#Ceiling Fan with Light and Remote Control

[orisonsmarthome]

 Chanfok Neo Smart Ceiling Fan with Light - Remote Control

Introducing the Chanfok Neo Smart Ceiling Fan with Light and Remote Control, designed to add convenience and style to your home. This fan features integrated LED lights and a remote control for easy operation. It combines elegance with functionality, perfect for modern living spaces, offering quiet cooling and lighting solutions at your fingertips. Visit Orison Smart Home to find out more about this smart ceiling fan that's tailored to enhance your comfort.

[aeradesignerfans]

Luxury Ceiling Fans with Remote: The Ultimate Blend of Comfort and Control

Ceiling fans have long been a staple in homes across the world. But today’s ceiling fans aren’t just functional—they’re a design statement and a symbol of modern convenience. When comfort meets elegance and technology, you get luxury ceiling fans with remote controls—the perfect blend of style, efficiency, and user-friendly control.

Whether you’re looking to upgrade your home, enhance a luxury space, or simply add a touch of sophistication to your interiors, this guide dives into why luxury ceiling fans with remotes are worth every penny.

Why Choose a Luxury Ceiling Fan?

Luxury ceiling fans go beyond the basic function of air circulation. Here’s what sets them apart:

1. Premium Materials & Finishes

Luxury fans are crafted using high-quality materials like brushed nickel, real wood blades, matte black finishes, and even crystal accents. These materials not only boost durability but also complement upscale interiors.

2. Silent Operation

Luxury fans often feature advanced motor technology (like DC motors), which makes them ultra-quiet—even at high speeds. This makes them ideal for bedrooms, home offices, or serene lounges.

3. Smart Features

From remote control and wall-mounted panels to smartphone and voice assistant integration, luxury fans are equipped with technology to match modern lifestyles.

4. Designer Appeal

They don’t just move air—they move attention. Whether minimalist or ornate, luxury fans are designed to make a visual statement.

Benefits of Ceiling Fans with Remote Control

Remote-controlled ceiling fans are no longer a novelty—they’re an expectation in modern homes. Here's why:

1. Convenience at Your Fingertips

No more pulling cords or getting up to adjust the fan. With a remote, you can control speed, direction, and lighting (if included) from anywhere in the room.

2. Multiple Speed Settings

Remote fans typically offer more precise speed control—often three to six levels—to fine-tune your comfort based on the season and time of day.

3. Light & Fan Integration

Many luxury fans come with integrated lighting, which you can dim or brighten directly from the remote. This is especially helpful in rooms where lighting ambiance matters.

4. Reverse Function

Most high-end fans include a reverse motor function for winter use. Warm air trapped near the ceiling is pushed down, helping with energy efficiency—and yes, this can be toggled via the remote too.

Key Features to Look For in a Luxury Remote-Controlled Fan

If you're shopping for a top-tier ceiling fan, keep an eye out for these essential features:

1. DC Motor Technology

More energy-efficient and quieter than traditional AC motors. They also offer more speed settings and smoother operation.

2. Smart Integration

Look for fans compatible with Google Assistant, Alexa, or Apple HomeKit. Some even come with their own mobile apps.

3. Energy Star Rating

Energy-efficient fans help reduce electricity bills, especially in warmer climates where fans run frequently.

4. LED Lighting

Built-in LED lights provide long-lasting, low-energy illumination. Choose fans that allow dimming and color temperature adjustment.

5. Remote Range and Wall Holder

Ensure the remote has a good signal range and comes with a wall mount to avoid losing it.

Best Rooms for Luxury Ceiling Fans with Remotes

Here’s how and where to make the most of these fans in your home:

Bedroom

Quiet operation and remote functionality make luxury fans perfect for bedrooms. You won’t need to leave bed to adjust speed or light intensity.

Living Room

A large, stylish fan can act as a focal point while maintaining a comfortable temperature for family or guests.

Dining Area

Opt for sleek, minimal designs that add sophistication without overwhelming the space.

Patio or Outdoor Living Area

Outdoor-rated luxury fans are designed to resist moisture and heat. A remote makes it easier to control settings while entertaining outdoors.

Smart Control: The Future of Fan Convenience

More luxury fans now come equipped with Wi-Fi and Bluetooth connectivity. These allow you to:

Schedule fan operation times

Control multiple fans across rooms

Get energy usage reports

Sync with smart home systems

Brands like Haiku by Big Ass Fans, Minka Aire, and Fanimation are leading the way with smart fan technology.

