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sai-int · 30 days ago

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RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?

…

You decide to send him a letter.

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper.

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.

It doesn’t.

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten, the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate.

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is.

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”

You could slap him.

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

15K notes · View notes

eaaa10 · 4 months ago

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Desain Interior Rumah Mungil

Desain interior rumah mungil menjadi tren yang semakin populer di kalangan mereka yang menginginkan kehidupan sederhana namun tetap nyaman. Rumah kecil ini memaksimalkan penggunaan ruang dengan cara yang cerdas dan efisien, tanpa mengorbankan kenyamanan. Dengan luas yang terbatas, desain rumah mungil menuntut kreativitas dalam memaksimalkan fungsionalitas dan meminimalkan penggunaan elemen yang tidak diperlukan. Konsep minimalis menjadi pondasi utama dalam menciptakan ruang yang praktis, fungsional, namun tetap estetis.

Karakteristik Utama Desain Interior Tiny House

Desain interior tiny house memiliki ciri khas yang sangat berbeda dari rumah tradisional. Dalam ruang yang terbatas, setiap elemen harus memiliki fungsi yang jelas. Pemilihan furnitur dan aksesori yang multifungsi sangat penting dalam desain ini. Rumah kecil ini cenderung menggunakan perabotan dengan desain minimalis, yang memungkinkan setiap ruangan digunakan dengan sebaik-baiknya. Pencahayaan yang baik, penggunaan warna terang, serta pemilihan material yang efisien adalah beberapa elemen kunci untuk menciptakan ruang yang nyaman dan luas secara visual.

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Salah satu kunci utama dalam desain interior tiny house adalah furnitur yang dapat berfungsi lebih dari satu tujuan. Misalnya, tempat tidur yang dapat dilipat menjadi sofa atau meja yang dapat dilipat menjadi rak penyimpanan. Furnitur seperti meja makan lipat yang dapat disimpan saat tidak digunakan, atau rak dinding yang tidak memakan banyak ruang, sangat membantu untuk menghemat tempat.

Di ruang tamu, kursi kecil dengan tempat penyimpanan di bawahnya atau sofa dengan laci tersembunyi adalah pilihan yang sangat efektif. Di ruang tidur, tempat tidur susun atau tempat tidur yang bisa ditarik keluar memberi lebih banyak ruang untuk aktivitas lain pada siang hari. Pemilihan furnitur yang tepat tidak hanya meningkatkan fungsionalitas ruang, tetapi juga memberikan kesan luas meskipun ruang terbatas.

Warna dalam Desain Tiny House

Warna memainkan peran penting dalam desain interior tiny house, karena dapat memberikan kesan ruang yang lebih luas dan terang. Warna-warna netral seperti putih, krem, abu-abu muda, dan beige sering digunakan pada dinding, lantai, dan furnitur untuk memberikan kesan bersih dan lapang. Warna-warna terang ini juga membantu menciptakan suasana yang lebih cerah, yang sangat penting dalam ruang yang terbatas.

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Penggunaan Pencahayaan yang Efektif

Karena ukurannya yang kecil, pencahayaan yang tepat sangat penting dalam desain interior tiny house. Pencahayaan alami menjadi prioritas utama, dan untuk itu, jendela besar atau pintu kaca geser sering digunakan untuk memungkinkan cahaya matahari masuk. Dengan pencahayaan alami yang maksimal, ruang akan terasa lebih terbuka dan luas.

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Penyimpanan Tersembunyi dan Pengorganisasian Ruang

Salah satu tantangan terbesar dalam desain interior tiny house adalah menyediakan ruang penyimpanan yang cukup. Oleh karena itu, penyimpanan tersembunyi sangat dibutuhkan untuk menjaga agar ruang tetap rapi dan terorganisir. Lemari built-in, rak dinding, dan tempat penyimpanan di bawah furnitur menjadi solusi yang sangat efektif.

Di ruang tidur, misalnya, tempat tidur dengan laci penyimpanan di bawahnya atau rak gantung di sisi dinding dapat digunakan untuk menyimpan barang-barang penting. Di dapur, rak terbuka atau lemari yang dapat dipasang di dinding membantu memaksimalkan ruang tanpa memakan banyak tempat. Penyimpanan vertikal juga menjadi solusi yang sering digunakan dalam desain tiny house untuk memanfaatkan tinggi ruangan.

Penggunaan Material yang Efisien

Material yang digunakan dalam desain interior tiny house haruslah ringan, tahan lama, dan mudah dipelihara. Bahan seperti kayu, logam, dan bahan daur ulang sering dipilih karena efisiensinya dalam memberikan kehangatan dan kesan alami pada ruang. Dinding dengan panel kayu atau beton memberikan tampilan modern dan industrial, sedangkan lantai kayu atau vinyl memberikan kesan hangat dan natural pada ruang.

Material kaca juga sering digunakan pada jendela besar untuk memberikan tampilan terbuka dan memungkinkan pencahayaan alami masuk. Di beberapa desain tiny house, penggunaan kaca pada pintu atau jendela geser memungkinkan interaksi lebih baik antara ruang dalam dan luar, memberikan kesan luas meskipun berada di dalam rumah kecil.

Desain Open-Plan dan Ruang Terbuka

Di banyak desain tiny house, konsep open-plan sangat populer untuk mengoptimalkan ruang yang ada. Ruang tamu, ruang makan, dan dapur sering digabungkan menjadi satu area besar tanpa sekat, memberikan kesan ruang yang lebih luas dan fungsional. Desain open-plan juga memungkinkan penghuni untuk tetap merasa terhubung satu sama lain meskipun ruang terbatas.

Penggunaan partisi ringan atau rak penyimpanan terbuka dapat digunakan untuk memisahkan area tanpa membuat ruang terasa terpisah-pisah. Pemilihan furnitur yang ringan dan tidak terlalu besar juga membuat ruang terbuka ini terasa lebih nyaman dan tidak sesak.

Dekorasi dan Sentuhan Pribadi

Meskipun ruang terbatas, desain interior tiny house tetap bisa dihiasi dengan sentuhan dekoratif yang membuat rumah terasa lebih hidup. Tanaman hias, karya seni, atau bantal-bantal berwarna cerah dapat digunakan untuk menambah kepribadian pada ruang. Meskipun banyak barang yang harus diminimalkan, pemilihan aksesori yang tepat dapat menciptakan suasana yang hangat dan menyambut.

