath you.

The rink went deadly quiet again.

Luke saw red. Pure, unfiltered rage took over as he shoved Curtis back with a force that sent him stumbling. His voice was raw, furious. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!.”

Curtis froze, his anger melting into something like shock as he looked down at you, crumpled on the ice. “Shit.”

Luke didn’t give him a second to recover. He took another step forward, fists trembling but unwavering, his voice low and lethal. “You wanna take a swing at me? Fine. But don’t you ever, ever touch her again.”

His words rang with a fierce conviction. “I love her, Curtis. Seven months, man. Seven months, and she’s the best thing in my life. I’ve been respectful for her sake—because I get it, you’re her brother, my teammate. But if you hurt her again, I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking hand.”

Curtis stared, his expression flickering between anger, guilt, and something else, something more vulnerable. After a long pause, he let out a slow breath. “It wasn’t on purpose. You know I’d never hurt her like that. I love her too…she’s my sister.” His voice cracked, and his gaze fell to you, still lying on the ice.

Luke didn’t soften. He wasn’t backing down. His fists remained clenched, his chest rising and falling with the force of his words. “I get it, Curtis. You’re protective. But if you hurt her again, I won’t hesitate to make you understand, just how far I’ll go to protect her.”

You tried to push yourself up, desperate to get Luke’s attention, but your shoulder flared with pain, and your vision swam. “Luke—”

His fury vanished under a minute, replaced by panic. He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering. “Baby, talk to me.”

Tears stung your eyes as you tried to speak. “It’s... bad.”You attempted to move your hand, but it didn’t respond at all, sending a wave of panic crashing through you.

“Okay, I got you.” He scooped you up, careful but firm, holding you close to his chest. “Team doc. Now.”

As Luke carried you off the ice, Curtis stood frozen, watching in silence. His gaze was hard to read—maybe respect, maybe regret—but something in his eyes shifted, betraying a hint of emotion.

—

The ride home was quiet, just the hum of the car and Luke’s soft “You okay?” whenever you winced. The doctor had strapped your arm into a sling—nasty bruise, minor strain, no fracture—but the ache still gnawed deep. Luke had insisted on driving, knuckles white on the wheel, worry carved into his face.

Now, in your apartment, the adrenaline has faded, leaving you exhausted. You leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Luke set down takeout bags he’d grabbed despite your lack of hunger.

“You holding up?” His voice was softer now. His dark green eyes met yours, searching, full of both tenderness and concern.

“Yeah,” you lied, managing a small smile. “I’m just tired. And my shoulder is killing me.”

He stepped closer, wrapping you in a gentle hug. “You should’ve let Curtis hit me.” A half-joke, but guilt shadowed his gaze.

You laughed, then winced as the movement jolted you. “Luke, stop. I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” he said, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Come on, let’s get you comfortable.”

He gently guided you to the couch, his hand warm on your lower back, and carefully eased you down. He fluffed the pillows, draped a blanket over your legs, and made sure you were comfortable. It was Luke, completely unguarded—raw with worry, soft with love—and it wrapped around you in a way that made the pain seem distant.

“Soup,” he said, heading to the kitchen. “You need food before the meds kick in.”

You didn’t argue, and honestly, you didn’t really want to. You weren’t hungry, but the thought of warm soup didn’t sound half bad.

Half an hour later, after a few spoonfuls—Luke holding the bowl because your good hand wasn’t enough—you felt the weight of helplessness settle in. Brushing your teeth, washing your face, taking a shower—things that used to be so simple now felt impossible. A lump caught in your throat.

Luke noticed the shift in your mood. “What’s wrong?” He set the bowl down on the coffee table, leaning in, his concern obvious.

You hesitated, a tired smile flickering across your lips. “I can’t move my arm. At all. I feel gross from practice, but…” You waved vaguely toward the bathroom, a bit embarrassed.

His eyes softened as he caught on. “You need help showering.” It wasn’t a question—just a simple fact.

“Yeah,” you muttered, a small laugh slipping through.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “I can help. If you’re okay with it. I just don’t want you to make it worse.”

You couldn’t help but tease. “Yeah, it shouldn’t be weird. We’ve already... you know...” You trailed off, awkwardly trying to convince both yourself and him. Still, the situation felt different—vulnerable, exposed.

He cleared his throat, his blush deepening. “Alright, let’s get this over with,” he said, offering his hand, clearly trying to hide the discomfort.

The bathroom quickly filled with steam as Luke adjusted the shower to just the right temperature. He stripped off his clothes first, then turned to you, his gaze steady but gentle. You pulled at your hoodie with your good hand, and he stepped in, carefully sliding it off—first your good arm, then easing it over the sling. Next came your shirt, followed by your bra, sweatpants, and panties. His fingers brushed your skin with quiet confidence, his touch gentle and reassuring.

“I’ve got you,” he said, guiding you into the shower. The water hit your back, and you sighed, tension easing slightly. He grabbed the showerhead, letting the stream glide over you, avoiding your bad shoulder.

“Too much?” His voice was low, careful.

“No. Feels good.”

