#sorry for blurry resolution

[sketchsprite]

making my official tumblr return (and art return i kind of havent done art in over a year)

welcome to my psych fixation

[pieisgay]

so i tried to draw the drain- talk abt process in cut

okay so. have to stress just how much of this is kin shit. one- thespius is there because my thesp friend actually remembers going to the drain once while still being a human. the person beside him is unnamed, they weren't intended to represent anyone specific, maybe just someone leading him through. but uh.. yeah.

lots of water. like- inescapable. lots of crumbling infrastructure, buildings built on top of one another, not a lot of natural light- if any at all, the further down the drain you go. electricity going out all the time. resources being scarce- clothing, food, just basic needs for survival. using a lot of the flora that grows in wet, cold environments like this- mushrooms, algaes, etc, and cooking with that. communities coming together and being pretty tight knit, making sure everyone has what they need. and that was something that hector was particularly skilled at doing- organizing people, getting resources to those who need them most, etc. helping rewire downed power cables. finding and rescuing a beloved item swept away in the current and further down the drain. being a community leader and beloved team member. and upon finally leaving the drain, it's these skills that the gods see and decide to grant him godhood for

[autistickaitovocaloid]

kaitostim

[insidiousclouds]

Okay, yep, fuckin love sai

[tilting-pluto]

Mate the series episode 5 on YouTube Zense more (gifs made by me)

[leclsrc]

wanna be nearer ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, fuck buddies ahhhaha, smut, porn w/o plot basically...

word count: 3.6k  

It seems every time you tell yourself to stop, Max comes back into your life and all sense of resolve crumbles. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by SO MANY PEOPLE i can't even start compiling all the asks hahah but if u asked for this here it is! writing's been tuff for me lately but this was the one thing i could continue daily (weird) also there is a case to be made re: max's hottest pictures being like 1 pixel in resolution... hope u all like it!!!

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, some vague sexting/a sex tape being watched, praise/dirty talk central, size kink, unprotected sex, handjob (f receiving), max being a meanie

It’s busy today. You haven’t seen him all day. 

To be fair, you weren’t necessarily looking—not at first, anyways. How many days had it been since the last time, now? The one in your hotel room? Almost two weeks, you think. The real answer’s blurry in your head, especially when you count the close calls, but this should be a record for you two at this point. Neither of you acknowledge that the only reason you’ve been so good at staying away from each other is because when you’re not roped into the same media junket, you avoid each other at all costs.

The media pen is full; everybody’s shoulder-to-shoulder because a few other networks bought their way into the space for the Singapore race. Right when your mind settles back into the focus of work, though—

“Here,” he says, his voice rough and tickling your ear. You nearly stumble forward, shocked at how his voice almost vibrates through you, a low trill that ripples top to bottom.

His hand settles at the small of your back, like his verbal confirmation wasn’t enough on its own; it’s big and his thumb rubs softly at the smooth strip of skin in-between your low skirt and your top. “Passing through.”

“Sure,” you say, dry. “Sorry.” You clear your throat and cant backwards into his touch—briefly, before you step forward and allow him to pass fully. Across you, Lissie looks up from her phone and you sense her trying to gauge why you’re so close to Max.

You blink and wait for him to disappear, wondering what you’ll tell her—how, more like. How the conversation even opens. How you’d phrase the truth, which in itself is a horribly grey area. Well, Lis, if you must know, Max and I have casual sex. A lot. It’s actually not very casual. We stopped now, but—yes, Max. That Max, yes. 

“What about Max?”

Your eyes snap upward and then to your left, where you can see Max’s figure disappearing into a crowd of engineers. They return to Lissie and you feign confusion to mask panic. “What?”

“You were spacing out and then suddenly said his name.” She presses the tip of her pen onto her chin, humming. She doesn’t look at you and you thank God for it—eye contact would’ve rattled the truth out of you in seconds.

“I…” You shake your head. “I was irritated with—I’ve been irritated with him all morning. It’s. Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding, looking away for a second but not pausing. “Oh, okay. D’you wanna go over this edit again?”

—

The stale air of his hotel room, alleviated only by the vaguely fragrant linen spray they use when he’s out, is what greets Max when he arrives in the afternoon.The first thing he does—the only task he’d even thought of en route here—after the door clicks shut is pull up his Messages app and type.

Just got to hotel. He tosses his phone onto the bed while he waits, tugs his cap off and rakes reckless fingers through his hair. His new stylist’s got him onto jeans that don’t “look painted on” (you once said, verbatim), but he’d rather die than lounge in denim, so he swaps them out for just his Calvins.

His mind’s lethargic, but even his version of lethargic is high-drive for others—his brain has the silly tendency to work in absolute overdrive. He itches for a drink and orders a Scotch on the telephone. He checks his phone, which is lying facedown still, and as soon as he picks it up it chimes with your reply.

OK, nice. Did u need something?

No, just wanted to let you know. He hits send, then adds another. You’re off @ 8?

Ended early, I’m in the car. He’s in the middle of drafting a response when you send a follow-up.

I thought we agreed no contact unless business

He scoffs out a dry laugh. Despite himself, he reads the text in your voice, his brain completing the image of the bossy tone with crossed arms and a wickedly arched brow. In response he types: Can’t even update a friend nowadays? I am very tired you know.

Rules are rules, he reads. Then, Get some rest.

Yeah. Got a drink.

I said rest, not drink. Even then he can hear the exasperation in your voice.

How was work? I hurt a muscle doing training. That’s why I’m at the hotel early.

Feel better soon, you send. Had some press stuff today. Boring shit

Yeah? I missed you today.

Really?

A lot. He hums and leans backward, lets his head settle into the pillow, the smell of the linen spray consuming his nostrils. He waits for his phone to buzz, vibrate softly on the hard surface of his chest. It does, after a few minutes, after he’s let his eyes shut and let himself rest them for a bit, after the room service comes knocking and gives him the Scotch he’d requested while ago.

He’s back sitting on his bed when it vibrates. He picks it up and reads: How much?

You’re awfully easy to rile up. He smiles around the rim of his glass—he knows exactly where this is heading. 

So much I think I’ll watch some videos of us.

The only caveat of casual sex as two people who essentially dislike each other is the fact that it’s all under wraps—which means if you two try to sneak off together, or are even caught in the same vicinity, people raise suspicions. And that means there are weeks where you barely get to fuck.

And that means you both grow antsy for it. He makes fun of you for being needy, when you’re tipsy and palming at the denim of his jeans or when you bend over when you know he’s looking. But the truth is he grows needy for it, too, craves you like you’re all that matters—he gets extra handsy, drops another innuendo when he knows you’re listening. There is a case to be made that he’s worse, in fact, because fans sometimes skirt around his words and wonder why he sounds so flirty when you’re the reporter in the room.

It was difficult but eventually he found a minor workaround: sometimes he films the two of you. There’s none of those propping his phone up kind of stuff, he just fishes for it in the middle of fucking you so he can store it for himself. It’s locked on his phone and he only has a few (the few has grown in number lately), but God it gives him release when he needs it and you’re not there.

I’ll call you when I’m at the lobby, comes the response. It’s always futile, the attempts to stay away from each other.

He pulls up the folder and lets his eyes skate over the thumbnails, squeezes himself through his boxers. Fuck. He can’t seem to decide what he wants to watch—the ones of you sucking him off, the ones of his fingers stretching you out. He recalls the whine in your voice in each of them, the pleads that escaped you for him to fuck you harder.

So Max, for the life of him, can’t even count how many times these videos have made him cum. But there’s one he hasn’t seen yet—the one he took the night before you two parted. You’d become extra needy on this night, preceding the season, he supposes, the separation. You already were anticipating the deprivation, starved for him more than usual. He’d have kissed you pretty, given you one orgasm after another and still you’d want more. And on this night it was you who asked him to film, you who wanted all of them on tape, so you’d both have something to tide you over until he got to fuck you again.

He pulls his cock out and strokes over it. And with his other hand, he presses his thumb on that video.

In it he’s fucking you in the dark, keeping the phone’s flashlight on your pussy as he sinks his cock into you. When he pulls back out the light reflects on the slick coating his dick, makes it glisten. It looks so wet, sounds so wet, with each thrust into you. He remembers just how it feels; he imagines that he’s back in your bed, fucking you again; that his fist is your pussy, and the spit lubricating it is the wetness that’s drooling out of you on camera.

He can see how tight you are—the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The two of you were supposed to be quiet, too. You were at a hotel, your room beside another driver’s; you were supposed to be careful not to stir anyone. But your moans are louder than he remembers; so is the way you say, breathily, between gasps, Right there, Maxie, m’so close. Max inhales through his teeth, his cock throbbing at that—that Maxie, the cute little whimper out your mouth.

He strokes himself faster, watches the way your fingers slip into frame to rub at your clit, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. He can see, hear—feel how wet you are, the sound of your cunt growing wetter with every thrust. He hears his own voice again, mutter out So good for me, yeah? And your babbled affirmation in response.

You cum hard, your slick getting everything wet and shiny and Max watches himself cum next. His dick’s already spurting when he pulls out and lets himself release on your lower stomach, some of it shooting onto your tits. He blinks, anchors himself back, quickens his wrist and digs his heels into the bed to keep himself from coming. Just a second longer. He knows what comes next and he needs to see it.

Like clockwork, he watches two of your fingers swipe through his cum, bringing them up to your lips. You blink up at the camera and smile. Quit it, your lips mouth, pink and cum-slick. Put it down, Maxie… fill me up again. He releases in weak spurts over his fist, a damp, flushed grunt escaping him as he does. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

His phone rings and he presses it to his ear. “Hey, angel. Come on up.”

