Latest Posts by lovelymylene - Page 6
martin as early 2000s older brother core
LMAOOOOO PLSSS
More Hamzah fics PLEASEEEE
the BLONDE
teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader
It was 2 a.m., and the whole world was quiet except for the hum of the bathroom light and the faint scratch of a record spinning in the next room. The tile was cold under her knees, and Hamzah sat on the closed toilet lid, knees spread, head bowed slightly as she ran gloved fingers through his hair. His roots had grown out, dark waves creeping past the bleach, and he had been dragging his feet about re-dyeing them. But tonight, somewhere between a lazy kiss and a cigarette on the fire escape, she had decided for him.
“You’re dramatic, you know that?” she murmured, combing through the strands, sectioning them with careful fingers.
Hamzah smirked, eyes half-lidded. “You love it.”
She did. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
Outside, the city was restless, cars rolling slow down wet pavement, a couple arguing on the next block, a distant dog barking at nothing. But in here, it was just them. The sharp scent of bleach, the softness of his hair between her fingers, the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“You always do this for yourself?” she asked, dipping the brush into the mixture.
“Yeah.” He yawned, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “Tried to get Martin to help me once, but he almost burned my scalp off.”
She laughed softly. “Well, I won’t let you go bald. Again. Hold still.”
He closed his eyes as she worked, pressing her thumb to his forehead when he leaned too far forward. The silence between them was easy, comfortable, stretching out in the dim light. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“You ever think about just keeping it natural?” she asked after a while.
Hamzah cracked one eye open, smirking. “You don’t like the blonde?”
“I like you, dumbass.” She flicked his forehead lightly. “Just wondering.”
He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t know. It’s just… me, I guess. Feels like I should be like this.”
She understood that more than she could put into words.
She finished applying the dye and leaned back on her heels, peeling off the gloves. “Alright, we wait.”
Hamzah stretched, rolling his neck before grabbing her wrist and tugging her toward him. “C’mere.”
She let herself be pulled onto his lap, arms draped over his shoulders, fingers tangling loosely in the still-damp strands at the nape of his neck. He smelled like soap and bleach and cigarettes. Like him.
“You tired?” she murmured.
He hummed again, a little softer this time, forehead pressing to hers. “Not if you stay.”
She smiled, fingertips tracing lazy circles at the base of his skull. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And she meant it.
The bleach had been sitting long enough, and now it was time to rinse. She nudged Hamzah’s knee, motioning for him to stand. He groaned dramatically, stretching his arms before rolling his shoulders and stepping toward the sink.
“Alright, put your head down,” she instructed, turning on the faucet, testing the water with her fingers until it was just warm enough.
Hamzah bent over the sink, arms braced on either side. She ran her fingers through his hair as the water rushed over it, watching the bleach swirl away in pale, milky streaks. His dark roots were gone now, replaced with that familiar platinum blonde that somehow suited him so well.
“You okay?” she asked, kneading her fingertips against his scalp, gentle but firm.
Hamzah exhaled through his nose. “Feels nice,” he muttered, voice slightly muffled by the sink.
She smiled to herself, rinsing out the last bit of bleach, then reached for the towel. “Alright, you’re done.”
Hamzah lifted his head, shaking out his hair like a wet dog before she could wrap the towel around him properly. She swatted his shoulder. “You’re irritating.”
He grinned, wrapping the towel around his head like some dramatic movie star. “I’m beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes, dragging him over to sit on the edge of the tub. “Sit still, I need to dry it.”
Hamzah sat obediently, hands resting in his lap as she plugged in the blow dryer. It roared to life, sending warm air rushing through his damp hair. She combed through it with her fingers, tousling it slightly, watching as the color settled in fully under the heat.
His eyes fluttered shut again, that same relaxed expression he had when she was running her fingers through his hair earlier. It was rare, seeing him this still, this quiet in a way that wasn’t wrapped in nervous energy or some joke he was waiting to deliver.
“You’re like a cat,” she said over the hum of the dryer.
Hamzah cracked one eye open. “Yeah? That’s pretty weird I’m not a cat?”
She smirked, switching the dryer off. “Nah. Just saying you like being taken care of.”
His lips parted slightly, like he was going to argue, but then he just shrugged, smirking. “Maybe I just like when you do it.”
She flicked his forehead again. “Cheesy.”
“Maybe.” He leaned back against the wall, looking up at her, brown eyes still half-lidded, long lashes casting shadows against his cheekbones. “But you like it.”
She ran her fingers through his now-dry hair, feeling the soft texture of it under her touch. He was right. She did.
