blood-or4nge

[blood-or4nge]

childhood bsf! louis x reader head cannons

ages 3-7

- ya’ll first met when you’re family moved in right next door to his house

i would say you guys were probably 3 or 4 at the time, you were shy and a bit nervous when your mom made you walk over with her to greet your neighbors.

- you and louis became fast friends though

he stuck his head out from behind his mum’s legs and waved at you, you waved back and it was just history from there.

- lotsss of playdates

some days there at your house, other days there at his house, occasionally they’ll be at the park if it’s not too busy

- there was this one time when you were at the park and he threw sand at you

he was trying to be funny when ya’ll were playing in the sandbox, and thought it would be a good idea to throw sand at you. i don’t know why, but he just did.

- it got in your mouth

you cried, told your mum, he got in trouble and also cried, not because he was in trouble, but because he made you cry. never did it again after that.

- playdates at your house

he doesn’t like it, prefers to have them at his house because you make him play dress up, and you get mad at him when he goes off script while playing dolls.

“look, my doll does backflips.”

“nooo louis, stop she does not do that!”

- he such a menace

he thinks it’s the funniest thing ever to mess with you, he makes the dolls “fart” and crashes the car. he’ll throw your baby dolls and kidnap your stuffed puppy. he’ll only stop once you get mad at him and sit in the corner by yourself away from him.

“hey, where you going?”

“i no like how you play, you not play right.” you mumble while sitting in the corner with your stuffed puppy he was terrorizing. he feels bad about it afterwards though. he’ll go and sit with you, begging you to play with him. he tells you he’ll be serious this time and will stop throwing your baby dolls.

- playdates at his house

you both have fun, you play on his swingset, watch movies, you sometimes bring a couple of your babydolls and make him play family.

“and you play the dad-“

“i dont want to be the dad!”

“but louis, my babies need a dad.”

“then you be the dad, because i don’t want to!”

he’ll go sit in a corner away from you, and you just stand there holding your baby while holding back tears. lip wobbling, tears pooling in your eyes, sniffling.

- he’ll eventually agree to be the dad

only because you started crying, and he doesn’t like when you cry. his mum told him he should never make a girl cry, and now he feels the need to comfort you when you cry.

- he gets so embarrassed when his mum walks in and sees ya’ll

he’s there holding your baby doll, while you’re sitting next to him holding another baby and your puppy. it’s the cutest thing ever. his mum takes a picture, he’s pouting, but you have the biggest grin on your face.

- dress up

whenever y’all play princess’s, he always wants to be the night, but you make him be the dragon so that he can carry you on his back.

“but louis, i need a dragon.”

“i dont wanna be a dragon, i wanna be the prince.” he stomps his foot, crossing his arms.

“you’re mean.”

you sit in the corner, crying again, and he decided there was no getting out of it, so he ends up being the dragon. he says he hates it, but we all know that’s not true.

-bandaids everywhere

y’all use bandaids for everything. a sratch, band-aid. you dropped your babydoll, band-aid. you’re crying, band-aid. some boy at school tried to hold your hand in the sand pit and louis didn’t like it? 3 band-aids. to you guys, band-aids fix everything.

-pillow forts? of course

yall love pillows forts, you make them in your room starting from the top of your bed to your wall. you use your pillows, the pillows from your parents room, the living room couch, sometimes louis will take some from his house and forget them at your house then wonder why he doesn’t have any pillows.

-sleepovers

so many sleepovers, every weekend ya’ll are having a sleepover. occasionally when you’re parents are away on a business trip or whatever, you’ll spend the night, or a couple of nights, at his house. louis shares his bed with you, even gives you his good pillow, the really fluffy one.

-stuffed animals

whenever you sleep over, you put your puppy and his bear (the ones in the picture above) in between ya’ll so that they don’t fall off the bed and so they stay warm between ya’ll.

“kiss puppy goodnight.”

“no, i dont want to. he has your girl germs on him.”

“he oesn’t have germs, stop saying that!”

he doesn’t want to, but he does it anyones just so you’ll leave him alone and sleep.

blood-or4nge : i got lazy at the end, but they’re so cutie,

anyways request are open and im bored!

