#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]

[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.

[makrustic]

Sour lemon-yellows, mean dragonfruit-reds and lovely cherry-pinks make the prettiest of wallpapers. These color variations of 'Grown Distant' are up for my Patreon/Ko-Fi supporters!

The Patreon, and the Ko-Fi 🐦

[wuishu]

Hamzah the fantastic yapping about his girlfriend: compilation

Not a lot of people know about Hamzah’s relationship, but once he has a chance to talk about you, he will not shy away from talking about you. Fans could not help but make videos of them as tiktok clips or compilation videos on youtube.

There is no denying that he is head over heels for you, but some moments top others. The most popular one was a YouTube compilation named “Hamzah Being in Love: compilation”

The first clip was in an OOC podcast, where they talk about the most efficient thing: buying food outside or cooking food at home.

“No, 'cause my girlfriend always cooks food for us,” Hamzah says, as he's holding his mic, and Martin nods “I guess cooking food is good.”

“Of course, when you have a great cook at home.”

Martin smiles as he can see Hamzah being passionate about this topic, “I’ll give you and Mandy some of Y/n amazing cooking. If there's any left, though.”

“Cause sometimes I just finish them all,” he replied, “One of the best foods I've eaten was made by Y/n, God, now I'm missing her cooking.”

“I miss you, babe,” he said, looking at the camera as Martin laughed, folding like a plastic chair. Hamzah smiling.

The second clip was of Fortnite gameplay in the slushy noobz youtube channel. They were playing the game, and when Hamzah could hear the door slowly swing open, his gaze was on the door. He sees his girlfriend slowly trying to find something.

He could hear Martin trying to get a backup while he gets tag teamed, “Hi, what are you trying to find?” Hamzah said, as his Fortnite character was on all fours, leaving Martin defending himself

“Dude?!”

“I got it.” Your voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough to pick up from the mic, “Okay, I love you,” Hamzah said, Martin clutched the three v one fight, and he sighed loudly, snapping Hamzah out of his long stare

“Dude, what happened?” he said. Martin's face turned sour as he scratched his head, indicating he was irritated. “You are what happened.”

The next one was one of Hamzah’s old livestreams, where he was just talking to his chat, trying to pass the time. He got a donation asking what he would do this weekend

“Ahh, well, I'm gonna hang out with my girlfriend since she will be coming back to her hometown. Might as well show her around until she has to leave.” people are curious, asking if they can see her.

He wasn't hesitant and called you on the phone, “baby, people want to see you; can you come here?” and without a minute, you can see his girlfriend popping, waving to chat as a greeting

You can see the messages scrolling quickly as they compliment you. You smiled, “There she is, my beautiful other half.”

The next clip shown was Martin and Hamzah playing FNAF, It was getting dark, and they didn't know how many hours they wasted while they played the game.

Hamzah showed his phone to show what time it was, and his wallpaper was you standing up, flash on while you were holding his hand, “It’s 9:45, I'm getting sick of this game”

Martin nodded but continued to control and run. “If they keep doing this to us, then… developers. Get ready for my fist.”

He sighed as he shifted in his seat to get comfortable. He kissed his phone screen as Martin looked at his antics and asked, “What was that?”

“Missing her right now-” and suddenly got jump scared by Monty; they jumped out of their seats. They nervously laugh.

The video transitioned to another OOC podcast clip, but instead of just Martin and Hamzah, you and Mandy were in it. You were sitting next to Hamzah, and Mandy was sitting next to Martin, so they were still in the frame. Since they didn't expect you to join them, you shared the microphone with Hamzah.

The four were talking about who always wakes up early in the morning and how late one wakes up. “Sometimes I wake her up since she works at dentistry so she gotta be extra early, and I cook her food because she always says she doesn't like the food near their clinic.”

He handed the microphone to you and said, “Yeah, 'cause the food there just doesn't hit right like you're cooking.”

“You like my cooking?” he curiously said, as you nodded and got the microphone, “Of course, I especially like the notes you put on my lunchbox. Always a cliché quote like ‘love you to the moon and back’ or ‘I think you're tooth cute’ and it's so cute.”

He grinned and looked at you. “Glad you like them.”

“Isn't it funny how both of our girlfriends are health professionals, while we are… just influencers?” Martin said as he was racking his brain up.

The last clip was another bake-off, and you finally cave into their pleas to be there, and for the first time, the place they use is in Hamzah's kitchen.

The measuring cup and ingredients were on the island table, big bowls were laid as they were mixing their batter, and you pre-heated the oven.

“You don't have to over-mix it, Martin. Now you won't have stiff peaks!” you said as you looked at Martin’s bowl. He was making meringue for his spin-off lemon meringue pie but instead of lemon, it was a simple blueberry pie with meringue.

“I’m sorry! I did not know!” He said as he raised both his hands like he was at gunpoint. Hamzah noticed your face was sweating, and your hair was sticking to it. He grabbed a piece of tissue paper and wiped your face while you were talking to Martin.

“Yeah, I need that cinnamon.” You knead your dough for the cinnamon rolls you were going to make. Hamzah decided to pull you away from the table so that he could tie your hair.

“Hold still,” you said, lowering a bit so he could tie your hair properly. “Thank you, babe”

You kissed his cheek, leaving your preferred glossy lip tint print on his face. He smiled like he had won the lottery. “You're welcome!”

“Now I feel like I'm the third wheel right now, jeez,” Martin pipped, as you smiled and continued to knead the dough. “You do this all the time, Hamzah?”

“Yeah, when we do it in the back-” the clip cut off, and they continued to do what they were doing. Let's just say that Hamzah did not wipe his face for the entire video.

(I'M BACK! I love Hamzah sm, and I'd totally do a part two of this if ya'll guys want!!)

[heylolita00]