#sour wallpaper

[flvrnne]

olivia rodrigo icons x louis tomlinson headers plss

here you have, headers © to the owners.

[fictionaltrvlr]

daisy johnson x sour

cutouts

[livswifty]

like or reblog if u save. ⋆

[riikiblr]

*₊˚☕୧ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴜʀ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴜʀ ɢʀᴀᴘᴇꜱ

[heylolita00]

Olivia Rodrigo

[yogikohai2004]

A super epiq walpaper paper pack (1920x1080) for all you fanS! UM, tried to put a little fanservice too, but watashi dont know what oyu all like, so um i hope its daijobue!

[ceratilover]

𓏸 𓈒 🪷 𓇬 ˖ ࣪ .

Olivia Rodrigo𓏸 𓈒 icons.

like or reblog if you save.

don't repost.

🔗 @ :: @ceratilover ✦.⊹˚.

[coffys-blog]

[readingnerd9999]

Olivia Rodrigo 💜💜💜

[randomperson1234sblog]

Olivia Rodrigo 💜🎤🎸💜

[thewallpaperlibrary]

[hautecouturehues]

[rockaesthetic]

Olivia is iconic

[yeyinde]

With his marriage on the rocks, Price ends up drinking himself into a stupor at the bar the night after his wife of fifteen years tells him she wants to separate. It's where he finds you—a man's walking midlife crisis. Much younger. Too pretty for your own good.

Just passing through, he can vaguely remember you telling him as you twirled a black straw around the drink he ordered for you. Whiskey sour but with cherries instead of lime.

He grimaced around the thought of it, but couldn't seem to peel his eyes away from the way you curl your tongue around the red cherry floating in your drink. Too goddamn pretty for your own good.

Too soft, too.

He feels it when he places his hand on your thigh—to steady you, he tells himself when you start to wobble on the stool—the soft meat of your body giving so easily under the weight of his thick, grizzled fingers.

You don't belong in a pub like this where the floor is always sticky, the wallpaper is probably still made of lead, and there's gum stuck to the underside of the table. Despite the smoking ban, the room is clogged with dense tendrils of smoke. No one lifts a brow when he pulls a cigar from his front pocket, and strikes a match to light it. Puffing away in the corner with a too pretty, too young thing leaning into him, asking can I give it a try?

It's wrong. He feels it in his bones. A siren wailing in his head. Leave, go home. Don't look back. And maybe that's what you are:

a siren

because he peels it from between his dry, chapped lips and feels his heart throbbing in his chest when you lean over him, his lap, eyes still locked on his in the near the perfect pastiche of an early 90s pornography video—amateur, grainy around the edges; soaked in that glossy, faded old film filter—and wrap your cherry red lips around the hilt, lashes fluttering as he swallows thickly and rasps out that's it, sweetheart, now suck—

Feels his age acutely in the ache of his thighs as his muscles tense, drawing tight together when your eyes close, pinching in disgust around the heady mouthful of maduro, but mm, love, ain't supposed to swallow it.

The gleam of unshed tears pooling against your lashline catch beautifully in the warm, lambent glow of the lights overhead that are undoubtedly older than you. Lachrymal. He feels it in his guts like a stone. A thick lump of smouldering coal he has to try and breathe around.

The eight—nine, maybe—whiskeys he had since he sat down and grunted his usual order at the barkeep catch up with him all at once the moment a single drop spills over, and those cherry red lips part, embarrassed, and the smoke in your voice, the raw, scorched wound of untested flesh doused in tobacco fill the hole in his belly when you say I've never done this before and, soft, shy, sweet: will you teach me?

It's awash in the jaundiced spill of winter lights. Blue hour bathed in orange. There's a mark on your thigh when he pulls his hand away, damp palm leaving a stain in the soft cotton of your pants. He's not sure why that renders all logic in his head null, but it stabs into him like a pickaxe through the temple. Sudden, violent, and jarring.