Style Meets Function: Design Trends in Luxury Fans

Today’s luxury fans aren’t just tech-savvy—they’re also design-forward. Here are some trending aesthetics:

Modern Minimalist: Slim, bladeless fans or matte black finishes

Natural Tones: Wooden blades with organic curves for boho or rustic interiors

Industrial Luxe: Brushed metal finishes and exposed hardware

Chandelier Fans: Built-in crystal or glass lights for a glamorous look

Whether you want your fan to blend in or stand out, there’s a luxury option to match your decor.

Installation and Maintenance

Though luxury fans are built to last, proper installation and care matter:

Hire a licensed electrician for installation, especially for ceiling-mounted remote units.

Clean the blades regularly to prevent dust buildup.

Check for firmware updates if your fan has smart features.

Some brands offer remote pairing assistance or lifetime warranties—always a good sign of a premium product.

Final Thoughts

Luxury ceiling fans with remote control are more than just cooling devices—they’re a seamless blend of comfort, technology, and design. Whether you’re upgrading a single room or outfitting a high-end home, these fans offer unmatched elegance and control at your fingertips.

With countless styles, smart options, and performance features available, there’s a perfect fan for every luxury space. Once you make the switch, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without one.

[awaissstore]

Top On Product Recommendation! 360° Rotating Socket Ceiling Fan With Light And Remote Description:- Ceiling Fan with Light: This small socket fan meets both of your needs and saves you money! The ceiling fan with light combines an LED shade with socket fan light in an E27 install based, making installation as easy as changing a light bulb. Simply plug it into any electric light socket in your home. The screw in low profile ceiling fan is no tools or help from an electrician are required, making installation a breeze. Energy saving & Silent Ceiling Fan: The socket fan light features a high quality copper core motor for smooth operation and strong wind power, as well as a no noise design. whether it is a gentle breeze or a 4 strong airflow, the low profile ceiling fan with light creates a comfortable and peaceful ambience. The robust blades are secured in place with a screw/knob and can be easily removed and cleaned in just a few minutes, making it quiet, easy to clean, and energy saving. Weight: 900 gram Note: Light and fan can be used together or separately.

Original Price: PKR 9999

Now Price: PKR 6999

Contact No: 0331 2187234

~FREE DELIVERY ALL OVER PAKISTAN~

[electricallightinguae]

It is essential to choose the right Electrical Components in the UAE for safety and performance reasons. If you are seeking the perfect industrial plugs and sockets, this article is a reliable guide. Continue Reading.....

[kittenan2]

I also wanna request one for ptd in la concert day 1 yoongi when he’s on live and we tease him and then he ends up fucking us while being on live

Stay on Live, Min Yoongi?

Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Chaotic Tease!Reader (established relationship) Rating: 18+ (Explicit Smut) Themes: Bratty teasing, remote-controlled vibrator, voyeuristic tension, Dom!Yoongi, hotel sofa sex, possessive love, bickering, soft aftercare, intense fluff, chaotic girlfriend energy Warnings: Explicit sexual content (vibrator play, oral, penetrative sex, light choking, overstimulation, edging), strong language, power dynamics, public teasing (non-explicit on live), NSFW Word Count: ~3k

The Los Angeles hotel suite is a vision of luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, plush cream carpets, and a sprawling sectional sofa that screams “expensive.” Yoongi’s sprawled in an armchair by the window, tablet propped up for an Weverse Live, his voice a gravelly comfort to the millions of ARMY watching. He’s still in his post-concert glow, hair damp from a shower, black hoodie swallowing his frame, though the sleeves are pushed up to reveal his forearms. The faint scent of his cologne mixes with the room service tray you’d ordered through the before arriving—kimchi jjigae and fried chicken, now sitting cold on the glass coffee table.

You’d slipped into the suite twenty minutes ago, thanks to the spare keycard Namjoon snuck you at the when you called him. Yoongi’s eyes had widened when you walked in, a grin tugging at his lips before he schooled his expression for the live, waving you off with a subtle “Five more minutes,” his hand splayed as he mouthed it behind his tablet. The surprise had landed—you saw the spark in his eyes, the way his posture shifted—but now he’s deep in fan-talk, oblivious to the storm you’re about to unleash. You roll your eyes, setting the room service tray down with a dramatic clink and flopping onto the plush sofa, out of the camera’s frame. The city lights twinkle outside, but you’re more focused on the man ignoring food and you for his fans after you flew across the world to surprise him.

Five minutes, my ass.