But then she tugged lightly at one of the uneven strands near the back of his neck. “You need a haircut.”
Hamzah groaned, slumping dramatically against the wall. “I just got my hair done, and now you wanna chop it off? You’re fucked up.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can stop by my dad’s shop. I’ll tell him to fix it up for you.”
Hamzah immediately sat up straighter, brows lifting in mild alarm. “Your dad?”
“Yeah,” she said, completely nonchalant. “What, you scared?”
Hamzah rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “I dunno. I feel like he already thinks I’m weird.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why would he think that?”
He scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Because I am weird! And I always say the wrong thing! And I— I dunno, I feel like dads don’t usually like me.”
She laughed softly, leaning down a little. “Well, lucky for you, he doesn’t hate you. He actually thinks you’re funny.”
Hamzah blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah,” she smirked. “But now that you’re all nervous about it, maybe I should warn him that you’re a weirdo before you show up.”
Hamzah groaned again, covering his face with his hands. “Forget the haircut. I’ll just grow it out, become a new person. Change my name. Start a new life.”
She tugged at his hair again. “Oh, shut up. You’re coming.”
Hamzah sighed heavily, letting his hands drop. He looked up at her again, still slightly wary. “…Fine. But if your dad actually does think I’m weird, I’m blaming you.”
She grinned. “Deal.”
I accidentally deleted something I’ve been working very hard on since last night and I’m so sick so this is very lazy but I’m so upset pls
@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
I have 4 fics in the works rn and idk if I’m gonna post two tmrw but I do know tmrw im posting a Valentine’s Day one for hamzah and Chris. Saturday I’m posting Hamzah dating hcs and warriors part 3. Sunday hamzah meeting your family fic and a third part for Frosted Flakes. Honestly things might change because I always think of other shit and write for it but tmrw is definitely Chris and hamzah valentine’s special
your telling me they’d rather do the whole tour again than just make long/better videos for EVERYONE to enjoy? And the way they’re setting it up it’s genuinely just sounds like this could’ve been put into a live stream but nah let’s do a whole fucking tour at the same fucking place with probably the same fucking people and make it super fucking expensive so we can make more money off all the 14-16 year olds attending. And for everyone at home you get shitty videos and weak ass vlogs yayyy!!! Like bffr and there videos are already getting worse and worse in my opinion like they’re not as entertaining so just put energy into something like the podcasts or genuine good long videos. but ig rent must be high. I was so excited for the announcement I was expecting the podcast to come back😭
In love with the way u write hamzah ❤️ Ty for ur service
AWWW!! Thank youuuuuuuu!! Ilysm
hii! can i just say i love the 70s theme you have, ive been waiting for original hamzah fics for so long. i feel like they have all turned into roommate hamzah or mandy’s friend reader (don’t get me wrong, i still eat them up), but what you’re doing is creative and original
Omg this is the sweetest thing ever I’m so glad you enjoy my writing ❤️😭 the main reason why I wanted to start doing hamzah fics was for THIS EXACT REASON like that and I feel like nobody writes hamzah and Martin authentically it’s hard to imagine them saying certain things. Not saying I perfected writing him either but there’s just certain visions I have that I would like incorporated. But I’m just obsessed with the 70s and hamzah and Martin are so cute and silly I had to🫶🏽
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
More Hamzah fics PLEASEEEE
the BLONDE
teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader
It was 2 a.m., and the whole world was quiet except for the hum of the bathroom light and the faint scratch of a record spinning in the next room. The tile was cold under her knees, and Hamzah sat on the closed toilet lid, knees spread, head bowed slightly as she ran gloved fingers through his hair. His roots had grown out, dark waves creeping past the bleach, and he had been dragging his feet about re-dyeing them. But tonight, somewhere between a lazy kiss and a cigarette on the fire escape, she had decided for him.
“You’re dramatic, you know that?” she murmured, combing through the strands, sectioning them with careful fingers.
Hamzah smirked, eyes half-lidded. “You love it.”
She did. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.
Outside, the city was restless, cars rolling slow down wet pavement, a couple arguing on the next block, a distant dog barking at nothing. But in here, it was just them. The sharp scent of bleach, the softness of his hair between her fingers, the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“You always do this for yourself?” she asked, dipping the brush into the mixture.
“Yeah.” He yawned, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “Tried to get Martin to help me once, but he almost burned my scalp off.”
She laughed softly. “Well, I won’t let you go bald. Again. Hold still.”
He closed his eyes as she worked, pressing her thumb to his forehead when he leaned too far forward. The silence between them was easy, comfortable, stretching out in the dim light. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“You ever think about just keeping it natural?” she asked after a while.
