Latest Posts by lovelymylene - Page 5

Should i do Lochlan Ratliff smut.. I haven’t done smut before and I wanna see how good or bad it could be. And Lochlan is just too cute..

anything challengers related?

Just posted art 70s au hcs I WOULD NEVER LET YOU STARVE. (Patrick tmrw)

⋆ ࣪introducing.. 70s GOLDEN BOY ART DONALDSON

golden boy art.. may live and breathe tennis, but he’s not just his sport. Off the court, he’s the picture of effortless style, pressed polos, crisp white shorts, loafers without socks, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose like he belongs in some glossy magazine spread. Even when he’s lounging, he looks like he has somewhere important to be, like he’s already won at something.

golden boy art.. doesn’t read much, but when he does, it’s always something too intellectual, something dense and complicated. He wants to be the kind of guy who reads Camus or Kerouac at a party, drink in hand, looking effortlessly cool, but the truth is, he barely makes it past the first few pages before he gets bored. Still, he keeps a book on his nightstand, just in case.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. never turns down a dare. Jumping into pools fully clothed, sneaking into concerts without tickets, taking a road trip to nowhere just because someone said he wouldn’t. He thrives on impulse, the thrill of the unexpected, the idea that life is only as interesting as you make it.

golden boy art.. is secretly a romantic, but he’d rather die than admit it. He doesn’t do grand gestures, but he’ll remember the way you take your coffee, the song you hum under your breath, the exact shade of your eyes when the sun hits them just right. He teases more than he compliments, but when he does say something sweet, it sticks with you for days.

golden boy art.. loves the ocean. Not just for the way it looks, but for the way it feels, cold saltwater against sunburned skin, the endlessness of it, the way it makes him feel small in a way he actually likes. He’ll dive under waves like he’s chasing something, stay out there longer than he should, come back to shore breathless and grinning.

golden boy art.. has a way of making everyone feel like they belong, even when he feels out of place himself. He’s the life of the party but also the guy who’ll sneak out early just to drive around with the windows down, radio low, smoke curling from his lips as he sings along to some song no one else remembers.

golden boy art.. is the guy who falls asleep with a book on his chest but never actually finishes reading it. He likes the idea of being well-read, but he prefers stories that move, movies, music, things with rhythm and motion. He’s seen every classic film twice and can quote entire scenes from memory. He thinks Casablanca is overrated but The Graduate is genius.

golden boy art.. loves the chase. Loves the way people look at him, the way they lean in when he talks, the way they fall into his orbit without him having to try too hard. He flirts like it’s a game, all teasing grins and lingering touches, but sometimes, just sometimes, he catches himself meaning it. And that terrifies him.

golden boy art.. is all confidence and charm until he isn’t. There are nights when the weight of expectation feels heavier than his racket, when the pressure knots in his chest so tightly he can barely breathe. He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Instead, he drowns it in late-night drives and half-finished cigarettes, in the feeling of someone else’s hand in his, grounding him, steadying him, reminding him that he’s not just golden boy Art Donaldson, but something more. Something real.

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Does anyone wanna follow eachother on Pinterest and share cute boards and stuff my pins are so bland🙁

lochlan ratliff and reader..

The night is still, the kind of quiet that makes everything feel bigger than it is. You slip out of the room you’re sharing with Piper, careful not to let the door creak, and make your way down the stone pathways, your sandals clicking softly against the ground. The pool glows in the darkness, a cool, inviting blue, the surface still as glass.

You sit at the edge, dipping your legs in, staring at the way the water distorts your reflection. The dinner replays in your head, looping over and over. You weren’t embarrassed before, but now.. now, the weight of all the things you should’ve said presses down on you. The things you should’ve done. The way Lochlan’s mother had looked at you, her questions sharp even when they were sweet.

Your fingers trail through the water. Maybe if you’d laughed more. Maybe if you’d said something different. Maybe if—

Footsteps.

Your head snaps up, heartbeat stuttering, but it’s just Lochlan, his figure backlit by the glow of the resort. His shirt is loose, his hair a little messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He sees you and grins.

“Knew you’d be out here,” he murmurs, stepping closer.

You scoff, nudging the water with your foot. “Yeah? How?”

