Should I Do Lochlan Ratliff Smut.. I Haven’t Done Smut Before And I Wanna See How Good Or Bad It Could

Lochlan from white lotus is so cutesy I want him

happy VALENTINE

70s teenage dirtbag hamzah and reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re an idiot.”

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

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

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

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

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always are.”

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

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

@issysh3ll

Happy Valentine’s Day my loves🎀

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

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

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😭

You can’t convince me that Saxon doesn’t have a thing for cute toes.. he’s a whore for white and pink just trust me🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

Ugh 70s tdb hamzah I miss you.. should he come back guys

💬 Just a Small Update, and a Big Thank You

Dear friends, kind hearts, and everyone who has stood with us,

When I first opened my heart to the world and shared our story, I never imagined the amount of love and solidarity we would receive. Thanks to your incredible support, we’ve now reached $12,837—a milestone that brings real light to some very dark days.

From the deepest corners of my heart, thank you.

💔 A Journey of Loss, but Also of Strength

As many of you know, I’ve lost 25 of my loved ones during this devastating war. That grief lives with me every single day. It’s in the silence that once held laughter, in the empty spaces where we once gathered as a family.

But through your help, I’ve also felt something else: hope. And that hope is priceless.

“21/Oct/2023 Before It Reached Us: The Day Our Neighbor’s House Was Destroyed” A quiet moment of fear, filmed just before everything changed.

“22/Oct/2023 The Morning After: Our Family Home in Ruins” This is what was left behind after the bombing of our home.

🌿 What Life Looks Like for Us Now

Despite everything, we’re still here. Still surviving. Still hoping.

But things have only gotten harder.

The war has returned, more brutal than before—and for over a month now, Gaza has been completely sealed off. No food is coming in. No medical supplies. No aid. No trade. No one is allowed to leave, and no one is allowed to enter.

We’re trapped.

🏚 We live with the fear of tomorrow, every single day. Airstrikes, drones, and the uncertainty of what might happen next. 👨‍👩‍👧 Our family is forever changed—we haven’t just lost people; we’ve lost pieces of ourselves. 📉 Basic needs go unmet—even clean water feels like a luxury now. Medicines, if they exist at all, are unreachable.

And yet…

Your support reminds us that we’re not forgotten. It reminds us that someone, somewhere, is still listening. That someone still cares. That we’re not completely alone in this.

Every message. Every share. Every dollar. It tells us: You’re walking this road with us. And that gives us the strength to keep going.

💖 What You Can Do

If you’ve already donated—thank you beyond words. If you can share our story again, it could reach someone who can help.

Even $5 means warmth, comfort, and a chance to breathe a little easier.

Chuffed

Donate to Help Mosab saving who's left of his family

My name is Mosab Elderawi, and I am a survivor of the war in Gaza. Life as I knew it has been completely destroyed. I have lost my home, my

✨ Why It All Matters

This isn’t just about reaching a fundraising goal. It’s about surviving war with dignity. It’s about believing in tomorrow. It’s about making sure my daughter grows up knowing that the world did not look away.

Thank you for your kindness, patience, and belief in our humanity. You’ve helped me find my voice—and I will use it to keep hope alive.

🙏 From the Heart: A Quiet Apology

There’s something I need to say—something that’s been on my heart for some time.

When I first began sharing our story, I didn’t know what the right way was. I was scared, grieving, and trying to protect my family in any way I could. I reached out to many people, hoping someone, anyone, would see us. In that process, I now realize I may have overstepped, and I might have made some feel overwhelmed.

If that happened, I am truly sorry.

Please believe me when I say it was never out of disregard or pushiness. It came from a place of fear—fear of being forgotten, fear of not being able to keep my family safe, fear of watching everything I love slip away in silence.

I’m learning as I go. I’ve slowed down. I’m more mindful now, trying to share our journey in a way that feels respectful of the space and hearts of those listening.

If my words ever came at the wrong time, or in the wrong way, I hope you can understand where they came from—and I hope you can forgive me.

Thank you for seeing past my mistakes. Thank you for still being here. It means more than I can ever explain.

Vetted by @gazavetters ( #309 )

With love and endless gratitude, Mosab and family ♥️

He’s is sexy omg his voice near the end THOSE RUNSSS

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

YAHT ROCK???? Oh you see my exact vision

⋆ ࣪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