Hamzah cracked one eye open, smirking. “You don’t like the blonde?”
“I like you, dumbass.” She flicked his forehead lightly. “Just wondering.”
He hummed, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t know. It’s just… me, I guess. Feels like I should be like this.”
She understood that more than she could put into words.
She finished applying the dye and leaned back on her heels, peeling off the gloves. “Alright, we wait.”
Hamzah stretched, rolling his neck before grabbing her wrist and tugging her toward him. “C’mere.”
She let herself be pulled onto his lap, arms draped over his shoulders, fingers tangling loosely in the still-damp strands at the nape of his neck. He smelled like soap and bleach and cigarettes. Like him.
“You tired?” she murmured.
He hummed again, a little softer this time, forehead pressing to hers. “Not if you stay.”
She smiled, fingertips tracing lazy circles at the base of his skull. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And she meant it.
The bleach had been sitting long enough, and now it was time to rinse. She nudged Hamzah’s knee, motioning for him to stand. He groaned dramatically, stretching his arms before rolling his shoulders and stepping toward the sink.
“Alright, put your head down,” she instructed, turning on the faucet, testing the water with her fingers until it was just warm enough.
Hamzah bent over the sink, arms braced on either side. She ran her fingers through his hair as the water rushed over it, watching the bleach swirl away in pale, milky streaks. His dark roots were gone now, replaced with that familiar platinum blonde that somehow suited him so well.
“You okay?” she asked, kneading her fingertips against his scalp, gentle but firm.
Hamzah exhaled through his nose. “Feels nice,” he muttered, voice slightly muffled by the sink.
She smiled to herself, rinsing out the last bit of bleach, then reached for the towel. “Alright, you’re done.”
Hamzah lifted his head, shaking out his hair like a wet dog before she could wrap the towel around him properly. She swatted his shoulder. “You’re irritating.”
He grinned, wrapping the towel around his head like some dramatic movie star. “I’m beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes, dragging him over to sit on the edge of the tub. “Sit still, I need to dry it.”
Hamzah sat obediently, hands resting in his lap as she plugged in the blow dryer. It roared to life, sending warm air rushing through his damp hair. She combed through it with her fingers, tousling it slightly, watching as the color settled in fully under the heat.
His eyes fluttered shut again, that same relaxed expression he had when she was running her fingers through his hair earlier. It was rare, seeing him this still, this quiet in a way that wasn’t wrapped in nervous energy or some joke he was waiting to deliver.
“You’re like a cat,” she said over the hum of the dryer.
Hamzah cracked one eye open. “Yeah? That’s pretty weird I’m not a cat?”
She smirked, switching the dryer off. “Nah. Just saying you like being taken care of.”
His lips parted slightly, like he was going to argue, but then he just shrugged, smirking. “Maybe I just like when you do it.”
She flicked his forehead again. “Cheesy.”
“Maybe.” He leaned back against the wall, looking up at her, brown eyes still half-lidded, long lashes casting shadows against his cheekbones. “But you like it.”
She ran her fingers through his now-dry hair, feeling the soft texture of it under her touch. He was right. She did.
But then she tugged lightly at one of the uneven strands near the back of his neck. “You need a haircut.”
Hamzah groaned, slumping dramatically against the wall. “I just got my hair done, and now you wanna chop it off? You’re fucked up.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can stop by my dad’s shop. I’ll tell him to fix it up for you.”
Hamzah immediately sat up straighter, brows lifting in mild alarm. “Your dad?”
“Yeah,” she said, completely nonchalant. “What, you scared?”
Hamzah rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “I dunno. I feel like he already thinks I’m weird.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why would he think that?”
He scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Because I am weird! And I always say the wrong thing! And I— I dunno, I feel like dads don’t usually like me.”
She laughed softly, leaning down a little. “Well, lucky for you, he doesn’t hate you. He actually thinks you’re funny.”
Hamzah blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah,” she smirked. “But now that you’re all nervous about it, maybe I should warn him that you’re a weirdo before you show up.”
Hamzah groaned again, covering his face with his hands. “Forget the haircut. I’ll just grow it out, become a new person. Change my name. Start a new life.”
She tugged at his hair again. “Oh, shut up. You’re coming.”
Hamzah sighed heavily, letting his hands drop. He looked up at her again, still slightly wary. “…Fine. But if your dad actually does think I’m weird, I’m blaming you.”
She grinned. “Deal.”