He shrugs, peeling off his shirt and tossing it onto a lounge chair before slipping into the pool. “You get that look when you’re overthinking. Saw it before you went to bed.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now.

Lochlan swims over, resting his arms on the edge beside you, watching you carefully. You don’t look at him when you say, “Remember freshman year? At Makenzie’s house? We played mermaids, and you were the pirate?”

He laughs, tilting his head back. “Oh my god. Yeah. And I took it way too seriously.”

“You tried to kidnap us,” you remind him.

“You let me kidnap you,” he shoots back, nudging your knee under the water.

You laugh, finally looking at him, and for a second, the weight in your chest loosens. The pool water ripples softly between you, the night air warm against your skin.

Lochlan hums, tilting his head. “You okay?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “No.”

He chuckles, prying your hands away. “Dinner?”

“I was so awkward,” you mumble. “I should’ve said more. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” He flicks water at you, making you gasp. “You were fine.”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch. “I was not fine.”

Lochlan smirks, swimming back slightly. “You were fine. I mean, my mom’s just…” He shrugs. “She’s like that with everyone.”

You exhale, watching as he floats on his back.

“You really don’t care?” you ask.

“Not even a little bit,” he says, tipping his head toward you, voice completely sincere.

You stare at him for a second, then splash water in his face.

Lochlan sputters, laughing. “Oh, oh?”

You shriek as he lunges, sending waves of water splashing up around you. You duck, trying to escape, but he grabs your wrist, spinning you around, both of you laughing so hard it barely makes a sound.

And then, footsteps.

You both freeze.

Lochlan grips your wrist tighter, eyes wide. “Is that—”

“Security?” you whisper, heart pounding.

A shadow appears under the terrace lights, and you brace for impact—

But then:

“Get your asses back inside,” Saxon drawls, arms crossed, looking half-asleep and wholly unimpressed.

You and Lochlan exchange glances before bursting into silent giggles, covering your mouths as you scramble out of the pool.

Saxon sighs. “If you guys get us kicked out, I’m making you both sleep outside.”

You shiver dramatically. “Oh no, not the five-star resort.”

Lochlan snorts, grabbing your hand as you slip past Saxon, dripping water onto the stone path.

Saxon shakes his head. “Idiots.”

But you hear the smirk in his voice as you and Lochlan sneak back inside, still laughing.

The laughter doesn’t stop, even as you sneak back toward your room, feet dripping little puddles along the stone path. Lochlan’s hand stays wrapped around yours, warm and sure, even as he bites down on his lip, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Saxon trails behind you, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s already regretting getting out of bed. “Seriously,” he mutters. “What the hell were you two even doing out there?”

Lochlan shoots you a look, his grin crooked. “Playing mermaids.”

You slap his arm. “Shut up.”

Saxon groans. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re trying to be quiet, really, but the weight of the night, of everything that had been sitting in your chest since dinner, is gone now, washed away in chlorine and laughter. Lochlan looks at you, his damp hair curling at the edges, his tan skin glowing under the soft lights, and suddenly, nothing else matters, not his mom’s disapproving glances, not the questions you fumbled over, not the way you felt like you didn’t belong at that dinner table.

Because here, right now, you belong.

You reach your room, and just as you’re about to slip inside, Lochlan tugs on your wrist, stopping you.

You turn to face him, still breathless. “What?”

His expression softens, his thumb brushing against the inside of your palm. “You’re really okay?”

The laughter fades into something quieter, something warmer. You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

Lochlan exhales like he was holding his breath, then leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead. It lingers, just for a second.

Saxon groans behind you. “I’m actually gonna throw up.”

Lochlan laughs against your skin before pulling away. “Go to bed, Sax.”

“You go to bed,” Saxon mutters, already walking off.

You and Lochlan exchange another look, another quiet smile. He hurriedly walked back over to you giving you a gentle, sweet, quick kiss on the lips before reluctantly walking away back to his room.

And then, finally, you slip back into your room, feeling lighter than you have all night.