[blood-or4nge]

Dust and Echos

The Letters pt.2

You didn’t mention how your fingers trembled as you unfolded the slip of paper, or how you stared at his messy scrawl for what felt like hours, rereading it until the words burned themselves into your ribs.

You didn’t say anything at all.

But the next morning, just after sunrise, you came in early. The shop was still heavy with sleep, the books holding their breath. You lit the small lamp by the register and stood in the stillness for a long time, fingers wrapped around a cup of cooling tea.

And then you left a note of your own.

Not in the same place—he’d be expecting that. Instead, you tucked it carefully inside the pages of The Bell Jar, near the middle where the spine had already worn thin, where someone like him would instinctively flip.

The paper was soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. The ink, slightly smudged. But the words were clear:

You don’t have to explain why you come here.

I think i understand.

Some silences aren’t empty. Some are just waiting to be filled.

You didn’t sign it either.

He didn’t mention it when he came in that day. Or the day after that. But something shifted.

He lingered longer now. Brought coffee for you without asking how you liked it—and still somehow got it right. Flipped through books but didn’t really read them, always glancing up when you moved behind the counter. Sometimes he’d sit in the old armchair near the window and watch the street, saying nothing.

But the quiet between you grew denser. Not awkward, not uncertain—just full.

ꕀ

On Wednesday, he helped you restock the travel section without being asked. On Friday, he moved a stack of boxes without a word. That weekend, you found a note inside On the Road, tucked just deep enough for you to wonder if you were meant to find it at all:

It’s not just the books. It’s the way you breathe in the quiet. Like it’s a song only you know.

Your heart did something reckless after that.

You began to leave little things in return. Scribbled quotes in margins. Dried flowers pressed between pages. A soft, steady offering of your own quiet.

And still—neither of you said a word.

Not until the rain came.

It was late on a Tuesday when the skies cracked open. You’d forgotten your umbrella, and he was still in the chair by the window, the edges of his hoodie damp from where he’d brushed against the doorframe earlier. Thunder echoed faintly above the city.

He watched you close the shutters, your shoulders tense from the chill.

Then—so gently you almost didn’t hear it—he said, “Why do you leave the notes?”

You turned slowly. The soft gold light of the lamp pooled behind him, catching on his jaw, his lashes, the faintest shadow of stubble that hadn’t been there the week before.

“Why do you?” you asked.

His mouth twitched like he might smile, but didn’t.

“I think I wanted someone to see me. Not the version everyone else does. Just… me.”

You nodded. “I think I wanted that too.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched you. And when you sat beside him in the other chair, the silence wrapped around you like a second skin—safe, familiar, no longer waiting to be filled.

That night, after he left, you found another note on the counter.

This one wasn’t hidden.

I’m not sure what this is, but it’s the first thing that’s made sense in a long time. – L

You folded it carefully and slipped it into your pocket, where it stayed.

Right next to your heart.

ꕀ

“Do you ever leave this place?” Louis asked one afternoon, leaning against the counter with a crooked smile and a thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans.

You blinked at him from behind a stack of receipts. “Like… the shop?”

He nodded. “You’re always here. Like part of the furniture.”

You gave a small shrug, trying not to overthink the warmth rising in your chest. “I like it here.”

“I know.” His gaze softened. “Me too.”

A beat passed.

“Wanna take a walk?” he asked suddenly, the words quiet but certain, like he’d already played them out a dozen times in his head. “It’s nice out. And I think I need to see something that doesn’t have a cover and a spine.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shy. “Sure.”

You locked up early, something you almost never did. The air outside smelled like pavement and the promise of spring. The sun was beginning to sink, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.

You walked side by side for a while without saying much.

He didn’t wear sunglasses, didn’t pull his hood up like he usually did. He just walked like he wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“You know,” he said eventually, “it’s weird how quiet this city can be.”

You looked up at him. “You spend your whole life surrounded by noise. You forget that quiet can be comforting.”

Louis nodded. “Yeah. Or dangerous.”

You glanced at him then, but he didn’t look back. He was staring at the sidewalk like he was sorting through something tangled.