Penggunaan cermin juga sangat efektif dalam desain tiny house karena dapat memantulkan cahaya dan memberikan ilusi ruang yang lebih besar. Selain itu, cermin juga menambah kesan elegan dan modern dalam rumah kecil.

Kesimpulan

Desain interior rumah tiny house adalah contoh sempurna bagaimana kreativitas dan efisiensi dapat memaksimalkan ruang yang terbatas. Dengan pemilihan furnitur multifungsi, pencahayaan yang optimal, serta penyimpanan tersembunyi, rumah mungil menawarkan kenyamanan dan fungsionalitas dalam ukuran kecil. Warna-warna cerah, material yang efisien, dan desain open-plan membuat rumah kecil ini terasa lapang, nyaman, dan modern. Jika Anda mencari gaya hidup minimalis yang tetap nyaman, desain tiny house adalah pilihan yang tepat untuk menciptakan rumah yang praktis namun penuh gaya.

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jorichingsuk · 6 months ago

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Details Presentation The Tiny Home Company

The Tiny Home Company was founded in 2013 by craftsman builder Simon Whitfield. With 20+ years of carpentry and building experience, the company has grown organically though our years of practice converting and creating live-in vehicles, traditional cabins and tiny houses.

[email protected]

#tiny home builders uk #tiny home uk #tiny homes uk for sale #tiny house builders uk #tiny home for sale uk

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ur-mag · 1 year ago

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Amazon is selling a $290 tiny home that customers say is ‘easy’, ‘sturdy’ and you can get it in two days | In Trend Today

Amazon is selling a $290 tiny home that customers say is ‘easy’, ‘sturdy’ and you can get it in two days Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

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#Amazon is selling a $290 tiny home that customers say is ‘easy’#‘sturdy’ and you can get it in two days #Celebrities #Money #Motors #Politics #ShowBiz #Sport #Tech #UK #US #World

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alpha-mag-media · 1 year ago

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I build tiny home villages where people can live for free – but trolls say I’m making a massive problem even worse | In Trend Today

I build tiny home villages where people can live for free – but trolls say I’m making a massive problem even worse Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

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#Celebrities #I build tiny home villages where people can live for free – but trolls say I’m making a massive problem even worse #Money #Motors #Politics #ShowBiz #Sport #Tech #Trends #UK #US #World

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voyagerhouseuk · 2 years ago

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Voyager House UK

Unconventional living has become popular in recent years. Portable homes are now available in the market to offer that simple yet intimate lifestyle. If you don't need that much space and are looking for an affordable home, tiny houses in the UK are the best deal for you. Voyager Houses UK is a small company founded in Romania to serve clients with their construction needs. With our 15 years of experience specialising in building small houses across the UK, you can guarantee the quality of our work. We understand the functionality of each home that we make, and we associate it with modern living. Our focus is on minimalism, ecology, and stoicism. With us, you can be sure that we make every home to the highest possible standard. Please get in touch today to learn more about our portable homes.

#tiny houses uk #small houses uk #build a tiny house uk #off grid tiny house uk #portable homes

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cheriladycl01 · 6 months ago

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Kinktober 11/10/2024 Oscar Piastri- Somnophilia

Plot: You and Oscar never have linked up sleep schedules so you’re often asleep when he comes home. And he just needs you so desperately…

Warnings: Kinktober, SMUT, Somnophilia, p in v, sex while asleep, 18+ Minors DNI

You and Oscar never had linked up sleep schedules, it was awful. If you had jobs to do at home over a race weekend especially one out of your time zone Oscar would be coming home at 3am, when you were already asleep.

After Australia, Japan and China all being together and him not coming back to the UK and you being incredibly busy not being able to go to him. He was getting home at 3am, yet he wasn’t tired making the mistake of sleeping on his flight home from exhaustion from the race.

You were lying in bed, duvet torn off of you face smushed into the pillow, turned to the side. You had one leg cocked up and the other straight. Oscar walking quietly into the bedroom seeing this sight had him even more awake.

He gently placed his suitcase down not wanting to wake you up.

You were wearing the sleepwear that he found the sexiest and it was like you’d done that on purpose. It wasn’t anything skimpy like silk or lacy. It was a pair of white underwear that rested on your hips showing off your figure deliciously. And then a low cut cropped hoodie.

Everything just looked so … he couldn’t even describe it! But he wanted you so badly. It had been over three weeks since he’d gotten any kind of intimacy with you. You’d both had an unforgettable night before he’d left but since then you’d both been far to busy to relieve yourself.

Now that he was here with you, seeing you looking so soft and fuckable he couldn’t help himself when he felt himself strain against his tightening jeans.

He couldn’t help the way he stood onto next to you, running his hand down the drive of your spine before running down the outline of the underwear from your hip to your bum.

You’d both spoken about doing this before but you’d never actually got round to it, as you normally tried to force yourself to stay up to wait for him to come home or he’d be too exhausted to do anything by the time he was there.

But now was the perfect time, you were laying there all innocent and unassuming. This was his moment.

He took his jeans off, not wanting to make you wake up from him trying to awkwardly shuffle his jeans off when he was weighing down the bed and moving the mattress.

He takes both jeans and boxers off discarding them on the floor before climbing up into the bed behind you. He holds your hips testing the waters by rubbing his hands up and down a bit rougher before gripping either side, moving you so you were more on your stomach. As he straddled you, his hands grazed over your underwear on your lower back, giving it a testing snap, but you only stirred in the way Oscar was used to you stirring, one that he knew you wouldn’t wake from easily.

Through the fabric of your panties he gives a testing rub of your clit, and almost as if you knew he was there in your sleep and you knew what he wanted your hips arched in a way that gave him easier access. He get rubbing until he could feel a wet patch of your slick form through the white panties you were wearing. If only you were wearing grey right now and it was more visible, he’d be a different animal.

Little soft sight and whines came from you in your sleep, until you called him name.

“Oscar” you moaned and he stopped thinking he’d woken you up but all he saw when he looked at your face against the pillow was a small furrow in your brows and your lips slightly parted.

“That’s it baby” he whispers softly.

He goes back to rubbing your clit until you roll a little bit, shaking in your sleep. He pulls away, knowing that an orgasm would most likely wake you up and he wanted to be inside you when that happened.

Pulling the underwear to the side and pulling your hips up a tiny little bit, he slips into your wetness. The sound was ludicrous, but he had to bite his lip to hold back his own moan as he bottomed out in you, your walls already clamping down on the unexpected intrusion.

He keeps a nice grip on your hips starting to thrust in and out, very softly that at one point it felt so good he had to bring his own hand up to cover his mouth as he let out his own grunt. He kept it up there for a while until he started to get needier and rougher to reach his high.