I dunno if I like this and I can definitely do better I just wanted to show off the concept of how I wanted to write them but I might change it around. PLEASE send in requests for him I’m begging

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo @yearlyism idea from..@eventhew1nd

BOTH. AT THE SIME TIME. guys i neeeeed requests for the white lotus s3

hamzah is literally my husband

what would you call the style of ur page? its so amazing

Your so sweet tysm🎀 when looking for pictures and stuff I just search up girly 70s or pink 70s. But my whole vibe of my page that I was going for is like 70s girlhood basically.. like sleepovers and doing makeup in pink bathrooms and stuff like that

Would absolutely love some more teenage dirtbag hamzah.. maybe smth like meeting/getting to know his friends (aka Martin n Mandy)

The Booth at BENNY’S

70s hamzah..

The first time you meet Hamzah’s friends, it’s at some dimly lit pizza joint called Benny’s, the kind of place with cracked red vinyl booths and a jukebox that only half works. The whole place smells like melted cheese and grease, and the floors are just sticky enough to remind you that generations of teenagers have sat exactly where you are now, huddled in a booth, stealing fries off each other’s plates, talking about nothing and everything at once.

Hamzah’s next to you, his arm draped lazily along the back of the seat, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. It’s casual, but it’s something. He keeps glancing at you like he’s trying to read your expression, make sure you’re okay, because Martin is a lot. He’d warned you about that on the way over.

“He overstimulates people,” Hamzah had said, cigarette balanced between his lips as he drove, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out some invisible rhythm against his knee. “Talks too much, says weird shit, but he means well. And Mandy’s cool. She’s just—” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “You’ll see.”

Now, you see.

Martin is across from you, mid-story about the time he saw a guy punch through a vending machine because his Snickers got stuck. He’s reenacting the whole thing, wild gestures, full sound effects, even a dramatic recreation of the guy’s emotional breakdown afterward. “Dude fell to his knees, right there in the hallway. Hands bleeding, Snickers in his mouth, just sobbing. It was beautiful.”

You’re not sure if the story is real, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s entertaining.

Mandy is next to him, sipping her soda like she’s heard this one before. Which, she probably has. She catches you watching her and just smirks, leaning in a little. “Don’t let him overwhelm you. If you ignore him long enough, he short-circuits.”

“I do not,” Martin protests, offended.

She just raises an eyebrow and turns back to you. “So. What’s your deal?”

Hamzah shifts beside you, like he’s nervous about what you’ll say, but you just tell her the basics, where you’re from, what you do, how you met Hamzah. The last part gets Martin’s attention.

“Wait, wait, wait— let me guess,” he interrupts, squinting dramatically at you. “You saw him from across the room, all broody and mysterious, and just had to know who he was.”

Hamzah groans, kicking him under the table. “Shut the fuck up.”

Martin grins, undeterred. “Or—or maybe he said some deep poetic shit and won you over, huh? That sounds like him. Just staring at the stars, all like, ‘You ever think about how small we are in the grand scheme of things?’

You snort, shaking your head. “Actually, he just asked if I had a lighter.”

Martin slams his fist on the table like you’ve just told him the greatest joke of all time. “CLASSIC.”

Hamzah groans again, sinking lower into the booth, but you can tell he’s smiling a little.

The conversation keeps flowing, movies, music, the weirdest things you’ve ever seen on public transport. Martin jumps from topic to topic like a pinball, Mandy rolling her eyes but still smirking at him like she secretly finds it funny. Hamzah mostly listens, watching you more than he watches them, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll laugh at the right moments, if you’ll understand their inside jokes, if you’ll, fit.

And you do.

Somewhere between stealing the last slice of pizza off Hamzah’s plate and making Mandy laugh with some dumb story about your childhood, you realize you’re not nervous anymore. You like them. And, maybe more importantly, they like you.

Hamzah nudges your knee under the table, subtle but warm, and when you glance over, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Happy. Like he knew this would work out all along.

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo @yearlyism

love ur blog so much teenage dirtbag hamzah is my absolute favvv 🥲

I literally love you tysm. I’m writing smth for him rn I just got a request 🎀

Who’s hungry..

Someone please request something omg I’m itching to write but not sure on what

We moved on from Lisa Frankenstein too fast..

