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puck-luck · 2 months ago

Note

luke x older reader anon again! congrats on 1k! submitting the same request, with hearts and prompt 25 🫶🏻

warnings: unprotected p in v, age gap (not major.), religious themes & motifs, pining, childhood friends to lovers vibes, best friend's brother ofc, jealousy, occasionally insecure statements from luke, really just the sweetest sex you can imagine. i LOVED writing this. hence... the length.

WC: 4,351

You’ve been friends with the Hughes boys as long as you can remember. The first time you met Quinn, it was during your first pee-wee skate.

Your dad was a big hockey fan, so he wanted to teach you how to skate. The debate had been between figure skating and hockey– your mom loved gymnastics, dance, and figure skating, having been an artistic athlete herself. Your dad wanted you to skate regardless, but hockey felt more suited for your talents. You were a competitive child– and territorial over your toys– so your dad thought it would translate well into a hockey environment.

He took you to the Olympics in Salt Lake when you were three years old. You went to see figure skating and two of the United States hockey games– one for the men and one for the women. To your dad, it wasn’t a surprise how your eyes grew into saucers when you watched your first live hockey game.

He’d enrolled you in peewee skate the following week. There were no girls-only leagues, so you were put into a coed league. Quinn was in the same league. You became very fast friends– you liked to talk, your new little buddy liked to listen, and then you finally got him out of his shell midway through the season and your friendship was fully cemented. Actually, the second you learned his last name was Hughes– like Sarah Hughes, who won the Olympic Gold in single’s figure skating when you were in Utah– he was stuck with you. Just because you’d preferred hockey didn’t mean you didn’t love ice skating, too. It just wasn’t your passion.

You and Quinn stayed in touch after that peewee hockey season, enrolling in the same league and requesting to be on the same team until you both graduated into the boys- and girls-only leagues. You still remained friends, staying in contact as best you could when he moved to Toronto. You’d send letters back and forth and you became a pro at interpreting Quinn’s boyishly terrible handwriting. He’d tell you about his brothers, his parents, his school, and his hockey teams. You’d keep him updated on home, but then it stopped being home to Quinn. Soon enough, you were only talking about hockey and family. ‘Did you see that Crosby won the Hart Trophy?’ ‘Yeah! Ovi got the Calder though, so we’re still on even playing field. Canadian boy.’ ‘Hey, Ovi is Russian. Choose a real American and get back to me.’

It wasn’t long until you secured an invitation to visit the Hughes during the summer. You and your family went up to Toronto to visit them and you got to play with the Hughes boys for a whole week. It was so much fun, so the next summer, you begged to invite them to your place for a week.

The tradition continued for years, alternating houses and hometowns. You and Quinn both applied to Michigan– he played hockey, you did not. You were a good player, but you’re more of a beer league girl. You weren’t recruited to play college hockey– which, for a while, you thought was weird, because there are so few female hockey players in America. You’re hoping that your lack of recruitment means that there are hundreds of amazing women who are better than you at the sport, and that helped you accept your fate. After all, Quinn would sometimes bring you to the rink when it was empty. You’d get to play for a little while– and it was nice, in college, to have someone who knew you so well.

A lot of people assumed that you and Quinn were together, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Quinn was like your brother. There was that weird month when you were thirteen and you’d gone to visit him over the summer and you’d thought, maybe… but it turned out that you were just thirteen and confused because of your rampant hormones and puberty. Quinn is just your friend, your best friend.

All of the brothers were pretty off-limits. You’d seen the way girls had started flirting with Jack as he’d entered his teens. You’re able to admit that he’s a cute boy. Luke was an absolute sweetheart, always trying to play with Quinn (and, by extension, you) as you’d grown up. You felt so fond of Luke in a ‘look at how precious he is, I need to protect him’ sort of way.

And then, last night at the lake house, he’d helped you line up a shot in pool and kept his hand on the small of your back when you bent over the table, and your mind had been spinning ever since.

You can’t tell Quinn, obviously. That’s his baby brother. You’re not even sure how you feel about it– Luke’s always been your little buddy. Now, he’s over half a foot taller than you, so he’s not so little anymore. Still– he’s four years younger than you and Quinn. It’s the equivalent of a freshman hooking up with a senior and you feel icky.

Regardless, you can’t keep your eyes off of him. He likes to twirl his fork between his fingers when he’s done eating dinner. He’ll spread his legs and sit forward when he’s playing video games with his brothers. An absent-minded, crooked smile falls on his mouth every time he’s only half-listening to you or the other boys. It’s paired with a look in his eyes that you can only describe as warm and content. In twenty-four hours, you’ve noticed more things about Luke than you’ve ever seen before.

He’s grown up. It’s still a little weird to you, but he’s 21. You’re still 24, even though your 25th birthday is slowly creeping forward. You find yourself justifying the three year age gap, persuading yourself that it’s fine to look at Luke like that, but then you catch yourself and look away. You’re pushing the idea out of your brain.

But he’s goofy, and cute, and so sweet. He’s the same Luke as always, but you’re seeing him in a brand new way.

You’re able to keep yourself at bay for over a week. The boys throw a party and invite some girls over. Normally, you’re not jealous. You’re calm. You don’t care.

Across the room, there’s a girl flirting with Luke. She’s got a hand on his arm and you’re nursing a drink, seeing red. You’re using Jack as a shield, but you’re still able to look over his shoulder. You think you’re being slick, but it turns out… you’re not.

“What are you looking at?” Jack laughs, tilting his head at you exaggeratedly before turning.

Unfortunately, you know you’ve been found out. There’s only one thing that would have you glowering in such a way. Nothing else in sight is nearly as interesting as Luke and the girl beside him. Jack clocks it right away.

He turns back to you with a tight, knowing smile, like he’s trying to hold back laughter. He pushes his tongue into his cheek and quirks his eyebrows at you.

“Interesting,” Jack says, swirling his drink in his solo cup and then bringing the rim to his mouth. He maintains eye contact as he sips.

You pop the bottom of the cup, making the drink splash into Jack’s face. “Fuck off.”

He wipes his mouth and crosses his arms, cradling the drink in the pocket of his elbow. “You and little Lukey?”

You grind your teeth and glare at him in the most menacing way you can. Jack has known you for too long to be intimidated by your glares. He also never really cared that much in the first place– he’s too shit-eating to be concerned about the repercussions of his words.

Jack smirks some more. “Don’t worry,” he says, popping his jaw like he’s turning a piece of gum over in his mouth. “Your secret is safe with me.”

You clench your teeth and continue glaring. You suck your cheeks in and bite down on the inside of your mouth, lips curling with annoyance.

“You know, he wouldn’t mind if you went over there and staked your claim,” Jack says with a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t think he’d be upset at all.”

“Fuck off,” you repeat again.

“C’mon, Y/N.” Jack pushes your shoulder lightly, jokingly. “You’re being obvious.”

“Quinn’ll kill me. And– it’s Luke, Jack.”

“So what? It’s not weird. We all grew up together. We’re all around the same age. It’s not a big deal. He’s had a crush on you forever.”