One week later

“Vodka,” you say to the bellboy when you get to the elevator. “To my hotel room. Very cold. Please. And thank you.”

The guy scurries off to fetch it for you, and five minutes and one elevator ride later, you're wrestling himself into your room, flexing your sore foot. Japan does hotel rooms well. The leather of your Manolo digs into your foot the way it does after you’ve walked the entire day and you can feel a blister forming on the back of your right heel but it doesn’t really matter, you guess, if you’re already home. Hotel-home, anyway.

You expect to find solace lounging on your bed, waiting out the hours to your morning briefing for the race and throw back a glass or two of vodka. 

Instead, you find Max on your couch. He’s sipping ice-cold vodka—your ice-cold vodka.

“Hey, pretty,” he says. “Good vodka. I got staff to wire my FIFA on the TV.”

You just stare. “My TV. What,” you say, your eyes spotting the bottle of frosty vodka by his glass, “are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to,” he explains simply. “Do you want food or something?”

“Food? I—nevermind,” you shrug. You’re frozen by the door, only just warmed now from the cold air that bit at your bare legs. “Max, how long have you been here?”

“Since Will Buxton started the post-FP debrief,” he huffs. He fiddles with the remote in his grip and extends it to the TV, where FIFA comes to life. “Aw, come on, angel. I know, I know. No sex and all that. I just like your company, you know?”

“Please. Go fuck yourself,” you scoff, toeing off your shoes and wiping your hands on the fabric of your skirt. He says one thing but you expect another—it’s only natural, given all the other times one of you had failed to keep a similar promise. But still you walk yourself beside him, fix the strap of your short dress, and allow him to pour you a drink.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asks absently. “About how you’re always having these talks with me about… about not having sex anymore, but you never even last two days.” He raises you the glass. “What is it, relapsing?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “It’s only because you keep trying to get me all hot and bothered.” You recall each time: in Monaco, in Madrid, in France. “Maybe if you got off my back once in a while, we’d be back to normal.”

He shrugs. “You just don’t have strong resolve.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, irritation scratching at your throat.

“Wanna test that out? Come play.”

Your eyes flit over to the bright screen, all exhaustion cleared from your system. An animated Kylian Mbappe kicks a football in a loop. “Fine. One round and you’re out of my room.” He throws his hands up in surrender and you make a move to sit next to him. Max puts his hands out towards you then, nodding. You mistake it for some handshake, accept them, and then he’s wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.

“This is cheating,” you say, your voice dry.

“You got it wrong. Teaching.”

He moves his fingers atop yours, explaining what to press, what goes where, what to do for this or that. He can smell your perfume, hear your stilted breaths, and when he peeks over your shoulder he can see where your dress falls loose, showing the lace of your bra and your tits underneath them.

If he had it his way, he’d hike your dress up and have you ride him. But he’s given you a challenge.

You play a practice round and end up scoring a few goals, fingers making quick work of the buttons. Behind you, Max watches, content, answering your questions when you ask them hurriedly—how do I do this? That? Did I just score?

You score once, then twice, then three times, and before you know it you’re scoring in quick succession. The game is fun—it’s easy. If Max was trying to give you a hard time, he failed. You grow determined, competitive within seconds (something he really should’ve anticipated), and you’re scoring goals with skill that you’d confidently say rivals Max’s.

Max. You almost—almost forget he’s there, and then you sit up straighter and you’re hit with the sensation of his dick pressing into your ass. You inhale sharply and the controller clatters to the floor.

“You okay, pretty?” His hand comes up to rest on your knee, inching closer and closer with every hitch of your breath. Your hand, now free of the controller, seizes his, stopping it right at the middle of your thigh. 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look stressed.” He doesn’t move. “You were so close, too, weren’t you?” The score stares you right in the face: 4-5. “Maybe you just need to get your mind off it.” It’s so bullshit, so extremely obvious, but he’s right in your ear and his hand is so near where you’ve missed its presence.

You’re usually competitive. You can usually hold your ground. But with this and him—

“Maybe,” you breathe, loosening your grip. He spreads his legs, spreading yours in the process, and brings his hand closer, running slender fingers over the lace material of your underwear until you’re squirming. It grows damper the more he touches, your mouth hanging open with stunted whimpers.

“You always come back to me, schatz, don’t you,” he says, whispers against your ear. You wrench a moan out. “Remember the first time? You interviewed me in Abu Dhabi… you teased me the whole day and begged to come thrice in my room. The time in Monaco you touched yourself to me when I was in the next room. The time we almost hooked up in Miami…” He groans, to himself more than you. “You’re a dirty girl.” He’s curling two fingers inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth.

“Every time… you go, that was the last time.” While your mind recaps the memories he’s busy spelling into your ear, Max’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.

“Fuck,” he huffs, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric.

“Aw, pretty, look at that,” Max laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as his fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.

“Wait, I—I can’t,” you pant, lolling your head onto his shoulder and involuntarily bucking your hips upward. 

“Yeah you can,” he orders. “It’s so easy to get you to cum, isn’t it? Or is that just for me? The driver you hate the most?” He laughs. “Get all wet for the guy you couldn’t care less about. Say you hate me and get my dick nice and wet the next day.” You’re grinding onto his three fingers now, shameless with it.

“Are you gonna cum?” He asks.

“Oh,” you whine. “Yeah, fuck—yes.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” he says wickedly. You can hear him smile.

“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, tension coming to a halt and then bursting all at once out of you. His other arm holds your hips down against him, and you spend a minute and another twitching, your skin sticky with sweat and slick.

It’s not long before you’re whirled back to face him, your hands making quick work of his jeans. It’s a skill you’ve both mastered, the art of the quickie—in closets, hotel rooms, with sweaty, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the column of your throat, moans swallowed. 

He hikes your dress up and your panties to the side, immediately bullies his cock into you—the glide is slow, but easy. You’re so fucking wet.

“Fucking big,” you gasp out. “Jesus, Jesus—fuck.” Your head drops and presses against his; he uses the opportunity to kiss you. You moan into it, feeling the stretch, your slick wetness dragging down the length of him as he thrusts up, up, further. “Been a while.”

“Feel good, though, yeah?” Your toes curl and you nod; you’re flushed all over and you need him to hurry up. You grind downward, onto him. He does, then, fucks you hard and fast, like he’s thirsted for this for way longer than he did. You’re squirming, all wet, and it tempts him to go harder. Your face is shiny with sweat, lips drawn in between your teeth.

“Slo—slow down,” you manage, babbling; he doesn’t, speeding up his thrusts until you’re moaning his name. “Max—wait—fuck, you’re so mean,” you whine, wrapping your arms around him and letting him take control. 

“You’re fine,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way. “You take my dick so well, schatz, every fucking time. Don’t you?”

“I do,” you gasp out, and he’s slamming into you gain. You cry out loudly, sniffling from the overstimulation—you’d barely recovered from your initial orgasm and already you’re hurtling into what feels like three at the same time. 

“For someone who doesn’t like me,” he sneers, “you sure do moan like a slut, huh?”

His words get you more turned on than you’re willing to admit, but you shake your head.

“No?” He laughs, breathy from the effort. “Maybe I should film you now. Send it to your boss, let him see his stellar reporter’s getting Verstappen’s dick wet.” 

Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around his dick. He notices, grunts sharply and leans forward, shuddering as he releases into you. Your moans are choked and tapering into whimpers as you release slick all over him, and you attempt to catch your breath, collapsing onto his still-clothed, now-sticky chest. You scratch at the dri-fit material and inhale him, the smell of his cologne, his sweat. You bite at his earlobe, laugh when he flinches.

“That,” you say into his skin, “was the last time.” It’s both seriously and as a joke, playing off of what he’d remarked earlier.

“Jesus, princess. I’m still inside you.” 

You giggle and drum lightly along the plane of his chest. In a few minutes he’ll pick you up to shower, but now you’re content to inhale him in. Quietly you wonder why you just can’t get enough of him—if you were in better senses, you’d have realized he was thinking the same thing about you.

[sinclair-wax-fan]

.

[becasart]

She's beautiful, ethereal, stunning, dazzling, magnificent, jaw dropping... She's everything 😩💕💕💕

*EDITTTTTTTT: oh goshhh, it was bothering me how BLURRY the image turned out the first time I posted this. I never make comics and am unsure of resolution stuff when it comes to posting online, so sorry about that. Hope this is better!

[lonelysheepling]

Tall and skinny

Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 384

Idk how well this will work but here’s goes nothing lol

“Draw your Hornet!” aka draw your version/style of hornet somewhere on the bench! I was thinking maybe this can be done through reblogs?

Not a competition/contest or anything like that, it’s just for fun! This will be open indefinitely so do this whenever! :)

[pennyserenade]

devil in his heart | jackson rippner x reader

summary | after finding out your long-time boyfriend's real occupation, you have to grapple with who he really is. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | 18+, dark, dubcon (bordering on noncon), smut, explicit smut, fingering, degradation, violence word count | 1.9k+ a/n | i honest to god don't know what possessed me, but we are all grown ups here. read with caution! enjoy! love ya! also: i wrote this to devil in his heart by the donays and he's got the power by the exciters, if you're interested in a soundtrack. not beta'd

Truth be told, this is the best game of cat and mouse he's had in years, and he doesn't like that it's ending so soon.

As he gets on your level, crouching near your slumped form, Jackson almost feels a little sorry that you couldn't win. It's not that you weren't witty enough--you were. It's just that, well, he's better. This reminds him of when he was ten and had wanted to go to space only to figure out when he was twelve that he was too scared of the vastness of the galaxy. Some things are just out of reach, too good to be true. He mourns it all the same.