Three weeks ago, you and Yoongi were sprawled across his bed in Seoul, post-midnight takeout containers scattered on the floor, his arm draped lazily over your waist. He’d been teasing you about how needy you get when he’s on tour, his voice all gravel and mischief. “You’re like a cat, scratching at the door,” he’d said, smirking as you swatted his chest.

“Shut up,” you’d laughed, straddling his hips, your fingers tugging at his shirt. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so needy if you didn’t disappear for weeks.”

He’d raised a brow, that dangerous glint in his eye, and reached into his nightstand, pulling out a small, black velvet box. “Got something for you, then,” he said, voice low, almost challenging. You opened it to find the vibrator—sleek, discreet, and paired with a tiny remote. Your eyes widened, heat creeping up your neck as he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear. “For when I’m not around. But…” He’d dangled the remote in front of you, smirking. “I’m keeping this. Wanna see how good you can be for me.”

The memory of his hands guiding yours, showing you how to use it that night, his voice whispering filthy promises as he watched you unravel—it’s enough to make your thighs clench now, sitting on the hotel sofa. That dynamic, the push and pull of his control and your defiance, is exactly what you’re about to weaponize.

Fifteen minutes pass. Then thirty. You’re sprawled across the sofa now, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, the room service tray mocking you from the coffee table. The food’s cold, and your patience is colder. Yoongi’s still talking, now answering fan questions about the LA concert, his voice warm as he recounts the crowd’s energy. “Last night was wild,” he says, chuckling. “You guys were screaming so loud I forgot my own lyrics.” The chat floods with purple heart emojis and “YOONGI MARRY ME!!” comments, but you’re over it. He’s in post-show Yoongi Zone—untouchable, hyper-focused, and completely oblivious to the fact that you’re starving and bored out of your mind after flying across the world to surprise him.

You glance at your tote bag, slung carelessly on the floor, and a wicked idea solidifies. Tucked inside, hidden under your wallet and lip gloss, is the vibrator from that night in Seoul. The thought of using it here—in this hotel suite, while he’s live—sends a thrill down your spine. You slip it out, checking to make sure Yoongi’s still distracted, and slide it into your panties, adjusting it until it’s nestled just right, the cool silicone making you shiver. Your skirt rides up slightly as you shift, and you shoot him a glance. He’s still rambling about stage lighting, but his eyes flick to you briefly, a mix of surprise and warning at your unannounced presence.

You pull out your phone, opening the app connected to the toy, and send him a quick text: Guess what I just put in? 😈 His phone lights up on the table, and he pauses mid-sentence, eyes darting to it. The chat notices immediately: “Yoongi, what’s that face?!” “Who’s texting you? Spill!” He clears his throat, pretending to focus, but you see the way his fingers twitch toward his phone, the faintest flush creeping up his neck. “Just, uh, checking something,” he mumbles, but the chat’s already spiraling: “Yoongi’s blushing! SUS!”

Time to play.

You start slow, tapping the app to send a soft, pulsing vibration through the toy. Your breath catches as it hums against you, subtle but enough to make your thighs clench. You lean back, letting your head tip against the sofa, one strap of your silk top sliding down your shoulder “accidentally.” You stretch languidly, making sure the motion catches Yoongi’s peripheral vision. His voice falters for a split second, and you bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

The chat goes wild: “Yoongi’s stuttering! What’s happening?!” “Did he just blush again? OMG!” “Is someone in the room? Spill the tea, Suga!” He coughs, tugging at his hoodie sleeves. “Nah, just… jet lag or something,” he lies, but his eyes flick to you again, and you see the heat starting to simmer behind them, mixed with a flash of annoyance at your unannounced arrival.

You up the ante, increasing the vibration to a steady rhythm. Your body reacts instantly, a soft gasp escaping before you can stop it. You cover it with a fake yawn, stretching again, this time letting your skirt ride up higher, exposing the curve of your thigh. Yoongi’s jaw tightens, and he shifts in his chair, one hand gripping the edge of the table. He tries to pivot to a fan question about his favorite PTD moment, but his voice is rougher now. “Uh… probably ‘Butter,’ yeah,” he stutters, and the chat explodes: “HE’S SO FLUSTERED OMG.” “Yoongi, what’s going on? Who’s there?!”

You’re in full brat mode now, loving the way he’s unraveling. You lean forward, letting your top gape just enough to give him a view if he dares look. Your fingers skim your thigh, inching higher, and you turn the vibe to a pulsing pattern that has you biting your lip to keep quiet. Yoongi’s eyes lock onto you for a split second, dark and dangerous, before he forces himself to face the camera again.