His hand cupping you through your pants, feeling the heat of your cunt on his still-wet palm. Growling in your ear when you tremble against his chest about how he has a lot he plans on teaching you, sweetheart, so be a good girl, and come home with him—

He doesn't make it that far.

Unbuttons his trousers the moment you climb into the back seat of his truck, legs spreading in anticipation for him to fill the split of your thighs, and curl a single finger in his direction, a silent comehither.

Marionette on strings, he follows. The obeyance rankles down his spine but he's too far gone to give it much more than a passing, agitated flick. Ignoring it in favour of wrestling his trousers down his hips, and pulling you on his lap.

It's every part the indecent, goatish drunk hookup he vaguely remembers from back when he was some approximation of your age. Pawing clumsily at your cunt in a selfish, perfunctory preparation. Unpractised despite having decades of experience throbbing insistently in his temple, muted under the cloying haze of too much alcohol and the manifestation of his fantasies come to life in his lap, perched so prettily above his aching cock.

Pants into the mess he makes of your neck about how much better he'll be later. Take you home, eat your pretty pussy out until you're nearly ripping his hair out from how good it feels, and then he'll fuck you on a bed. Proper, he grunts, snaking a hand down between your thighs to grip his cock, the other peeling away from the warm, tight heaven between your thighs, fingers slipping out slick and sticky, smearing it over his fat, weeping head.

"need you," he grunts, barely cognisant of much outside this concupiscent ache in his belly. This hunger he's never felt before. Just mutters, slurs, need you, need this pussy. Come on, love, let me in—

He pushes against your opening, flared head splitting your folds so obscenely that he's almost desperate with the need to commit the sight to memory. So fuckin' pretty—

You whine, mewling above him as his slick fingers squeeze your waist, pulling your down over him. Forcing his cock into you as you bable about it being too much, god, it's too much, too big—ego feeding, incendiary. Mesmeric. If it's meant to slow him down, or make him stop, it slips through the cracks. Eaten alive in the fog.

His hand pushes against your throat, fingers folding over the span of it. Gripping tight. Holding firm as he catches your gaze and plants his feet on the ground. The noise you make when he bucks into you from below, forcing the rest of his cock into the impossibly tight squeeze of your cunt is snuffed out when his hand spasms, closing into a choking grip.

Seated deep inside you—too deep, it's too much, please—he feels heavenised. Bathed in bliss. Nirvana. Can't quite wrap his head around how good you feel beyond staggered grunts that spill from his sweat-slicked lips, and a needy, urgent roll of his hips, unable to pull away from the euphoric clench of you swallowing him down.

It's an eye rolling pleasure. The kind that rips through his belly and drags him to the brink in an instant. All heat. A molten, velvet clench. Primal. All animal seeking a warm, safe latibule.

He thinks of the womb and it's primordial incalescence as he works himself into you, head blanketed in a dizzying, almost delirious spot of pleasure. Soporific. And that's what you are—an overwhelming sense of sempiternal warmth. Something every fibre of his being wants to crawl inside of.

And he does. Over and over again. Peels his hand from your throat to curl it over your nape instead, pushing your mouth against his in a scorching, bruising kiss. Laying claim, eating your moans from between your teeth, chasing the cherry sweetness that lingers. Making a mess of you with the sweat that drops down his temple and the spit that slicks your chin.

Inside you, too. Spilling in your cunt with a belly-deep groan. It rips through him like a head cold, a fever, and leaves him feeling warn and sore. Unable to keep up with the gutpunch of his pleasure as you cling to him tight and mewl in his ear for more.

(Something he plans on giving you for the rest of his life if you'll let him.)

Makes it to his house somehow. Fucks you in the foyer because the sight of your bare, cum-slick thighs shakily climbing up the stairs, knees pressing together to keep his release inside, is enough to rent him in two. And it does. Spilts him down the middle until all that's left is want.

Avarice. Greed. A hunger so deep, it rattles his bones when his belly growls.