His fingers tenderly push back sweat soaked strands of hair from your face. You look up at him, blurry-eyed, but still so resolute--lips thinned, smoldering with anger. God. He swipes a finger across your lip just to know what it feels like, and likes it better for the fact that you jerk away so aggressively that you knock your head back into the wall.

His tongue clicks. "You should've known, after following me all those weeks, that I'm good at this."

Jackson wraps his fingers tightly around your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. You give in, mostly because you have so little energy to protest. His eyes look ominously glacial, lit up only by the moonlight cascading in from the window.

You look down at his lips; the flesh there is still swollen, broken from the harsh swing of your elbow earlier in the night. His tongue spears out to feel at the area. "You're a sloppy assassin, baby. My blood's all over this goddamn place. All over you--" he gestures down to your simple white tee shirt, which has been made dirty with dirt, sweat, blood. You don't care. You feel dizzy and half-scared to pass out, to even think of it, because you've never seen him look quite like this.

You think back to that first time you met him, how he had seemed so polite. He was traveling by train to visit his folks back home for Christmas (he said things like 'folks' in a crisp Midwestern accent, for God's sake). He had said he worked in life insurance policy, which made you laugh and caused him to say, "I know, I know--ironic, Jack Rippner dealing out life insurance." You had thought it was ironic. It is: ironically cruel.

He buys his ties from GAP, his dress shirts from Macy's, likes EggNog and celebrates the fourth of July with as much enthusiasm as any plain, good-hearted American man can.

He’s met your mother; he loves her breadsticks.

You spit on him. It takes the very last of your strength, but it's worth it to see the way his eyes ignite. His hand wipes it off, thumb running through the saliva on his fingers as his lips purse. "You know," he begins, voice eerily calm, "I always thought we'd make good parents. God knows we've come close to it enough times. You just can't help but beg for my cum in you, the slut you are." He chuckles darkly. "I always imagined that you'd be the good cop and I'd be the bad one."

Jackson pushes your head back into the wall, propping you there, almost choking you, but not quite. You let out a deep, wavering breath. He smirks. "But I see that's not the case now, is it? You don't seem to like very much when I play with my food before I eat it, do you?" His fingers press against your lips again, saliva coated. You let him. "Here I thought, all along, 'my baby's a goddamn pacifist. She didn't even like fishing!' It kept me up at night, the idea of you finding out what I did. But look at you!" His thumb tenderly strokes your neck, moving around a mysterious fluid--could be your blood, his blood, spit, water, anything. "I think if I reached between your legs now, you'd be soaked."

You choke out a sound of protest, wiggling beneath his gasp. He tuts, his fingers digging more tightly into your throat. For a brief moment, you can’t breathe. You find enough strength to claw at his hand, to widen your eyes and plead.

“C’mon, you’ll like this. You always do.” He loosens his grip on your neck.

As you gasp for air, Jackson knocks your legs apart. It doesn’t take much effort to get your cunt—you’d foolishly made the mistake of wearing a dress today—and he hums in delight when his fingers reach past your cotton underwear, confirming what he suspected to be true. His lips form into a mocking pout as your eyes begin to well with tears. It's not fear—you’re beyond that. It’s anger. The betrayal of this curdles inside you, eating you alive. Your eyes fill with ire.

“Don’t be that way,” he shakes his head, softening a degree. He holds your chin between his fingers again, the other hand rubbing wide circles over your clit. “I’m not going to kill you. How could I? I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you, truth be told, but it’s not that.”

Your hips jerk involuntarily, causing him to growl. “That’s the spirit, kitten. When you hit me earlier, I thought—after, of course, 'God she’s a bitch!’—that you might be a good asset. I know you’ve got a lot of morals holding you back right now, so I figure I’ll let you do the easy work at first. Let you think you’re doing some good in the world.” He presses down on your clit, his touch more intent, more focused. You squirm, hating the way he knows that you like it like this.

His fingers slip down into your cunt, wetting them. “Fuck, you’re soaking. If this is how you get when we do this, you might just reform me. I’m not opposed. We—“ he reattaches his fingers to your cunt. You whine, arching into his touch.“—could do good work. I freelance, if you couldn’t tell already. Though I’m sure you can. You’re a thorough investigator when you want to be. That’ll be helpful, too.”

Jackson picks up his pace, swallowing as he stares down at your lap. He can’t see anything, his hand hidden beneath the fabric of the dress and your underwear, but it seems to thrill him all the same. You too, admittedly.

“I—I couldn’t,” you retort, biting at your lip. “You—you kill!”

“Don’t be such a prude,” he deadpans. “It’s political assassinations and occasionally, though very rarely, an innocent bystander. And I do my best to make sure those cases are few and far between. I do.” He presses down more intently, watching with delight as you squirm, trying not to cum. “Oh, go on. It’s just you and me here. No one’s gonna know except me, and I won’t tell anyone. I’m good with secrets. You know that now.”

He’s near exultant, talking to you about this. The pitch of his voice is higher, and he’s looking at you like he’s won a prize of the highest degree. You’d spit on him again if he wasn’t making you feel so goddamn good.

“I won’t do it,” you shake your head firmly. Jackson takes the opportunity to slip a finger in your cunt, to press in and show you how much he has always—will always—know you.

“Okay, okay, I’ll bite,” he soothes, entering another. It’s a squeeze, but a welcome one, especially when he begins to thrust them against the spongy surface of your walls. Your toes curl, and you hate him, hate him violently. “If you want me to be rough, you really only have to ask, but since you like this game so much we’ll play it.”

As he fingers you, he begins to palm your clit. The sensation is overwhelming. Tears cascade down your face and he leans forward, licking them from your lips. The warmth of the orgasm rises in you alarmingly quick, his fingers deftly touching the inside of you, his palm lining with your clit each time you rut involuntarily. Your body knows him. It trusts him. He knows it.

The orgasm licks through you like a goddamn flame, igniting everything and leaving it all worse for it. When you cry out, Jackson smirks, so fucking pleased. But he doesn’t stop. He goes on, rubbing down harder, thrusting in quicker, until you’re wiggling beneath him.

“Please!” you say, trying to move his hand away.

He’s resolute. “No can do, honey. You’ve been a naughty girl, indulgent in the worst way. Gluttony is a sin, and I've been good–I’ve never punished you for it before–but you’ve hurt my feelings now.”

He slides in a third finger, his crystal eyes dark in the shadows. You feel impossibly full, and on the brink of another orgasm. You whine out. He knocks your head back into the wall with force. It doesn’t take your breath away, but it stuns you to silence. “That’ll be enough of that. This is for me now, got it? Getting you all wet so my cock will fit in that tight cunt of yours. Want you to hear it, your pussy taking me.”

As if to prove a point, he thrusts in again, and you do hear it—the way your body allows him in. An obscene squelch. You bite your lip, feel more tears fall down your cheeks.

“Jackson—“ you plead. You’re tired, achy, terribly confused. He works you open so well. You can smell the sour sweet smell of his body odor. You love it. You cannot help it. Your body trusted this man for so long. Still does.

You fool, you tell yourself, before your body gives way to his will again—you collapse into him, screaming out a silent whimper as the orgasm makes you convulse.

“That’s it,” he encourages, not stopping. “Be good for me. If you’re good, we’ll make this enterprise into a family business. If you’re bad—well, we’ll just have to make this our life, won’t we? You all weak, me with all the power. I don’t think you’ll like it, but you understand, it’s how it must be done if you don’t obey.”

He sighs, as if it’s putting him out too.

You know he’s serious. What’s worse is you know he’s right: that you won’t like it, that he’ll get his way eventually.

When you give in, he knows immediately, lips quirking up into a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple. “I always knew you had it in you a little. You were always such a whore for me. I’m happy it worked out so well for us both. Now–” He pushes your legs further apart, moving in with his own hips. “Let’s play your most favorite game. It’s longer, requires more patience, but I like it just as much as you do.”

The jingle of his belt buckle makes a shot of fear, mixed with arousal, shoot up your spine. You think: God, no.

He laughs darkly. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ve been making sure you’ve been taking your birth control. I’m not really ready for that, either. It’s just the idea that thrills you, isn’t it anyway? And that smallest, tiniest chance that it could happen.” He smirks, loosening his belt. His fingers exit you, leaving you empty, feeling scandalized and ruined. Jackson rubs them on the cloth of your dress, uncaring.

“I hate you,” you spit out, venom lacing your words.

He looks thoroughly amused as he releases his weeping cock from his underwear. “No you don’t. You’re just ashamed of yourself. But fear not–” he wipes a tear off your face, “--when we’re done here, you’ll be glad for this. Just remember, baby, that I’m on your side.”

[ijuststoleaprius]

My scene queen drama fein ~

Sorry again that it’s blurry till you click on it !! I keep forgetting to change the resolution !! D:

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[genericpuff]

Great episode, but—and maybe it's because I'm on mobile—I noticed some of the panels were a little blurry. Not to the point of being unreadable, but there's definitely a quality difference the longer the panel is compared to the shorter ones.

Unfortunately this is a limitation of Tumblr that's also at odds with the image limit, sorry u.u"" Sometimes I do need to cut long panels in half to accommodate the resolution limitations (as the larger an image is, the more Tumblr will deep fry the shit out of it), but then it becomes an issue when I hit the 30 image limit and can't upload the full episode. So I'm kind of having to just do the best that I can to upload the best images that I can that don't exceed 30 panels. Sometimes the image limit isn't an issue, but it was this time around as the episode was particularly long, so I had to settle for "good enough, here's hoping Tumblr doesn't fuck around" with this one u.u

That said, that's also why we have the Dillyhub mirror so that you can read episodes in their original resolution, which is perfect for when Tumblr decides to fuck around with mobile users >;0 The newest episode is up now if you want to read it there!