“Tour’s a madhouse,” he said after a pause. “Cameras in your face, fans outside the hotel, people shouting your name all the time. You get used to it, but it makes your head feel… loud.”

You waited.

“And then I came into the shop,” he went on, voice softer now, “and no one cared who I was. You just—let me be quiet. That’s rare.”

He looked at you then, a little unsure.

You offered him a small smile. “It didn’t feel like you wanted noise.”

He exhaled through his nose, a faint laugh. “Exactly.”

You walked a little further in silence. The sky turned lavender overhead, the streets golden and slow. A kid rode past on a bike. Someone played jazz through a cracked-open window. The world felt… calm.

“When I first got famous,” he said suddenly, “it was like being caught in a current. Everything moved fast. People changed. I didn’t.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

“It’s hard, you know?” he said, quieter now. “Being seen all the time, and still feeling invisible.”

You stopped walking. So did he.

The street behind you was empty. The city felt paused.

“I see you,” you said.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He tilted his head, eyes flickering across your face like he was searching for the catch.

But there wasn’t one.

You meant it.

And he knew.

Louis looked away first, clearing his throat as he started walking again, this time slower, like his feet didn’t quite know what to do with the weight of what just passed between you.

“Do you miss home?” you asked.

“All the time,” he said. “But sometimes I think I miss the version of me I used to be more than the place itself.”

That stuck with you.

You reached the park without meaning to. The sky was bruised purple now, the first stars blinking shyly into view.

You sat on a bench. Louis leaned back, head tilted to the sky.

After a while, he asked, “Why’d you open a bookshop?”

You smiled. “It wasn’t always the plan. But books were the only place that ever felt safe. They let me disappear without leaving.”

“Is that why you stay so quiet?”

You thought about it. “Maybe. I like listening. People tell you everything if you’re quiet enough.”

He turned to face you, the last of the sunlight catching in his eyes.

“What have I told you?”

You hesitated. Then, softly: “That you’re tired. But not of the work. Of pretending. Of being too much and not enough at the same time. Of people who love the idea of you but never stop to ask how you’re really doing.”

His expression faltered.

“And that maybe,” you added, “you just want someone to sit beside you and not ask for anything at all.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, “You make it feel okay. To just… be.”

The air shifted between you. Not heavy. Not electric. Just real.

And in that moment, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a weather-worn bench beneath a sky full of stories, the quiet between you finally broke.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just honest.

Just enough.

ꕀ

blood-or4nge: i caved and made a part 2,

hoped you guys liked this

[blood-or4nge]

Dust and Echoes

The Girl in the Bookshop

The bell above the door gave a soft chime, the kind that belonged in a film about second chances and unexpected beginnings.

You barely looked up from the worn spine you were taping together—The Picture of Dorian Gray, its pages a little yellowed but still holding magic—when he walked in.

It was raining, which wasn’t unusual for this town. What was unusual was the man standing in your doorway, his hood pushed back just enough to reveal a familiar mop of brown hair, a flash of blue eyes, and the unmistakable air of someone used to being looked at. Except… he wasn’t asking to be recognized. If anything, he looked like he was trying to disappear.

You knew who he was, of course. Everyone did. But you didn’t say his name. You just offered a soft smile and nodded toward the shop interior, your way of saying, stay as long as you like.

He glanced around the space like he hadn’t been inside a bookshop in years. Maybe he hadn’t.

The shop was small and mismatched—floorboards that creaked, shelves that bowed under the weight of time, a little reading nook by the window with a stack of throw blankets in varying shades of neutral. You had painted the front window yourself, your name written in delicate white cursive above the words Second Chapter Books. It was your world. Your quiet, dusty, wonderful little world.

And now he was in it.

Louis moved through the shelves slowly, the kind of slow that meant he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Every so often, you heard the low scrape of a chair or the rustle of a page. No entourage. No cameras. Just him and the sound of the rain tapping against the glass.

He stayed for nearly an hour.

When he left, he purchased a battered copy of The Great Gatsby and a poetry collection you never thought anyone under 70 would even glance at.

“I like the quiet in here,” he murmured, glancing at you for the first time with real intention. “Feels like it doesn’t ask anything of me.”

You offered the same soft smile. The one you gave to the lonely souls and the ones who didn’t know they needed a story.

“Come back anytime,” you said.

ꕀ

He came back.

Twice the next week. Then four times the one after that. Always with a hood pulled low or sunglasses that didn’t quite hide the shape of his smile. And always, always to the poetry shelf.

He never asked for a discount, though you would’ve given him one. Never made a show of being recognized. Sometimes, he read in the nook by the window, thumb brushing the pages like he was trying to memorize them.

You learned that he liked tea over coffee. That he hummed when he read something he liked. That he always smelled faintly like bergamot and clean laundry.

“You’re not going to ask for a photo?” he asked one day, voice casual, but there was something heavy behind it.

You shook your head. “You’re not on stage here.”

That was the day he started helping you carry deliveries in from the back alley. And that was the day you started making him tea before he even asked.

ꕀ

One Thursday, you caught him talking to a little girl in the children’s section. She had big glasses and a bigger curiosity, asking him a hundred questions about music and why he had “tattoos like the cool people on telly.”

He answered each one with a grin, crouching to her level, never talking down to her.

“She your niece?” you asked later.

He shook his head. “Nah. Just someone who wanted a story read out loud.”

Your heart ached a little at that.

That night, after you locked the shop, you found a small note left on the poetry shelf.

You make the quiet feel like home. – L

You never told him you found it.

But the next day, you left a note of your own.

ꕀ

[blood-or4nge]

Louis Tomlinson

ꕀ blurbs

dust and echos

ꕀ au’s

when stars fall

ꕀ head cannons

childhood bsf! louis

ꕀ mood boards

[blood-or4nge]

When Stars Fall

The Lovers of the War-torn Era

Louis and Mary were born into different worlds. He, a son of a nobleman, and she, the daughter of a powerful general. Their families had been at odds for generations, their histories written in blood. Yet, in the midst of this endless conflict, they found each other.

It was on the eve of war when they first met—a secret meeting, arranged by a friend of Mary’s who knew the love between them was too powerful to ignore. Their eyes met across a crowded ballroom, the noise of the world vanishing as they locked gazes. It was as if time itself had stopped. They were instantly drawn to each other, as if the universe had finally allowed them to meet.

“Mary,” Louis whispered, his voice trembling as he approached her, the tension of the night pressing down on him. “I didn’t believe in fate until I saw you.”

Mary, her heart racing, took a step forward, her voice barely audible. “I don’t believe in fate either, Louis. But I believe in this—what we have.” She reached out, taking his hand, their fingers brushing as if they had always belonged together.

For weeks, they met in secret, each moment together burning brighter than the last. But they knew—deep down—they couldn’t escape their families’ hatred. The war between their kingdoms was already upon them, and soon, there would be no place for them to hide.

One night, as Louis returned from the front, his uniform bloodied and torn, he found Mary waiting by the river. She had heard of the raid, and fear gripped her heart.

“Louis, please, you must leave. This war will tear us apart,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Don’t go back.”

“I don’t have a choice, Mary,” he said, his face pale, but determination in his eyes. “This is our fate. You and I… we’ll always be torn apart.”

Mary shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “No, not like this. I can’t lose you.”

But the curse was relentless. Louis left that night, and during the battle, he was struck down, fatally wounded. By the time Mary reached him, he had already lost too much blood, his almost lifeless body held in the arms of his comrades. She screamed his name, her heart breaking in two, but it was too late.

As he lay dying, Louis whispered, “I’ll find you again, Mary. In the next life.”

Lovers in the Shadow of Sickness

In another life, Louis and Mary were born into a time of relative peace, but the weight of their love and the curse still hung over them like a dark cloud. Their first meeting was more ordinary—at a ball, in the soft glow of lanterns, the hum of conversation filling the air. But when their eyes met, everything else faded away.

“I know you,” Mary said softly, as she danced with Louis, their movements graceful despite the heaviness in their hearts. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

Louis smiled, a sad, knowing smile. “Yes, many times.”