Spends himself dry inside of you, unwilling to pull out even for second. Falling asleep with you slick and warm around his cock. Content for the first time in ages. Slipping into a sleep so deep, he wakes up at noon the day.

But you're gone when he does, leaving nothing behind except deep scratches down his back and the pair of panties he stuffed in your mouth last night to keep you from waking the neighbours.

Despite regretting not tying you to the bed and slipping the ring his wife left on the end table on your finger, it's cathartic.

Just—

Not meant to last. His fleeting siren. A secret he'll take to the grave because if it ever got out, it would ruin his reputation. His family. Everything he worked hard for.

And when his wife changes her mind two weeks later and comes back home, life returns to normal. He's once again the dutiful husband. Provider. A good, honest man even though he finds himself dreaming of you as he lays beside his wife, your scent still clinging to his pillow. Hungry. Unfed.

But this is the way it has to be. Must be.

Until his siren comes back to haunt him three weeks later when you turn up again, back in town and pregnant with his child.

[beloveds-embrace]

hiya! may i please be 🦈 anon :P

i just saw some of your notes on the neglected omega reader, and the reactions from the pack after they realise they're the threats to you in your heat (absolute devastation, they cant fix it though, the only way they could get close is if you were sedated). after that lonely heat the pack starts trying to fix it, showering you in love and adoration, yet you growl, dont let them in touching distance, and leave any physical gifts back at their doors, not even in their rooms. if any of the pack tries to feed you? you simply reply that you're not hungry, or you feel sick, anything to be away from them. their faces after they see you scavenge for food directly after they offered is almost comparable to after you growl in your heat, rejection, defeat, and guilt.

i think i may be wanting some hurt/no comfort to read

Hurt/no comfort you ask for? Hurt/no comfort you shall get beloved anon 🙂‍↕️

Original Post

The air in your room reeks of sterile emptiness. Stale sheets and hollow pillows, the scent of detergent clinging like cobwebs- cold and impersonal. Nothing here is soft. Nothing here is safe. It is a cage without bars, a nest without warmth, and it’s all you have now.

You are starving for touch, for scent, for safety. But the hunger turns sour in your gut because you know you are unwanted. Unloved.

They have left you.

The thought curls sharp inside your chest, a cruel thorn that sinks deeper every second the door stays shut.

They must hate me.

They must, because how else could they forget you like this? Forget your heats, your needs, your voice when it grew quiet, and then quieter still? And hadn’t you tried to make it easy for them? Hadn’t you swallowed down your hurt, your fear, your endless ache just to keep the peace?

But they’d let your scent curdle. Let you fade into the background like wallpaper, just another fixture they could overlook. Now, you’re ruined inside and out- something sickly, something sour. And no one wants to touch something so… rotten. You understand; you wouldn’t want something like yourself, either.

You wrap your arms around your legs, chin pressed to your knees, trembling as the walls lean in.

They smell it before they see it.

The scent of your heat hits like a knife between the ribs- sharp, wrong, and devastatingly fragile. But it’s the undercurrent that guts them: a bitter rot of loneliness and despair that should have never accompanied you.

Soap is the first to find you, his own scent- sweet and warm, the summer sun and melting icecream- coiling through the hall like a frantic pulse. But it’s met with a growl so feral, so wounded, that he recoils. He doesn’t even make it past the doorway.

“Sweetheart-”

Your snarl cuts him off, raw and rasping, lips pulled back to show teeth. A threat.

He stumbles back, as if burned. The devastation on his face cracks something deep inside of him, his hands trembling as he reaches out and stops just shy of touching the frame. Gaz and Price arrive next, Ghost trailing behind them, and all three of them freeze when they hear Soap’s ragged voice, see the look on his face.

“She- she won’t let me near her.”