[themalhambird]

(from the same universe as this, chronologically proceeds it. Picks up almost immediately after the final episode of Series 1)

Shahara is not going to miss her Baba’s birthday party because her taxi driver turned out to be a mad woman. She’s still not sure why she let this Iris Maplewood person keep driving her while she rambled on about time travel and quantum whatever, except that she’s been a copper long enough to have a sense for when she’s in danger, and she didn’t get that from Maplewood. So it was easier to take the taxi ride and put up with the rambling than it was to try and stop the cab, get out and walk -  and Maplewood refused to take a fare which was a bonus. So Shahara gets to the party exactly when she’s supposed to, and she revels in the hug she gets to give her son, and the hug her Baba gives to her. She revels in the crowd of family and friends- the Aunties and Uncles she can never remember if she has a blood connection to or not. That’s never been important. What’s important right now is good food and good music and good talk, and how good she’s gotten at distraction when the question of whether she has a man in her life yet or not comes up.

Except, throughout the night, at the back of her mind, is this nagging feeling- this unease about the fact that, well, this unease about the fact that she didn’t feel any unease when when some random cabby sprouting conspiracies about the Kyal corporation somehow knew a whole ton of personal details about Shahara’s life. And then there’s that sense she’s had all day, this- what’s the opposite of deja vu? The sense that suddenly you were in a place you hadn’t been mere moments before? She’d shrugged it off as tiredness- the stress of the job- she’d spoken to her inspector earlier about maybe putting in for some leave. And perhaps that’s an even better idea than she’d already been thinking. If she’s taking Iris Maplewood seriously, she’s cracking. 

I’m not taking this seriously, she tells herself firmly, sipping at the mocktail as she watches Jawad run about with the other kids.  I’m not going to think about it at all. I don’t believe-

“-a word you say,” Shahara tells Maplewood as she gets into the front of the woman’s taxi. “Just for the record. I’m agreeing to this because- I don’t know. I want to prove to myself that you’re talking nonsense, I guess.”

“I’m not, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” Maplewood said. The car is sitting at the top of Longharvest Lane, headlights illuminating the alleyway. “I don’t know which of them it will be tonight, but one of them will show, I’m sure of it.”

Right. Either a detective sergeant from world war two or a detective inspector from the victorian era is going to materialise out of nowhere. Kyal, one of the biggest finance….trading….look, Shahara has never really been sure what Kyal is or does, and honestly she can easily believe that a corporation that big, handling that much money, is corrupt somehow. What she can’t believe is that it’s a Doomsday Cult and that Iris Maplewood comes from the future, and has travelled back to 2023 so she can get Shahara Hasan, and two blokes she’s sent others to fish out from the past, in to the same place to help bring Kyal down because together they already managed it once (sort of) by stopping an explosion that decimated the world…today, but also a few days in the future. Something. This is nuts.

“I hope it’s Hillinghead,” Maplewood muses. “He seemed- easy enough to reason with. I think. I don’t know, the memory’s blurry. It didn’t really happen, but also it had to have happened for it not to have happened. Bootstrap paradox, or something. I don’t know. There are echoes…I was sorry for him. I can’t remember why.” 

Shahara clenches her fist tight. She is resolutely not remembering some kid sitting at the table of a fast food place with a gun in his hand. She isn’t-

“Thirty seconds,” Maplewood says. “I’m going to just,” she switches the car headlights off. “Don’t want them exploding,” she explains. 

“Exploding?” Shahara exclaims. “You didn’t say anything about anything-”

The streetlamp outside flares white hot. Glass shatters, smashes some more as it falls to the pavement. There’s a red glow, almost like a bleeding wound, in the darkness ahead- for the briefest of moments. Shahara squints, trying to see properly, but the glow is too bright and everything else too dark…

And then it’s gone. There’s nothing but darkness and the rowdy sounds of London late at night behind them. Shahara stares, stunned, through the windscreen into the blackness beyond. Iris flicks the headlamps back on. In the two, brilliant beams of light, the blocky shape of a body can be seen crumpled in the road. “Oh my god,” Shahara breathes. 

“I’ve got a blanket, there’s a torch in the door your side,” Iris says. She’s already got her door open, pulling a blanket that had been folded up on her lap with her. Shahara fumbles to catch up, grabbing the torch and stabbing for the switch with her thumb. 

“Why a blank- oh,” there’s no need for the rest of the sentence. As they hurry over to him, Shahara can see that the man who appeared from nowhere is completely naked. He’s already stirring, running one hand through tousled black hair as he starts to bring himself onto his knees, coughing. 

“What the hell-”

His cockney accent reminds Shahara of the teenagers she’s spoken to on occasion- kids trying a little too hard to sound hard, to fit in. 

“Hillinghead?” she asks cautiously

“The hell is a Hillinghead?” He looks up at her. In the torchlight Shahara can see that he’s quite a handsome man- kind of dapper, except that there’s soot on his face. 

“Charles Whiteman?” Iris says. She hands him the blanket. Whiteman takes it with a frown- blanches when it apparently hits him that he’s naked, and hastily wraps the blanket around his waist like a towel as he wobbles to his feet. 

“Yeah? Who the hell are you? What the hell-” he looks around. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

*** 

So, time travel is, apparently, real. 

Iris has got a flat- they take Whiteman back to it, and Shahara…Shahara has to go back to work. She has to go to her job and deal and…honestly, it’s easier than it should be. The whole thing doesn’t seem real, even when she stops on her way home to drop groceries off to check in on the woman from the future and the man from the past. Even when she goes for drinks in the coppers’ pub, and she goes and finds the photograph from Whiteman’s era, just out of curiosity, and immediately finds a face she knows. Whiteman doesn’t seem bothered by the fact he’s in the future so much as grousing that his Inspector’s going to do his nut about his disappearing, and grumbling that ‘Esther’- whoever Esther is, kid sister, Shahara thinks, from the irritated-fond way of talking- is going to cause chaos if left unattended for five minutes. She likes him- she’s getting to like Iris too, truth be told- and he’s entertaining on a stakeout. Because they’re still missing a Victorian. 

By Iris’ calculations, Hillinghead should have materialised the night after Whiteman. But it’s almost a week later, and they’ve been watching each night, and there’s nothing.

***

“Hasan! Case for you! Take Rick.” She catches the slim file that’s thrown at her by the Inspector. “John Doe, Royal Hospital. Doctors reckon he’s well enough for talking. Need to find out who he is, need to find out how he ended up badly beaten and stark naked in Longharvest Lane.”

The folder drops from Hasan’s hands. “You what?” she says, but the Inspector’s already moving on, assigning other cases to other detectives, and Rick’s making his way over to her so she shakes herself and picks the folder up off the floor. She opens it, and finds a few cursory notes from the uniform officers that first attended: IC1 male, contusion to the right temple, assorted bruises, broken bones…found the night before Whiteman showed up. There’s a page of photos paperclipped in- she focuses in on the close up of a handsome face,if dishevelled face: reddish hair and a beard- a nasty bruise on his right temple. And there’s a photo of his wrist, as well, and it’s got the same mark that Iris Maplewood and Charles Whiteman both have. She manages to snag a photo of the page of photos on her phone before Rick reaches her, then hastily shoves it back in her pocket “You up for driving?” she asks. Rick grins. 

“Hell yeah. Thought I’d have to fight you for it.” 

“Nah. Jawad’s off school - stomach bug or something. To be honest, I could do with the time to message dad a bit, check in on how they’re doing.”

“Ah mate.” Rick says sympathetically as they head out to the parking lot. “Sorry. Hey, if you wanna swing by once we’re done at the hospital. We can always say we were chasing up a lead.”

“Nah, it’ll be alright. Mostly I wanna make sure he’s not conning Grandad into letting him eat nothing but ice cream all day. If we were closer maybe, but it’s out of the way. Besides, we might actually have leads.” 

She’s pretty sure that they won’t. She’s pretty sure that the man they’re about to speak to is from the 1800s and she really, really hopes he hasn’t told anyone at the hospital that because he’ll get himself sectioned faster than he can blink. She gets into the passenger side of the car, fastens her seatbelt, and sends the photo to Iris. This him? She writes underneath.

Fifteen seconds later, Iris pings a simple message back:

Fuck.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

This is probably highly unlikely, but I need to ask. This is a piece found in Vivec city, and I was wondering if you'd by any chance be able to find a higher resolution version of it? I know some art found in temples is reused concept art, so I'm hoping there's a clearer version of this one too.

Unfortunately this image here is the highest resolution I've come across. Its directly from the game files so unless there's an unpublished asset or concept piece out there, this is the highest quality that exists.

I double checked all the Morrowind concept art I have as well as the art book, and this image isn't on there despite alot of other temple icons and imagery appearing as concept art. This image could be based on an unpublished sketch or it could be a totally unique asset. IMO it's likely based on a sketch that perhaps lacked full detail as the asset seems to be very blurry.

Sorry I couldn't find any higher resolution but AFAIK none exists in higher quality than I posted above. Also there is obviously no artist credit for this asset unfortunately.

[niallerspayno]

Spaces Between Us - Final Chapter

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

…

The first thing you feel is warmth—a heavy, familiar warmth wrapped around your hand. You blink slowly, the bright light overhead making your head throb. Everything feels heavy, your body weighed down by exhaustion, but the comforting squeeze of that hand grounds you, pulls you from the haze.

When your eyes finally adjust, the blurry figure beside you sharpens into Liam. His face is buried against your hand, his shoulders trembling as quiet sobs escape him. His fingers are interlaced with yours, holding on as though letting go would mean losing you all over again.