His hands had an incredibly strong grip on your lips and he’d lifted you up further to get a better angle in the relaxed doggy style he currently had you in.

“Argh fuck” he slipped up. And that when your mind started to wake up, you thought it was just an incredible dream you were having about your boyfriend. But as you started to come too, the feeling of something pushing in and out of you became far to realistic.

The feeling washed over you like a ton of bricks and you moaned at the feeling.

“Oscar?” You half moan, half question as you try look round, seeing your boyfriend behind you, thrusting in and out.

“Oh fuck, Osc. Missed you so fucking much. Fuck please baby” you cry as his thrusts get quicker knowing now your awake. He hits one spot that has you clamping tight around him, your hands fisting into the sheet and pillow as you moan out his name once more.

He shortly follows, hips stuttering into you before collapsing next to you, tucking you Into his embrace holding you close to him as he lets a breath out.

“Welcome home” you mutter sleepily as he kisses your head.

“I want to come home like this always” he sighs.

Taglist:

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tinytudor · 15 days ago

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Tiny Homes for Sale UK – Compact Living with Big Benefits

Tiny homes for sale UK offer an affordable, sustainable, and flexible housing solution for those looking to downsize or embrace a minimalist lifestyle. With rising property prices, tiny homes provide a cost-effective way to own a home without the financial strain of traditional housing.

Benefits of Buying a Tiny Home in the UK

Affordability – Tiny homes are significantly cheaper than traditional houses, making homeownership more accessible.

Eco-Friendly Living – Many tiny homes are built with sustainable materials and energy-efficient systems.

Lower Maintenance Costs – With less space, maintenance, utility, and upkeep expenses are reduced.

Mobility & Flexibility – Some tiny homes are mobile, allowing owners to relocate as needed.

Minimalist Lifestyle – Encourages a clutter-free and simpler way of living.

Types of Tiny Homes Available in the UK

Static Tiny Homes – Permanently placed, ideal for rural or urban settings.

Mobile Tiny Homes – Built on trailers for those seeking a nomadic lifestyle.

Off-Grid Tiny Homes – Equipped with solar panels, rainwater harvesting, and composting toilets for sustainable living.

Custom-Built Tiny Homes – Designed to fit unique needs and preferences.

Where to Find Tiny Homes for Sale UK

Tiny homes are available from specialized builders, online marketplaces, and local property developers. Popular sources include:

Dedicated tiny home manufacturers

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Private sellers

Conclusion

Tiny house for sale UK offer a smart, cost-effective, and sustainable housing solution. Whether you're looking to downsize, live off-grid, or enjoy financial freedom, tiny homes provide a unique opportunity for modern living. Explore available tiny homes today and embrace compact living with big benefits. Visit more information for your website

#tiny house for sale uk #tiny house builders #park home uk #tiny homes uk

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sebsxphia · 10 months ago

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shopping lists.

robert ‘bob’ floyd x reader.

￫ summary: you rush to the shops after work to do a quick food shop, but bob floyd was not on your shopping list.

￫ word count: 3.3K.

￫ warnings: mentions of food, supermarkets, feeling hungry and fluff, fluff, fluff.

￫ authors notes: my description of the supermarket is based off uk supermarkets, so i apologise if there’s inaccuracies to us supermarkets! this also hasn’t been proof read. my main masterlist can be found here! 💌

Bob was starving.

He cursed himself under his breath as he drove back from base. He had the driver's window in his baby blue truck rolled down and his forearm resting on the side, his fingers pushing through the sticky summer air as he drove. Air conditioning alone wouldn’t keep him cool, as he still wore his flight suit from training earlier that day. He could feel how the ring of sweat around his neck was sticking to his collar, but he simply didn’t have the time or willpower to shower and change on base.

It had just gone five o’clock in the afternoon and he had gotten off later than he expected. He would’ve already had a small meal to keep him going until dinner by now, but low and behold, when he awoke this morning, as the sun was only a crack along the horizon, he realized he had no substantial food in his fridge.

Bob was a planner. He would do his fortnightly shop routinely, but something came up at work and it had simply slipped his mind. The only thing he could do now was drive as fast as he could to the supermarket, slip in, whisk around the aisles in record time and drive back home to cook something up in under an hour. He had another early start the next morning and as always, he had a routinely early bedtime.

Being a pilot made his reactions lightening fast. This would be easy for him.

As he pulled into the car park and zoned in on a space, he noticed another car also going for the same spot.

You were inches away from the space and although he was in a hunger-fueled rush, being the ever polite gentleman that he was, he let you go for it. Through the glare of the late afternoon sun reflecting off your windshield, he couldn’t quite make out the person driving, but he saw how you politely lifted your hand off the steering wheel to motion, “Thanks!”

Bob responded in turn with his wave and warm smile. He drove a little further forward past your car to find another space and the reflecting sun moved against your windshield to reveal you in a clearer light. You had the sweetest little smile as you thanked Bob. Your lips curled up to meet the creases in the corners of your eyes and your cheeks were a sweet rosy colour.

As he drove away and around the corner of the car park, Bob chewed at the inside of his cheek, still with a small smile twitching on his lips. He had a small hope that he would see you inside, only because he wanted to let you know that he was more than happy to give you the spot.

No other reason.

He was pulled out of his thoughts about your sweet smile as he felt his stomach grumble furiously. After doing a loop around, he managed to find a spot at the opposite end of the car park. He of course cursed himself again under his breath for going shopping at peak hours after everyone had finished work on a weekday, but he only blamed himself. He didn’t blame you. You were simply there first.

The almost freezing blast of air conditioner on his face as he entered the supermarket, was a welcomed change to the ever-growing humid air outside. The tiny, blonde baby hairs on the back of his sweat-coated neck stood up momentarily, as the icy air flowed down and through his flight suit. He felt himself cool down almost instantly. He pulled up with a shopping cart and started with fruits and vegetables at the front of the store. He was desperate to move fast, but his boots were heavy and searingly hot with every step he took around the aisles. That was the only spot on his body that the air conditioning could not reach.

As he came to the end of the fruits and vegetables section, he turned to reach for the tomatoes when suddenly a flurry swooped by him. It caught his attention instantly and he whipped his head around, with his torso moving inwards towards the tomatoes to avoid bumping into whoever had just swept by him.

It was you. The same person in the car park who he had given his space to. He observed as you descended the cheese and yoghurt aisle.