“It’s different,” you sing-song. “He’s younger than me.”

“Let’s go, Cougar,” Jack teases, reaching up to high-five you.

You don’t take it, instead deciding to punch his stomach.

Jack doubles over like you actually wounded him, but straightens up smiling. “You oughta go make him jealous.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“Dude, I’m serious. Let’s go flirt with Trevor or something. Someone who Luke thinks you’re better than– I guarantee he’ll be over here in a second.”

Jack actually tugs you toward Trevor and explains the plan before you can even get a word in. So much for keeping your secret. Trevor, to his credit, is a very willing subject. He keeps a hand on your waist during the whole conversation and you do your best to ignore the niggling desire to look over your shoulder at Luke.

Turns out, you should’ve been worried about Quinn.

“Get your hands off her, Zegras,” Quinn snaps, pushing Trevor’s hand off of your waist and stepping between you. “You’re not allowed to fuck my friend.”

If that’s how he feels about one of his friends touching you, then you feel a bit faint at the idea of Quinn’s reaction to Luke getting together with you. That might seal the deal– you really can’t fuck Luke.

“I’m not fucking her,” Trevor says. “We’re working an angle here, Quinn.”

Quinn scoffs. “Yeah? What angle is that, Trevor?”

“We’re trying to make Luke jealous, hello?” Trevor says like it’s obvious.

“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face in your hands. “Trevor, you fucking moron.”

“What?” Quinn demands, but his look turns into sheer bewilderment. “You’re doing this for Luke?”

“I’m going to bed,” you announce, stomping away.

Trevor, somehow, is free to follow after you. Quinn hasn’t stepped in to stop him. You wish he would. He’s probably too confused. “This is good,” he says. “He’s definitely going to see us going upstairs together. Hold my hand.”

“No.”

“Dude, it was working. Luke was looking over at us the whole time.”

“I don’t care, Trevor.”

“Don’t you want him?”

“Not like that,” you hiss between your teeth. “I don’t want to make Luke jealous. I want him to come to me because he wants to, okay? Go downstairs. I don’t want to be with you right now.”

Trevor holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’ll go. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

You disappear into your bedroom, changing into pajamas and climbing into bed. It’s nice to have your own bedroom in the lake house that Jack and Quinn bought with their NHL salaries, but tonight it’s bittersweet to be able to hear the party going on as you lay in bed. It’s not at all like when you fall asleep during a holiday party and your parents put you to bed, and you can still hear the laughter of the guests in your dreams. Now each bout of laughter reminds you of her, the girl whose hand was on Luke like she already owned him, and you wonder if he’s making her giggle with his stupid corny jokes.

God, last week you didn’t even like Luke. Now you’re burning with jealousy– or maybe it’s the fires from Hell, because you’ve got a completely inappropriate crush on your best friend’s little brother. You can never come back to the lake house like this, at least not until you’ve gotten over this shit. Why are you so affected? It’s Luke, for fuck’s sake.

It’s Luke again when someone comes knocking at your door. You thought it would be Quinn, ready to chew you out or question you extensively about this crush. To your surprise, the problem himself appears.

“You okay?” Luke asks, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His silhouette is burly and big and you have to close your eyes to shake the pang of emotion that penetrates your chest.

“Just tired,” you reply quietly. “Couldn’t stomach the party anymore.”

“Did Trevor say something to upset you?”

Quieter: “No, Luke.”

He hovers silently. You can hear the cogs in his brain turning. His pitch matches yours when he speaks next, although his tone is much more melancholic than despondent. “Are you mad at me?”

You hesitate for a second too long. You’re not mad, but you’re certainly taken aback by the uncertainty in his words. “No, Luke,” you say again, but this time the pang that goes through your chest is more familiar. You don’t want to upset him. You’ve always wanted to protect Luke from the world, but now you’ve made him unsure and insecure. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Luke asks, and you have to take a shaky breath. He sounds so small. It’s like the time that you didn’t let him ride bikes with you and Quinn to the store, even though he begged, and then he cried and ran to his mom. After seeing Luke’s puffy red eyes and resolute determination to ignore you for the rest of the night, your soda and candy bar didn’t taste as good. In fact, they tasted a bit like cardboard. You ended up throwing half of the bar away and going home early. You swore you’d never make sweet little Luke feel that way again.

“You wouldn’t get it, I don’t think,” you tell him quietly, pushing yourself up in bed and resting on your elbows. You take a deep breath and look at him, sure that he can see the way your chest rises and falls.

Your eyes have adjusted enough that you can see the way Luke’s mouth opens, as if to say something, then closes with a shake of his head. You notice his eyes fluttering towards the corner of your room, removing you from his line of vision. “Okay. You don’t have to tell me,” Luke says, biting his lower lip in a dejected and heartbreaking way. “I get it. I’ll go.”

“Luke,” you sigh. “Don’t be like that.”

“No, it’s fine. You don’t wanna talk to me,” he says with a shrug. “We’re not friends like that. I’m not Quinn.”

“Luke.” You push yourself up further, pushing the covers down and criss-crossing your legs. “It’s not that.”

“It’s always that. And if it’s not that, then it’s that I’m not Jack. I just– I don’t want to hear that from you.” Luke shrugs again, always defaulting to that motion when he’s deflecting because he’s big and awkward and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. As if he’s thinking the same thing, you watch him shove his fists in his pockets and keep his shoulders tense.

“Come here,” you request, head tilted and mouth turned down with sadness. You shift your position so that both of your knees are under you and you’re sitting back on your heels. “Luke, please.”

You hold your arms out for a hug, not for the first time in your life, and Luke shuffles over. He takes his time and he refuses to meet your eyes, just stooping down so that he can wrap his arms around your middle. It’s a weird position, given that you’re kneeling on the bed and he’s half-bent over. You can feel the pout and doubt all over Luke’s face, so you reach a hand up to his curls and run your thumb over one of his more perfect spirals. He’s letting it grow out a bit and you like how messy it looks.

“Jack told me something,” you reveal softly, still petting through his hair. Luke stiffens in your arms, but doesn’t pull away. “He said you like me.”

Luke groans and struggles in your grip, even sinking to his knees to try and get out of your grasp. He’s kneeling beside the bed, and you bring your legs around so that he’s situated between them. You keep a hand on his shoulder, the other still playing with his hair. He’s evading your eyes again, looking stoutly at the floor.

“I have feelings for you, too,” you whisper, the admission feeling heavy and wrong and like a knife to the gut. Admittance is the first step, but you just feel silly. “And I don’t really know how to deal with those. You’re– I’ve known you since we were so little, Luke.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Luke says bluntly, a hint of a complaint in his sentence. “You’ve been acting weird because you like me, too?”

“I was upset that there was a pretty girl talking to you,” you say sheepishly. “And I just didn’t want to go along with Jack’s plan. He wanted to make you jealous. Thought that would work.”