“Liam?” you croak, your voice hoarse and weak. You try to squeeze his hand, but it’s like your body hasn’t quite caught up yet.

His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, his red-rimmed eyes wide and filled with so much emotion it almost steals the air from your lungs. Relief, fear, love—they’re all there, written in every tear that tracks down his face.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, his voice cracking as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his touch trembling. “You’re awake.”

You manage a small, shaky smile, the corners of your lips tugging upward even as your body protests. “Takes more than that to get rid of me,” you murmur, your weak attempt at humour bringing a fresh wave of tears to his eyes.

“I thought I lost you,” he says, his voice breaking as he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His tears drip onto your cheek, and you can feel his entire body trembling. “I was so terrified, love. I’ve never—” He chokes on the words, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours as if to reassure himself that you’re really here.

Your hand, weak but determined, slowly lifts to his cheek, brushing at his tears with your thumb. “I’m not going anywhere, Liam,” you whisper, your voice soft but full of conviction. “I promise. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

His eyes close, a shaky breath leaving him as he leans into your touch, his hand covering yours as though he can’t bear to let you go. “You scared me so much,” he whispers. “I’ve never felt that kind of fear in my life.”

Your heart aches at the raw emotion in his voice, and though you feel weak and drained, you try to reassure him, your fingers brushing against his stubbled jaw. “I’m sorry I scared you,” you murmur, your throat tight with emotion. “But I’m okay. We’re okay.”

His lips press against your forehead, lingering there as if trying to ground himself in your presence. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice breaking again. “So much. I couldn’t—I can’t lose you.”

Tears spring to your eyes, both from the overwhelming emotion in his voice and the love that radiates from him like a lifeline. “I love you too,” you manage, your voice trembling but resolute.

Your hand is still resting on Liam’s cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, when a thought cuts through the haze of relief and exhaustion. Your daughter. Your heart twists sharply, a mixture of love and longing swelling in your chest.

“Liam,” you whisper, your voice still hoarse. “The baby. Where is she? Is she okay?”

His face softens, a small smile breaking through the lingering worry in his expression. “She’s perfect,” he assures you gently. “Zayn’s been looking after her. He didn’t want to leave her side until you were okay.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. “Can I see her? Please?”

Liam nods immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before he pulls out his phone, tapping out a quick message. “I’ll get them to bring her in,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion.

It feels like an eternity, though it can’t be more than a few minutes, before the door creaks open. Zayn steps in first, cradling a tiny bundle of blankets in his arms. His eyes, a little puffy and red from crying, light up when he sees you awake. “There’s your mum,” he says softly to the bundle in his arms, his voice filled with a warmth that brings tears to your eyes.

Louis follows close behind, his expression a mixture of relief and something protective, but he keeps his distance, letting Zayn step forward. Zayn approaches your bedside, his movements careful and deliberate, and when he stops beside you, he adjusts the blanket slightly to give you your first glimpse of her.

“Oh,” you breathe, your heart catching in your throat.

She’s tiny, impossibly so, her little face pink and scrunched up, with a full head of dark hair. Her tiny fists peek out from the blanket, and your heart swells as you reach out, your fingers trembling.

With Liam’s support, you sit up slightly. Zayn carefully places your daughter into your arms, and the world narrows to just the two of you. The moment you see her tiny face, everything else fades away. Her little nose, her perfect lips, the way her small hand rests against the blanket—it all feels too miraculous to be real. Tears stream freely down your face as you gently touch her cheek, your heart swelling so much it feels like it might burst.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

“She is,” Zayn agrees softly, his voice thick with his own tears. “Just like her mum.”

Liam leans in beside you, his eyes locked on the tiny bundle in your arms. He looks completely mesmerised, as though he’s afraid to blink in case he misses something. “She’s so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You glance up at him, seeing the raw emotion etched across his face, and your heart aches in the best way. “Do you want to hold her?” you ask softly, your voice breaking just a little.

His eyes widen, his gaze flicking from you to her and back again. “Are you sure?”

You nod, smiling through your tears. Carefully, you shift to pass her to him, your hands steady even though your heart is racing. The moment she’s in his arms, something shifts in him. His entire face softens, his shoulders relaxing as he cradles her close, looking down at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m your dad.”

The sight of him holding her, tears sliding down his face, makes you cry harder. As you wipe at your cheeks, a warm, familiar hand touches your shoulder. You glance up to see Louis crouching beside your bed, his face pale and his eyes rimmed red.

“Hey, love,” he says softly, his voice rough with emotion. “How are you feeling?”

Your lip wobbles at the sight of your big brother looking so vulnerable. “I’m okay,” you manage to say, though your voice wavers. “I’m really okay, Louis.”

He lets out a shaky breath, nodding, but his eyes glisten with tears. “You scared the hell out of me, you know that?” His voice breaks, and he quickly swipes at his face, trying to compose himself. “I thought… God, I thought I was going to lose you.”

“Lou…” You reach out, taking his hand in yours. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip tightens, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You better not. I can’t…” His voice trails off, too choked to continue.

“You won’t,” you promise him, your own tears falling freely now. “I’m not going anywhere, Louis. I promise.”

Zayn steps closer then, his hand resting on your shoulder again as his dark eyes meet yours. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says quietly, his voice thick with relief. “You have no idea how scared I was. I couldn’t—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard, and you see his jaw clench as he fights back tears.

You reach up, covering his hand with yours. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “For being here. For everything.”

Zayn nods, his thumb brushing over your shoulder as if to reassure himself that you’re really there. “Always,” he murmurs.

Meanwhile, Liam glances down at the baby in his arms, his lips curving into the softest smile. “She’s amazing,” he whispers, almost to himself. Then he looks over at you, his eyes shimmering. “Do you want to hold her again?”

Before you can answer, Louis stands, clearing his throat. “Let her rest a minute,” he says, gently brushing your hair back from your face. “And let her big brother have a look at his niece.”

Liam chuckles softly, stepping closer to pass the baby to Louis. “Here you go, Uncle Louis.”

Louis’s hands tremble slightly as he takes her, his face immediately softening as he gazes down at her. “Hi there, love,” he says, his voice full of wonder. “I’m your Uncle Louis. And I’m going to spoil you rotten.”

The moment feels like magic, the room filled with quiet love and relief. Zayn leans against the edge of the bed, watching Louis with a faint smile, while Liam takes your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

You glance around at them—your family, your world—and feel a deep sense of peace. Despite everything, you’re here. And now, so is she.

...

One by one, the rest of your family trickles into the hospital room, the love and relief in their faces mirroring the emotions swirling in your chest. Each arrival feels like another stitch in the fabric of comfort you so desperately need after everything you've endured.

Johannah is the first to arrive, her steps quick but careful as she rushes to your bedside. The moment she sees you sitting up, pale but alive, her hands fly to her mouth, and tears spill freely down her cheeks.

“Oh, love,” she whispers, leaning down to hug you gently. Her voice trembles with a mix of relief and anguish. “You scared me. You scared all of us.”

Her embrace feels like coming home, and your own tears well up as you cling to her for a moment. “I’m okay, Mum,” you murmur, though the words feel fragile.

She pulls back, brushing your hair from your face. “I’m just so glad you’re here. You’re a miracle, my darling.”

Harry and Niall are next, entering together with expressions that are unusually subdued. Their usual playful energy has been replaced with a quiet, tangible worry. Harry crouches by your bed, his green eyes scanning your face with care.

“Hey, love,” he says softly, his voice tender. “You look like you’ve been through hell. But you’re here, and that’s what matters.”

“Don’t ever scare us like that again,” Niall adds, his tone attempting levity but cracking slightly at the end. “You’re not allowed to pull stunts like this, yeah?”

You manage a weak smile, reaching out to squeeze both their hands. “I’ll do my best. Thank you for being here.”

Karen follows, her hands trembling as she takes your hand in hers. Her eyes dart between you and Liam, and the emotions there are too many to count.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice breaking as she strokes your hand. “You gave us all such a fright. We were so worried.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Karen assures you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Her gaze shifts to Liam, and pride and relief mix in her smile. “She’s incredible, Liam. You both are.”

Trisha and Yaser arrive next, their presence warm and steady. Trisha immediately comes to your side, her eyes glistening as she gently strokes your hair.

“You’ve been so brave,” she says softly, her voice like a soothing balm. “We were all praying for you, and you’ve come through stronger than ever.”

Yaser clasps Zayn’s shoulder, his voice low but filled with warmth as he looks at you. “You’ve given us such a gift,” he says, his gaze shifting to the bundle in your arms. “And we couldn’t be prouder of you both.”

Each word, each touch, feels like a piece of yourself being put back together. And then, as if on cue, the atmosphere in the room softens further as everyone turns their attention to the tiny bundle cradled protectively in your arms.

“She’s gorgeous,” Johannah breathes, her eyes never leaving her granddaughter.

“Absolutely perfect,” Harry adds, his voice tender.

The room is filled with quiet awe as everyone takes a moment to admire her. Liam stands at your side, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, while Zayn lingers close, his quiet presence grounding you.

Once everyone has had a chance to meet her, you clear your throat, drawing their attention. The room stills, and you glance at Zayn, who gives you a small, encouraging nod.

“There’s something we want to share,” you begin, your voice thick with emotion. You glance down at your daughter, her tiny face peeking out from the blanket. “Her name.”

The air grows charged with anticipation, and you take a deep breath before meeting their eyes.

“Her name is Lou Payne-Malik,” you announce, your voice steady but full of love. “After the best big brother I could ever ask for, the man I love endlessly, and my best friend—the father of my daughter.”