A small lump got caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly, as he watched how your sundress swished around your bare calves. He couldn’t help but let his cobalt blue eyes from behind his glasses, glance over you. Bob was raised right by his mom. He was respectful and well-mannered, but the simple and undeniable fact was, that you were the prettiest person he had ever laid eyes on. Even from the glow of the cool light down the food aisle, it could not diminish your luminescence.

He reached his slender index finger up to his glasses and pushed them up his nose ever so slightly. The prior sudden movement had caused them to jolt down the bridge of his nose by a centimetre.

As you walked straight down the aisle and turned to face the cheese selection, the delicate material of your sundress moved back into place to frame your body. It rippled over each curve of your figure and Bob’s heartbeat doubled in time when he caught sight of your soft belly in your sundress. He sucked in a harsh breath between his teeth as he wondered for a fleeting second, how soft your belly would feel to hold when his face was buried between your thighs.

He registered the smile creases in the corners of your eyes. The same ones that he noticed first in the parking lot and how they narrowed to read the label in front of you. Your eyelashes fluttered against one another as you blinked against the glaring light humming above you. As you raked over your options, he watched how your teeth grazed over your bottom lip and chewed nimbly at it. The same habit he had.

He needed some cheese and yoghurt himself, so perhaps he could catch you there.

Bob meandered some meters behind you and acted as if he was choosing his yoghurt option. He already knew what he needed. The same yoghurt he’d had for the past five years, but he was drawn to you. Like a moth to the radiating flame.

He cocked his head behind him to glance in your direction and you had already moved down the aisle to assess your next grocery choice. He took his multipack of yoghurts, placed it in his cart and wheeled it around to stand by you, again acting as if he was evaluating his cheese choice. From behind his glasses, he took another sideways glance. You were performing a balancing act of holding your shopping basket’s flimsy handles, holding the cheese in your other hand and somehow holding open a small notebook and crossing out the presumed item, with a pen.

At a glance, Bob saw how inside your notebook was filled with lots of little scribbles, and crossed-out parts and as you went to close it, the front cover was decorated with sweet little stickers.

“Jesus Christ. That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” He thought to himself.

As you went to slide the pen back into the elasticated band, it slipped from your balancing act and slid along the dotted tiles of the supermarket, straight for Bob’s direction. It hit the sole of his boots and he heard your voice for the first time.

“Ah, shit.” It was muttered under your breath with annoyance, but he thought your voice sounded like sweet honey.

Before his thought process could catch up to him, he wondered if you tasted like sweet honey.

You spoke directly to Bob this time, as you scurried over and bent down to pick up the pen by his boots. He caught a fleeting glance at the swell of your breasts, resting in your sundress.

You laughed out faintly with your apology. “I’m sorry, my mistake—”

As you moved too quickly with embarrassment to pick up your pen, your flimsy shopping basket was swinging and the cheese you were holding also fell out of your grasp.

“Ah! Fuck.” You quietly cursed again to yourself, or so you thought.

Bob had caught your second string of curses to you accidentally dropping something and he thought it was rather cute.

“Here, let me.” He chuckled to himself as he squatted down to reach for your cheese and pen.

Both now standing upright, he handed your belongings back to you and felt how the palms of your hands were as soft as butter against his fingertips. You looked at each other directly and now without the glare of your windshield, he could finally see every delicate feature that made up your beautiful face. He thought that you were so pretty.

You went to open your mouth and speak, but your words got caught on your tongue. This kind stranger was incredibly handsome. He looked smart with his clean-shaven face and his dusty blonde hair parted neatly to one side, with a thick swoop. His rounded glasses didn’t have a single smudge on them and his cheeks were round as he smiled at you, although it still didn't take away from his strong cheekbones and firm jaw.

You blinked in a flurry as you took in his build. You were accustomed to seeing pilots around here with the air base being so close to town, but it was rare to see one in what you presumed was a flight suit of some kind. It was deep forest green in colour and harmoniously blended against his striking eyes from behind his glasses. It wasn’t tightly fitted, yet still, his broad shoulders and firm biceps were flexing against the coarse material. His thighs stood strong with his heavy boots planted firmly against the tiled floor. He was tall and practically towered over you, but he respectfully kept a distance between you both.

“I’m sorry again, thank you.” You smiled bashfully at him. Your eyelashes were still fluttering against one another and your rounded cheeks were dusted pink.

Bob couldn’t help himself. He grinned as he shook his head and politely rejected your apology.

“No need to apologise, Ma’am. It’s all good.”

Suddenly your eyes widened and your eyebrows raised with them.

The glimmer from the overhead light in the supermarket made your eyes sparkle with such an inviting glow.

“Oh! You were the nice guy in the parking lot! You let me take your space!” You pointed your finger towards him. His truck was significantly higher than your car and you were only able to get a glance at his face from behind your windshield.

Bob let out a chuckle and waved his large hand in front of him, diminishing the idea. He further wanted to wave off the ever-growing flush of heat that was creeping up from his chest. It flushed over his neck and cheeks and sat right under his glasses. The blasting air conditioning had once again failed him and his chest, neck and cheeks were now flushed warm.

“Oh, hey. Not at all, it wasn’t my space. You had it, fair and square.”

You giggled in response. His respectful and polite demeanour had your stomach feeling as though a million and one butterflies were fluttering through you, making their way up through your heart and coming out of your mouth with sweet giggles.

“Alright, thanks again though, I appreciate it. I was in such a rush after work. Always the way, isn’t it?”

You laughed again and the sound flowed to Bob’s ears, making his playful smile reach the tips of his ears.

“Tell me about it.” He agreed with a grin.

You flashed a last beaming smile at Bob as the conversation between two strangers in a supermarket came to its natural end and you turned around to continue following your shopping list.

That’s what he thought.

As you turned down the aisle, you once again cursed at yourself for not being more forward, flirtatious, or whatever it would be that would land you his number. He was gorgeous. Undeniably handsome. And he was so stupidly charming and polite.

You turned on a quick heel to see if he was still there, but he had disappeared and you were left alone in the chilled aisle, with nothing to comfort you but your notebook and the static overhead lights.

Bob too mentally scolded himself for not asking such a pretty sweetheart like yourself for your number. As he watched you turn away, he chewed on his bottom lip, curled his fists tightly, released them and then walked away.

He was a gentleman. He would not harass someone if they didn’t show a sign of being interested in him. But he was sure you were. He had a sharp and watchful eye, and he saw how rosy your cheeks turned and how your chest stuttered slightly as your breath got caught in your throat. But he was pulled out of his battling thoughts but his stomach grumbly furiously at him again.

