Do Yall Want The Playlist?

i gotta say that whatever happens in the white lotus finale it's that at least when people write lochlan fics they'll know is canon that he has a incest kink i- 🙃

Omg😭 not my baby💔💔💔💔💔

Next fic—

(Yes I took the time to write this out and????)

this is so hot

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

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

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

I lost my brown mascara I’m gonna kms

I’m not in LOVE

chris and babydoll reader

“it’s just a silly phase I’m going through”

Chris likes to think he’s immune to love, that it’s something for other people, not him. He’s the guy who coasts through life, carefree and untouchable, too busy being the center of attention to bother with anything as serious as feelings. At least, that’s what he tells himself whenever she’s around.

She’s just a friend—he repeats it like a mantra. The girl who sits shotgun in Eclipse, singing along to her disco tapes while he pretends he’s annoyed, though he never skips the track. The one who calls him out when his ego gets too big but does it with a laugh that makes it impossible for him to get mad. She’s the grounding force he never asked for, the one person who doesn’t fall for his charm but somehow makes him want to be charming anyway.

He doesn’t take what he feels for her seriously. He can’t. If he starts calling it love—if he starts admitting that maybe she’s more than just a cool girl who’s fun to have around—then he’s tied down. And Chris doesn’t do tied down. Not yet. Not when he’s got a reputation to keep up and a world to conquer. So he brushes it off, tells himself it’s just a passing thing, a silly crush that’ll fade.

But it doesn’t. It lingers in the way his eyes follow her when she’s laughing at something he didn’t even say. It’s in the way he drives her home slower than necessary, taking the long way just to keep her in the car a little longer. It’s in the way he notices the small things about her—how her curls shine when the sun hits them, how her New York accent slips out when she’s really excited, how her smile feels like it’s changing the air around them.

Chris won’t admit it, not even to himself, but she’s gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever has. She makes his world feel different, brighter, more real. But instead of leaning into it, he hides behind his usual bravado, throwing out half-baked jokes and acting like she doesn’t matter as much as she does.

Maybe one day he’ll figure it out—that what he feels isn’t just some fleeting crush. It’s not something he can brush off or laugh away. It’s real, and it’s hers. But for now, he’s stuck somewhere in between, holding on to his careless image while quietly letting her become his favorite part of everything.

For now, he tells himself he’s fine with the way things are. No labels, no big confessions, just the two of them driving around with her disco tapes and his bad jokes. But there’s a part of him that wonders, late at night when he’s alone, if maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to let her see how much she really matters. How much she’s already changed him.

@issysh3ll

I’m gonna say this here because I refuse to fight with Rebeca in a comment section but here are my thoughts. I think ppl are forgetting the target audience for these Disney movies. Whether kids want to see someone who looks like them on screen or introducing different cultures and people who don’t look like you at an early age. I don’t think you guys understand how sad it is when the only Disney princess that looks like you, the whole movie is about the struggle of a black women, when all these other Disney princesses get whimsical and quirky storylines and personalities, black girls get a movie with a hard truth within society at such a young age. That’s literally all they’ve got. And you guys think it’s so cute and funny to make hypotheticals of taking the one thing they have away with your Ariana grande casting. I get making new Disney movies but do yall know the things yall said about wish when it first came out. Yall are starting to forget how embarrassing it is for a grown person as yourself is critiquing children disney movies and your only reasoning being “the songs are bad and she’s cringey”. I promise if we all let the little kids watch wish without saying a word they would love it. She is literally a perfect example of you can’t win. Like we are moving backwards if representation is upsetting people. This is going to turn into the brown v board if we don’t stop this like seriously (if you don’t know what the brown v board experiment is, it’s basically a test that was run in the 1940s where they would get black kids and put two identical dolls in front of them, one with a white skin ton and one darker, the kids would then choose which doll was the ‘prettier’ doll and 67% preferred the white doll over the 33% who chose the black doll) you guys don’t understand representation means absolutely everything to a child more than you think. Especially in a world where a woman with a slightly darker complexion was being called snow brown. Calling her aggressive and rude and I can’t let you guys forget about the Romeo and Juliet situation where you guys bullied this girl OUT OF HER JOB. When a black woman appears slightly more masculine or without as much soft features you guys will call her Tyrone, a stud, a man. But let a masculine white girl come up on your screen you guys are calling her fine and ‘I wish my bf looked like you’ like you guys disgust me so bad. None of you had plans to watch the play, watch Snow White, or Ariel. You guys just want to be racist, plain and simple. Grow up and stop watching children’s movies at your grown age if you can’t handle diversity you fucking embarrassment. It’s not the 1930s

I don’t really watch the kalogeras sisters just cause they’re not really my type of humor, but I have the biggest crush on Sunday wtf SHES SO SWEET AND PRETTY AND HER LAUGH. Thats a face you’d go to war for. I just started getting edits and clips of them on my fyp randomly and they are all very pretty but SUNDAY. HER NAME IS LITERALLY SUNDAY LIKE SHES NOT REAL

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

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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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