For a moment, there’s only silence, the weight of your words sinking in. Then, Louis steps forward, his face a mixture of shock and overwhelming emotion.

“You… you named her after me?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

Tears blur your vision as you nod. “Of course I did. You’ve always been my protector, my constant. She’s lucky to have an uncle like you.”

Louis doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into a careful but fierce hug, mindful of the baby in your arms, his voice cracking as he whispers, “I love you. I’m so proud of you.”

Liam, beside you, blinks rapidly, clearly overwhelmed. “You… you used my last name,” he says, his voice breaking with emotion.

You turn to him, placing a hand on his cheek. “Of course I did. You’re her dad, Liam. She wouldn’t be here without you. And you mean the world to me.”

Zayn, his voice quieter but no less full of feeling, adds, “She’s got the best name. And she’s got the best mum.”

The room fills with soft laughter and quiet tears as everyone absorbs the significance of her name. It’s a moment of pure love and unity, a reminder of the strength of the bonds that have carried you through. Lou Payne-Malik is already surrounded by so much love, and you know that with this family, she always will be.

...

The hospital room feels quiet now, almost eerily so after the whirlwind of visitors and emotions earlier in the day. The dim lighting casts a soft glow over the space, and the steady hum of machines offers a strange kind of comfort. Your daughter, Lou, sleeps peacefully in the bassinet beside your bed, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm.

Everyone else has gone home, leaving you with one guest for the night—Liam. He insisted on staying, his chair pulled close to your bed as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. His eyes linger on you, his expression still tinged with worry despite the relief of knowing you’re recovering.

“You should try to rest,” you say softly, your voice still hoarse from the strain of the past day.

“I can’t,” he admits, shaking his head. “Every time I close my eyes, I see…” He trails off, swallowing hard, and you see his hands tighten into fists.

“Liam,” you whisper, reaching out for him. He takes your hand immediately, his touch warm and grounding.

“I was so scared,” he says, his voice barely audible. “I thought I was going to lose you. Watching you… watching you fight for your life, and there was nothing I could do—I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life.” His eyes glisten with tears, and he looks down, as if ashamed of his vulnerability.

Your own tears spring to your eyes as you squeeze his hand. “I’m here,” you say softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a shaky breath and meets your gaze, his eyes full of determination. “I don’t want to waste another second,” he says, his voice suddenly steadier, more resolute.

Before you can ask what he means, he shifts in his seat, reaching into his pocket. Your heart skips a beat as he pulls out a small, velvet box and opens it to reveal a delicate, sparkling ring.

“I’ve been carrying this around for months,” he confesses, his voice trembling. “I kept waiting for the perfect moment, but after today… I can’t wait any longer. I love you, more than anything, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in. Tears spill freely down your cheeks, and you nod fervently, your voice breaking as you say, “Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll marry you.”

Relief and joy wash over Liam’s face as he slips the ring onto your finger, his hands shaking slightly. He leans forward, cupping your face as he kisses you, the tenderness of the moment making your heart ache in the best way.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice thick with emotion.

You glance over at the bassinet, where Lou sleeps peacefully, oblivious to the momentous occasion. “We’re a family,” you say softly, the words feeling like a promise.

Liam nods, his smile wide and full of love. “We are.”

You pat the space beside you on the small hospital bed, a tired but playful grin on your face. “Now come here. I need my fiancé to hold me.”

He chuckles softly, careful not to disturb the bassinet as he climbs in beside you. It’s a tight fit, but he wraps his arms around you, his warmth and presence easing every lingering ache.

“You’re sure you’ll be comfortable?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I’ll be more comfortable with you here,” you reply, nuzzling into his chest.

The exhaustion finally catches up with you, and your eyelids grow heavy. Wrapped in the arms of the man you love, with your daughter safely beside you, you feel an overwhelming sense of peace.

As sleep takes you, you’re filled with gratitude—for your life, your family, and the love that surrounds you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you drift off with a smile, the future shining brightly ahead.

...

The next day arrives in a haze of nurses bustling around, final paperwork to sign, and the bittersweet relief of leaving the hospital behind. As Liam helps you into the car, he steals constant glances at you, worry etched into his face. You give him a small smile, tired but reassuring, as he settles Lou’s car seat and tucks you in with the blanket you insisted on bringing.

The drive home is quiet, the hum of the engine mingling with Lou’s soft breaths. You lean back, exhaustion weighing down your every limb, but the thought of finally being home keeps you grounded.

When Liam parks and hurries around to help you out, you realise how much you’re relying on him. His arm wraps around your waist as he helps you up the steps, his voice soft in your ear. “You okay, love? Let me know if you need to stop for a second.”

You lean into him, letting his strength carry you. “I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice is trembling from the effort. “Thank you, Liam. For… everything.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

Before you can reach the door, it flies open. Zayn stands there, a welcoming smile on his face. “Welcome home,” he says warmly, stepping aside to make room.

Behind him, Louis appears, holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other. “Took you long enough!” he teases, though his eyes soften as they land on you.

You can’t help but chuckle as Liam guides you inside, his hand never leaving your back. “Thanks, Louis. I didn’t realise you’d claimed squatter’s rights on my house.”

“Someone had to,” Louis says breezily, setting the mug down and taking the car seat from Liam’s other arm. He peers inside at his niece, his expression melting into one of pure adoration. “Hi there, little Lou. Big Lou’s here. You’ve been keeping your mum and dad busy, haven’t you?”

Liam helps you to the sofa, his gaze flicking to you every few seconds as you settle into the cushions with a sigh of relief. “You okay?” he asks again, crouching beside you.

You nod, though your body feels like it’s made of lead. “I am now. I’m so grateful for you. And for them,” you say, glancing toward Zayn and Louis, who are now fussing over Lou like two proud uncles.

Zayn grins, stepping forward. “We’ve got you covered. Louis and I have been getting the place ready, making sure everything’s perfect for when you got home.”

Your heart swells as you look between the three of them. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you all.”

Louis waves you off, but Zayn’s gaze lingers, a flicker of relief in his dark eyes.

Then Louis’ gaze drops, his brows shooting up as he notices your hand resting on your lap. “Hold on a second,” he blurts, pointing at your left hand. “Is that what I think it is?”

Zayn frowns, his gaze following Louis’, and a wide grin spreads across his face. “No way. Liam proposed?”

You smile, holding up your hand so the ring catches the light. “He did,” you confirm, glancing at Liam with a warmth that makes your heart ache.

“And you said yes?” Louis demands, his voice rising with excitement.

“Of course I said yes,” you reply with a laugh.

Louis’ grin is blinding as he sets the car seat down gently and pulls you into a careful hug, mindful of how exhausted you are. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You deserve this. Both of you do.”

Zayn steps closer, his hands in his pockets but his smile soft and genuine. “Congratulations,” he says warmly. “You two are perfect for each other. And Lou’s already got the best parents.”

You feel tears prick at your eyes as you glance at Liam, who’s looking at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“Thanks, Zayn,” Liam says quietly, his voice full of emotion. “Means a lot.”

The warmth of the moment wraps around you like a blanket. Even with exhaustion weighing on you, you know you’re home in every sense of the word. These are the people who will always have your back, and the thought fills you with overwhelming gratitude.

As Lou stirs in her car seat, letting out a soft whimper, the four of you turn toward her with smiles. She’s already so loved, and you know that love will only grow.

...

That evening, the house is filled with a comforting warmth. The kind of warmth that settles in your bones and makes everything feel safe. The kitchen hums with the sounds of Louis and Zayn, their banter filling the space as they prepare dinner. You sit at the table, watching them from the chair, a mug of tea cradled in your hands. Your body aches from the long day, and despite the joy that comes with having Lou in your arms and surrounded by your loved ones, you can’t shake the exhaustion.

Liam stays close, his hand often resting on the small of your back, making sure you’re comfortable as you sit. You feel so grateful for him—he’s been there every step of the way, and now, more than ever, you realize just how much you need him.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Zayn calls, glancing over his shoulder. “But no promises about how it’ll taste.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, the sound quiet but genuine. “You two are hopeless.”

Louis turns dramatically, holding up a wooden spoon like a weapon. “I’ll have you know I’m a gourmet chef. Zayn, on the other hand, still hasn’t figured out how to boil water.”

Zayn huffs a laugh but doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he settles Lou back into her bassinet for a moment before checking on the pasta. “Whatever, mate. Just eat it, and don’t complain.”

You smile at their playful back-and-forth, the heaviness in your chest lifting a little bit more. Even through the exhaustion and everything that’s happened, there’s something beautiful about this—the familiar, comforting chaos of family.

When dinner is ready, you all settle around the table. The meal is simple, but it feels like the best thing you’ve eaten in weeks. The conversation flows easily, and though the topic occasionally turns to the baby, it’s always with warmth, laughter, and the occasional teasing from Louis and Zayn.

After the meal, everyone helps clean up, though you sit out the task, content to just watch and relax. Louis, always the drama queen, stretches and yawns as he flops down onto the couch. “I’m done,” he announces. “I’m going to crash. Wake me when Lou starts crying.”

Zayn glances at you before heading toward the nursery, Lou in his arms. “I’ll stay in with her tonight. You need rest,” he says quietly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’ve got this.”

You feel your heart swell with gratitude. “Thank you,” you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. “Both of you.”

Louis, now half-asleep on the couch, mumbles something about setting an alarm for the night feedings, but he doesn’t manage to keep his eyes open long enough to get an answer. Zayn gives you a reassuring smile before he heads down the hall to the nursery, Lou nestled safely against his chest.