He whisked down the remaining aisles to finish his shop, still with the hope of a fleeting chance to see you again, but he couldn’t ignore what his body was telling him. As he checked out, tapped his card on the machine and wheeled his shopping cart out of the store, he still had both his trained eyes on his surroundings. Just in case there was a single chance, a perfect moment, where he could catch you. Bob had been extremely methodical about his choices in life and he only ever perused something if he was certain. He had never been so utterly and completely sure that you were the one for him.

He fished his truck keys out of his flight suit pocket and just as he was about to turn the key in the door, he remembered.

“Fuck. Tomatoes.”

Bob didn’t need a list. It was all written down mentally and he rarely forgot things, but he remembered that as he was about to reach for the tomatoes, you came by earlier in a flurry. He would’ve called it fate if he ever had a chance of seeing you again.

“Fuck! Tomatoes.”

You groaned and threw your head back in annoyance. It was on your list, sitting on the next line down under cheese and then you remembered why you forgot it in such a fluster. You slammed the boot door of your car back down, locked it shut and headed back inside to grab the final item. Your feet moved quickly along the tile floor and you turned on your heel to find the stack of plump, rosy red tomatoes in front of you.

“Hello again.”

The familiar voice made the tiny baby hairs on your neck stand up and a row of goosebumps rise on your forearms in tow. His smile radiated warmth as it crinkled up in the corners of his eyes. He stood tall over you, still in his flight suit, but again you didn’t feel intimidated in the slightest. You felt a true sense of calm and safety wash over you.

Your lips parted to gasp with happy surprise at seeing him again, before they curled up into a relieved smile, mirroring his own.

“Hello again.” You repeated back to him. “I forgot tom—”

“I forgot some tom—”

You both spoke in unison, before snorting out a quiet laugh between yourselves.

“Apologies. You go.” Bob gestured towards you and the vegetable stand.

“I’m going to make a sauce when I get back home, but I completely forgot the main ingredient.” You waved it off with another giggle, yet still, you did not attempt to reach for said important ingredient. You simply stayed facing him with a gleaming smile.

Bob’s mouth watered at the sound of your homemade tomato sauce. His stomach still growled at him from inside, but he also felt how it twisted and turned on itself with exhilaration. He pictured coming home to you after work, sitting down together at your dining table and sharing the homemade sauce. You were, without a fault, the only person he had ever truly envisioned a future with and he couldn’t repeat the same mistake as before.

He nimbly chewed at his bottom lip, failing to notice how you were also doing the same, as he mentally prepared his next statement.

“That sounds, delicious. I hope I’m not oversteppin’ here, and please tell me if I am, but I’d love to have y’ number, Ma’am. I’d love to try some of y’ homemade sauce, if that’s okay with you?”

Bob was not an overly religious man, but he swallowed thickly and prayed with every hope that the last part of his sentence didn’t come across in the wrong way. It felt longer than mere seconds to receive your response, but he breathed out a short sigh of relief when he saw how your eyes crinkled up into an animated smile to match his.

“Yes, yes! I’d love that. Please, let me get my book…” Your fingers were trembling with giddy anticipation as you worked to open your bag and reached for your notebook. “Uh…” You flipped through to find a clean page and when you landed on one, you gestured it towards him. “Here you go.” You gushed.

“Thank you.” He began. “I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd.”

You mentioned your name and he felt his heart flutter at how pretty it was. By how eagerly you had accepted his proposal to exchange numbers, he could see that you were just as into him, as he was with you. And so, he let his true feelings become known.

“That’s a real pretty name, sweetheart.”

You sucked in a harsh breath between your teeth and let out a bashful, “Oh…”

The sweet name that he had just called you, made your legs nearly twitch and tremble on the supermarket floor.

His long, slender fingers curled around the pen as he scribbled down his number. Your notebook and pen looked so small in his hands.

When he offered it back to you, you wrote down your number in a flurry and tore the piece of paper out from the binder. You handed it over and he tucked it into the top pocket of his flight suit. You thought that that was the hottest thing you have ever witnessed a man doing.

Bob Floyd, as you now knew him, had seriously gotten into your head and clouded any reasonable senses.

You both exchanged some further light conversation, still with Bob shamelessly and sweetly flirting with you, before you both picked up your tomatoes, paid and left for the car park together. He insisted on walking you to the car to ensure that you got there safely, even though it was still broad daylight and when he left, he placed a soft kiss on your cheek.

You both went back to your separate homes and cooked your separate meals. As you were about to get into bed you sent Bob a text, the taste of your homemade sauce still dancing on your taste buds.

“this weekend, would you like me to show you how i make the sauce? would you like to come to mine? x”

You were caught by surprise when your phone dinged with a message notification moments after.

“I would love that, thank you for the invite, sweetheart. Can’t wait :-) x”

Bob lay in bed that night thinking about how to tell the story of how you both met at your wedding.

taglist: @beachbabey @tallrock35 @luckyladycreator2 @unmistakablyunknown @flames-thebitch @birdy-bat-writes @thedroneranger @randomfandomgirl97 @kmc1989 @swiftsgirlfriend

tagging those who may be interested: @sunblchdfly @floydsglasses @fridamoss @floydsmuse @bobfloydsbabe @laracrofted @hangmanapologist @rhettabbotts @lewmagoo @peachystenbrough @auroralightsthesky @cherrycola27 @withahappyrefrain @sugarcoated-lame @senawashere

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 9 months ago

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Good Omens graphic novel update: June 2024

Welcome to the June update. A lot of behind the scenes work at the moment but we're grabbing the travel sweets, popping in the Bentley and hitting the road. More on that below.

Admin

Ongoing reminder that the project FAQ can be found here.

I pledged using my Apple ID, or no longer use the address my pledge is attached to, or I cannot work out what email address my pledge is connected to. What should I do? Please contact us via your Kickstarter account where the pledge is connected; we will be able to see on our system which address it is. If it's one you have access to, great! The FAQ has information on how to resend your invite link to access the PledgeManager. If it's one you are not able to access, then you can let us know which email is preferred and we can update this on the system, which will automatically send a new invite.

Events

We've had a lot of queries about when the Good Omens team will be attending events more formally, after some Aziraphale and Crowley spotting at conventions we'd been to previously. Well, we're excited to confirm the first: Good Omens HQ will be at ACME Comic Con in Glasgow, Scotland this September.

We'll be bringing the actual-real-life-home-to-Crowley-and-his-plants Bentley from Season 2 of Good Omens, the first time the car has been made available publicly for fans to come see and get photos with, ahead of its journey back to the set and the start of Season 3 filming.