Lochlan from white lotus is so cutesy I want him

introducing.. 70s WEIRD KID MARTIN

❛I accept chaos, I’m not sure whether it accepts me.❜

weird kid martin.. who overstimulates people to the absolute max. He’s not loud all the time, but his energy is constant, like he exists on a frequency just slightly off from the rest of the world. One second, he’s hyper-fixated on some insane conspiracy theory about pigeons not being real, and the next, he’s lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, mumbling about how weird it is that humans have teeth.

weird kid martin.. who is both the best and worst person to get high with. If you want to laugh so hard you forget how to breathe, he’s your guy. But if you’re prone to paranoia? God help you. Because he will absolutely say some shit like “What if your reflection moves a second too slow?” and then watch you spiral with genuine curiosity.

weird kid martin.. who somehow has a real girlfriend, Mandy, and no one understands how or why this happened. Mandy, who is mature and serious, who looks like she would never entertain someone like him, and yet, here she is, rolling her eyes but always hiding a smirk whenever he says something unhinged. No one questions it anymore. Some things in life just are.

weird kid martin.. who has never experienced social anxiety a day in his life. He can and will talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. A stranger could be pumping gas next to him, and he’ll casually ask, “Hey, you ever think about how we’re all just meat sacks with electrical impulses?” Like that’s a normal thing to say.

weird kid martin.. whose humor is so weird it borders on uncomfortable. He says shit that makes you pause, wondering if you should be laughing or concerned. But then he hits you with the perfect delivery, and suddenly, you’re in tears, questioning your own sense of reality.

weird kid martin.. who is completely unbothered by 99% of people. You think you’ve insulted him? He does not care. He’s still sipping his Coke and talking about how people named Greg are more likely to own birds. But Hamzah? Hamzah is the only person who can actually hurt his feelings. One slightly-too-harsh comment from him, and Martin will spiral for days.

weird kid martin.. who is so impossible to read that you can never tell if he’s joking or not. He could say “I think I could fight a goose and win” with complete sincerity, and the worst part? He’s not joking. This is just who he is.

weird kid martin.. who is the last person you want as a partner for a group project, until you actually get him as your partner. Because suddenly, he’s the best person you could’ve worked with. He’s insanely smart (but only when it comes to schoolwork), and somehow, someway, he makes the most boring assignment feel like the funniest thing you’ve ever done.

weird kid martin.. who is underappreciatedly intelligent. He could be top of the class if he actually cared enough to apply himself. But he doesn’t. Because what’s more important, acing a test or figuring out why all horse girls have the exact same energy?

weird kid martin.. who is just Martin. No act. No persona. The weird shit he says? The way he thinks? That’s just how he is. He is a walking paradox, both completely unserious and accidentally profound, both exhausting and endlessly entertaining.

weird kid martin.. who is ridiculously loyal. Like, if he considers you a friend, that’s it. You’re his people now. No take-backs. If someone messes with you, they’re messing with him, and he is not afraid to make things weird until they regret it.

weird kid martin.. who treats every conversation like an improv bit, but the worst kind, where you’re not in on the joke and he’s completely committed to whatever bizarre thing he just made up. Like you could be having a normal conversation about sandwiches, and he’ll go, “Yeah, I used to be a sandwich in a past life.” And if you ask any follow-up questions, congratulations, you’re now trapped in a 20-minute bit about his experiences as a rogue ham and cheese.

weird kid martin.. who has a shockingly good music taste. Like, he listens to everything. Punk, jazz, psychedelic rock, old blues records, he doesn’t care about genres, just vibes. And somehow, he always finds the perfect song for every situation, like his brain is a jukebox with a mind of its own.

weird kid martin.. who definitely owns a ridiculous amount of weirdly specific t-shirts. Like a shirt that just says ‘Bigfoot is Real, and He Stole My Wallet’. Or one with a poorly drawn UFO that says ‘Get in, Loser’. He doesn’t actively seek them out. They just… find him.

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Ik I'm a little late to posting this but omg I'm so freaking excited

MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN..