Liam helps you up the stairs, his hand steady on your back. His concern is ever-present, and though he’s tried to stay strong for you, you can see the lingering exhaustion in his eyes too. When you reach the top of the stairs, he guides you to your bedroom, helping you change slowly into something more comfortable. You wince at the effort, your body still adjusting after everything, but his presence is calming, grounding.

You sink into the bed with a soft sigh, grateful for the warmth of the covers. Liam climbs in beside you, and without a word, he pulls you into his arms, drawing you close against his chest. You immediately relax into him, feeling the tension in your muscles slowly ebb away.

He holds you tightly, his hand moving to gently rub your back in slow, soothing circles. His warmth wraps around you like a blanket, and you feel completely safe. Your head rests on his chest, and the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your ear is comforting.

“You feel good,” you whisper, the exhaustion lacing your words. “I’m just glad that there’s not a massive bump in the way anymore.”

Liam chuckles softly, his chest rumbling beneath your ear. “You’re just saying that,” he teases, but there’s a softness to his voice, a warmth that melts your heart.

You smile, the exhaustion in your bones starting to fade, and the sense of contentment settling in your chest. “I meant it. I missed being able to cuddle you properly.”

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer as if there’s no other place he’d rather be. You can feel the tension of the past few days lifting, replaced by the soothing rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his embrace. It’s everything you need. Everything you’ve wanted.

The quiet sounds of the night surround you—faint murmurs from downstairs, the soft creaks of the house settling—but in Liam’s arms, it’s just the two of you. The world outside seems to fall away, leaving only the two of you, together, with Lou peacefully sleeping in the nursery.

Slowly, as the weight of the day presses on, you start to drift off, the gentle rise and fall of Liam’s chest lulling you to sleep. You’re surrounded by love and warmth, the future ahead of you, and in that moment, there’s nothing else you could ask for.

...

It’s been six months since Lou’s arrival, and in those months, your life has taken on a beautiful, whirlwind pace. The boys have been on tour, of course, but you and Lou have traveled alongside them, making it work as best as you can. The world has become your home, and with each new city, there’s something magical about seeing the world through Lou’s eyes.

You’ve found a rhythm—navigating the logistics of tour life with a baby in tow. The boys have been nothing short of amazing, each one stepping up in their own way. Zayn, ever the calming presence, always willing to help soothe Lou when she gets fussy; Louis, ever the doting uncle, practically fighting for a chance to hold her; Niall and Harry, cracking jokes and keeping the mood light; and of course, Liam, whose love and devotion to both you and Lou never falters. It’s been a crazy ride, but it’s your ride, and every moment has felt like a gift.

You’ve also made sure to take Lou to concerts with you, her little headphones snugly fastened over her ears. She’s been to more concerts in her six months than most people will in a lifetime, and she loves every second of it. She’s a little star in the making, no doubt. Her tiny eyes always seem to light up when she hears her dads or uncles performing. You know she’ll have a creative or musical streak of her own, whether that comes from the stage or some other form of expression—it’s in her blood.

But today? Today is your day. Your wedding day.

It’s still hard to believe the day has finally come, after all the ups and downs, the scares, the exhaustion. You’re about to marry the love of your life—the man who’s been there through it all. And while the wedding is small and intimate, you couldn’t be more excited to take this step forward with Liam by your side.

Zayn stands in front of you now, his hands gentle as he helps adjust your dress. He’s your man of honour today, and even though he’s your best friend, it’s still a bit surreal. Zayn’s been your confidant, your rock, your constant through the years. He knows you better than anyone, and to have him here, helping you prepare for your big day, is everything.

His gaze meets yours in the mirror, his expression warm. “You look incredible, you know that, right?” Zayn says, his voice low, filled with sincerity. There’s no teasing, no sarcasm—just a softness that makes your heart swell.

You glance at him through the mirror, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the fabric of your dress. “I can’t believe this day is here. We’ve been through so much. And now… it’s finally happening.”

Zayn smiles, his eyes slightly glistening as he steps back to admire the final touches. “You and Liam deserve this. All of it.”

You swallow, fighting the emotions that are threatening to spill over. “Thank you, Zayn. For everything.”

Before Zayn can respond, the door opens, and Johannah steps inside, a smile lighting up her face the moment she sees you. She takes in your appearance, her eyes brimming with emotion. “Oh, love,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

You can’t help but smile as she moves to your side, adjusting your veil and smoothing out a few loose strands of hair. You feel her hands shaking slightly, but when she looks at you, her face is full of pride.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks, her voice tender.

You take a deep breath, nodding as you glance over at Zayn, who’s standing by, watching the exchange with a smile. “I think so.”

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” Johannah says, her voice thick with emotion. “Look at what you’ve built. Your family, your life… it’s perfect.”

Before you can respond, she turns slightly to look down at the little bundle resting in her arms. Lou, with her little eyes fluttering shut, rests peacefully in her grandmother’s arms. Your heart melts at the sight of her—your daughter, your pride and joy. You can’t wait for her to be a part of this day, to see her dad and uncles walk down the aisle, to be surrounded by everyone who loves her.

“I think it’s time to get you to Liam,” Johannah says softly, her voice full of love and care.

You smile, giving her a small nod. “Let’s do this.”

Zayn gives you one last check-over, making sure you’re perfect. “She’s going to be so proud of you,” he says softly. “And so is he.”

“Thank you, Zayn,” you murmur, giving him a warm smile before looking at Johannah again.

She takes Lou and carefully passes her off to you. You hold her close for a moment, inhaling the sweet scent of your daughter’s hair before looking up at Johannah, your voice soft but firm. “Let’s go marry Liam.”

With a final deep breath, Johannah helps guide you out of the room, and as you make your way down the hallway, you feel every step bring you closer to the man who’s waiting for you. You can already picture the look on his face when he sees you—he’s going to be speechless. You smile to yourself at the thought, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest. Today, you marry Liam, and your journey continues.

...

It’s finally here. Your wedding day. The moment you’ve dreamed of for so long, but now that it’s actually happening, it feels surreal.

You’re standing at the entrance to the small, intimate venue, the soft murmur of your guests floating around you. Your heart is racing, but it’s not from nerves—there’s only excitement and pure love swelling inside of you.

You glance at your mum, Johannah, standing beside you. She’s glowing with pride, but her eyes are full of emotion as she looks at you. She’s been your rock, your guide through everything, and now she’s going to walk you down the aisle. It’s a moment you’ve always imagined, but now that it’s real, it feels so much more significant than you could’ve ever imagined.

Zayn stands at your side, holding Lou on his hip. He looks so natural with her, and the sight of him, your man of honour, standing there with your daughter in his arms only deepens the emotion you’re feeling. Zayn’s been with you through so much, and to have him here today, supporting you as you marry Liam, means the world.

“You ready?” Johannah asks softly, her hand lightly resting on your arm.

You nod, feeling a mix of excitement and overwhelming love. “I think so.”

As the music swells, you take a deep breath, and with one last look at Zayn and Lou, you begin your walk down the aisle, your mum at your side.

Your eyes lock with Liam’s the moment you step into the room, and your breath catches in your throat. He looks breathtaking, standing at the end of the aisle with Louis by his side. Louis smiles warmly at you, his eyes full of pride, but it’s Liam’s gaze that steals the breath from your lungs. He’s waiting for you—his future wife. The love in his eyes is enough to make you want to cry, but you fight it back, wanting to remember every second of this moment.

The walk feels both impossibly long and far too short. Every step you take brings you closer to him, and by the time you reach him, your heart feels like it’s about to burst.

When you finally stand before him, the world seems to stop. It’s just the two of you, in this moment, and nothing else matters. The weight of everything you’ve been through, the highs and the lows, the journey that’s led you here—this is your moment.

Liam smiles down at you, his eyes shining with pure love. His hand gently takes yours, and he doesn’t look away, his gaze steady and full of emotion.

Zayn stands beside you, Lou still in his arms, watching with a quiet smile as the ceremony begins. Louis, standing beside Liam, gives you a thumbs up, unable to hold back his grin as the two of you stand there, ready to take this next step together.

“Do you, Liam Payne, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The officiant’s voice brings you both back to the moment.

“I do,” Liam says, his voice full of certainty, love, and so much more. His words send a wave of warmth through you.

The officiant turns to you. “And do you, Y/N Tomlinson, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

You smile through the tears that threaten to spill over, your heart so full it feels like it might explode. “I do.”

When the officiant announces you as husband and wife, you feel a wave of relief and pure joy wash over you. You’re finally here. You’ve made it. And with Liam by your side, everything feels right.

The crowd erupts into applause, but you’re focused on Liam, who steps closer to you. His hands cup your face as he leans in to kiss you, sealing your vows with a kiss that leaves you breathless. The kiss is soft, but there’s an intensity to it, a promise of everything that’s yet to come.

The two of you pull away, still holding each other’s gaze, and you hear Louis’ voice from behind you, teasing as usual. “You two are finally official, huh? It’s about time.”

Liam chuckles, his arm around you now, and you’re pretty sure you’ll never stop smiling.

Zayn steps forward, still holding Lou in his arms, his eyes glinting with pride. “I’m so happy for you both,” he says quietly.

You turn to Zayn, giving him a smile filled with gratitude. He’s been by your side through everything, and this moment wouldn’t feel complete without him.

Liam holds you close as the officiant wraps up the ceremony, your family and friends gathered around, and Lou’s soft little breaths the sweetest soundtrack to this perfect day.

...

The reception hall bursts into applause as you and Liam enter together, hand in hand, the wide smiles on your faces reflecting the joy in the room. The cheers and whistles only grow louder as the DJ announces, “For the very first time, please welcome Mr and Mrs Payne!”