“I’m always jealous when you talk to another guy,” Luke tells you like it’s obvious. “I just, kind of, gave up. I didn’t think you’d ever feel that way about me. I thought I’d get over it. Stupid childhood crush, you know.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding that you yourself just experienced a similar line of thinking. You said you’d get over it, but you don’t really want to. Not right now, at least, when Luke’s sitting in front of you and he’s got a tentative hand on your calf, rubbing his thumb over the muscle and staring up at you with big eyes. You bite your lip, trying to think logically about this, but all you can do is examine Luke’s features like you’ll never get to see them again. Maybe you won’t– not like this. Not in this liminal space between something and nothing. This is one of those moments that you know won’t last– because the next one will change everything. So, for a moment longer, you just reach out and run your thumb along Luke’s cheekbone, eyes flickering between his cheek, his lips, and his eyes.

“What do we–” Luke loses his words and presses his lips together, looking up at you, expression completely tortured. He turns his head and kisses the side of your knee, which makes your heart split a bit more.

“I don’t know,” you admit. You wish you had a better answer for him. You truly aren’t sure what you can do from here. There are too many things to consider– so you won’t consider them at all.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Luke asks.

A fond burst of laughter escapes from your chest. “Lukey, this is a twin bed. We can’t both fit.”

A pout comes over Luke’s face again. “We can too,” he insists, furrowing his brow a bit. “I’ll prove it. Move over.”

He’s climbing into your bed before you can tell him no. His long and spindly limbs are coaxing you to lay back, then warming you as he holds you tight. It’s a tight squeeze, but that just means that you’re touching him everywhere. It’s nice and you suddenly wish you were facing him, so you roll awkwardly in his arms until you’re face to face. Your noses are nearly touching and Luke is staring at you, really taking you in.

Your eyes find his lips… and then he’s leaning in.

It’s charged with tension and electricity, but it’s soft and hesitant. Neither of you want to test the boundaries and you don’t think this feels quite real. Your stomach is swooping with bats, not butterflies, and it’s exactly what you wanted. This is what you expected when you found yourself imagining kissing Luke this past week, even if you shook yourself out of it because it felt inappropriate. Here, it feels so right that you swear you could start crying from relief. You’ve never felt that way before from just a kiss. Your chest could burst.

When he pulls away, you feel frozen in time. Your eyes are closed and his lips are right there, a hair’s breadth away. You swallow, touching his chest, palm flat.

“Was that okay?” Luke asks.

You nod, then slide your lips over his again.

You come together in a way that can’t be described as anything other than desperate. Your hands touch him in any way they can and Luke’s do the same. You move in tandem like you’ve got a language of your own– an indignant hum from you followed by a sweet “I know” from Luke before he touches you exactly the way you want.

Kissing the whole time, Luke gets you on your back. Your lips only part to remove your shirt, then his. Luke’s big hand cradles your jaw and neck, keeping your head and mouth exactly where he wants them. He guides you with a surprising amount of experience and sureness, although maybe he’s fueled by the same feeling of rightness as you are.

He opens you on his other hand, snaking his hand into your pajamas shorts because he can’t be bothered to remove them. His hips roll against your thigh, his long torso displacing your pelvis from his as he kisses you. He’s big– you knew it height-wise, but now you can feel him against your leg, and you want him to fill you. You want him to claim you, to take you– you want to give all of yourself to Luke. It’s madness and though you’re sure you’ve lost your mind, the crack in your chest that pours out love for Luke has taken control of your body.

After three fingers and a lot of whimpering from you, clutches at Luke’s hair and bruising kisses working in tandem with your noises, Luke works your shorts down. He breaks from your lips so that he can take you in beneath him. He touches your waist and the curve of your stomach, the one that you cringed at for so many years as a teen but finally accepted in your grown age.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says reverently, eyes portraying nothing but sincerity.

You can’t say anything to that, nothing that can match his utterly genuine sentiment or portray how grateful you are that he took the time to say those words, so you kiss him again. You muster up an embarrassingly wanton ‘please,’ which you draw across his lips like a paintbrush.

You can’t get enough of saying his name as he presses into you, his heavy body blanketing yours. You can feel his every muscle move as he works into you and you’ve never felt more like a masterpiece. There were times when you made fun of the phrase ‘making love,’ but sex with Luke feels intensely like you’re creating something tangible by coming together in this way.

The moans and cries that you’re trying to stifle so that no one comes barging in should be enough to convince Luke that this is everything to you. Sweet, sweet Luke– he seems choked up when he says, “They can’t fuck you like I can.” He says the sentence like he has to prove it to you, like you’re not falling apart under his touch. He pleads with you between the words, in the spaces where you can see his breath hitch in his throat.

You’re still not sure where this night will leave you tomorrow morning. Everything, everything has turned on its head. Somehow, you feel a bit like you’ve been leading up to this for a while, not just in the past week. Luke knew it before you did.

“No,” you agree, touching his cheeks and keeping his eyes on yours. “They can’t.” You kiss him briefly, feeling his tongue swipe into your mouth before you pull away. “I’m yours.”

Luke actually keens at that, his arms straining as he shifts his weight to fuck into you harder. Because you’re so close, the bed isn’t moving enough to bang against the walls or creak on its boxsprings, and you’re glad. This is a moment for just you and Luke– you don’t want anyone hearing. You don’t want anyone to be around. You hope that they’ve all miraculously disappeared and you and Luke are the last people in the house, maybe even on Earth.

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” Luke repeats, his forehead meeting yours. You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale, his breath automatically syncing with yours. You’re overwhelmed, but deep in the back of your mind, there’s a voice reminding you about an ancient tradition in Polynesian culture where forehead-to-forehead contact and breathing together is sacred, like you’re sharing the breath of life– like there’s some power in the universe, a god or many, clicking things into place.

He unravels first, fucking you through his release with urgence akin to the sentence he said before. Always trying to prove himself– but Luke has always been enough for you. Maybe not always in this way, but now, there’s nothing he can do to shake your favor. All of the feelings in your heart have been poured out, shared and mixed with his own, and it’s created a puddle– or a bubble– around the pair of you.

It’s been written that sex is when two people come together as one. You finally understand what they mean, joining Luke in the seas of ecstasy.

Sweet nothings and touches like worship follow. Your hands can’t get enough of Luke’s strong figure. He runs his fingertips along your body like he’s in awe of your figure, like he gets to touch a statue so lifelike and beautiful that he can’t believe it was ever a block of marble at all.