He squeezed body wash into his hands, lathering it up, and started at your neck, fingers gentle but sure. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I keep seeing that puck hit you,” he murmured against your hair. “Should’ve been faster.”

“You can’t stop everything,” you said, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “But you’re here now and that’s enough.”

He kissed your temple agin, soft and tender, before his hands moved down your back, the warmth of the water mixing with the steadiness of his touch. His fingers glided over your skin as he worked the soap down your spine. "Turn for me," he whispered, his voice low and soothing, his hands resting lightly on your hips, guiding you with quiet strength.

You turned slowly, your back now facing him, and as you did, you felt his lips brush against the back of your neck, the kiss lingering just a moment longer than usual. His hands were gentle, but there was an undeniable tenderness in the way he moved, as though he was cherishing every inch of you.

“You’re so strong,” he murmured, rinsing you off, his hand gently shielding your eyes as he worked shampoo through your hair. “But let me take care of you, alright? Don’t try to be tough for me. If you need anything, just ask. Okay, princess?”

You relaxed against him, giving him a small nod and a soft smile, the pain fading as his warmth surrounded you. 

When he was done, he wrapped you in a towel, pressing a quick kiss to your head. “All clean,” he said, his voice filled with love and gentleness.

He grabbed one of his Devils shirts, the one he’d left in your wardrobe ages ago—loose enough to accommodate the sling—and a pair of your pajama shorts, dressing you with the same careful attention. Once he finished, he wrapped a towel around his waist. Luke hated sleeping with anything on, so he didn't bother with boxers—he preferred to sleep completely bare. And you definitely didn’t mind one bit.

Once you were settled, he walked over to the sink, a playful grin spreading across his face as he held up a toothbrush. “Open,” he said, his voice teasing but soft.

You rolled your eyes but complied, letting him brush your teeth—clumsy but full of enthusiasm. “Sorry,” he chuckled when he accidentally bumped your lip, his hand instinctively steadying you at your hip. 

Then came the skincare routine—toner, serum, moisturizer—and Luke looked utterly baffled. He picked up the toner and held it out, squinting at the bottle. “Wait, so you actually need all of this?” he asked, genuinely confused. “But you’re already, like, ridiculously pretty. Why all the extra steps?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s not just about looking pretty, Luke. It’s about healthy skin and preventing wrinkles.”

He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing at his lips. “Well, you'd still look hot with wrinkles, you know.”

You giggled, kicking your legs as you sat on top of the washing machine, where he’d placed you after brushing your teeth. “I don’t know about that,” you teased, enjoying the playful energy between you two.

Luke just shrugged with a grin, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't argue. Instead, he got to work with the precision of someone who had no idea what he was doing but was determined to get it right. He carefully applied each product—toner, serum, moisturizer—treating it like a delicate task, though still clearly puzzled by the whole process.

“Good?” he asked, stepping back with a gentle smile, his eyes searching for yours.

“Perfect,” you murmured, feeling the warmth of his care in every word.

He kissed your forehead softly, taking a deep breath as his fingers grazed your healthy arm. “Bedtime?”

You nodded, already feeling the pull of exhaustion. “Yeah,” you whispered.

He tucked the blanket around you, his movements slow and deliberate as he slid in next to you, propping himself on one elbow, watching you settle against the pillow. His hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, his gaze tender.

“Lukey,” you murmured, half-asleep, “Thank you.”

He smiled softly, his fingers brushing your cheek slowly. “Anything for you. Even if Jack’s never going to let me live this down.”

You smiled, your face relaxing into the comfort of his touch, curling closer to him. “Worth it,” you whispered, feeling the weight of his love wrap around you.

He kissed your knuckles lightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, you are.”

[saint-hymn]

You're not coming back from shit! Thrashing around in that high-conductivity state of yours, bumping into things and acting like a clown. Who are you kidding?

[artwins]

[jonasiegenthaler]

Curtis and Amanda Tour Sweep the Deck...Again!

[lionofchaeronea]

Title: Portrait of a Jewish Woman Holding a Prayer Book Artist: Lazar Krestin (Austrian [born Lithuania], 1868-1938) Date: unknown Genre: portraiture Medium: oil on canvas Dimensions: 85.7 cm (33.7 in) high x 65.5 cm (25.7 in) wide Location: unknown

[revolutionary-marxism]

Q: You knew Stalin very closely. What was he like?