You decide to push him over the edge, cranking the vibe to its highest setting for a brief, torturous second. Your head tilts back, lips parting in a silent moan, and you grip the sofa to keep from squirming too obviously. Yoongi’s hand shoots to his phone, fumbling to grab the remote he’d snuck from the table earlier—you hadn’t even noticed. His eyes meet yours, a mix of warning, need, and something else—maybe irritation that you showed up without warning. You smirk, knowing you’ve got him.

“Okay, guys,” he says abruptly, his voice dropping to that low, growly tone that makes your core clench. “I think that’s it for today. Thanks for hanging out, yeah? I’ll see you next time.” He leans forward, clicking the live off with a speed you’ve never seen from him. The phone screen goes black, and the suite falls silent except for the faint hum of the city outside and your own ragged breathing.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The air is thick, charged with the tension you’ve been building for the last hour. Then Yoongi spins around in his chair, his eyes blazing as they lock onto you. “You think that was funny?” he asks, voice low, almost a growl, as he holds up the remote, his thumb hovering over the buttons. “Showing up without a word and pulling this shit?”

You smirk, leaning back on your elbows, the vibrator still humming softly inside you. “What? You said five minutes. I waited an hour, Yoongi. Food’s cold, and I got bored after flying all the way here to surprise you.”

He stands, stalking over to you, and your heart skips as he towers over the sofa. “Bored enough to wear that here?” he says, clicking the remote to crank the vibration to a level that makes you gasp, your back arching off the plush cushions. “Without even telling me you were coming?”

You shrug, feigning innocence, but your body’s already betraying you, thighs pressing together as the toy pulses. “Figured you needed a reminder I exist.”

His lips twitch into a dangerous smirk, and he kneels on the edge of the sofa, one hand bracing beside your head. “Oh, I know you exist,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “And now you’re gonna beg for my attention, since you went through all this trouble to get it.”

Yoongi’s voice is a low rasp, dripping with control, but the way his eyes rake over you—flushed, sprawled across the hotel sofa, strap fallen and skirt hiked up—tells you he’s just as affected as you are. He holds the remote in one hand, his thumb teasing the buttons, and you can’t help the shiver that runs through you at the power he’s wielding.

“Yoongi,” you whine, trying to sound defiant but failing miserably as the vibrator pulses inside you, sending waves of heat through your core. “You’re the one who ignored me.”

“Ignored you?” He leans closer, his breath grazing your ear. “Baby, I was trying not to fuck you on camera for the whole world to see.” His free hand slides up your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh just below where your skirt’s bunched up. “But you had to make it hard, didn’t you? Flying across the world just to mess with me.”

You bite your lip, suppressing a moan as he clicks the remote again, the vibrations shifting to a slow, torturous rhythm that has you squirming. “Maybe I wanted you to lose control,” you manage, voice breathy, your hands gripping the soft fabric beneath you.

His eyes darken, and he sets the remote down on the sofa, only to replace it with his fingers, trailing up your inner thigh until they brush the edge of your panties. “Lose control?” he repeats, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re the one falling apart, princess.” His fingers slip under the fabric, finding the toy nestled against your clit, and he presses it deeper, making you gasp. “Look at you. Soaked already.”

You try to argue, but all that comes out is a whimper as he adjusts the toy, his touch teasing but not enough. “Yoongi, please—”

“Please what?” He pulls back, smirking as he grabs the remote again and cranks it to the highest setting. Your body jolts, a choked moan escaping as you clutch at his hoodie, fingers twisting in the fabric. “Use your words, baby. You wanted my attention—now beg for it.”

“Fuck, Yoongi, please touch me,” you gasp, hips bucking as the vibrations overwhelm you, teetering on the edge but not quite there. “I can’t—I need you.”

He chuckles, low and dark, and leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your head back as he deepens the kiss, swallowing your moans. “That’s better,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling the toy out slowly, leaving you aching and empty. “But you don’t get to come that easy. Not after that little show.”

You’re panting, half-delirious, but you still manage a smirk. “You loved it.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he tosses the toy aside and hooks his fingers in your panties, dragging them down your legs with a roughness that makes you shiver. “Spread your legs,” he orders, voice firm, and you obey without hesitation, your body buzzing with anticipation.

He kneels between your thighs, pushing your skirt up to your waist, and the sight of him there—hair falling into his eyes, lips parted as he takes you in—makes your heart stutter. “So fucking pretty,” he mutters, almost to himself, before leaning in, his tongue flicking against your clit in a way that has you crying out.