The concerns about what will happen tomorrow don’t exist here, in your dark bedroom with Luke stuck to you like glue. For now, it’s just you. Together, breathing, touching, loving– there’s nothing else that could matter. This is it.

note: i have to work on my grad school app in the coming days, so this will probably be the last blurb/oneshot until i finish the application. but, i might get bored of writing that and could pop in to do another smut piece here and there ;) hopefully i'll chat with y'all soon! but i don't want to rush this grad school app LOL

#puck-luck's 1k celebration #puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes fanfiction #luke hughes smut #luke hughes blurb #lh43 #nhl #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb #hockey smut

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pikilos · 11 months ago

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Geno, Ovi, and the Tkachuk brothers

#evgeni malkin #pittsburgh penguins #geno malkin #nhl hockey #hockey stuff #nhl #nhl players #hockey #alexander ovechkin #matthew tkachuk #brady tkachuk #gpics

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brgzmpff · 6 months ago

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Szily Laszlo megnyito beszede az En Budapestem kiallitasrol megerkezett irasban :)

“Kedves közönség, drága műbarátok, tisztelt Angelika-rajongók

Az irodalomban minden eddiginél nagyobb divat a szerző hétköznapi élete és a művészet egybemosása. Az elmúlt évek legnagyobb globális könyvsikere egy olyan regényfolyam, amiben az író az életének olyan apró részleteiről számol be hat kötetben, 3600 oldalon, amik a saját anyját sem érdekelnék. A budapesti könyvolvasó közönséget jó pár hete egy olyan önéletrajzi regény tartja lázban, amiben a szerző aprólékosan leírja, hogy mennyi ideig lehet fejni a másik pasijának mellkasát borító elhanyagolt miteszereket, amikor kinyomkodja őket.

Az autofikció a képzőművészetben ebben a formában szerencsére megvalósíthatatlan.

De törekedni sajnos lehet rá.

A szüleim festőművészek, emiatt bölcsis-ovis koromban éveket töltöttünk el a kecskeméti művésztelepen. Az egyik szomszédos műterem lakója - most már tudom - az autofikció korai úttörője volt. Minden nap külön uborkás üvegbe hugyozott, amit a nap végén akkurátusan felcímkézett egy iskolai füzetre való vinyettával, amire felírta a dátumot, aztán az üveget elhelyezte a műteremablak párkányán elnyúló hosszú sorban. A pisanapló a maga módján egyszerre volt lenyűgöző és elgondolkodtató alkotás: némelyik befőttesüveg tartalma más színű volt, de sosem mertem megkérdezni, hogy miért.

Angelika baromi személyes alkotó, de szerencsére nem autofikciós. Hanem inkább mágikus.

És baromi személyes és még annál is bátrabb, hiszen az itt kiállított friss tájképein félelem nélkül nyúl olyan budapesti motívumokhoz, amiket a bennszülöttek is pont ugyanannyira imádnak, de jellemzően csak a turisták mernek lefényképezni.

Ez is indította el a falakon látható lavinát. Mármint egy virtigli turistafotó. 2023. decemberében történt, amikor a floridai Pulp Brother, azaz Javier Mayoral állított ki Angelika galériájában a Margit-negyedben, hogy hősünk a Start Galéria közelébe eső Duna-parton megsétáltatta Pulp Brothert és feleségét. Az ismert spanyol-amerikai mémfestő pedig ragaszkodott hozzá, hogy fotózkodjanak le a háttérben a Parlamenttel. Hatéves kora óta itt élő budapesti majdnem-bennszülöttként Angelikát annyira intenzív cringe érzéssel töltötte el a Parlament lefotózása, hogy ijedtében Budapest mint mágikus-szimbolista táj tematikájú tájképciklus festésébe kezdett.

Amit itt láttok, az az eltelt félév friss, ropogós termése.

Az itt látható képek sok tekintetben igen különbözőek, de a hatásmechanizmusuk hasonló. A mester néhány egyszerű vonással felvázol egy olyan motívumot, aminek kábé az a szerepe, mint a piros tablettának a Mátrixban. Ha hajlandó vagy bevenni, egyből beránt a motívum mögötti univerzumba, ahol Angelika egyfajta Morpheusként kíséri az embert, ugyanakkor teljes szabadságot ad neki, hogy azt a valóságot lássa meg a kép mögött, amelyik neki tetszik.

Ez a kiállítás emiatt többféleképpen is élvezhető. Úgy is, ha az ember a művész magánmitológiáját próbálja megfejteni és értelmezni, meg úgy is, ha olyan gájdnak használja a művészt a másik világhoz, akinek a háta mögött nyugodtan elmerülhet a saját képzelgéseiben.

Angelika egyik kedvenc budapesti látványa a jelek szerint az, ami a Margit híd közepéről tárul az ember szeme elé, ha folyás iránt lefelé, a Parlament és a Gellért hegy irányába néz. Amikor gimis voltam, erre vezetett az utam a legjobb barátomhoz és mivel szeretek gyalogolni, gyakran jöttem nem villamossal. Olyankor mindig megálltam egy kicsit középen és azon tépelődtem, hogy lesz-e valaha csajom. Angelika, mint megtudtam, azon szokott itt tépelődni, hogy emigráljon-e.

Mivel még nem tett ilyet, a meccs eredménye egyelőre látvány-Angelika 1:0.

Amikor először néztem meg a képeket élőben, Angelika sok más mellett arról is mesélt, hogy őt a ciklus megfestésének elején leginkább a Parlament és a Szabadság-szobor szó szerinti és átvitt értelemben vett szembenállása foglalkoztatta leginkább. Illetve az a szimbolista-közéleti mozi, ami az ember előtt Pestről Budára gyalogolva lejátszódik a Margit hídon. Miszerint a törvényhozás épülete jó ideig teljesen kitakarja a szobrot majd egyszerre csak előbukkan a szabadság, de kapásból a hatalom szimbolikus centrumával szemben állva. Hogy ez mennyire nem erőltetett belső mozi, azt jól illusztrálja, hogy egy másik, Budapestre Angelikánál idősebb korában megérkező land art művészt szintén megihlette ugynaez a látvány. Ez a művész Orbán Viktor, akinek - Angelikával ellentétben - nem imponált sem az eddigi szimbolikus hatalmi centrum, sem pedig a szabadság, így létrehozta a hatalmi háromszög harmadik csúcsát, a Karmelita kolostor teraszát, amelyik láthatatlanul, de ott van az összes Margit hidas festményen is.

Az már a privát mitológia része, hogy Angelikának, orosz származású, magyar kultúrájú, saját definíciója szerint “bonyolult nemzetiségű” nőként és anyaként milyen jelentésrétegeket rejt egy olyan nőszobor, ami egyszerre szimbolizálja a szabadságot és készült hálás ajándékként annak a szovjet hadseregnek, amelyik felszabadította, majd azzal a lendülettel rabságba is taszította Magyarországot, útközben magyar nők tömegeit erőszakolva meg.

A galériájában beszélgetve Angelika megjegyezte, hogy mennyi váratlan helyről látni a szobrot a városból. Ez nekem azért alapélmény, mert józsefvárosi vagyok. A Szabadság-szobor Józsefváros egészen meglepő zugaiból látható, ezek között van a kiskori lakásunk kamrájának kisablaka. Csakhogy ez szó szerint pusztítást hozott a szülőföldemre. Ahonnan látod a szobrot, ott a szobor is lát téged. Meg az is, aki a szobor tövénél ágyúkat állít fel. Kiskorom városi tája részben azért nézett ki úgy, mint Berlin a város elfoglalása után 3 nappal, mert bosszúként a Corvin-közi ellenállásért 56-ban a Gellért-hegyről, a Citadellából és a szobor környékéről. lőtték szét a VIII. kerületet.