We also see Quelin Sepulveda, aka Muriel, has been announced for the event for some additional ineffable joy.

You can get your tickets for ACME Comic Con here. We hope to see some of you there.

While we won't be rocking up with the Bentley to this next one, we want to let you know about Ineffable Con which, though sold out in person, is also taking place virtually in July. The fan-run event hosts great panels, auctions and more, with money raised going to Alzheimer’s Research UK, in memory of Sir Terry Pratchett.

Where next? We have - not an exaggeration - a list of about 200 events somewhere from when we asked fans this on Instagram and while we can't promise quite that amount of convention attendance, we're certainly looking to do some more things in future with Good Omens at large. Watch this space.

Good Omens items...

This month has largely seen prototypes and samples for the wider Good Omens merch store arriving, and while we can't share those yet, we are certainly excited to see more fan product suggestions coming to life. That does, however, leave our public item updates a little slim on the ground.

To make up for that, here's some new panels from Colleen:

Also known as, "What could possibly go wrong?" And:

Also known as, "Well why don't you ▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇ ▇▇!@#▇" or words to that effect, we'd imagine.

Update from Colleen

Following such a positive response to Colleen's piece last month, bringing you behind the scenes into making the Good Omens graphic novel, we are delighted to say that she has agreed to write something for our updates going forward! For June, she's going more in depth into the process of flatting and the technicalities of colouring on screen vs print. Over to you, Colleen.

---

I mentioned the other month that I use a flatter to help me with technical work on GOOD OMENS, and here is a great example.

This is my original, hand drawn line art.

And this is the flatting file which was created using the MultiFill computer program.

It will put your eyes out.

The raw image above demonstrates how the color art lines up solidly under the line art. If it doesn't do that, you get a weird phenomenon in print called ghosting, a tiny little line of white around each segment of color. I had this issue on one major project and ended up redoing every single color file after I got a look at the first printing. Nearly two weeks of work.

The same image with the line art on top.

The layer order looks like this.

Background copy is the clean, line art layer.

I scan the art at 600 dpi, then make the blacks pure black, the whites pure white. Then I convert back to greyscale, then RGB, then duplicate the layer. Then I delete the white on the upper layer so the line art layer is transparent but the blacks on that layer are not.

If you have blacks on a layer that has been multiplied, you can see slight color through those blacks. You want pure black.

The lower layer is where I use the MultiFill program to create the digital flats. First you use MultiFill to drop in the random colors, then the companion plug-in Flatter Pro to make those colors seal under the black lines.

This probably sounds like a silly thing to worry about, but if the flat colors don’t line up perfectly under the black line art, you get the dreaded ghosting I mentioned. You can see it below in this image. It’s a tiny little white line that will appear around the black lines and color areas.

This drives me nuts and is an absolute nightmare to fix.

It’s a very common problem, especially for people who work for web and don’t anticipate the problems going from web to print.

What looks great on your computer can cause big problems in print.

From here, my flatter Jul Mae Kristoffer, who is way over in the Philippines, does flatting that is more in keeping with the areas of color I want to isolate. As you see on Layer 1.

But again, this is still pretty ugly, and not what I would use for final color. Flatting is a technical issue, not a creative one, though in some cases a flatter will make choices you may use. Most of the time they don't.

Here is my final color page.

Sometimes my MultiFill flats are so wonky I have a hard time getting my brain to snap out of what I see before me. If I get stuck, it's a good idea to just pick at it and come back to it later.

If it really, really bothers me, I’ll take the MultiFill flatter layer and desaturate the color so it doesn’t poke my eyes out.

Here’s an example. The digital flat file.

The desaturated flat file that doesn’t make me want to poke my eyes out.

And the final color.

Sometimes I just put in a solid white layer so I don’t see the flats at all. Flatting is there to allow you to easily pick spots to color in, and doesn’t usually appear in the final work.

Sometimes I want to create my colors using transparent color over a white ground, which is more delicate in the final.

Here’s an example from Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. I also selected all black line art here and converted it to sepia to give it a vintage look. Except for the fairies. They’re green.

A colorist must also consider color settings.

Different clients can have different requirements. I find these color settings, which I got from the Hi-Fi Studio, to be pretty solid. I use them as my default for all my projects unless otherwise requested. If your publisher has other settings, they’ll usually send you a csf file which you can upload to Photoshop. The program will save your files and you can just switch between them as you need them.

This tells the printer things about the paper and the spread of the ink you will use. That’s what dot gain means - it makes printed color look darker than intended, so you set up your files to account for it.

When you hover your pointer over each box, it will tell you what each setting is supposed to accomplish.

Another really important thing to consider when coloring comics is color range.

I’m coloring this book in RGB range, but for print you use CMYK.

I’m about to confuse the heck out of some people with this post, I’m afraid. But here we go.

Here is this shot in RGB color setting.

And here is the same page calibrated for print in CMYK.

The biggest shift is in the reds. Print cannot match those reds.

You may not see much difference here, but it’s the sort of thing that drives artists crazy.

A computer should be perfect for conveying exactly what you want, right? It's all just 0's and 1's, binary information, and that information should be the same from one computer to the next?

Nope. Not even close.

First off, computer monitors must be calibrated. You can use a computer program or a tool that measures the color on your computer screen and then adjusts the color to an industry standard.

Have you ever been in an electronics shop where a bunch of TV shows were on display, all of them playing the same show, and have you noticed how different the color was from one TV to the next?

It's like that.

I freely admit I don't pay a whole lot of attention to calibration, but if I were a professional photographer I would. I'd have a little spectrometer attached to my screen and software would adjust my monitor to the best possible standard range. As it is, I just use the default setting on my computer and hope for the best.

If your monitor is properly calibrated and your art is shown on another monitor that is properly calibrated, the art will look almost identical from one monitor to the next.

YAY!

But from one monitor to the next, that's about where the resemblance ends.

Colors are calibrated to something called RGB, or Red, Green, Blue.

All colors come from a mix of red green and blue. At their greatest intensity, all the colors in the spectrum together become pure white light.

This is why RGB is called ADDITIVE color, because you ADD colors from the spectrum to get ALL colors, and all colors create the entirety of the rainbow, and pure white light.

Your computer monitor, your phone, your television, all images are created via light using RGB, a gamut that covers all possible colors that can be created.

That's a lot.

And that's why some of the colors you see on your TV or phone are so deep and intense.

For the widest possible range of color and intensity, you use RGB.