“Yoongi!” Your hands fly to his hair, tugging as he licks you with slow, deliberate strokes, savoring every reaction. He alternates between soft flicks and deep, languid licks, driving you wild until you’re grinding against his mouth, chasing release. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he sucks lightly, then harder, until you’re trembling on the edge.

“Not yet,” he growls, pulling back just as you’re about to tip over. You whine in protest, but he silences you with a kiss, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “You come when I say.”

He stands, tugging his hoodie off in one fluid motion, revealing the lean lines of his torso, still flushed from the concert’s adrenaline. Your mouth waters as he unbuttons his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free himself. He’s hard, tip glistening, and the sight makes your core clench with need. He grabs your hips, pulling you to the edge of the sofa, and lines himself up, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock.

“Yoongi, please,” you beg, too far gone to care about pride. “Need you inside me.”

He smirks, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he leans down, kissing you deeply. “Love when you beg like that,” he murmurs, then thrusts into you in one smooth motion, filling you completely. You both groan, the stretch and heat overwhelming, and he pauses for a moment, letting you adjust.

Then he moves, slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his hands gripping your thighs as he picks up the pace, the sofa creaking beneath you. The distant hum of LA traffic filters through the windows, but it’s drowned out by the rhythm of his movements, every thrust a beat, every moan a melody.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he responds by grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand. His other hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a silent claim that makes your pulse race. “You wanted my attention?” he growls, thrusting harder, his voice rough with need. “You’ve got it. Every fucking inch of it.”

The pressure builds, your body tightening around him as he drives you closer to the edge. “Yoongi, I’m—” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he fucks you through the crest of your orgasm. You come with a cry, trembling beneath him, and he follows moments later, his thrusts growing erratic as he spills inside you, groaning your name.

You’re both panting, tangled on the sofa, half-dressed and sweaty. Yoongi’s forehead rests against yours, his breath warm on your lips as he chuckles softly. “You’re gonna get me banned from live streams,” he mutters, kissing your nose. “Showing up out of nowhere like that? You’re trouble.”

“Worth it,” you mumble, still dazed, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. He laughs again, pulling out carefully and grabbing his hoodie from the floor. He drapes it over you, covering your bare legs, then disappears to the suite’s bathroom, returning with a warm cloth.

He cleans you up with gentle hands, his usual gruff demeanor softened by the way he brushes your hair back, checking you over like you’re precious. “You okay?” he asks, voice low, and you nod, pulling him down for a soft, lingering kiss.

“C’mere,” he says, tugging you into his lap as he sits at the glass dining table, the room service tray now in front of you. He pops open the containers, grimacing at the cold food. “Fuck, this is basically inedible now,” he says, poking at the congealed kimchi jjigae with a chopstick. “You came all this way to surprise me, and I let the food get cold. Worst boyfriend ever, huh?”

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You got distracted. I was just… keeping myself entertained.” You bat your lashes, and he snorts, shaking his head.

“Entertained, huh? More like trying to kill me.” He grabs a piece of fried chicken, holding it to your lips. “Eat, brat. You’re probably starving after that flight and… everything else.”

You bite into it dramatically, chewing with exaggerated enthusiasm, and he laughs, the sound warm and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his eyes are soft, crinkling at the corners as he feeds you another piece, his fingers brushing your lips. You catch his thumb, sucking it lightly, and his breath hitches, eyes darkening for a moment before he shakes his head. “Nope. No round two. You’re gonna behave for at least ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” you tease, snuggling into his chest, the oversized hoodie swallowing you. “That’s a new record for me.”

He smirks, wrapping an arm around you as he leans back in his chair. “Don’t push it.” He pops a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at his phone. “You know… I was thinking. I’ve got this melody stuck in my head.” He taps his temple, a playful glint in his eye. “Maybe your little surprise inspired it.”

“Oh, so I’m your inspiration now?” you say, grinning as you steal a sip of his cold coffee, grimacing when you realize it’s gone warm. “This is all your fault, you know. Cold food, warm coffee. You owe me a proper dinner.”

He chuckles, kissing your temple. “Fine. Late-night songwriting session, then we’ll order something hot. Deal?” His fingers brush your cheek, and you lean into his touch, warmth spreading through you at the casual intimacy.

“Deal,” you say, but you can’t resist one last jab. “But only if you promise not to get too distracted by your music again. Or… maybe I’ll bring the toy back for next live.”

His eyes narrow, but he’s smiling, that gummy grin that makes your heart skip. “Next time you pull that stunt, I’m locking the suite door. Or…” He pauses, leaning close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe I’ll make you sit under the table the whole time. mic on, of course.”