Ez a kiállítás mindezen rétegei ellenére sem szomorú vagy nyomasztó. Sokkal inkább nevezném varázslatosnak.

Angelika ugyanis eljátszik a jól ismert látvánnyal. Szó szerint. Ráadásul az egyik kedvenc műfajomban, az alternatív valóságos sci-fiben utazik. Némelyik itt kiállított képet ezért gyermeteg, de annál jobban eső ábrándozásra szoktam használni.

Elgondolkodtál egyáltalán azon, hogy mi ez a hosszúkás dolog a város közepén, ami elválasztja egymástól Pestet és Budát? Miért kéne elhinni a földrajztanárnak, hogy ez egy folyó? Mi lenne, ha 250-500 méter széles, gondosan nyírt füvű rét tekeregne Pest és Buda között, amit Mészáros Lőrinc egyik cége 99 éves koncesszióba kapott volna meg golfpályának? A tökéletesen karbantartott gyepsáv mindig néptelen, bár ha erősen hunyorítasz, a távolban néha mintha feltűnne két aprócska, gömbölyded figura hajszálvékony botocskákkal hadonászva, de lehet, hogy csak a szemed káprázott.

És mi lenne, ha folyó lenne, de nem víz folyna benne, hanem spenót?

Angelika nagy varázsló, mert nem állt meg ezen a ponton, hanem az előbb említett szomszédjában lógó festményén eljátszott azzal a lehetőséggel is, hogy mi lenne, ha a város is eltűnne és mi itt találnánk magunkat a nagy büdös semmiben álló Margit-híd közepén. Ami a lapos legelőket kötné össze a dimbes-dombos legelőkkel a poszt- vagy pre-apokaliptikus Budapesten.

Ez a kép - nekem legalábbis - vicces, játékos és alkalmat ad elgondolni, hogy mit ad a világnak az emberek Budapestje a lágyszárúak elképzelt Budapestjéhez képest.

Budapest eltüntetése eleve hatalmas trükk, mert sokkal elevenebbé teszi a létező várost, mintha a művész minden egyes lakóját mozgás közben próbálta volna belefesteni.

Ez a kék a másik kedvenc ábrándozós képem. Miközben néztem, kezdetben egyszerűen azon szórakoztam, hogy milyen lenne Budapest, ha a klímaváltozás szeszélye folytán nem sivatagi oázissá válna, hanem szigetcsoporttá a Kárpát-medencét újra elöntő Pannon-beltengerben. Ebben az univerzumban azon mulattam, hogy mi lenne, ha varázsütésre teljesülne az ősmagyarkodók álma, csak a vicces kedvű tündér nem a tarsolylemezesek és a lovaik korába vinne minket vissza, hanem hétmillió évvel korábbra, a miocénba, a sokkal ősibb háziállatokkal benépesített Budapestre, ahol a nagykörúton mopsz helyett megalodont sétáltatnak a Terézváros víz alatti barlangjaiban élő nénik.

De mivel sajnos nemcsak infantilis felnőtt vagyok, hanem független újságnál dolgozó újságíró is, ugyanez a kép olyan alternatív sci-fiként is működik, amelyikben Budapestet hirtelen áttolják Skandinávia határára, a Koppenhágát és Malmőt elválasztó jóléti tengerszoroshoz, így Pest Dániába kerül, Buda meg Svédországba, ennek minden evilági következményével együtt.

Én azért is szerettem meg annyira ezt a sorozatot, mert egyszerre hat a képzeletre és az érzelmekre és utóbbit ráadásul a színek segítségével teszi. Őrülten intenzív színeket használó festőnő fiaként és egy született kolorista lány apjaként egyszerűen boldoggá tett, hogy a színek itt nem fednek vagy illusztrálnak, hanem a lényeget jelentik.

Kiemeltem pár képet, de az összes itt látható festmény és grafika kiválóan alkalmas arra, hogy megálljunk előttük, aztán Angelika tapintatos gájdolását elfogadva pillanatokon belül tetszés szerinti univerzumok Budapestjeibe ugráljunk át, anélkül, hogy egészségtelen drogokat vagy még egészségtelenebb hosszúságú regényeket kellett volna fogyasztanunk.

A kiállítás ezennel megnyílt, jó ábrándozást mindenkinek!”

#fontos #a.a #art #artists on tumblr #my budapest

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girlwithwolftatoo · 1 month ago

Text

What is chained -Chapter 2

Warnings: None

Summary: Boys like party

Words: 3525

Quo tendimus?

During the campaigns, the soldiers' bundles, regardless of their rank, carried more or less the same thing: crackers, a portion of spicy cheese, bean paste. They took it in the breaks, the proper meals were mostly for the evening, and the pungent and intense aroma of the broths in the pots - patchwork broths, Acacius called them - gave him a melancholy that he could not name.

In the palace, the breakfast table was so exuberant that the general could not believe it was for only two men. And it certainly wasn't; emperors usually lunched with one or two men they trusted, weak senators who complied with their whims, foreign merchants who sought to curry favor with them, and the like.

The twins ate, as was the ancient oriental custom, lying on their sides between fluffy cushions lined with vibrantly colored fabrics; Geta was already fully dressed, Caracalla on his side, was wrapped in a gold-embroidered tunic that slipped off his shoulder, still in bedclothes, and at his side, fastened by his long solid gold chain, his monkey.

A servant approached to offer him water for the lavatory, and the younger twin made a gesture of displeasure, holding a hand to his head. When another servant poured him wine, his face changed to a relieved smile.

“This I do like,” he commented, contentedly, raising the glass to his lips. Geta reached out to take a couple of ovis hapalis, one after the other, popping them whole into his mouth, and only then did he see Acacius arrive.

“Ah, general!” he said by way of greeting, his mouth full of egg. He chewed with the delicacy of a cow and gestured to the nearest cushions “Please...have breakfast. You're up very late.”

“Actually I've just come from the stables” replied the general, sitting down with his legs half crossed. Caracalla, busy emptying his second cup, didn't even look at him. “I had a very enlightening night, your majesties, I would like to share my findings as soon as possible...”

“We don't discuss politics while we eat, do we, brother?”

Caracalla did not reply to Geta, but stared into his goblet, thoughtfully. The older twin cleared his throat.

“Brother?”

“This wine is sour” Caracalla muttered. Geta snorted, grinning sarcastically.

“Can you hardly tell? It's your second glass, isn't it?”

Caracalla gestured to the servant with the decanter, and when the servant bowed, he grabbed him by the collar of his robe with such force that he almost threw him face first into the table.

“This wine is sour” he hissed in his ear. Geta watched with silent reproach, Acacius for his part stirred, almost on the verge of rising.

“Majesty” he called to him with the firmness with which he would address a clumsy soldier.

“Send some wine that's good!” the twin spat, releasing the servant only to add, ”And somebody whip this one!”

“Majesty!” Acacius raised his voice, and this time Caracalla faced him, shrugging.