Unfortunately, there is what you can create with light, and then there is what you can create with pigment or ink. And that is why printing what you see on your computer almost never looks exactly like what you see in a book.

For printing, you must use a color setting known as CMYK. This stands for Cyan, Magenta, Yellow and Key/Black.

In printing, the pure blue is actually Cyan and the pure red is actually Magenta.

CMYK color range is not created by addition, but by SUBTRACTION. In order to get the color you want, you reduce the percentage of one of the four colors for ink mixing. Mixing all colors, instead of giving you white, gives you black.

The gamut of CMYK is limited to what can be created with ink.

You've probably heard the term four color press? This is what that means. Four colors, with each color of ink run over the paper on rollers which, combined in varying layers of opacity, create all the printing colors you see.

But remember, what you see on your computer monitor and what CMYK gamut can handle are two different things.

Now, I’ve been really careful with the color settings on Good Omens, so there haven’t been any big surprises, but let me show you a snippet of a project I did for the French fashion house Balmain.

The RGB version:

And then this shot after it was converted to a CMYK file for print.

That's a pretty big difference.

Now, you see this shift mostly with vibrant colors, such as that pink there. But other colors hardly changed at all, right?

That's because this issue is about range of color. CMYK and RGB occupy a shared range which you can see demonstrated by this graphic I got from Wikipedia.

The graphic shows the RGB ranges supported by various digital formats. SWOP CMYK is the most common range my publishers use. Note that the bounding box line shared by the RGB and SWOP CMYK formats shares about half the range space. So whatever RGB colors you use that are outside that range will be digitally converted to the smaller SWOP CMYK range.

And you may not like what you end up with.

As you can see, some of the most ethereal and intense colors get lost outside of the SWOP CMYK boundary.

A look at the Dark Horse Comics color settings in Photoshop. Theoretically, this information should prevent your art from looking like mud on publication.

Now, after I just told you the dangers of coloring in RGB then converting to CMYK for print, I tell you I am coloring Good Omens in RGB anyway. There’s a couple of reasons for this.

Remember, RGB give you a greater range of color, so it can be to your advantage to preserve your original files using a format that gives you the greatest range.

Again, here is the unaltered file.

You can see what the CMYK result will be simply by clicking the Proof Colors button here. This will show you how the art will convert.

And the Gamut Warning will show you which colors are out of gamut range for print.

The intensity of that magenta and that purple in the top right are not going to print true.

This is how it will look in final.

So even if you do what you think is perfect color on screen, there is no way it can perfectly convert to print. Almost everything will involve a little bit of compromise.

Even though you have to consider the color shift issues, preserving your files in RGB gives you greater wiggle room, especially if you get lucky someday and get to work with a printer who can print in 6 colors. Or maybe some technology you don’t know about will pop up and make printing super glorious. Who knows.

Regardless, you should keep an eye on that gamut and color for CMYK print, while preserving your master files in RGB.

Until next time.

#good omens #graphic novel #good omens graphic novel #graphic novel kickstarter #colleen doran

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 2 months ago

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A Morning In Berlin.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

blurb masterlist !!

authors note - this is a sister chapter to this, you don’t necessarily need to read it 🩵

word count - 2k

in which, harry and madison are in berlin, whilst your back at home in the uk working, madison’s almost turning three in april, and harry wants to spend as much time with his two year old as possible.

The café hummed with the soft clatter of cups and quiet morning conversations, a welcome warmth against the crisp air outside.

Harry stood in line, his almost three-year-old daughter, Madison, nestled securely in his arms. Her small fingers played absentmindedly with the buttons on his coat as she rested her head against his chest, her curls still slightly tousled from the stroller ride.

He had already parked the stroller at a quiet corner table, making sure everything was set before stepping into the queue. Madison was getting tired, as her morning nap was soon approaching — her tiny yawns and slow blinks proof that the morning had been an adventure already.

The barista, a friendly-looking woman with a warm smile, greeted them cheerfully.

"Good morning," Harry said, offering a dimpled grin. "Could I get a black coffee, please?"

Before the barista could respond, Madison stirred in his arms, lifting her head slightly. She rubbed at her sleepy eyes with her fist before peering up at the woman behind the counter.

“Wan… warm miiilk, peas,” she mumbled, her voice soft and dreamy.

The barista’s face melted into a gentle smile. "One warm milk? Of course!"

Harry pressed a kiss to Madison’s curls, swaying her slightly in his arms. "That sounds like a perfect choice, bug."

Madison hummed in agreement, already resting her head back against his shoulder, her little fingers now curling into the fabric of his sweater.

As the barista rang up their order, Harry chuckled softly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his daughter’s breathing against him.

“Think you might be falling back asleep on me,Maddie-Moo’s,” he murmured.

Madison barely responded, just letting out a tiny sigh, perfectly content in her daddy’s arms.

Harry carried Madison over to their table. He carefully sat down, adjusting her in his lap so she was snug against him. Her tiny hands gripped onto his sweater, her head resting against his chest as she nursed her warm milk from the small cup the barista had given her.

Harry smiled to himself, brushing a few stray curls away from her face. He could tell she was getting sleepier by the second—her long lashes fluttered lazily, her little body melting further into his.

“Getting sleepy, bug?” he murmured, rubbing her back gently.

Madison gave a tiny nod, letting out a soft hum as she sipped her milk.

Harry glanced down at his phone on the table and, with one hand, tapped the screen to call you. The familiar ringing tone buzzed in his ear for a few moments before the screen lit up with your face.

“Hey, love,” Harry greeted warmly, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

You appeared slightly out of breath, your hair still damp from your workout, dressed in your gym leggings and an oversized hoodie.

“Hey, you,” you replied, shifting the phone in your hand as you locked the front door behind you. “How’s my little munchkin?”

At the sound of your voice, Madison stirred, lifting her head slightly to peek at the screen. Her face was still sleepy, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the café.

“Mamaaa…” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with her tiny fist.

You cooed, pressing your phone closer. “Oh, baby, you look so sleepy. Have you been having fun with Daddy?”

Madison blinked slowly, nodding as she leaned back against Harry.

“Had…. warm miiilk,” she said, her voice soft and drowsy.

Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“She’s just about ready to knock out, I think,” he mused, glancing down at her as she settled back into him. “Had a busy morning, haven’t we, Mads?”

Madison hummed in agreement, though her eyes were already drifting shut again.

You smiled, tucking your legs under you as you sat on the couch back home. “She looks so cozy. Wish I was there to cuddle you both. But I’m so glad you get to spend your time with her.”

These traditions were the moments Harry lived for.

Harry shifted slightly in his seat, careful not to disturb Madison as she snuggled deeper into him. Her soft breaths were steady against his chest, her tiny fingers still loosely gripping his sweater.

He glanced back at the phone, his green eyes warm as he smiled at you.

“So, what’s your plan for the rest of the day then, love?” he asked, his voice low and soothing.

You sighed, stretching your legs out on the couch.

“Nothing too exciting,” you admitted. “Gotta go food shopping in a bit. We’re running dangerously low on snacks.”

Harry chuckled. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“Exactly,” you teased. “I’d never hear the end of it from you two if I didn’t restock the biscuits.”

He grinned. “You’re not wrong. We’ve raised Mads to have very high biscuit expectations.”

You laughed before tucking your feet beneath you. “And then after that, I think I’m just gonna curl up on the couch and watch some Netflix.”

Harry tilted his head. “Ooo, what’re you watching?”

“Dunno yet,” you admitted. “Might start something new, or I might just rewatch something comforting.”

Harry smirked. “So basically, you’re gonna watch Friends for the hundredth time?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight back your smile. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Predictable.”

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed. “What about you two? What’s on the agenda after this?”

Harry shifted the phone slightly, glancing down at Madison. “Well, before this one started dozing off, she was very adamant that we go to the toy museum.”

Your eyes lit up. “Oh, she’s gonna love that.”

“Yeah, I figured we’d head over after she wakes up,” Harry said, running a gentle hand over Madison’s back. “She was going on and on about the dolls and the trains. Kept saying, ‘Dada, choo-choo!’ over and over.”

You laughed. “That sounds about right. She’s been obsessed with trains lately.”

“Tell me about it,” Harry grinned. “She spotted one in a shop window earlier and nearly launched herself out of the stroller trying to get to it.”

“Oh god,” you chuckled. “Well, knowing her, she’s gonna try and bring half the museum home with her.”

Harry sighed dramatically. “I know. I can already see the puppy dog eyes she’s gonna give me at the gift shop.”

You smirked. “And you know you’re gonna give in.”

He scoffed. “Hey, I have some willpower.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Because last week, she asked for a teddy at the supermarket, and you told me you ‘just couldn’t say no’ while buying three of them.”

Harry groaned, tilting his head back. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’m weak.”

You laughed. “You definitely are when it comes to her.”

He shook his head with a fond smile, glancing down at Madison, who was still peacefully asleep in his arms. “Yeah… but can you blame me?”

Your heart melted at the sight of them.

“Not at all,” you murmured. “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

Harry grinned. “She really does, huh?”

You nodded. “And I love watching it.”

He gave you a soft look, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing small circles on Madison’s back. “Well, she’s got both of us wrapped around her little finger.”

“Completely,” you agreed with a smile.

For a moment, you both just sat there, miles apart but completely connected. The love you shared, for each other and for your little girl, filled every space between you.

“Alright, love,” Harry murmured after a beat. “I’ll let you get on with your day. We’ll FaceTime again later, yeah?”

You nodded. “Definitely. Give Mads a kiss from me when she wakes up.”

“Already planning on it,” he said, his voice warm. “Love you, darling.”

“Love you too.”

After finishing his coffee, Harry carefully adjusted Madison in his arms before gently easing her into her stroller.

She stirred slightly but remained in a peaceful sleep, her tiny hands curled up by her face. Making sure she was snug, he pulled the blanket over her legs, tucking her in just right.

With one last glance to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, Harry pushed open the café door and stepped out onto the crisp Berlin streets.

The city bustled with its usual morning energy—cyclists weaving through traffic, locals sipping their coffees outside tiny bakeries, and tourists snapping photos of the historic architecture.

Harry strolled along the pavement, taking his time as he pushed Madison’s stroller. He popped into a couple of small shops along the way, picking up a little toy train he knew she’d love and a book for himself.

The morning air was refreshing, and despite the gentle hum of city life around him, it felt peaceful—just him and his little girl, exploring together.

But as he turned onto a quieter street, a voice called out from behind him.

“Harry? Oh my God, it is you!”

He glanced up to see a young woman approaching, her phone already clutched in her hand.

“Hiya,” he greeted politely, offering a small smile as he continued walking.

“Would you mind taking a quick photo?” she asked, stepping closer.

Harry sighed softly, his tone kind but firm. “I appreciate it, love, but I’m just out with my daughter right now.”

He gestured slightly toward the stroller, making it clear he wasn’t in a position to stop.

The fan’s eyes flickered toward Madison before she pouted slightly. “Oh, please? Just one? I won’t be long, promise.”

Harry shook his head gently. “I’m really sorry, but I just wanna have a quiet morning with her.”

The fan huffed, clearly disappointed, but instead of backing off, she kept pace beside him. “I won’t tell anyone where you are, I swear. Just real quick?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, still keeping his voice steady. “I appreciate that, but no, not today.”

The fan groaned, frustration creeping into her tone. “It’s just one picture, though! I came all the way over here—”

A soft whimper cut through the air, making Harry immediately look down at the stroller. Madison shifted, her little face scrunching up as she let out a sleepy whine.

The noise, the persistent voice, the shift in atmosphere—it had disturbed her.

Harry’s brows knitted together as he crouched down, instantly switching his focus to his daughter.

“S’alright, baby,” he murmured, adjusting the blanket and rubbing her tummy gently. “Go back to sleep, love.”

Madison made another tiny noise before sucking on her thumb, her lashes fluttering as she tried to settle again.

Harry looked up, his expression now firmer as he turned back to the fan. “Look, I really need you to respect this. She’s just woken up because of all this, and that’s not fair on her.”

The fan’s face paled slightly, guilt flashing across her features. She bit her lip, glancing between Harry and Madison. “I—I didn’t mean to wake her, I just—”

Harry sighed, standing back up as he kept one hand on the stroller. “I get it, I do. But I’m asking you to please just let us be.”

The fan hesitated before finally nodding. “Okay… sorry.”

Harry gave a small nod, his jaw still tight. “Thanks.”

Without another word, he adjusted the stroller’s canopy slightly to block out some of the daylight and began walking again, keeping his steps slow and steady to soothe Madison back into sleep.

As he put distance between himself and the fan, he glanced down at his daughter, his expression softening instantly.

“Shh, it’s okay, bug,” he murmured, rubbing her little knee through the blanket. “Daddy’s got you.”

And with that, he kept walking, determined to make the rest of their morning as peaceful as possible.

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