The words send a warm rush through your chest, and you glance at Liam, who’s grinning ear to ear. His thumb strokes over your hand, grounding you in the moment. The love and pride in his eyes are enough to make your heart skip a beat.

The room is beautifully decorated, the soft glow of fairy lights and candles adding a magical touch to the already unforgettable evening. Family and friends surround you, their faces lit up with happiness, but it all feels like a blur as you and Liam walk toward the dance floor for your first dance.

You take your places in the centre of the room, and as the first notes of the song drift through the air, you hear the unmistakable harmonies of Harry, Louis, Niall, and Zayn singing your wedding song. The surprise sends a fresh wave of tears to your eyes.

“They did this?” you whisper, glancing up at Liam.

He nods, his own eyes glistening as he pulls you closer. “It was Louis’ idea. They all wanted to make this extra special for us.”

The melody carries you both as Liam leads you into the dance, his hands warm and steady on your waist. Your heart swells as you move together, your bodies swaying in perfect sync. The song—their voices—makes it all the more personal, the love you share reflected in every note.

“They sound amazing,” you murmur, your cheek pressed against Liam’s chest.

“They do,” he agrees softly, his lips brushing your temple. “But no one’s more amazing than you.”

You laugh softly, your head lifting to meet his gaze. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you married me anyway,” he teases, his grin lighting up his entire face.

The song ends too soon, the room erupting into applause again as Liam dips you dramatically, earning a wave of cheers and whistles. Your laughter mingles with his as he pulls you upright, and the moment feels perfect—almost.

Because, despite the overwhelming happiness, there’s been a strange, persistent queasiness twisting in your stomach all day. You’ve been brushing it off as wedding day jitters, but as you settle back into the crowd and the boys join you, you feel the nausea intensify.

You try to shake it off, smiling and laughing as your friends and family take turns congratulating you and Liam, but Zayn’s sharp eyes catch the slight wince you fail to hide.

“Hey, love,” he murmurs, sidling up to you. His voice is quiet, meant just for you. “You feeling alright?”

You glance at him, caught off guard by his concern. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”

Zayn doesn’t look convinced. His dark eyes search yours, his brow furrowing. “You sure? You look a bit pale.”

Liam appears at your side then, his arm slipping protectively around your waist. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you insist, though your stomach churns again, making you swallow hard. “I think I just need some water.”

Zayn exchanges a look with Liam, who immediately nods. “I’ll get it,” Liam says, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before heading toward the bar.

Zayn stays with you, his presence steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” he says softly.

Your shoulders sag slightly as you let out a quiet sigh. “I don’t know, Zayn. I just feel… off. Probably just nerves catching up with me.”

He nods slowly but keeps a watchful eye on you, his concern evident. “Alright. But if it gets worse, you tell me or Liam, yeah? We’re here for you.”

You nod, grateful for his support. “Thanks, Z.”

Liam returns a moment later with a glass of water, and you take it gratefully, sipping slowly as he and Zayn keep an eye on you. For now, the moment passes, and you force yourself to focus on the joy of the day, determined not to let anything dampen it.

But deep down, a part of you wonders if this feeling is more than just nerves.

...

As the night wears on, the celebration continues around you, the energy of the room buzzing with laughter and joy. Liam is making his rounds, chatting with guests and soaking up the love from friends and family, his happiness as infectious as ever. But as much as you try to immerse yourself in the moment, the queasiness in your stomach refuses to subside.

You’ve managed to keep your discomfort mostly under wraps, but Zayn’s watchful gaze hasn’t left you for long. Every time he catches your eye, his brow furrows slightly, the unspoken question hanging between you.

Finally, after another wave of nausea hits, you decide you can’t ignore it anymore. You subtly signal Zayn from across the room, and he makes his way over to you quickly, his expression tinged with concern.

“What’s going on?” he asks quietly, his voice low enough that no one else can overhear.

You glance around, making sure Liam’s occupied, before tugging Zayn toward a quieter corner. “I need you to do me a favour,” you say, your tone urgent but hushed.

His brow lifts in curiosity, but he nods without hesitation. “Name it.”

Your cheeks flush slightly as you take a steadying breath. “I need you to run out and get me… a pregnancy test.”

Zayn blinks, caught off guard, but he quickly recovers. “You think—?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, cutting him off. “But I’ve been feeling off all day, and I just… I need to know.”

He studies your face for a moment, then nods firmly. “Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Z,” you whisper, your relief evident.

He gives you a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before slipping out of the reception, his quiet departure unnoticed by most.

The minutes feel like hours as you wait for him to return, your mind racing with possibilities. You try to keep up appearances, but every so often, your gaze drifts toward the door, anxiety swirling in your chest.

Finally, Zayn reappears, slipping back into the room with a discreet nod in your direction. You excuse yourself as casually as you can, making your way toward him. He subtly passes you the small bag, and the two of you sneak off to a nearby bathroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

Inside the bathroom, Zayn leans against the wall, arms crossed, his presence steady as ever. “You want me to wait outside?” he offers.

You shake your head, gripping the test tightly in your hand. “No. Stay. I think I need the moral support.”

He nods, his expression softening as he watches you. “Alright, love. Whatever you need.”

The moments that follow feel surreal. You step into the stall, your hands trembling slightly as you follow the instructions. When it’s done, you set the test down, stepping back as if putting space between you and the answer will steady your nerves.

Zayn’s voice cuts through the silence, gentle but grounding. “How long do we wait?”

“Three minutes,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Those three minutes stretch endlessly, the air thick with anticipation. Zayn stays quiet, his presence a calming anchor as you pace nervously.

Finally, the timer on your phone buzzes, and you freeze in place.

“Do you want me to check?” Zayn asks gently.

You shake your head, summoning every ounce of courage as you step forward and pick up the test. The sight of the two lines makes your breath catch in your throat.

“It’s positive,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of shock and emotion.

Zayn’s expression softens, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re pregnant?”

You nod, tears pooling in your eyes as you meet his gaze. “I’m pregnant.”

Zayn’s arms are around you in an instant, his hug warm and reassuring. “Congrats, love,” he murmurs, his voice full of genuine happiness. “Liam’s gonna lose his mind.”

You laugh softly, a tearful, breathless sound as the reality sinks in. “I guess I should tell him.”

Zayn pulls back, his grin teasing now. “Yeah, you think?”

With a deep breath, you steady yourself, clutching the test tightly in your hand. This day was already unforgettable, but it’s about to become even more extraordinary.

...

The reception has finally quieted, the once-bustling room now sparsely populated as the last few guests filter out. Your mum, ever the doting grandmother, had insisted on taking Lou home to babysit, giving you and Liam a rare moment of uninterrupted time. Across the room, the remaining boys — Niall, Harry, Louis, and Zayn — are camped by the open bar, making the most of its dwindling supply with boisterous laughter and inside jokes echoing in the otherwise peaceful hall.

You and Liam have retreated to the dance floor, the space now empty except for the two of you. The DJ has long since packed up, but that doesn’t stop you from swaying together in silence, his arms securely around your waist, your head resting against his chest.

The weight of the day melts away in his embrace, your heart full as you take in the moment. Liam’s steady heartbeat is the only rhythm you need, grounding you in the sheer joy of being his wife.

“I still can’t believe it,” he murmurs, his voice a warm hum against your ear. “You’re my wife now.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze, the love in his eyes almost overwhelming. “I’ve dreamed of this day for so long,” you admit softly, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “And now it’s better than anything I could’ve imagined.”

Liam leans down to kiss you, slow and tender, as if trying to convey every ounce of his love. When you pull back, your heart is pounding, and you know it’s time.

“How do you think Lou would feel about being an older sister?” you ask, your voice light but filled with meaning.

For a moment, Liam’s brow furrows in confusion, his swaying coming to a halt. Then, his eyes widen, his gaze darting to yours as the implication sinks in.

“You’re serious?” he breathes, his voice hushed but laced with growing excitement.

You nod, your smile trembling as tears threaten to spill. “I found out tonight. I wasn’t feeling great, so I asked Zayn to get me a test.”

A grin breaks across his face, his hands tightening around your waist as he pulls you close. “We’re having another baby?”

“Yes,” you confirm, your laughter bubbling up as his joy becomes contagious.

“Another baby,” Liam repeats, his voice thick with emotion. He lifts you slightly off the ground, spinning you in a circle as a laugh bursts from his chest. “I can’t believe it! You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, again!”

The commotion draws attention from across the room, and the four boys abandon the bar to investigate. Louis is the first to approach, his brow raised. “Alright, what’s going on? Why’s Liam acting like he’s won the lottery?”

Zayn follows close behind, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Should I tell them, or do you want to?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Liam takes your hand, his excitement still radiating. “We’re pregnant,” you announce, your voice carrying across the empty dance floor.

For a moment, there’s stunned silence as the boys process the news. Then, a chorus of cheers erupts.

Louis claps a hand on Liam’s shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “Another mini Payno? That’s brilliant!”

Harry pulls you into a quick hug, his dimpled smile softening as he whispers, “Congrats, love. You’re going to be amazing.”

Niall’s laughter fills the room as he raises his glass. “To Baby Payne 2.0! The tour baby family grows.”

Zayn stays back, his expression unreadable until you catch his eye. Then, his grin breaks through, warm and proud. “Knew it,” he says simply, giving you a wink.

Liam wraps an arm around your waist, his other hand resting protectively over your stomach as he looks out at his best friends, his family. The love and support surrounding you both is overwhelming, and as you lean into him, you can’t help but marvel at the life you’ve built together.

Your wedding day was already unforgettable, but now it’s something else entirely — the start of another beautiful chapter for your little family.

…

Author’s note: I hope you liked this series! Let me know your thoughts!