I accidentally deleted something I’ve been working very hard on since last night and I’m so sick so this is very lazy but I’m so upset pls
@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
girl if you dont write a part 2 of the warriors im suing
LMAOOO girl ur lucky im unemployed rn so i gotchu❤️🙏🏽 i should finish later today if i lock in
70s teenage dirtbag hamzah meeting reader at some old vhs place and immediately gushing to martin abt her ...
the WARRIORS
teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader
summary.. A chance encounter at a dusty VHS store leaves Hamzah completely hooked.. now all he can do is rewind the moment in his head and gush to Martin like an idiot.
VHS & Chill was the kind of place that smelled like stale popcorn and forgotten cigarette smoke, the scent of dust settling over old plastic cases stacked on wire racks. The sign outside flickered weakly, a busted neon “Open” buzzing against the quiet hum of the street. It wasn’t the busiest spot in town, most kids preferred the drive-in or the record store, but Hamzah liked it here. The silence. The low hum of a TV in the background playing something grainy and forgotten. The feeling that no one was really watching him, that he could just exist.
Martin, on the other hand, didn’t give a damn about silence. He was already flipping through tapes, tossing titles at Hamzah like he was quizzing him. The Last Picture Show? “Depressing.” Enter the Dragon? “Classic.” Harold and Maude? “Kinda weird, but I dig it.” Hamzah let out a breath, running a hand over his buzzed head, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his camera. It was second nature at this point, filming the nothingness of his days, capturing the way life looked when you weren’t really a part of it.
And then she walked in.
Hamzah didn’t even notice her at first, not really. Just the soft jingle of bracelets, the scuff of thick rubber soles against linoleum. It wasn’t until she passed by, the scent of vanilla and something deeper, warmer, hitting him like a sucker punch, that he actually looked up. Her hair framed her face perfectly, like one of those actresses in French films he pretended to understand, and she was wearing these shoes, chunky, broken-in, the kind that made a girl look like she could stomp you out if she wanted. A black baby tee, gold jewelry catching the dim light, making her look untouchable, unreal.
Hamzah stared.
And then Martin, the menace, clocked him immediately. “Oh, hell no,” he whispered, grinning. “Don’t even say it.”
“I—” Hamzah started, but Martin cut him off.
“Dude. Every time.”
“This is different.”
“It’s never different.”
Hamzah huffed, gripping his camera like it might stabilize him. “She looks like she has good taste.”
“She just walked in, man.”
“And?”
Martin just shook his head, amused, but Hamzah could feel it, the inevitable. The way he was already forming theories in his head. What movies she liked. What kind of music she listened to when no one was around. If she’d think his camera thing was weird or if she’d let him interview her with that lazy, amused look that pretty girls always had when he got too in his head.
She was flipping through the cult classics section now, rings glinting as she ran her fingers over the spines of old VHS tapes. Hamzah was not gonna go up to her. Absolutely not. His social skills were limited to Martin and his cats, and he was barely holding onto those. But then.. then she grabbed The Warriors, tilting her head like she was debating it.
Hamzah’s mouth moved before his brain did. “That’s a good one.”
She turned, surprised, and for a second, he thought maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut. But then.. she smiled. Not big, not showy, just enough for him to see the amusement behind her eyes.
“Yeah?” she said, flipping the tape in her hands. “Think it’s worth it?”
Hamzah swallowed, nodding. “Definitely.”
And just like that, Martin was grinning like a devil over his shoulder, and Hamzah knew he was doomed.
The second she walked out the door, the little bell jingling behind her, Hamzah let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He turned to Martin, eyes wide, heart still stuttering in his chest like an old car refusing to start.
“Oh, man,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, man.”
Martin just stared at him, arms crossed, already smirking like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Here we go.”
Hamzah ignored him. He was still staring at the door, like maybe she’d come back, like maybe he’d get another chance to act like a normal human being around her.
“Did you see her?” he asked, half in a daze. “Like, actually see her? The shoes, man. The jewelry. She smelled like—I don’t even know, but I think I just got cursed or something. That was—I think I’m actually losing my mind.”
Martin snorted. “Dude, she bought The Warriors. That’s literally the bare minimum.”
Hamzah whipped his head toward him, scandalized. “The bare minimum?! That’s cinematic taste, Martin. That’s culture.”
Martin held up his hands. “Okay, okay, relax, movie nerd. So what, you gonna actually talk to her next time?”
Hamzah groaned, tipping his head back. “I did talk to her.”
“Telling a girl a movie is ‘good’ doesn’t count as talking, dumbass.”
Hamzah let out another sigh, glancing back at the door. His camera was still clutched in his hands, fingers drumming anxiously against the side. Next time, he thought. If there was a next time.
And God, he really wanted there to be a next time.
I accidentally got lost in the sauce and stayed up all night writing this and now I’m running off no sleep..
@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
Introducing.. 70s TEENAGE DIRTBAG HAZMAH
“The older you get, the more rules they’re gonna try to get you to follow. You just gotta keep on livin man.”
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who films people without warning, sticking a mic in their face to ask, “If you had to live in a movie, which one would it be?”
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who acts like he doesn’t care if he gets in trouble for filming in class, but the second the principal calls his name, his palms start sweating.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who doesn’t really know how to be a person unless Martin’s around, like he needs the right energy to pull his own personality out of him.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who never remembers to study but can recite entire movies word for word, like that’s gonna get him somewhere.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who makes a joke about everything, even when he shouldn’t, because silence makes him itch.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who always talks like he’s half-asleep, voice low and lazy, until Martin’s around, and suddenly he’s the funniest guy in the room.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who ends up outside the party with Martin, both of them eating cold pizza on the curb while some guy they barely know throws up in the bushes.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who holds up a hideous sweater and says, “This is it. This is the one. I was meant to wear this.” before Martin tells him he looks like someone’s grandfather.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who sneaks his camera into the movie theater, not to pirate the film, but just to capture his friends’ reactions in the dim light, like the real movie is happening in their faces.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who gets popcorn stuck in his throat and starts coughing so hard the old couple behind him groans.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who somehow ends up in the parking lot after the movie, lying on the hood of Martin’s car, debating if he actually liked it or if the soundtrack was just that good.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who gets dared to steal something stupid from a gas station, like a single packet of ketchup, and does it just to make Martin laugh.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who lets his cats sleep on his chest while he watches late-night boxing matches, absentmindedly scratching their ears like it’s routine.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who talks to his cats like they’re his roommates, muttering “You guys gotta start paying rent” when they knock something over.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who films his cats more than he films people, zooming in dramatically while narrating, “Here we have the elusive house panther in its natural habitat.”
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who gets caught sneaking snacks into school in the pocket of his denim jacket, playing dumb like, “Oh, you meant I can’t bring an entire box of Frosted Flakes?”
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who stays up too late watching old boxing matches, telling himself he’ll sleep early next time, but never does.
teenage dirtbag hamzah.. who will absolutely lie about his plans just to avoid socializing, but if Martin calls, he’s already grabbing his jacket.
@issysh3ll
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Lady Gaga ahs hotel
FROSTED FLAKES pt.2
In the summer of ‘76,, Matt meets a walking social disaster. In simpler terms.. a girl. I know. Matt Sturniolo and girls aren’t exactly a match made in heaven. But maybe this one is an exception?
Matt Sturniolo wasn’t a guy people noticed. He was the one on the edge of every conversation, hands shoved in his pockets, nodding along but never speaking. He existed in the background, the human equivalent of white noise, there, but never quite there. And he was okay with that.
But for some reason, ever since that day at the grocery store, he kept noticing her.
At first, it was just a passing thought. A flash of curls and big brown eyes somewhere in the back of his mind. Then, it was something worse, a weird, nagging feeling, like he was waiting for something. Like maybe he’d run into her again.
Except summer stretched long and hazy, and she didn’t show up anywhere. Not at the record store when he went with Nick. Not at Nate’s house, where the air was thick with the scent of weed and cheap cologne. Not even at the parties Chris dragged him to, where everyone blended together into a blur of voices and smoke and music that wasn’t as good as people thought it was.
So, he forgot. Mostly.
But then school started.
And there she was.
At first, it was just a glimpse in the hallway, like a trick of the light. Then he saw her again, on the front steps, in the cafeteria, at the lockers, in the exact wrong places at the wrong times. And every time, it was like some cosmic joke, like fate was dangling something just out of reach.
He didn’t approach her, of course. Matt Sturniolo did not approach girls.
Chris would. Chris could walk up to any girl, any time, and just talk. Didn’t matter who, didn’t matter where, he had a way of slipping into conversations like he belonged there.
Matt? He was lucky if he could get a sentence out without sounding like an idiot.
So he didn’t talk to her. He just… saw her. More than he should’ve.
It was starting to feel like some kind of setup.
Then came the next morning.
Chris had to go in early for tutoring, something about making up for skipping too many classes last year, so Matt got dragged along for the ride. The school was barely awake yet, the halls stretching empty and hollow.
With nothing else to do, he went to the cafeteria, figuring he’d sit there until people started showing up.
And that’s when he saw her.
She was standing in the breakfast line, her hair a little wilder than usual. She grabbed a little plastic bowl of Frosted Flakes and a carton of milk, shaking the box like she was testing how much was inside.
Matt didn’t mean to stare.
But she must’ve felt it, because right then, she looked up, straight at him.
And smiled.
It wasn’t just a polite smile, either. It was real, bright, warm, like she knew something he didn’t.
Then, before he could even think about looking away, she turned and walked right toward him.
Matt swallowed hard, his hands instinctively tucking into his hoodie pockets as she dropped into the seat across from him, setting her tray down with a little clack.
Matt stiffened, pulse kicking up, every instinct screaming at him to look away, act normal, pretend you weren’t staring like a freak.
“Hey,” she said casually, ripping the plastic lid off her cereal. “You always sit here?”
Matt blinked. He hadn’t expected her to actually talk to him.
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. My brother had tutoring.”
She tilted her head. “Huh. Didn’t know they did tutoring this early.” Then she scooped up some cereal, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at him again. “You got a name, or should I just call you ‘guy who stares at me from across the room’?”
Matt felt heat creep up his neck. Great. She noticed.
“Sturniolo,” he muttered.
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a mouthful.”
“Matt,” he amended.
She nodded approvingly. “Better.” Then, after a beat, she slid the bowl of cereal toward him. “Hold this for a sec? Gotta grab a napkin.”
And just like that, she was gone, leaving him sitting there, staring down at a bowl of soggy Frosted Flakes.
Matt exhaled, running a hand down his face.
This girl was gonna be a problem.
Matt sat stiffly, staring down at the bowl of Frosted Flakes like it was some kind of test. The milk was already turning sugary and pale, the cereal floating lazily on top. He didn’t dare touch it.
Across the cafeteria, she was rifling through the napkin dispenser, curls bouncing with every movement. Like she wasn’t even thinking about the fact that she’d just sat down with him. Like this wasn’t weird at all.
Matt felt his throat tighten.
She didn’t even know who he was. She probably sat down because he looked alone, and people like her had a way of making things less awkward for the ones who didn’t fit in. It didn’t mean anything.
So why was he sitting here like his entire morning had just been thrown off course?
Before he could think too much about it, she was back, napkin in hand, sliding into her seat like she belonged there. She pulled the cereal back in front of her, barely sparing him a glance before she dug in again.
“Thanks, Matt.”
His stomach did something weird at the way she said his name. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like they’d always been friends.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
She grinned mid-bite, like she could hear the awkwardness in his voice.
“So, do you, like, not eat breakfast, or do you just enjoy staring at people while they eat?”
Matt frowned, crossing his arms. “I don’t stare.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Mmm.”
“I don’t,” he insisted, but it came out weak, because, well… maybe he had been looking at her more than he should’ve.
She didn’t push it, just smirked like she knew something he didn’t. “Alright, not-staring-Matt, what’s your deal?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Like, what’s your thing?” she said, waving her spoon. “Everyone’s got something. You a football guy? A stoner? One of those weird band kids?”
Matt hesitated. He could’ve told her about movies, about the hours he spent watching and rewatching old foreign films no one else cared about. About the way music sounded different on vinyl, how he had a whole crate of records stacked in his room. But all of that felt… too personal.
So he just shrugged. “Dunno.”
She sighed dramatically. “God, you’re so cryptic.”
“I’m not cryptic,” he muttered.
“You totally are,” she said, shaking her head. “I bet you’re, like, the brooding type. Probably lean against lockers all mysterious, making girls wonder what your deal is.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Yeah. That’s me. Real mysterious.”
She laughed, and Matt didn’t realize how much he liked the sound of it until it was already out there, loud and full and unfiltered.
For a second, they just sat there, her eating, him sitting there, unsure of why he wasn’t getting up, why he wasn’t saying something stupid to ruin the moment.
Then—
“Hey, there you are.”
Matt’s shoulders tensed as he heard Chris’s voice.
He turned to see his brother strolling toward the table, looking like he owned the place, because Chris always looked like that. His grayish-purple shirt was half unbuttoned, his dark hair tousled in that effortless way that made girls trip over themselves.
And, of course, he noticed her immediately.
Chris slid into the seat next to Matt, grinning lazily at her. “Hey. Who’s your friend?”
Matt opened his mouth to say I don’t know, but before he could, she answered for him.
“Sage.” She stuck out a hand. “And you must be the brother?”
Chris took her hand like he was some kind of movie star, shooting her the most flirty smile, which Matt knew all too well. “of course.”
Matt groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
He could already tell, this was about to get so much worse.
@issysh3ll
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⭑𓂃 on film
sturniolos on film ೃ࿔*:･ moodboard
missing their film era desperately ‧₊˚
「 𝜗𝜚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ angel bby 」
what’s in LOSER MATT’s camera?
wow he’s so talented
FROSTED FLAKES pt.1
In the summer of ‘76,, Matt meets a walking social disaster. In simpler terms.. a girl. I know. Matt Sturniolo and girls aren’t exactly a match made in heaven. But maybe this one is an exception?
September 14, 1976 – A Warm, Late-Summer Evening
The air smelled like gasoline and fading sunlight, warm in that way September gets when summer refuses to let go. The pavement still held onto the heat of the afternoon, radiating up through the soles of Matt Sturniolo’s sneakers as he walked home from McCleary’s Market with a bag of records under his arm. The sky had that golden, hazy look, half dusk, half dream, where everything feels a little too quiet, like the world is holding its breath before night fully settles in.
Matt liked moments like this. When the streets were mostly empty, the radio static in his head quieted, and the only sound was the scuff of his sneakers against the sidewalk.
Then, out of nowhere—
BAM.
A blur of curls. A crash. The sharp edge of a shopping cart jamming into his hip.
Matt stumbled back, nearly dropping his records, as someone practically barreled into him outside the market. A girl.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, immediately grabbing his arms like she could keep him upright through sheer force of will. “Are you okay? Jesus, I wasn’t looking—well, obviously I wasn’t looking, because if I was looking, you wouldn’t be half-dead on the sidewalk right now, but—oh no, did I break something? Are you gonna sue me? Wait, do people actually do that? I mean, I wouldn’t sue if I got hit with a shopping cart, but—”
Matt just blinked at her, trying to process what the hell just happened.
The girl, who had massive brown eyes and a mess of dark curls that looked like they had a mind of their own, stared back at him expectantly, waiting for a response.
“…You talk a lot,” he muttered.
She grinned. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
And then, before he could say anything else, she reached into his grocery bag, dropped a box of Frosted Flakes inside, and walked off like nothing happened.
Matt stood there for a long moment, watching her bounce away down the sidewalk, talking to an old lady who looked very confused but not entirely displeased by her presence.
What the hell just happened?
And, more importantly…
Who was she?
@issysh3ll
Authors note.. (Okay a few things this is my first series that I wanted to start and I have a few questions. Do you guys want her to have a name and be her own character or do you want it to be a reader type thing. And also I tried to write this in a rom com type style so if you don’t like it pls lmk. Tell me anything you don’t like. And lastly do you guys want smut in this later on? Because that’s definitely possible)
taglist.. @italiansunsetsss @b1gba113r @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerlykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @sweetangelgirl7 @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @cwemetrys @calliepie @cupidsword @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @rempessturniolo
introducing.. 70s LEE MYUNG-GI ( bf reveal )
I LOVE I LOVE, I LOVE I LOVE I LOVE
ahhhhhh!!! this is too adorable
ִ ☆゙ mylene’s pick
@throatgoat4u @camsturnz <3 tags u don’t gotta if you don’t want but this is adorable
cuties tap in .ᐟ
we’re going on a date ˚｡⋆. ♡
pick : a triplet, a jelly cat, and an erewhon smoothie
𝜗𝜚˚⋆ angel’s pick
inspired by @bernardsbendystraws tags 🤍🪽
tag your fav you want to see blogs to do this!
Once I figure out how to color the words like that oooo it’s over for yall
@st7rnioioss
skating in CIRCLES
chris sturniolo and reader
summary.. Even when he’s about to bust his ass, all he can think about is holding your hand.
The night hums with laughter and the low whir of wheels against polished wood, neon lights flickering against the glossy rink floor. You’re still holding Chris’ hand when he groans, trying to pull you back toward the booths.
“Baby, I swear—” His voice is taut with frustration, but you just smile, dragging him forward.
“Just one more time,” you plead, eyes bright, tugging him onto the rink again.
He stumbles the second he lets go of the railing, his grip on you tightening. He’s stiff, unsteady, but you keep him upright, your fingers warm against his.
Nate and his girl sweep past effortlessly, barely even pushing off the ground. “Dude, just use the walker,” Nate calls over his shoulder, grinning.
Chris shoots him a look, jaw locking. “Yeah, that’s never happening.”
The truth is, he knows it would help. Knows he’d stop making a fool of himself, stop tripping over his own damn feet. But the walker doesn’t have your hand in his, doesn’t give him the excuse to keep reaching for you every time he wobbles.
So he keeps stumbling. And you keep laughing, and he keeps pretending like this isn’t the best part of his night.
After what feels like hours of this, of almost-falling, of grabbing at your waist to keep from wiping out, of you tugging him forward when he’s barely caught his breath, he finally digs his heels in.
“Alright, alright, I’m done.” He pulls you off the rink before you can argue, collapsing into one of the booths. His fingers are still curled around yours, but he’s catching his breath now, his head tipped back against the seat.
“Quitter,” you tease.
Chris huffs, but his smirk is easy, blue eyes flicking to yours. “Survivalist.”
He disappears to the concession stand before you can respond, coming back with a tray, fries, a Coke, and that soft pretzel you eyed earlier but never mentioned. He sets it in front of you without a word, then slides into the seat beside you, his thigh pressed lightly against yours.
“Bribery?” you ask, plucking a fry from the tray.
“Strategy,” he corrects, stealing one for himself.
The night hums on around you, pop songs blaring through cheap speakers, couples spinning on the rink, Nate and his girl wrapped up in their own world, but here, in this moment, it’s just the two of you.
Your gaze drifts to the photo booth pictures you took earlier, the strip of images sitting between you on the table. The first one is normal, both of you grinning at the camera. The second, you’re laughing, and Chris is looking at you instead of the lens. The third, he doesn’t know what the hell happened there, but it makes you smile, so he doesn’t question it.
He watches as you run your fingers over the glossy paper, your lips quirking. He leans in slightly, voice low.
“So,” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his. “How much do I gotta pay you to let me keep this one?”
@issysh3ll
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I wanna write for squid game but idk how to make it 70s🧍🏽♀️
i cant with how STUNNING your theme is um im actually in love.
Umm I’m actually in love with you tysm😭🙏🏽 your pfp and banner is so tea oml
introducing..
໑ 70s POPULAR GIRL QUEN
“Girls are never supposed to be powerful or confident or assertive. But why not?”
POPULAR QUEN… whose laughter rings through the halls, rich and unfiltered, turning heads because it’s too bright, too alive to ignore.
POPULAR QUEN… whose stare could slice through steel, yet softens for those clever enough to keep up and kind enough to deserve
POPULAR QUEN… who holds secrets like jewels, tucked away and gleaming, never careless with them, unless you make her careless.
POPULAR QUEN… whose skin catches the light like it’s always golden hour, her presence warm but untouchable, like the last flicker of sunset.
POPULAR QUEN… who could break hearts just by forgetting names, yet remembers the way her friends take their coffee.
POPULAR QUEN… who sees through the cracks in people, sharp-eyed and steady, offering kindness like a rare, fleeting thing.
POPULAR QUEN… who doesn’t need a crown to rule, her presence alone bends the room, like gravity pulling everything toward her.
POPULAR QUEN… who laughs louder than the music at parties, head thrown back, untouchable in her joy, like the world exists just to entertain her.
POPULAR QUEN… who doesn’t start drama but will end it with one sentence that feels like a slap and a smile.
POPULAR QUEN… who holds herself like she’s invincible because she’s had to be, but lets the right people see the cracks.
POPULAR QUEN… who remembers the little things you told her once, your favorite song, the snack you love—and brings it up like it’s nothing, but it’s everything.
POPULAR QUEN… who pretends not to care, but you notice how her eyes light up when you actually listen to her stories.
POPULAR QUEN… who holds onto old letters and birthday cards in a box under her bed, rereading them when the house is too quiet.
POPULAR QUEN… who talks and talks until she’s tired, and then sits quietly, staring off like she’s somewhere far away.
POPULAR QUEN… who gives hugs that linger just a second longer than expected, like maybe she needed it too but won’t admit
POPULAR QUEN… who laughs so hard she has to wipe tears from her eyes, shoulders shaking, and for a moment, she’s just a girl, not the queen of the room.
POPULAR QUEN… who will roll her eyes at your bad joke but fight back a smile because she secretly loves that you tried.
POPULAR QUEN… who teases you without mercy but softly fixes your collar before you walk away, like she can’t help but care.
this one was for the 👩🏾❤️💋👩🏽 girlies
@issysh3ll
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TAGLIST .ᐟ
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THIS is what I see when I say 70s douchebag Chris.
Imagine gossip girl in the 70s. Like gossip girl wouldn’t be able to use phones or anything maybe it would be like a page on a teen magazine with a cute ass title page OMGG the style would be 10/10 I wanna write this so bad🙏🏽🎀