How they would dress in THE 70s

Slushy Noobz

hamzah..

jeans, bell bottoms, graphic tee, chunky belts, leather jacket, adidas, no color coordination, less effort, tucked shirts, plain

martin..

just nerdy, plaid, button ups, vests, stripes, belts, tucked shirts, skinnier bell bottoms, used to get dress by his mom majority of his childhood, white converse

mandy..

light colors, plaid, skirts skirts skirts, blue, yellows, pinks, browns, chunky shoes, headbands, floral print, girly girl, charm bracelets, cutesy

Sturniolos

chris..

tanks, big tees, bell bottoms, flares, baggy jeans, big belts, plain colors, rings, thrift, same pair of converse, open chest

matt..

basically chris just with more effort, flares, bell bottoms, stripes, plaid, scrunched up sleeves, jackets, wrist accessories, graphic tees, versatile, chunky belts

nick..

fashion icon, diva, necklaces, sweaters, layered collars, cleaner, more effort, doc martins, converse, jackets, v necks

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @b1gba11s @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo @yearlyism

I hope when yall read my Chris and Matt fic you read them with an accent.. because I do imagine them in the 70s to have a more profound Italian accent idk why just trust me on this. (Plus it’s way hotter)

How tf do yall be making your cai bots so scrumptious and detailed and have good writing like mine keeps giving me one liners WHAT DO I PUT. (I’m tagging because I genuinely need help)

Taglist.. @yearlyism @italiansunsetss @b1gba113r @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo

too GIRLY

70s teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader

Hamzah had never seen a room like this before. It was pink, not overwhelmingly so, but in a way that felt intentional, soft yet loud, like her. The walls were lined with posters, some of musicians he knew, others of actors from old movies he hadn’t gotten around to watching. Trinkets and jewelry littered her vanity, bracelets stacked like small, colorful towers, rings scattered like forgotten treasures. Everything had a place, even in its slight messiness, and it smelled like her, warm, sweet, something floral but grounded.

He sat on the edge of her bed, hands pressing into the plush comforter, looking around like he was stepping into a world he wasn’t sure he belonged in. He wasn’t used to softness like this. His own room was plain, bare except for his boxing gear, a few records, and his camera sitting on the dresser. But hers? It was a reflection of her, vibrant, lived-in, a place that didn’t just exist but felt.

“You like it?” she asked, standing near the vanity, watching him take it all in.

He scoffed, running a hand through his bleach buzz. “It’s… a lot.” Then, softer, “It suits you.”

She grinned, walking over and plopping down next to him, the bed dipping under her weight. “You mean it’s too girly for you?”

Hamzah smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Nah. I think I like it.” His gaze flickered to the pink ruffly pillows, the delicate lace curtain fluttering from the open window. He turned back to her. “It’s nice.”

And it was. Not just the room. The feeling of being there, of sitting close, of knowing this was a space she felt safe in, and that, somehow, he’d been allowed into it too.

The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds of her bedroom, painting soft golden stripes across her walls, her floor, the tangled sheets beneath them. Hamzah wasn’t sure how they got here, sprawled on her bed, bodies pressed together, warmth curling between them like the scent of her perfume. It was always the same, something light and sweet, like vanilla and flowers, something that made his head feel foggy whenever he got too close.

His hands trembled slightly, but not out of fear. It was something else. Something deep in his chest that clawed at his ribs, telling him that this, whatever this was, was just as thrilling as it was terrifying.

She lay beneath him, half-laughing, half-breathless, pink lips parted just enough to make him want to kiss her again. He did. It was soft at first, hesitant, searching, but then her fingers tangled in the back of his bleach-blonde buzz, and suddenly, he was kissing her like she was the only thing keeping him breathing.

Somewhere between the way she sighed against his mouth and the way his hands skimmed the warm skin beneath her shirt, that nervousness melted. Not completely. Not all at once. But enough. Enough for him to help her out of it, leaving her in that ruffled pink bra he swore was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. It had a tiny bow in the middle, delicate lace tracing the edges, the kind of thing he never thought much about until now, until her.

His fingers ghosted along her waist, and she shivered. He swallowed, feeling like his heart was somewhere between his throat and his stomach. “You okay?” His voice was quieter than usual, like he was scared of breaking whatever fragile thing was holding this moment together.

She nodded, looking at him with something warm, something trusting, something that made him feel like maybe he could do this, maybe they could figure it out together. He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the world outside her bedroom slip away, letting himself get lost in the feeling of her, the way she fit against him, the way she made him forget everything except her.