In this life, Louis was an artist, and Mary, a doctor. Their love grew over time, a quiet bond forged in shared moments and stolen kisses. But even in the calm, they couldn’t escape the inevitable. Louis contracted a mysterious illness, one that baffled even the greatest minds. Mary did everything she could—spending sleepless nights at his side, trying every cure, every treatment—but nothing worked.

“Please, Louis,” she whispered as he lay in bed, feverish and weak. “You can’t leave me. We’ve only just found each other again.”

Louis reached for her hand, his fingers cold, his voice barely a breath. “I’ve always known… this is how it would end. We’ll never escape the curse.”

Tears filled Mary’s eyes, but she nodded, kissing his forehead. “But I’ll love you, Louis. Even if we’re torn apart again and again, I’ll always love you.”

With those words, Louis took his last breath, and Mary was left once again with the aching knowledge that they would never have the chance to grow old together.

The Reincarnated Souls

In this life, Louis and Mary were born with the memories of all their past lives. They knew each other immediately, the connection between them undeniable. Louis, now an artist once again, and Mary, a brilliant physician, found themselves gravitating toward one another. They didn’t need introductions—there was an unspoken understanding between them.

“We’ve been here before,” Louis said one evening as they sat together by the fire, the warmth of their bodies a stark contrast to the cold truth of their fate. “Haven’t we?”

Mary nodded, her eyes soft with the sorrow of it all. “Yes, but each time, we’re torn apart. I don’t want to lose you again, Louis.”

“I don’t want to leave you either,” he replied, his voice raw with emotion. “But I know it’s coming. The curse will find us again.”

They tried to outrun it, but it was always there, lurking in the shadows. They made the most of their time together, cherishing every moment, but in the end, betrayal tore them apart. Louis was killed by someone he trusted, a long-time friend who had been manipulated by the curse’s twisted hand. Mary arrived at the scene too late, finding him lying in a pool of blood.

“Why, Louis?” she whispered, cradling his head in her lap, tears falling onto his still face. “Why must we suffer like this?”

But in his final breath, Louis smiled weakly, his eyes filled with love. “I’ll always find you, Mary. I promise.”

Lovers in the Twilight

Now, in their older years, Louis and Mary had accepted their fate. They had lived through so many lifetimes of love and loss, and they no longer fought against the curse. Instead, they embraced what little time they had, knowing it would never be enough.

One evening, as they walked through a quiet meadow, Louis took Mary’s hand, his grip weak but warm. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” he asked softly, looking at the stars above.

“We have,” she replied, her voice tinged with sadness. “But we can’t escape it, Louis. The curse will take you from me again.”

“I know,” he said, his voice steady but filled with an ancient sorrow. “But at least, in this life, we’re together for a little longer.”

As the days passed, they shared quiet moments of love, knowing that their time was limited. They didn’t speak of the curse anymore; they simply loved each other in silence, the weight of their shared history heavy between them.

In the end, Louis died in his sleep, his body peaceful, his soul finally at rest. Mary held his hand as she whispered the same words she had said in every life: “I’ll find you, Louis. In whatever life comes next, I’ll find you.”

And so the cycle continued, their love eternal, their hearts forever intertwined across time.

The curse endures, as does their love. In each life, the heartache and the love are timeless, and the two lovers are left to navigate the weight of their connection. No matter how many times they meet, the curse ensures they can never truly be together. Yet they are bound in a cycle of love, loss, and rebirth, always knowing that their souls are meant for each other, even if fate refuses to let them stay together.

ꕀ

blood-or4nge : first story on tumblr, what do we think?

[blood-or4nge]

— material list

↬ louis.t

↬harry.s

↬niall.h

↬zayn.m

↬liam.p

ꕀ what i write : fluff, angst, au’s, blurbs, headcannons, one shots.

[blood-or4nge]

↬ dolly. jenna ortega ꕀ 8teen. hispanic. coconut scents. water lilies. silver jewelry. one direction. russ. ‘falling’ by chase atlantic. slushynoobz. blink-182. tattoos. the beach. sharks.

material list ꕀ rules