CHALLENGERS — Suggestive, No Smut, Implied Smut

I meeean.. u came on here. You don’t like it and you’re still here. You’re not their close friend they don’t know u so don’t act like you know what they’re comfortable with. They’ve seen tumblr they know what’s on it I’m sure they would’ve made it clear not to do ts but they haven’t meaning they don’t actually gaf. And ur lying if ur saying these niggas aren’t lazy. No one made them go on tour and if you read the rules they had set for tour AFTER ppl paid for it then yk that shits a money grab ur slow if u think otherwise. They aren’t children. And the way they talk like they got an attitude doesn’t help their case it’s just annoying especially because they make content most of their fanbase don’t even like.

breaking my silence.

I am TIRED of hearing ppl say that the triplets are lazy. That’s fucking stupid of yall to say, they are trying so hard. Not to mention they have tour, which they mentioned was more expensive, there is more to do and it’s farther away then The lets trip tour and versus tour. Ppl are also pissed they aren’t going over seas. It’s definitely not their fault. Ik this isn’t gonna be seen by many others but I’m still stating my opinion. I feel so bad for them, yall need to cut them some slack. The video that was posted on a Saturday wasn’t bc they were lazy and just didn’t want to post, they have a life outside of posting and everyone needs to understand that, I get it, some people weren’t happy but it needs to be let go of. Also, not to mention how DISGUSTING people are?? I came on tumblr bc of my mate, turns out this is a disgusting place where ppl sexualize them. Calling them sluts and making sexual fanfics is not something they are comfortable with. They mentioned it in so many videos. Nick had to censor his pants in one video, isn’t that a clear sign they know ppl think that way about them? It’s just gross imo. It honestly scares me knowing ppl who sexualize them are going on tour, i would be grossed out too if I were them. Even though I am hypersexual, I wouldnt publicly announce that I sexualized them if I did. I think it’s just embarrassing for the ppl who do that. They don’t have a chance with them no matter what

lochlan ratliff and reader..

The night is still, the kind of quiet that makes everything feel bigger than it is. You slip out of the room you’re sharing with Piper, careful not to let the door creak, and make your way down the stone pathways, your sandals clicking softly against the ground. The pool glows in the darkness, a cool, inviting blue, the surface still as glass.

You sit at the edge, dipping your legs in, staring at the way the water distorts your reflection. The dinner replays in your head, looping over and over. You weren’t embarrassed before, but now.. now, the weight of all the things you should’ve said presses down on you. The things you should’ve done. The way Lochlan’s mother had looked at you, her questions sharp even when they were sweet.

Your fingers trail through the water. Maybe if you’d laughed more. Maybe if you’d said something different. Maybe if—

Footsteps.

Your head snaps up, heartbeat stuttering, but it’s just Lochlan, his figure backlit by the glow of the resort. His shirt is loose, his hair a little messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed. He sees you and grins.

“Knew you’d be out here,” he murmurs, stepping closer.

You scoff, nudging the water with your foot. “Yeah? How?”

He shrugs, peeling off his shirt and tossing it onto a lounge chair before slipping into the pool. “You get that look when you’re overthinking. Saw it before you went to bed.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now.

Lochlan swims over, resting his arms on the edge beside you, watching you carefully. You don’t look at him when you say, “Remember freshman year? At Makenzie’s house? We played mermaids, and you were the pirate?”

He laughs, tilting his head back. “Oh my god. Yeah. And I took it way too seriously.”

“You tried to kidnap us,” you remind him.

“You let me kidnap you,” he shoots back, nudging your knee under the water.

You laugh, finally looking at him, and for a second, the weight in your chest loosens. The pool water ripples softly between you, the night air warm against your skin.

Lochlan hums, tilting his head. “You okay?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “No.”

He chuckles, prying your hands away. “Dinner?”

“I was so awkward,” you mumble. “I should’ve said more. I should’ve—”

“Stop.” He flicks water at you, making you gasp. “You were fine.”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch. “I was not fine.”

Lochlan smirks, swimming back slightly. “You were fine. I mean, my mom’s just…” He shrugs. “She’s like that with everyone.”

You exhale, watching as he floats on his back.

“You really don’t care?” you ask.

“Not even a little bit,” he says, tipping his head toward you, voice completely sincere.

You stare at him for a second, then splash water in his face.

Lochlan sputters, laughing. “Oh, oh?”

You shriek as he lunges, sending waves of water splashing up around you. You duck, trying to escape, but he grabs your wrist, spinning you around, both of you laughing so hard it barely makes a sound.