“They've brought bad wine,” he excused himself. Acacius frowned.

“Majesty, though you may not like it, it is through servitude that people know masters. If a servant is constantly mistreated, people will think the worst of you.”

“Well simple, we cut out the gossipers' tongues.”

Geta decided to intervene, addressing his brother more than the general:

“Servants should not talk about their masters behind their backs, slaves much less, they know it so what's the problem, are you implying that they are the ones inciting the people, general?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Acacius replied, making an effort not to become impatient. He searched for a way to explain himself, for he noticed the venomous eyes of the two brothers upon him. “Consider a horse, your majesty. A well-kept horse takes notice, his coat is clean and shiny, his mane smooth, his legs are strong and light, his head is proud. A horse will never say a word about his master, but whoever sees him will know, by that alone, that he is in good hands or not.”

Silence, on Geta's face appeared a sign of understanding, but Caracalla, indolent, jingled the monkey's chain and remarked:

“Dondus looks very well, if the people see him they will know he is happy here. And the servants should be too.”

“Brother, the general has spoken a truth” Geta rebuked him, taking another ovis from its bowl “A wounded servant is obvious to anyone's eyes, even if they don't see his marks.”

“Who cares about that? I'm talking about Dondus” insisted Caracalla with a childish grimace.

“Honestly no one gives a fuck” Geta whispered, shoveling food into his mouth. Something exploded in the head of his twin, who stood upright like a snake about to bite.

“What did you say?” he whispered, squinting, and receiving no immediate response, he picked up another ovis and threw it in his brother's face.

“What do you think you're doing?” mumbled Geta, and the two began to argue loudly. Acacius sighed, pouring himself some sugary globi and trying to ignore the quarrel; if he were in the army, he thought bitterly, he would send those two rowdies to be tied up in the sun for a while, but even his new appointment allowed him no such chances.

It was not possible for him then to speak to the emperors, and at noon the parade of audiences began, where he remained standing in the midst of the thrones, seeking to whisper some advice to them when he noticed, shrewdly, that neither knew what to say; the day was brief, an hour at most, and then they both retired to their quarters.

“Ah, by the way,” jumped Geta ”we will send you to one of our dressers, general. You will come with us.”

“Where to?” asked Acacius, frowning.

“There will be a nice get-together this evening at Scylla's house, I'm sure you've heard of him. You are invited, in our name.”

“No one informed me of a party, and besides, I thought I told you about it” growled the general. Geta smiled, and his brother, having forgotten the morning's grudge, hung on his shoulder.

“We're not giving the party, general, that's out of the norm, isn't it?” Caracalla pouted. “You're coming with us, and you'll have a lot of fun. You can tell, with all due respect, that he hasn't had any fun in... a long time....”

Caracalla let out a chuckle and left with awkward steps. Acacius wondered if it would not be wrong to stick to the original plan and better, taking advantage of the party, take the heads of those two unpresentable.

Scylla was, as Thraex explained to him, the master of immense vineyards in the south of the empire, and he had a family engaged in those same duties in some provinces of North Africa, so in short, he was an immensely wealthy peasant, in the senator's words. But in addition Scylla was a quirky, fancied himself an artist and was, in short, a suitable pontifical friend for those depraved twins. Acacius took that in the best way, for one does not defeat the enemy by attacking and already, one must have a proper idea of the terrain where battles will be fought, so he accepted with a false good face to go in the same chariot with the emperors, who had chosen for the occasion really unusual fabrics: Geta was all dressed in blue and gold, Caracalla however, sported a long tunic of thin linen and on top, a pink cloak embroidered with pearls and natural shells.

“What do you think, general?” he asked, cocking his head coquettishly. Acacius found no kind words so he repeated:

“Is there any reason for this special occasion, your majesties?”

“Don't you know? It's a bacchanal. Our dear Scylla has just won a fortune through his third son in Caesaria, and we're going to celebrate.”

Acacius had understood that bacchanals were forbidden but imagined that, emperors being what they were, they had no compunction about allowing them as long as they were invited. The carriage rattled through the city in the twilight to a centrally located villa, the interiors of which were lit by a host of lanterns, some decorated with expensive tissue paper in shades of pink. The servants who greeted them bowed deeply, and were bare-chested; Acacius sighed, it was going to be a very long evening.

There were already at least two dozen guests, all dressed in the same bewildering extravagance as the emperors or even more: there, one man wore a grotesque Greek mask and a crown of thistles on his hair, there, another wore a diadem with real ram's horns entangled in ivy.

“The theme of the feast is the gods,” Geta explained to him as he took two goblets in passing and handed one to Acacius. “I am Helios, see, lighting up the dark sky.”

Caracalla was already lounging on a mountain of cushions, pampered by more half-naked servants offering him viands and wine, his monkey, who for the occasion wore frightful golden wings, was pacing back and forth as if fleeing from the crowd.

The host appeared soon after, also dressed in blue and with vine leaves on his head. Scylla was precisely the kind of man Acacius could not stand: goofy, petulant, self-satisfied, he knew it just by looking at him and above all, by the way everyone applauded him as if Jupiter himself had come to Earth; the rich landowner went to the emperors and bowed deeply to them.

“My majesties!” he exclaimed in a strangely shrill voice. Dondus leaped upon him and tried to snatch some of the grapes he was carrying among the vine branches, and let out an anxious chuckle. “Welcome to this humble abode! I pray the gods you have everything you want.”

“Everything, yes, as always, Scylla” Caracalla reached out a hand to stroke the hair of one of the servants surrounding him. Acacius pretended that the statue beside him was fascinating, but Geta pointed it out, raising his voice:

“Scylla, let us introduce you to our beloved general Justus, Marcus Acacius.”

The man waddled over to the general and clapped his hands, delighted.

“Oh, it's quite a pleasure, general! He is much taller in person, yes, and more wonderful!”

Acacius feigned a smile as he gazed at that made-up face with rudely red cheeks.

“How did you persuade him to come, your majesties? I always hear that the general is very secretive.”

“The general has been promoted... to royal advisor,” Geta explained, giving Caracalla a warning glance; no one outside the senate knew Acacius' true role and so it was to remain.

“How, a general? He sure knows a lot about wars and conquests, of course...” replied Scylla. “Does that mean he will no longer fight?”

“There will be more victories for Rome, of course, but for now he delights us with his keen mind and prudence.”

“What do you think, Scylla?” Caracalla leaned forward, resting an awkward hand on Acacius' shoulder. “He's come dressed for the occasion, can't you guess who he is?”

“Why certainly, no... uh, let me think, majesty...” The tubby landowner cocked his head like a deaf dog “Jupiter, perhaps?”

“No, no, Mars! Take a good look at his mantle...”

“Ah, ah! Of course, Mars” Scylla chuckled ”How else? The god of war who has benefited him so much, yes. And he looks very good, if I may, just the other day I met a bronze artist, he's on the lookout for models here in Rome, our general could well pose for him...”