They weren’t in a rush. There was nowhere to be, nothing to prove, just hands exploring, lips meeting, skin against skin, and the quiet thrill of knowing they had all the time in the world.

@issysh3ll

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @b1gba113r @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo

is there any chance you’d be doing timothee chalamet stuff? i rlly like ur writing and ur 70s theme :)) (also i love the hamzah stuff)

I meant to reply to this with the post but it’s posted now!!

introducing.. 70s STONER TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET

“All I can do is be me, whoever that is.”

stoner timmy.. who never seems like he’s in a rush. He moves through life like he’s got all the time in the world, even when he doesn’t. You could be late to school, running down the street like your life depends on it, and there he’d be, leaning against a lamppost, cigarette dangling from his fingers, looking up at the clouds like they just told him a secret.

stoner timmy.. who’s got this annoying, effortless charm that makes it impossible to dislike him. He’s never trying too hard. Never really trying at all. But somehow, he’s always the guy people want around. It’s not just that he’s funny, or that he listens better than most. It’s that he makes everything feel lighter, like the world isn’t so serious when he’s in it.

stoner timmy.. who got told once that he looks like Bob Dylan and has held onto it ever since. He doesn’t bring it up often, but when he does, he acts like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t keep him up at night thinking maybe he’s meant for something bigger. He doesn’t know what yet, but he’s working on it.

stoner timmy.. who loves music, movies, sports, and art but can’t decide which one to fully commit to. He’s got records scattered across his floor, half-finished sketches on his desk, a baseball glove in his backseat, and an old film camera he takes everywhere. He just wants to be one of the greats. The question is, great at what?

stoner timmy.. who matches people’s energy like a mirror. You’re loud and excited? He’s right there with you, matching your enthusiasm like he’s known you forever. You’re quiet and mellow? He’ll sink into the calm with you, like he’s always belonged there. But sometimes, when he’s the only one reciprocating the good vibes, it gets a little awkward, like he’s standing in a room full of people but still somehow alone.

stoner timmy.. who doesn’t believe in bad days. Not really. If something shitty happens, he shrugs it off, says, “Yeah, but did you see how good the sky looked today?” Like that’s supposed to make up for it. Maybe it does.

stoner timmy.. who can talk to anyone about anything. Politics, philosophy, the best way to roll a joint, how a certain song makes him feel like he’s floating. But the second someone asks about him, he dodges the question with a joke or a smirk, like he’s got nothing to say about himself that’s worth hearing.

stoner timmy.. who has never, not once, been caught up in drama. Not because he avoids it on purpose, but because people just can’t bring themselves to drag him into it. It’s hard to be mad at a guy who looks at you like you’ve got the whole world inside you.

stoner timmy.. who loves sitting in the backseat on long drives, watching the world blur past, cigarette in one hand, feet up on the dash. He doesn’t care where he’s going. He just likes moving.

stoner timmy.. who, no matter how hard you try, you can’t bring yourself to hate. Even when he’s frustrating. Even when he’s impossible to figure out. Because at the end of the day, he’s got this way of making you feel like the world is a little softer, a little easier to exist in. And maybe that’s enough.

@issysh3ll

taglist.. @yearlyism @italiansunsetss @b1gba113r @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo

If they do decide to remake an American psycho movie I do not think it should be Nicholas Chavez or Jacob elordi. I think those options are ass ngl. But pls pls pls cast Cory Micheal Smith. If u saw Saturday night yk he can do the voice. AND if u watch Gotham he is very good at play a psycho and he is very versatile so i think he could make to where his demeanor matches Patrick’s. He always talks about spending so much time and research into his characters and I think if they are gonna cast somebody this is what needs to happen. HE IS PATRICK BATEMAN LIKE WHAT.