Kaganovich: "Iosif Vissarionovich was a very prudent man. Very. A man who saw very far. Today we should ask ourselves: could we really have fought fascism if we had remained a non-industrialized, non-collectivized country? Could it have, our archaic agricultural village, feed the army and the cities? Who would have the courage to answer yes to this question? We should ask ourselves: why did Tsarism die? Because it had nothing to feed the army with. It had no clothes to dress it. It was a naked, barefoot, and hungry army, that of the Tsar, and it had nothing to shoot. We, on the other hand, in the fight against Nazism, after the retreats we began to increase, increase, increase our military power, and we sent tens of thousands of artillery pieces to the front. When we attacked Berlin, it was an attack never seen before in intensity and power. Where did we get all those tanks and planes? Without Stalin's policy we would never have gotten anywhere, we would all have died. What would have become of the USSR, if we had not made in ten years the progress that normally takes fifty or sixty years? Fascism does not wait, it would not have waited. Our country would have been destroyed. And all these shitty patriots today don't want to understand it, just as many communists don't understand it anymore. We should have taken Bukharin's path, they say, Kondriatev's path... Well, what would have happened if we had followed their path? We would have been crushed, I am deeply convinced of that. We would have been crushed for five hundred years, it would have been much worse than the Tartar yoke. That's what Russia would have ended up like. We gained two years with the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact, two years, from '39 to '41, crucial for the development of industry, for the strengthening of transport. But now it's easier to blame Stalin and his era for everything."

Q: Have you never had second thoughts about the arrests of that era, about the violence and the victims of the campaign to collectivize the countryside?

Kaganovich: first point to remember is that collectivization was the continuation of a Leninist line. Were there excesses? Yes. But where and when aren't there? There always are. When you fight a war, it is difficult to know in advance how many bullets you will fire. The enemy occupies one of our cities, we must retake it. But inside the city there are our people, innocents who could be killed in the attack. The army will still shout: to the assault, because that is how it must be, in all types of war. Yes, the result is that even the innocent suffer. There were innocent victims in the collectivization of the land. But there were also rich, influential peasants, linked to the church, who disturbed, obstructed. What was to be done? And in industry there was sabotage. Today many historians deny it, but it was true. Sabotage existed, and, I will say more, it still exists today. Perhaps I have the mentality of an old, overly suspicious fighter: but what are the unshipped goods, the extortion, the development of this mafia that is so much talked about, and of the black market, what are they if not a colossal sabotage against socialism? We should intervene harshly, and explain to the people what is happening, why they are made to suffer in this way. We should open a great debate."

Lazar Kaganovich's response to criticism of Stalin's domestic industrial and agricultural policy in preparation for the Nazi invasion of the USSR

From the archives of La epubblica, interview conducted in 1990 via written questions and answers; KAGANOVICH SPEAKS 'WE ARE NOT MONSTERS'

[stolligaseptember]

lazar really said but bitch your longing to is palpable

[funeral]

According to Jung, Prometheus's theft of fire represents a step toward greater consciousness (illuminated reflection). Thus, the rebellious Titan robs the gods and thereby gains increasing knowledge . . . and although he benefits mankind, nevertheless he thereby raises himself above, and alienates himself from, the humanity he so valiantly sought to befriend. [ . . . ] By stealing fire, he has stolen light, the symbol of knowledge and consciousness. And his penalty is the resultant knowledge that he is completely alone. Prometheus, the friend of man, himself has no friend, for there is no one to share his suffering. In this sense, the tale allegorically depicts the universal condition of each man as an individual, for we also suffer in the vain attempt to reach outwardly, toward other human beings. Similarly, the solitary task of Sisyphus, in the underworld, epitomizes the isolation of human existence. The boulder is unthinking, material being; in stark contrast, the reflexive thought of the sufferer is absorbed in the cognitive apprehension of the isolated nature of his sentence.

Ben Lazare Mijuskovic, Loneliness in Philosophy, Psychology, and Literature

[diientedegato]

CW sketches 1/2

[thekaiserroll]

[cod-dump]

What do you think about non-binary Bell (in 1981 no less) just confusing the absolute shit outta these middle aged American guys that have no idea what tf that means. (Park does, but she refuses to explain, she thinks it's funny)

Adler and Park quickly accepted it, Adler still not understanding but it's whatever. Bell can hold a gun, shoot it, and has a body count. They can do whatever they want as far as Adler is concerned.

Woods and Mason? They've been at the table with Bell for almost an hour questioning them. Sims chose to stay out of it and Lazar was only stroking the fire when it seemed Woods was going to walk away finally.

Woods was so close to flipping the table, it's probably what Lazar was wanting. Bell, bless them, was amused by this. They like Woods which is why he's still sitting there. Mason gave up already and was just sitting there, maybe hoping Woods will crack through.

"You a man?"

"No."

"So you're a woman."

"Also no."

"What's in your pants?"

"Rather forward, Mr. Woods, but I wouldn't expect any less from you."

Woods sputtered and Mason put his head down on the table, shaking a bit. Lazar was all but laughing like a hyena, Sims was just hunched over his desk shaking without a sound escaping him. Bell was having a good time.

"Mr. or Miss!?"

"I don't mind either."

Woods stood and stepped away from the table, Lazar stumbling away from him as it seemed he wanted to set his frustration on the loudest person in the room. Bell was smug, looking at Adler who was trying to not poke the fired up Woods with a laugh.

[shrews-art]

Introducing my Tremere character for a vtm campaign I'm joining soon! The story is set in Budapest, my boy is called Lazar Ilić and he's an unfortunate immigrant former phd student who didn't even get to graduate before he got the embrace 💔

[weirdlookindog]

Inferno | 1980 | dir. Dario Argento