Soon Acacius understood why Scylla was the favorite of the emperors, he gave them everything they wanted and he knew their weaknesses very well, so they paraded before them the most exotic dishes, wine in abundance and servants who, especially with Caracalla, let themselves be done without complaining. The lightness of the atmosphere was due above all to the absence of women, and that gave the general a clue.

“I hear this feast is in honor of your family's good fortune,” he told him when they had been listening to the musicians for a long time and the emperors were entertaining themselves in a game consisting of the guests imitating scenes from the myths and stories, each one more ridiculous than the last. The host smiled, clearly blissful that he was addressing him.

“Oh, sort of. Wine, general?” with a curt gesture he called a servant over and took two glasses. Acacius accepted and took a sip, smiling to pretend he loved it.

“Exquisite. From your vineyards, I suppose.”

“That's right! A unique vintage, from my campo magno near Herculaneum. That's where my ancestors used to vacation, until, you know...” he made a noise with his mouth that simulated an explosion, and drank from his glass in large gulps. Acacius squinted.

“You've said something about your family before, haven't you? Something like that, were his words...”

“Well, well, General, what do you want me to tell you?”

Scylla invited him to sit down, and Acacius spent a while pretending to enjoy the talk, and discreetly emptying his cup each time it was refilled, unlike Scylla, who was already somewhat drunk at the beginning of the party but was now at a loss.

“I had five children, all boys, glory to the gods!” he exclaimed, raising what was like his eighth cup. “Three of them are married here in the empire, the others in the provinces, and I have about twelve grandchildren. That's more than enough for me, when my Bellona died I swore not to marry any more, with once I had already been criminal.”

“Criminal, to marry?”

“I don't like being a liar” he explained with a pout ”I don't like women. I understand that you find them pretty and all that, who would deny, for example, the loveliness of two firm breasts? But I did my duty, and I don't want any more whores in this house... Or what do you think, general, do you lean more towards Mercury or Venus?”

Acacius smiled out of commitment.

“This party is of a high standard, sir” he commented.

“Scylla, please, General, call me Scylla. There is nothing... that would make me happier right now.”

“All right, Scylla” Acacius made a toast gesture, and that ended up disarming the landowner. “You must have spent an awful lot of money for this... lovely evening.”

“Not a talent out of my pocket” the man hiccupped, smiling mischievously ”This party, as I told you, is thanks to my son... or rather at his expense.”

“I don't understand.”

“You see...” Scylla leaned in to whisper to him, his breath laden with the scent of fermenting grapes “My dear Septimius died a short while ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Acacius voiced quickly.

“No, no, please, it's the best thing that could have happened to me! Septimius was ungrateful, he wanted his vineyard to be just for himself and his despicable little half-breed children. My children, they pay me every year two hundred talents each, as compensation for my help, and so we keep in touch and I make sure their future is good. Well, me and their majesties...” he raised his glass with trembling hand towards the mountain of cushions where the emperors were resting.

“Two hundred talents per child, that makes... a thousand talents a year minus taxes” mused Acacius aloud.

“Taxes?” Scylla let out a chuckle and, with the same hand that held the cup, gestured around him “This, general, is my tax! Their majesties enjoy it very much and I... I keep my well-earned money without interference. Of course, now that Septimius is dead, all his goods pass to me, do you know why?” A servant poured him more wine and half of it was left scattered on the cushions, Scylla no longer supported himself.

Acacius squinted and shook his head uneasily.

“Well, because I killed him!” Scylla smiled exhibiting severely damaged teeth. “I paid some mercenaries, they got rid of him and received, as promised, a quarter of his earnings. And ah, the bastard sure was living the good life. After the cashing out I'm left with a little over two thousand talents, isn't that fortune, general?”

“Indeed it is,” muttered Acacius. He was disgusted, that man murdered his son out of greed, and he found it commendable, he wished to teach him a lesson but it wouldn't be wise to rebuke him in front of the crowd, his reputation was at stake, he had to be careful and....

“General!” Geta approached him, reeling from the drink. “You're having a good time, aren't you? Sorry but you must help me find Dondus, my brother has lost sight of him and...”

Caracalla was even drunker than Geta, if that was possible, and was crying his eyes out as guests and servants tried to comfort him. Grateful to have an excuse, the general abandoned Scylla and went out into the gardens, in search of the monkey; to his surprise, Geta was with him, muttering something about his brother's stupidity in taking the animal with them.

“It's always the same, he gets drunk and lets it loose out there, then he can't find it and thinks it's been eaten, the beasts or the slaves. He has this crazy idea that slaves eat monkey.”

“Hungry anyone would eat whatever they could find,” punctuated Acacius, who was using a long-range torch to peek through the leaves of the trees.

“General, I would like to... ask you a great favor, now” Geta bowed his head, dizzy but aware. “I know what people believe, that my brother and I will one day slit each other's throats, but that is not so. I recognize his faults, which are many, but I love him. We've been together since... since our mother's womb, yes? I haven't spent a day without him. If anything were to happen to him, I...”

The emperor's eyes filled with tears, Acacius found it pathetic but, gentle, he patted him on the shoulder as if he really wanted to comfort him.

“Your Majesty, it is my duty to protect you both, but to achieve this, I need your trust, and your understanding. I am nothing... without Rome at my back. If I too am lost in the eyes of the people, there will be no one left to aid you.”

He dared to be this blunt because the emperor was drunk, and to his relief he took his words calmly, nodding meekly.

“I understand, general... yes, we will... we will do as you say...”

Acacius felt that battle would be lost as soon as the effects of the alcohol wore off, but for a moment he saw himself undefeated.

Dondus was high up in a Thracian palm, it took three servants, a pole and a fruit to force him down, and Geta reluctantly handed the golden chain to Acacius, who had to act as guide. Caracalla, seeing him return with his pet, exclaimed as if he had just been stabbed, and threw himself on the ground.

“Dondus! My dear... precious... sweet little friend!” he sobbed, hugging the monkey with devotion. Then, he looked at Acacius and hugged him too. “General, you're such a hero, you're returning my adored Dondus to me safe and sound!”

“Brother, calm down,” Geta told him, obliviously oblivious.

“Oh, General, I'd kiss you if I could! What do I say, of course I could!”

And to the mute amusement of the crowd, Caracalla planted a kiss on his cheek before Geta pushed him away. Acacius was livid but kept a hieratic face.

“I think their majesties need to return to the palace. It's been a long party and... surely Dondus is exhausted” he added to get the younger twin to agree to his suggestion. Geta agreed, and the two had to be half carried back to their carriage.

Acacius had to endure sitting in the middle of the emperors, Caracalla was sound asleep against his shoulder, Geta nodded, peering out the sleeping city through the holes in the wooden window.

“It's pretty, isn't it? Rome” he mused.

“Yes. It is,” Acacius affirmed.

“Our father adored it. More than he loved us. Actually I don't think he ever loved us” he added bitterly. “Mom loved us, but she's gone too.”

“Losing a mother is painful.”

“She would tell us stories until the wee hours of the morning...she said that, since I was older, I should take care of him.”

Geta motioned with his head toward Caracalla, who snuggled more against Acacius in his sleep.

“Do people really hate us?” the elder asked, looking at Acacius with an expression he had never seen on him before, that of childish anguish. He hated them both, with all his heart, but he couldn't help but imagine them as children, two spoiled brats who nevertheless looked at the world and took it as an enemy, or as treasure.

The general bit his tongue.

“Actually... I'd like them to love us,” Geta continued in a weak voice, her eyelids drooping at intervals. “I really would like...”

Drowsiness got the better of him and finally, the carriage fell silent.

#fanfiction #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #pedro pascal #marcus acacius #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #fred hechinger #joseph quinn

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equallyshaw · 1 year ago

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little lion | luke hughes au!

↠ liona and jacks relationship. ↠ au masterlist!

sassy queen and sassy king 🤝🏻

has no problem putting each other in their respective places

liona looks up to jack like an older brother and jack looks to her like a little sister

they live to annoy one another

most conversations end up with bickering

when her and luke began to date and when luke introduced liona officially, the first comment out of her mouth made luke realize that she was the one

at first jack is nervous because she is ovi the great's daughter .. like luke messes things up? him and luke and quinn will have to answer to alex

jack and liona's relationship is truly like brother and sister, constantly there for one another. especially if her and luke are fighting- she can always depend on luke.

because lets be real, luky can be a dummy and jack has no issue calling him out on it

jack goes to her for girl advice

somehow gets jack into reading (even if it is sport memoirs)

in return, he makes her watch ted lasso and other tv shows he likes

just like luke, she also adjusts his style that he thinks looks good

avid imessage games opponents

even after a year of dating, he still gets starstruck when she talks about her dad

also, he about dies when she does introduce them the second time they play each other

he becomes an emergency contact behind luke (and her parents), because it feels right. (she knows one of them will always answer and trusts them wholeheartedly)

and there you go !

#luke hughes #luke hughes au #luke hughes blurb #jack hughes #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes imagine #new jersey devils #luke hughes x oc #luke hughes x ovechkin #little lion au #nhl #hockey #nhl blurb #nhl imagine #hockey blurb #hockey imagine #equallyshaw masterlist

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behsjdjenbrbebdbe · 4 days ago

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my character/movie-based playlists:

arthur fleck (joker, 2019): 60's music that i felt really encapsulated arthur and his mental state in the first film.

joker: folie à deux (2024): i actually really like this movie and idk why people hate it so much, so i made a playlist that i think harley and arthur would've listened to together if they had ended up living together

beautiful boy (2018): songs that i feel represent both Nic and his father. rlly tragic, sorry.

chandler bing (friends, 1994): playlist i made right after matthew perry died (r.i.p. to a legend). i think chandler would love these songs and some of these songs are canon.

the substance (2024): not the kind of playlist you're thinking about. It's basically just 80's music that i think would be played during an old episode of 'Sparkle Your Life!'. It's basically just a glorfied jazzercise playlist.

charlie kelmeckis(the perks of being a wallflower, 2012): my idea of what charlie would have on his mixtape. Some songs are canon from the movie and book.

dead poets society (1989): a collection of songs that i think really reflect the vibe of the film for me, not necessarily songs that would fit the time period.

donnie darko (2001): playlist that shows donnies declining mental state in the film.

mr.robot (2015): songs that i think elliot would enjoy but also describe his descent.

fight club (1999): songs for the narrator and how he feels during his 6 month bout of insomnia. this playlist is my personal favorite bcs i'm also an insomniac (twinning)

the bear (2022): songs that i think carmy would listen to while yelling "behind!" at his chefs.

you (2018): songs that describe joe goldberg from you, not necessarily stuff he would like (he's much too pretentious to enjoy olivia rodrigo).

pearl (2022): a playlist that reminds me of the monologue scene in pearl where she says "i don't feel...well" because i really felt that. once again, not necessarily songs that match the time period or the characters potential interests.

lady bird (2017): lady bird is one of those movies where i'm pretty sure the director was in my house monitoring my daily movements for inspiration. naturally, i needed to make a playlist that i think completely captures the feeling of growing up with a not-so-healthy relationship with your mother.

gone girl (2014): a playlist based on the "cool girl" monologue and how it feels to feel forced to play a caricature of a woman just to for a man.

gone girl (2014): this time it's a nick dunne inspired playlist because unfortunately i relate to him (more so, book version nick). take that info how you will.

miles morales (spider-man: into the spider-verse, 2018): best spider-man, idc. ~ él es el mejor spider-man, no me importa.

jughead jones (riverdale, 2017): songs that i think jughead would have loved.

american psycho (2000): a mix of songs that patrick bateman would listen to in his headphones on his way to work and songs that i think describe him.

the iron claw (2023): songs that represent the tragedy of the story of the von erich family but also the beautiful bond of the brothers. Once again, these are not all time period accurate.

black swan (2010): a playlist based on nina. lots of swan references in the titles.

taxi driver (1976): a mix of songs based on the time period, things that travis bickle would listen to while driving, and songs that encapsulate the movie.

nightcrawler (2014): songs that represent lou bloom, not necessarily songs he would listen to because i don't actually believe he would listen to music on his own.

peeta mellark (hunger games, 2012): ,ovies i think peeta would either enjoy, or capture his personality and plight throughout the movies.

may december (2023): i love this movie SO MUCH, so i ofc had to make a dedicated playlist. it's through the perspective of joe ofc.

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind (2004): playlist based on the rocky relationship between clementine and joel.

mother (2020): for those who don't know, this is a japanese film based on a true story about a toxic mother and her relationship to her son. so this playlist is based on the perspective of the son, shuhei.

clay jensen (13 reasons why, 2017): playlist that clay would listen to in between tapes.

prisoners (2013): unsettling and melancholy playlist inspired by this film and the perspective of detective loki, one of the main characters.

sam evans (glee, 2009): another one of my favorite playlists bcs i'm just so proud of it. like, absolutely sam would love this playlist. i included some glee versions of songs he sang, but only ones that i liked better than the original.

sound of metal (2019): songs that i feel express ruben's reaction to his deafness and his struggle to accept change.

troy bolton (high school musical, 2006): i absolutely LOVE this franchise and so i think i'm qualified to say that troy bolten would love himself some 2000's rnb. This is why i've taken upon the burden and pleasure of making him a playlist that he would jam out to.

scott pilgrim vs. the world (2010): songs inspired by sex bob-omb and the overall playful vibes of the movie.

good will hunting (1997): these are songs that i think will would include in his rotation or songs that represent the journey that will takes during the movie.

the hunt (2012): this was a very tragic movie about a man who suffers greatly based on a false accusation. one of my worst fears is not being believed when i haven't done anything. truly there is nothing worse than injustice and with this selection of songs i tried to convey the dread, sadness, and overwhelming rage that the main character, lucas, felt when everyone he knew turned on him.

heres my letterboxd account btw (just in case you were curious about how i rated these films): https://boxd.it/3mh3D

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