And then, footsteps.

You both freeze.

Lochlan grips your wrist tighter, eyes wide. “Is that—”

“Security?” you whisper, heart pounding.

A shadow appears under the terrace lights, and you brace for impact—

But then:

“Get your asses back inside,” Saxon drawls, arms crossed, looking half-asleep and wholly unimpressed.

You and Lochlan exchange glances before bursting into silent giggles, covering your mouths as you scramble out of the pool.

Saxon sighs. “If you guys get us kicked out, I’m making you both sleep outside.”

You shiver dramatically. “Oh no, not the five-star resort.”

Lochlan snorts, grabbing your hand as you slip past Saxon, dripping water onto the stone path.

Saxon shakes his head. “Idiots.”

But you hear the smirk in his voice as you and Lochlan sneak back inside, still laughing.

The laughter doesn’t stop, even as you sneak back toward your room, feet dripping little puddles along the stone path. Lochlan’s hand stays wrapped around yours, warm and sure, even as he bites down on his lip, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

Saxon trails behind you, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s already regretting getting out of bed. “Seriously,” he mutters. “What the hell were you two even doing out there?”

Lochlan shoots you a look, his grin crooked. “Playing mermaids.”

You slap his arm. “Shut up.”

Saxon groans. “Jesus Christ.”

You’re trying to be quiet, really, but the weight of the night, of everything that had been sitting in your chest since dinner, is gone now, washed away in chlorine and laughter. Lochlan looks at you, his damp hair curling at the edges, his tan skin glowing under the soft lights, and suddenly, nothing else matters, not his mom’s disapproving glances, not the questions you fumbled over, not the way you felt like you didn’t belong at that dinner table.

Because here, right now, you belong.

You reach your room, and just as you’re about to slip inside, Lochlan tugs on your wrist, stopping you.

You turn to face him, still breathless. “What?”

His expression softens, his thumb brushing against the inside of your palm. “You’re really okay?”

The laughter fades into something quieter, something warmer. You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

Lochlan exhales like he was holding his breath, then leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead. It lingers, just for a second.

Saxon groans behind you. “I’m actually gonna throw up.”

Lochlan laughs against your skin before pulling away. “Go to bed, Sax.”

“You go to bed,” Saxon mutters, already walking off.

You and Lochlan exchange another look, another quiet smile. He hurriedly walked back over to you giving you a gentle, sweet, quick kiss on the lips before reluctantly walking away back to his room.

And then, finally, you slip back into your room, feeling lighter than you have all night.

I dunno if I like this and I can definitely do better I just wanted to show off the concept of how I wanted to write them but I might change it around. PLEASE send in requests for him I’m begging

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @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 idea from..@eventhew1nd

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

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

HAPPY NEW YEARS LOVELYS💋

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

introducing 70s BABYDOLL READER paired with 70s chris

“That summer of 1976, when everybody called me baby and it didn’t occur to me to mind”

Her voice is smooth, with a soft New York accent that peeks through in her vowels, giving her words a rhythm all their own. It’s the kind of voice you could listen to for hours, whether she’s humming along to a Bee Gees tune or passionately defending her love for disco. While everyone else seems to roll their eyes at her playlist, she just laughs and turns the volume up, unapologetically dancing to the beat of her own world.

She’s always got a little gloss on her lips and a smirk in her eyes, like she knows something you don’t. There’s a warmth to her presence, a softness that makes people want to be better just to deserve her attention. She doesn’t demand it, though—she’s not the kind of girl who needs to shout to be heard. Her laugh is soft but unforgettable, the kind that sticks in your head long after she’s gone, like a melody you can’t quite place.

She has a passion for little joys—collecting vinyl records, baking cookies she insists aren’t perfect, but everyone eats anyway, and reading paperbacks with broken spines. She loves the smell of old books and the sound of rain against her window, and she swears there’s no better feeling than stepping onto a dance floor under shimmering disco lights. She’s not a loud person, but there’s something magnetic about her—a quiet kind of confidence that makes her impossible to ignore.

She’s gentle but firm, the kind of person who listens without judgment but doesn’t hesitate to call you out when you’re being ridiculous. She believes in authenticity, in living life fully, even if that means sticking out a little more than she intended. And when she looks at you, it feels like she’s seeing right through every facade, straight into the core of who you are—and liking what she finds.

@issysh3ll

Give me time to grieve.. please.

This music video got me cryingggg😭 why they eat that up tho

I lost my brown mascara I’m gonna kms