Won’t let any of them near you. Gaz steps forward, soft and steady, his beta instincts humming with the need to fix, to soothe, and his scent is something gentle and steady like the lapping of ocean waves- but you press yourself deeper into your nest of broken sheets and reject him, too. Price tries next, voice low and commanding, but the alpha in him only agitates your frayed nerves, makes you hiss like a wounded thing. And Ghost- Ghost doesn’t even try. Can’t, frozen in place as he is. He sees it for what it is.

A rejection.

They’re the threat now. You view them- your own pack as a threat to you.

The silence that follows is shattering. Soap digs his nails into the skin of his palms so harshly he leaves violent crescent moons behind. Gaz’s shoulders shake as he turns away, ashamed. Price sits down hard against the wall, like his knees have finally given out. And Ghost stands in the doorway, fingers curling into fists, his mask the only thing keeping them from seeing the way his face crumbles.

Because they did this. And they know it.

They let you fall apart.

They try to fix it, of course. Oh, God, do they try.

Price leaves his favorite jacket outside your door, the one that smells of gunpowder and cedar and something distinctly alpha and John. Soap writes you notes, apologies scribbled on scraps of paper and slipped beneath the crack. Gaz leaves little gifts- tea, candles, things he remembers you liking before. And Ghost? He stands guard. He’s a shadow outside your door, silent and unmoving, as if his presence alone can make up for his failures.

But you reject it all.

The jacket disappears, but you never wear it. The notes go unread, folded up and left in the corner like discarded memories. The gifts get left outside their doors in return- untouched, unopened.

And it kills them.

They see the way you flinch if they come too close. The way your eyes dart to the exits, calculating how fast you can escape if they dare to step inside your orbit when they were once the very stars circling you. They hear your brittle voice when they try to coax you into eating, into talking, and then they see you scavenge the kitchen like a ghost when you think they’re not looking.

Soap and Gaz drink, let the liquid poison make them forget their pain for one night. Price tears his office apart. Ghost stares at the empty nest you once shared and wonders if you’ll ever come back. Wonders what he must do just for you to look at them as something less than a threat to you.

But you don’t.

Days pass. Then weeks. The pack tries to stay patient, tries to be gentle, but the distance grows wider, and with it, their guilt festers. Soap lingers outside your door the longest, pressing his forehead to the wood and whispering apologies through the grain. How could he let his packmate, his fellow Omega, feel like this?

“Please, bonnie… please let us fix it.”

Gaz leaves another meal at your door, but this time it’s warm and handmade- freshly cooked, something that smells like comfort and home. He waits. Hopes. But the plate is left untouched again.

Price is quieter. He doesn’t leave gifts or words, just stands outside your door sometimes and waits, like his presence alone might be enough.

Ghost, though. Ghost is the worst.

He’s careful never to touch you, never to linger where you might even see him, but you feel him everywhere. His scent hangs heavier in the air, marking paths he knows you take, and it gnaws at your resolve.

But you don’t break.

You can’t. Because if you let them back in, they’ll hurt you again, and you don’t care how much it destroys them. You are sure they do not love you anymore- they are merely trying to absolve their guilt, more than anything else.

They see the weight you carry, the exhaustion in your bones, the hollowness where your light used to be, and they don’t know how to fix it. Price stays awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering how he let this happen- how he let one of his omegas slip so far away that he doesn’t know how to reach you anymore. Soap aches. He aches in the marrow of his bones, his scent dull and muted without you there to soften it. He sketches you from memeory- moments and seconds where you’d been happy. He should have seen it sooner. Should have done something. Gaz tries to hold them together, but even he cracks eventually. The sight of you turning away from his gift, his offering, cuts so deep he doesn’t know if it’ll ever heal.

Ghost doesn’t break. But he’s the one who starts leaving things inside the nest you abandoned, the nest that once had an imprint of you. Little things. A mug. A scarf. A photo. Pieces of them, pieces of you.

Because Ghost knows it’s not just about earning your trust back. It’s about proving that no matter how far you run, no matter how long it takes-

They’ll still be here.

Waiting.

[heylolita00]