You laugh, swatting his chest, but the idea sends a spark through you. “Tempting offer, Min.”

He pulls you closer, kissing you slow and deep, like he’s savoring every second. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, but the way he holds you—like you’re his whole world—says he wouldn’t have it any other way.

A/N: Thank you for diving into this steamy, chaotic ride with Yoongi and his mischievous girlfriend reader! I hope the surprise, tension, and fluffy aftercare left you swooning and craving more.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog

[elizabeth-holland24]

The hotel room was too quiet for someone who just got shipped with two quarterbacks.

She tossed her phone onto the plush white duvet, the screen lighting up every few seconds with another tag, another meme, another headline:

“From Speedy to Sweetheart: F1’s Queen of Cool Linked to NFL Stars in Miami”

She groaned. Loudly. Into a pillow.

Racing at 300 km/h? Fine. Press circuits? Fine. Twitter thinking she’s dating two men at once? Less fine.

She got up, stretched, and grabbed the remote. She flicked through hotel channels before landing on an old Top Gun:Maverick rerun playing on mute. It made her smile.

Her dad had shown her the original on VHS.  It was a comfort movie for both of them, especially when her karting days were brutal and sponsorships were hard. She remembers when Maverick was just announced, she and her father were so excited to go see the movie, being such die hard fans and now experiencing this new era together. The beach scene was just a plus, I mean the music, the flying—it was the perfect blend of chaos and control, just like racing.

And then there was Tom Cruise.

“I heard you're a real pilot,” she had told him in the Miami GP paddock club a day before. He’d grinned and asked if she ever wanted to fly a jet.

“Only if I can race it,” she’d quipped. He’d loved that.

The conversation had been replayed a hundred times online already, mostly because she glowed when she talked Top Gun.

She should go to sleep, really. I mean, finishing P2 in Miami felt like being reborn in heatstroke and adrenaline. But instead of winding down, she was scrolling through memes of herself “single-handedly causing an NFL civil war.”

One TikTok: Dolphins saying “we saw her first,” Chargers and Bengals battling it out in the comments, and someone Photoshopping her face onto the Lombardi Trophy.

She dropped her phone face-down on the bed, half-laughing, half-screaming.

"I swear, I talked to Burrow for two minutes about hydration," she mumbled to no one.

And Herbert?

He’d asked her if F1 tires were like cleats. It had been a weirdly endearing question.

But it was Tom’s post that sent her group chats into chaos.

“Tom Cruise???”

“YOU MET MAVERICK???”

“Please tell me he did the thumbs up thing.”

She smiled at the ceiling. She tapped her Instagram, again. Notifications, mentions, reposts. Nothing new. Until—

“Glen Powell reacted to your story”

Her stomach dropped.

Not in a bad way. In a did-he-really-just- way. She clicked his profile like a criminal. The man looked like he could charm a hurricane. Which… made sense, given the Twisters premiere was coming up soon. She was already friends with a couple of the casts. She’d been invited. But she didn’t think he knew she existed. Not really.

She stared at the notification. It was just a reaction. Not a message. But it was him.

Glen Powell.

Maybe he’d seen the photo of her with Tom. She told herself to chill. But then again—

If the Dolphins, Chargers, and Bengals could all claim her… maybe it was okay if she let herself wonder. Just a little.

The race might have ended hours ago.But something else was just getting started.

EXTRA

The sun had barely started to dip below the Miami skyline when she found herself in the middle of a debate that had absolutely nothing to do with tire strategy.

“No way,” Joe Burrow said, shaking his head as he leaned casually against the barricade in the paddock. “She’s got that icy calm under pressure. That’s Bengals energy.”

Justin Herbert scoffed beside him. “Bengals energy? You mean overhyped playoff pain? Please. She’s Chargers material—fast, calculated, doesn’t fold under pressure.”

She blinked at both of them, still wearing her race suit with the top half tied around her waist and a cooling towel on her neck. “You know I literally drive for Mercedes, right?”

Joe held up his phone. “Yeah, and yet every sports account on my feed is calling you the NFL’s next war.”

Justin chimed in, “You broke the internet harder than a halftime show.”

She laughed, cheeks flushed from the heat—or maybe the attention. “Can I just be Switzerland?”

“Only if Switzerland wins world championships,” Joe shot back.

A media rep nearby was already filming. She gave them a peace sign and mock whispered, “I plead the fifth.”

It felt easy, natural. The kind of chaotic, post-race euphoria that made all the interviews, heat, and nerves worth it.