i’m not tryna start anything BUTTTT the slushynoobz fandom on tiktok is starting to get annoying as fuck. Like omg can we liveee what happened to us being in peace. like someone old ass bitch always got something to say abt new fans like who even gaf. like im most saying don’t call out people for just being a fucking weirdo, but like they call out people for the most dumbest shit ever. for example people got problems with teenagers so called “thirsting” over hamzah. LIKE DAMN BITCH HE IS ONE SEXY BITCH of course he gonna have people thirst over him (including me tf). all they saw is new gens this new gen’s that. i don’t know if this makes sense on what im trying to say. but thanks for listening to my ted talk🥰🥰🥰

enemies to lovers hate lwk warranted cause why are u beefing every ten minutes just to end up together like wtf

THIS. Like I get so impatient like it’s so cringey yk u wanna kiss why are u acting slow? If im enemies with someone I couldnt even be in the same room as them.. how are yall fuckin 6 minutes later? Stand on business

Im coming out.. I hate/despise/can’t stand enemies to lovers. (I keep a gun by the door btw)

sometimes i feel like i’m too FREAKY with people i've just met and then i'm embarrassed and i think they're going to start hating me

happy VALENTINE

70s teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader

The radio hummed low and warm, a crackling thread of music weaving through the quiet of the car. Hamzah’s fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel, rings clicking against the worn leather, but his mind wasn’t on the road, wasn’t on much of anything except the girl beside him, laughing softly at something he said five minutes ago.

The car smelled like her perfume, like jasmine and something sweet, mingling with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and the lilies resting in her lap. She had been staring at them ever since he gave them to her, running delicate fingers along the petals, like she couldn’t believe they were hers.

“Didn’t think I was the type, huh?” he had teased when she first saw the flowers, the stuffed bunny, the little box of chocolate-covered strawberries from his cousin’s bakery.

“No, I just didn’t think you’d actually try this hard,” she smirked, but there had been something softer in her eyes, something he recognized.

Hamzah had never cared much for Valentine’s Day. It always seemed like a scam, a way for people to convince themselves they were in love for the price of a heart-shaped box. But her? She changed things. If she wanted lilies and chocolate and soft things wrapped in ribbons, then he’d give her all of it. He’d give her more.

So now, they were nowhere. Just a stretch of road fading into darkness, the distant hum of the city swallowed by trees and open sky. He pulled off onto a hill, parking beneath a massive oak tree, its branches twisting against the stars.

“Is this what you do with all your dates?” she teased, turning to face him.

“Nah,” he grinned, leaning back against his seat, hands loose in his lap. “Just you.”

Her smile wavered, just for a second, but he caught it. She didn’t know how to take it when he was sincere, when he let his guard slip. He kind of liked that.

The car ticked softly as the engine cooled, the wind slipping through the cracked windows. She peeled open the box of strawberries, picking one up and holding it to her lips before pausing. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“I got ‘em for you, sweetheart. Knock yourself out.”

She rolled her eyes, biting into the fruit, the chocolate cracking softly under her teeth. Hamzah watched her, eyes half-lidded, something lazy and fond resting in his gaze.

“Alright, now you gotta try one,” she insisted, plucking another from the box and holding it out for him.

He smirked, leaning forward, but instead of taking it from her fingers, he just bit into it, teeth gently biting her fingertips.

She gasped, pulling her hand back. “Hamzah!”

“What?” he mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he swallowed, licking his lips, “but you like me.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

The music played on, soft and unintrusive, some old soul song he didn’t know the name of. Outside, the world stretched on in every direction, but inside the car, it was just them.

He reached for her hand without thinking, just feeling the need to touch, to hold. She let him, fingers curling easily around his.

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always are.”

She turned to him, fully now, shifting so one leg tucked beneath her. The moonlight poured in through the windshield, catching in her eyes, making them gleam.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” his voice was lower now, rougher. “What about it?”

She didn’t answer, just tugged on his collar, pulling him in, slow and unhurried. Their lips met in a kiss that started soft but deepened quickly, something languid and melting, like heat unfurling in the cold night air. His hand found the side of her face, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, while her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging, teasing.

He sighed into her mouth, pulling her closer, like he could fold her into himself, keep her there. The world outside didn’t exist. Just her lips, her breath, the way she tasted like chocolate and strawberries and something he could never quite name.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” she murmured against his lips.

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her again, softer this time. “But I wanted to.”

@issysh3ll

Happy Valentine’s Day my loves🎀

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @b1gba113r @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo