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70s - Blog Posts
"There's nothing more that I'd like to do, than take the floor and dance with you~" -Peaches & Herb (Shake your groove thing)
Felt like drawing my oc Calliope on a 1970s fit (and changed her hair a bit), dunno how historically accurate it is but I'm tired, and I got inspired by a 70s playlist.
But now I'm curious... What would your oc's look like in 70s attire? Some food for thought (It's not that I'd totally like to see them-)
Have a good day/night!
I know it’s kinda dated and gaudy but for me this place will always be home
Lol Fr tho
my blog is a safe space for me. the rest of you are in danger i think
Halloween is here again❤️🏳️🌈
Love summer days already
Nice one✅👌👍
thoughtdump incoming
social media isn't really interesting for me anymore. if i'm gonna be online, i want what i'm doing to actually contribute something to my life and others' lives. inspiration, knowledge, support. and i do get that here, sometimes. i get that on youtube, sometimes. but by god i need to stop scrolling. especially on youtube shorts and tiktok (uninstalled tiktok once again).
but also like. social media feels really lonely now. people like a post, or reblog it. maybe they'll talk in the tags, but people don't often add on in the actual post. there's not many conversations to be had. but i am grateful for the people who do reply or send asks, and we get to talk to a bit. those interactions honestly are why i still come on tumblr sometimes.
it's good to know i can help people, and that people see me and support me as well. guess i just want to lean into that more.
Do something today that your future self will thank you for ❤️❤️
I never forget to keep fit 🏋️♀️❤️😂
This isn’t a recent picture tho, posting it here so I could save. Self love ❤️
Two lead-singers from one of my favorite music bands — Nick Beggs from Kajagoogoo & Cherie Currie from The Runaways💜🍒
Sometimes I draw people, too😄
Agnetha Fältskog & Anni-Frid Lyngstad from ABBA💙✨
dream woman ✨
Need them in a gay A24 psychological romcom set in the 1970s, about two best friends,one flirty, loud and outgoing kind of a bimbo, the other quiet and thoughtful and smart, who skip college and build a small custom tailoring service from scratch. Their bond deepens, so does the tension between friendship and something more, Mikey’s character becoming more bold and possessive over Ayo’s character and touchy BUT she has a boyfriend that she goes on to marry. Over time, their success grows and start getting richer and more valued and respected clients, but so do the pureness of their relationship, until years later in 1985, Mikey’s character is found dead and the other is accused of her murder. Ayo’s character keeps having hallucinations and seeing her as her younger and older self. Told through a mix of flashbacks and present day court scenes, the story blends love, obsession, grief, and guilt, and the ending showing her not guilty but leaving the audience to decide what really happened because it feeds into both narratives of weather she did it or not. It also takes a look at the corrupt side of Mikey’s character since they knew eachother her senior year and Ayo’s character was a freshman when she started picking at her and flirting with her until they became close friends.
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
in my head all my 70s au characters all go to a school called Brighton High School and they’re all seniors having the time of their lives before college with their different friend groups. Interacting every so often in classes for projects and school fights and bullying freshman together.
Their favorite songs/music taste in THE 70s
hamzah
“Superstition” by Stevie Wonder.
Hamzah doesn’t just listen to music, he feels it. The second that funky bassline kicks in, his whole body is moving. He loves the groove, the smoothness, the effortless cool that Stevie brings. He likes songs that make you want to dance, and this one is impossible to sit still to. It’s his go-to when he’s trying to lighten the mood or shake off a bad day.
music taste- cool, smooth, and effortlessly charismatic
Hamzah listens to music that feels as smooth as he is. He gravitates toward soulful R&B, funk, and anything with a groove that makes people want to move. His taste is sensual and confident, with a hint of playfulness. He’s got a deep appreciation for songs that make people feel good, whether it’s slow and sultry or upbeat and funky.
martin
“Dream On” by Aerosmith.
He’s drawn to the drama of it, the slow, moody beginning, the way it builds into something massive and emotional. The first time he heard Steven Tyler scream that final “dream on,” he got goosebumps. He likes songs that make you feel something deep, like you’re on the verge of something big, even if you don’t know what it is.
music taste- the life of the party with a weird charm
Martin thrives on high-energy rock anthems that get people hyped. He loves songs with dramatic builds, fast-paced guitar riffs, and anything that makes him feel like he’s in a high-stakes movie scene. He’s the guy who’s always down to turn the volume up, dance around, and belt out lyrics at the top of his lungs. His music taste is a mix of theatrical, rebellious, and just plain fun, something that matches his extra, infectious personality.
mandy
“I Feel Love” by Donna Summer.
This song is hypnotic, shimmering, and effortlessly cool, just like Mandy. The pulsating synths and dreamy vocals make her feel like she’s floating under neon lights, lost in the music and the moment. It’s the kind of song that plays in her head when she walks into a room, making everything around her seem a little more cinematic. Whether she’s dancing in a club or just getting lost in a daydream, this song makes her feel like she’s living in the future while everyone else is stuck in the past.
music taste- ethereal, effortlessly cool, and always ahead of the curve
Mandy listens to music that feels like the future, glittering synths, hypnotic beats, and anything that makes her feel like she’s floating in another dimension. She has an ear for trends before they happen and a love for music that’s both sensual and surreal. Her playlist is filled with funky disco, spacey electronic beats, and sultry vocals that make everything feel more glamorous.
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
⋆ ࣪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.
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
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
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 🎀
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.
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
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
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
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
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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🎀
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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
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