A/N: So here is the prologue, it's my first time writing a SMAU, so apologies for that, but well be learning along the way. Hope you guys like it, and thank you for all the support. Shoutout to @dramagodesss without her help and tips I would have no idea how to even bring this to life, be sure to check out her amazing Rafe stories.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

your desi reader fics make me feel so seen 🥹 can I request an oscar x desi reader fic? maybe of them like watching a bollywood movie together bc I just know he’d ask a gazillion questions bc it doesn’t make sense but they’re not meant to follow logic bro just enjoy 😭

Just Pure Feeling -`♡´-

☾ op x desi!reader ༊*·˚

☾ fluff ༊*·˚

masterlist ☾☼

It was a cozy evening in your apartment. The low thrum of the ceiling fan and the smell of dinner you'd just had clung to the air. You sat cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by cushions in every colour imaginable, with the warm dimming of fairy lights softening the room.

Oscar was staring at the TV screen, seemingly befuddled; he had somehow found himself snuggled next to you. His usual biting wit and calm demeanor seem to have deserted him utterly.

The film? Ah, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham—one of your favorites, the great family epic of love, drama, and much else more.

You glanced over at him, trying not to laugh. He was taking this whole Bollywood thing very seriously.

"Okay, so… let me get this straight," Oscar said, pausing the movie just as a dramatic scene of Shah Rukh Khan running across the airport flashed on the screen. “Why does he look like he’s running through a storm of rose petals?”

You laughed, taking the remote control from his hand and played the movie. "It's a Bollywood film, Oscar. It's not about the logic. It's about the emotions".

He blinked twice, eyebrows furrowed in incomprehension. "He's just… running? Like, why is he running in slow motion? And what's with the over-the-top background music? No one does this shit in real life".

"Oh, trust me. It's all part of the charm," you said with a grin, squeezing his arm. "It's the drama, the flair, the passion. It's what makes it special."

Oscar shook his head, still processing what he'd just witnessed. "But why is everyone crying so much? Like, for a movie that literally means 'sometimes happiness, sometimes sadness', I've only seen sadness till now. And why is everyone wearing these elaborate outfits for literally every occasion?"

"Because they're expressing their feelings, Oscar! Emotions are bigger than life here. And don't even get me started on the fashion—it's a cultural thing. The more bling, the better." You laughed at his confused expression. "You'll get used to it. It's about the spectacle."

He furrowed his brow, not satisfied. "Spectacle? The movie's just one melodrama after another! A huge family reunion, and now everyone's hugging… Did he just turn away from his family for years over a misunderstanding?"

You bit your lip to hold in a chuckle. "Yep. That's what makes it Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham — sometimes you have happiness, sometimes sadness. It's all about the grand emotional journey."

Oscar gazed at the screen a few more seconds, his eyes wide. "Okay, but how do they have the energy to sing and dance in the middle of a serious conversation? Like, how does that happen?"

"Bollywood logic," you shrugged, as if that explained everything. "People break into song in the middle of a heartfelt discussion. They could be talking about how to solve world peace, and suddenly it's a dance number. It's magic, Oscar."

He rubbed his temples, clearly trying to keep up with the plot, but at least, he was trying. "But… they just lost their son in a family feud. Why is there a dance number in the middle of a tragedy? This makes no sense!"

You laughed so hard that you had to pause the movie for a moment, clutching your stomach. "Because, Oscar," you said, voice still bubbling with laughter, "it's a Bollywood film. It's a rollercoaster of emotions. You go from crying your eyes out to dancing in the rain in the blink of an eye."

Oscar blinked again, his eyes flicking between the screen and you, as if trying to make sense of it all. "So, what you're saying is… it's not supposed to make sense?"

"Exactly. You're supposed to feel it."

"Well, I'm definitely feeling something," Oscar muttered under his breath. "I just don't know what it is."

"Good!" You smirk at him, flicking him lightly on the shoulder. "Now stop overthinking it and enjoy the ride."

Oscar sank back into the couch with a heavy sigh, surrendering himself to not knowing anything. And yet, you could see the curiosity in his eyes amidst the confusion. "Fine, fine. No reasoning. Just.. pure feeling. Got it."

As the movie played, you snuggled closer to him, feeling his arm instinctively wrap around your shoulders. You felt him press a soft kiss on the top of your head.

"He's so pretty," You murmured at one point.

"Who? The actor?" Oscar asked immediately, sitting up a little straighter.

You hadn't realised that you had said it out loud, but you supposed that he was going to find out eventually.

"Shah Rukh Khan. He's so pretty," Your eyes were glued to the screen as you watched the actor go through his motions.

