I’m Gonna Sob THANK YOU

this is so hot

.ᐟ.ᐟ introducing — producer ! matt && ex ! reader.

⸝⸝ bad idea by ariana grande. a faint trace of vanilla perfume and danger. smooth legs under silky skirts. the one they warned you about but couldn’t resist. lives in a high-rise in downtown la, penthouse suite. iced coffee with extra vanilla at 3 p.m. daily. black-soled heels. late-night drives in a sleek black porsche. whispers like a secret, laughs like a weapon. keeps a lighter in her purse but doesn’t smoke. vodka martinis, extra olives. the song that makes your chest ache. the one who got away—and left you remembering how they tasted.

⸝⸝ nc-17 by travis scott. baggy jeans and oversized shirts. piercing eyes that seem to know all your secrets. messy hair, probably ruffled from running his hands through it during late-night sessions. lives in a modern penthouse downtown. cigarette smoke lingers on his jacket, but he doesn’t care. black coffee, no sugar. doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s either cutting or profound. has a beat-up notebook full of scribbles and half-written lyrics. mike dean best mate. drives a sport car. midnight walks, scuffed sneakers, and the occasional half-smirk. always late but worth the wait. the one who stays on your mind like a bassline that won’t let go.

Yk a bitch a hater when they’ll sit and wait to see how someone looks without makeup.

the WARRIORS pt.2

teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader

“You have beautiful eyes..”

The three of them strolled through the dimly lit streets, the cold air biting at their skin as their breath fogged in front of them. Hamzah walked in the middle, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his camera swinging against his hip. Martin was lighting a cigarette, the flicker of the lighter illuminating his face for a brief second. Mandy walked beside him, arms crossed, her usual unimpressed expression softened by the way Martin occasionally nudged her, trying to make her laugh.

By the time they reached the party, the bass from inside was already vibrating through the pavement. A few people lingered on the porch, beer bottles in hand, talking and laughing under the dim porchlight. The house was glowing from within, the yellow light spilling through the open door, illuminating the crowd inside.

They pushed through the threshold, the scent of cheap cologne, weed, and something vaguely floral hitting them all at once. Hamzah rubbed the back of his neck, scanning the room out of habit, taking in the faces, the voices, the movement—

And then he saw her.

Across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter, half-listening to someone talk. The same loose, off-the-shoulder baseball tee, the belt cinched around her waist, the jeans that sat just right on her frame. The same hair, thick and wild, falling over her shoulders like it had been sculpted by the wind itself.

He felt that same flicker of recognition from earlier, that same pull in his chest.

Almost like she felt it, she glanced up, and her eyes landed on him.

There was a beat. A pause stretched just long enough to mean something.

Then, slowly, she smiled.

Hamzah didn’t even think about it. His feet just moved.

“Hey,” she said when he was close enough to hear her over the music.

“Hey,” he echoed, leaning against the counter beside her.

“You again,” she mused, amusement in her voice.

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. “Me again.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him in a way that made his stomach do something weird.

“You have beautiful eyes,” she said, casually, like she was just stating a fact.

Hamzah blinked.

A beat passed.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice quieter. “So do you.”

She smiled at that, slow and knowing.

They had been talking for what felt like forever, the conversation shifting like the tide. Movies. Nostalgia. The weird way certain scents could send you straight back to childhood. She had a way of making the simplest things sound poetic.

“You ever smell something and suddenly you’re ten years old again?” she asked, spinning her half-empty cup between her fingers.

Hamzah exhaled, thinking. “Yeah. There’s this old VHS store near my uncle’s place. Every time I walk in, it smells like dust and plastic and… I don’t know. Like a life I almost had.”

She nodded like she understood. “For me, it’s gasoline. I used to sit in my dad’s car while he pumped gas, and I’d just watch the numbers go up, pretending I understood how it worked.”

Hamzah chuckled. “That’s kind of poetic.”

“Everything’s kind of poetic if you look at it the right way.”

He watched her, the way the dim kitchen light caught the angles of her face. He could still smell her, that same signature scent, something warm, familiar, but just out of reach.

The conversation drifted easily, like slipping into warm water. They talked about movies, their favorites, their least favorites.

“What’s the best thing you’ve ever seen?” she asked, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of a half-empty cup.

Hamzah exhaled, thinking. “I don’t know if I have a single best. But there’s this one film… real low-budget, black-and-white, barely anyone’s heard of it. There’s this one scene where the main character’s just standing in the rain, not saying anything, but you know everything he’s feeling.”

She listened, nodding. “I like scenes like that. When you don’t need words to know.”

“Yeah,” Hamzah said, meeting her gaze. “Exactly.”

She sipped her drink. “You ever see something in a movie that made you feel like… you lived it before?”

Hamzah thought for a second. “Like déjà vu?”

“Kind of. But more like… something you didn’t know you missed until you saw it on-screen.”

He nodded, feeling that in his chest. “Yeah. All the time.”

She smiled. “Me too.”

The music changed. Someone stumbled into the kitchen, laughing too loud, breaking the little bubble they’d been in.

Hamzah glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Martin to be watching, but he was nowhere in sight.

When he looked back at her, she was watching him. Her eyes flickered to his hands, to the way his fingers tapped against his thigh.

“You nervous?” she asked, teasing.

Hamzah huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand over his face. “A little.”

She grinned. “Why?”

Hamzah hesitated. Then, before he could talk himself out of it—

“Can I get your number?”

She blinked, a little surprised, but then, slowly, her lips curved into something softer.

“Yeah,” she said, reaching into her bag.

She pulled out a pen, uncapping it with her teeth before taking his hand.

The tip of the pen was cold against his skin, her writing slanted and quick.

Before he could say anything, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his hand, right over the ink.

Hamzah’s brain short-circuited.

“Don’t lose it,” she murmured, giving him a small, teasing smile before turning toward the back door, slipping into the night like she was never there.

He stood there, staring after her.

Then—

“Bro.”

Hamzah turned just in time to see Martin standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Mandy stood beside him, her expression unreadable.

“Bro, we’ve been looking for you,” Martin said, stepping into the room. “And here you are, getting all Notebook in the kitchen.”

Hamzah rolled his eyes. “Relax, man.”

But Martin was already smirking. “Nah, it’s cool, I just didn’t realize you were the type to get lost in a conversation and forget his friends.”

Mandy huffed. “Not surprised.”

Hamzah shot her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You disappear a lot,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Not just at parties.”

He frowned, not sure what to say to that.

“I’m not disappearing,” he interrupted, nodding toward his hand, where the ink was still fresh. “Im just showing up somewhere new.”

Martin let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Man, she’s got you thinking in poetry.”

Hamzah ignored him, looking at her instead.

She just smiled. “See you around, Hamzah.”

And with that, she slipped past Martin and Mandy, disappearing into the party like she had never been there at all.

For a second, Hamzah just stood there, glancing at the girl next to him momentarily. Looking for some type of validation.

Then Martin clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You good, Shakespeare?”

Hamzah glanced down at the numbers on his hand.

Yeah. He was good.

I GOT IT BACK HHAHA NVM

@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

Their random pair group science project in THE 70s

CHRIS & HAMZAH – ELECTRICITY

Why They Got Paired: Mr. Calloway assigned them when they both took too long picking a partner.

Where They Worked: Chris’s basement, but mostly just goofed off.

How They Split the Work: Chris insisted he had a “vision” for the project but did no actual research. Hamzah tried to take notes but kept getting sidetracked by Chris’s nonsense.

Final Grade: C-.

WORKING TOGETHER

Chris and Hamzah met up at Chris’s house on Saturday afternoon, but calling it a “work session” would be a stretch. Chris’s basement was dimly lit, old band posters peeling off the walls, a stack of records leaning against a dusty turntable. A single lightbulb flickered overhead, which Chris immediately used as a teachable moment.

“See that?” he said, pointing dramatically. “Electricity, man. That’s our project right there. The light flickers, and boom. science.”

Hamzah exhaled through his nose. “That is literally not how that works.”

Chris flopped onto the couch, tossing a football in the air. “Yeah, but like… imagine if we just walked in, pointed at the lights, and said, ‘Electricity. You need it. We got it.’ Then sat back down.”

Hamzah ran a hand down his face. “I cannot fail this class, dude.”

Chris sat up, suddenly serious. “You think I’m gonna let you fail? Trust me, I got this.”

He did not have this.

By the time Sunday night rolled around, all they had was a half-finished poster with the words Electricity: It’s Important! scrawled across the top in marker. Hamzah, fully resigned to his fate, shook his head.

“We’re bombing this.”

Chris grinned. “Nah, man. We got charisma. That’s half the battle.”

PRESENTATION DAY

Standing at the front of the classroom, Chris tried to hold it together. Hamzah, on the other hand, was already choking back laughter.

“Alright,” Chris started, gripping the edge of the poster like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “So, electricity. You need it. We got it.”

Hamzah pressed a fist to his mouth, shoulders shaking.

“It’s, uh… real important,” he managed, voice cracking slightly.

Chris cleared his throat.

“Right. So. Electricity comes from, uh, power plants… and lightning. And, like, when you plug stuff in, boom. It works.”

Mr. Calloway pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explain the diagram.”

Chris turned to their hastily drawn diagram of a battery, wires, and a lightbulb, none of which were labeled.

“Right, so you got electrons. They, uh, zoom through wires—”

Hamzah, tears in his eyes while scratching the back of his neck, added, “Not scientifically accurate, but sure.”

Chris powered through.

“And they make stuff work. That’s basically it.”

A silence hung in the air. Then, from the back of the room, Nate muttered, “Genius.”

The class erupted into laughter.

MANDY & QUEN – PHOTOSYNTHESIS

Why They Got Paired: They picked each other.

Where They Worked: The library, but mostly spent time laughing, giggling, gossiping.

How They Split the Work: Mandy did the research. Quen made the project visually appealing and cute.

Final Grade: A-.

WORKING TOGETHER

Mandy and Quen sat at a library table, surrounded by open textbooks and crumpled notes.

“So, photosynthesis,” Mandy said, flipping through a book. “It’s how plants turn sunlight into energy. They take in carbon dioxide and release oxygen.”

Quen twirled a pen between her fingers. “So, plants are out here minding their business, making their own food, not needing anyone?”

Mandy smirked. “Exactly.”

Quen tapped her chin. “Independent queens. Love that.”

Mandy rolled her eyes but was clearly amused. “Yes, Quen. Plants are independent queens.”

Quen grinned and started sketching a tree with sunglasses onto their poster.

PRESENTATION DAY

Mandy stood confidently at the front of the room while Quen adjusted their colorful poster on the chalkboard.

“Photosynthesis is the process in which plants convert sunlight into energy,” Mandy explained.

Quen nodded, leaning into the mic. “Basically, plants are self-sufficient badasses.”

Mr. Calloway sighed. “Academic language, please.”

Mandy fought a smile. “Right. Plants absorb sunlight through chlorophyll, take in carbon dioxide, and release oxygen. It’s why we can breathe.”

Quen gasped. “Breathing?! I love doing that.”

The class chuckled.

MATT & MARTIN – THE SCIENCE OF SOUND

Why They Got Paired: They were the last ones left.

Where They Worked: Martin’s attic, surrounded by random junk.

How They Split the Work: Matt tried to keep things on track. Martin kept derailing into weird facts.

Final Grade: B.

WORKING TOGETHER

Matt sat on the floor with a notebook, actually trying to work. Martin was balancing a spinning record on one finger.

“Did you know the loudest sound ever recorded was from a volcano in 1863?” Martin said suddenly.

Matt sighed. “Martin.”

“People heard it from 3,000 miles away. Imagine just chillin’ and then—BAM—volcano.”

“Martin, focus.”

“This is focus.”

Matt gave up.

PRESENTATION DAY

Matt cleared his throat. “Sound is made when vibrations travel through the air and reach your eardrum.”

Martin grinned. “Also, dolphins use echolocation, which means they’re basically underwater superheroes.”

Matt exhaled slowly. “Please ignore him.”

Mr. Calloway rubbed his temples.

“Moving on.”



Mr. Calloway sat back in his as the bell rang chair, rubbing his temples as the last presentation ended. Some were disasters, some were impressive, and some were just… what they were.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s just hope the next two project turns out better.”

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

Lochlan from white lotus is so cutesy I want him

Moved on from dae ho too fast. That man is so sexy

luvvv ur new theme

ILY tysm beautiful ❤️

mariathemostbeautifulsoundiveeverheardmariamariamariamariaallthebeautifulsoundsintheworldinasinglewordmariamariamariamariamariamariamariaivejustmetagirlnamedmariaandsuddenlythatnamewillneverbethesametomemariaivejustkissedagirlnamedmariaandsuddenlyifoundhowwonderfulthesoundcanbemariasayitloudandtheresmusicplayingsayitsoftanditsalmostlikeprayingmariaillneverstopsayibgmariamariamariamariamariamariamariamariamariamariasayitloudandtheresmusicplayingsayitsoftanditsalmostlikeprayingmariaillneverstopsayingmariathemostbeautifulsoundiveeverheardmaria..

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

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