"You sound like you're in love with him," Oscar laughed, "Thank God, you're not, huh?"

You didn't respond, not wanting to lie to your boyfriend.

"You're not, right?" Oscar emphasised.

"Uh huh, sure. Of course I'm not, that'd be," you paused, sighing sadly, "stupid,"

Oscar shook his head. He didn't know what to say. His girlfriend had a crush on an actor that he was pretty sure had a wife and kids.

You had to admit, this was one of your favorite ways to share your world with him—watching him slowly come around to something so deeply ingrained in your culture, even if he couldn't fully grasp it yet.

A few moments later, when the screen changed to a song-and-dance number, Oscar let out a short laugh. "Alright, so, now they're all dancing on top of a moving car. Got it. Makes perfect sense."

You snorted. "Exactly! That's the spirit!"

You sat there side by side, watching the drama on the screen, but in the midst of it, something much more important was going on: the two of you were creating a beautiful little moment of your own. Not one that had to make sense, but one that simply existed, full of laughter, love, and the warmth of a shared experience.

And, hey, if Oscar cried at some point during the film, you were not supposed to know that. The usually emotionless man had lost the war with a simple Bollywood movie, and may have finally shed a tear or two.

And as the credits rolled, Oscar turned to you with a mock-serious expression. "Alright, I think I'm ready for the next one."

You grinned, already planning your next Bollywood movie marathon. It was clear that Oscar had a lot more questions to ask, but you had no doubt he'd be enjoying the journey every bit as much as you did.

"Get ready for Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge next," you said with a mischievous glint in your eye. "It's even more dramatic."

Oscar sighed dramatically, sinking into the couch. "This is going to be a long night."

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

okay, im ngl, i like this op x desi!reader way more than the previous one. i think i'm getting the hang of writing oscar a little bit. let me know if y'all like this one! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @greantii ; @anamiad00msday ; @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @justaf1girl ; @peterholland04

i'd love your support! https://ko-fi.com/kavi2305

[imsojules]

After the tide turns – Part 1

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: Outbreak violence so, blood, death, swearing, military control, inspired by the last of us, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: Here we go!! 🚨

Comments always make my day! 🖤

word count: 2.8k

masterlist | prequel | next |

The apartment is quiet.

The clock on the microwave blinks 1:42 AM in ghostly blue digits. It’s the only light in the room besides the soft flicker of the streetlamp filtering through the blinds. The apartment smells faintly like the candle you lit earlier, cheap vanilla, burnt halfway down and the leftover takeout JJ promised to throw away when he got back.

Somewhere outside, waves slap against the docks. A fan spins in the ceiling above you, clicking on every third turn like a broken clock. The TV’s gone dark, stuck on the menu screen of some half-watched show. You’re curled up sideways on the couch, one arm underneath your cheek, the other still loosely holding your phone.

It’s late. JJ should’ve been home hours ago. Always running into something dumb that turns into a story later. Something feels off all week, ever since the weird news starts leaking in from the mainland—food recalls, strange medical emergencies, radio silence from certain cities. Rumors on social media about tainted crops. You haven’t paid much attention, honestly.

But you must doze off waiting, because when your eyes snap open again, it’s not to JJ’s voice or the sound of the door.

Your phone comes to life with a faint buzz. A name flashes across the screen, it’s your mom.

You swipe to answer, breath catching.

“Mom? Hello?”

But there’s only static.

You press the phone harder to your ear, like that’ll force a connection through the storm of crackles.

“Mom, I can’t hear you—”

A faint breath. Maybe a syllable. Then nothing. The line drops. The screen reads Call Failed. You stare at it like maybe the phone will change its mind.

It doesn’t. You try calling back, but the screen blinks No Service. One bar flickers and vanishes.

You reach for the remote with a shaking hand. The screen comes alive with a quiet click, casting pale light across the room. You flip through the channels until one freezes— news. Not some talking head in New York or DC. This is close. Too close.

The anchorwoman sits stiffly at her desk, hair slightly out of place, makeup cracked under sweat. Her hands grip the table just out of frame, knuckles white. The studio behind her is dimmer than usual, and there's a buzzing hum in the background, like something’s malfunctioning. Her voice wavers, but she keeps reading.

“...the number of confirmed deaths has surpassed two hundred tonight. The Governor has declared a state of emergency across Dare, Hyde, and surrounding counties…”

She glances to the side—someone off-camera is clearly waving her along—but her voice catches in her throat.

The screen jolts, flickers once, then cuts to a shaky phone video. Someone’s filming from the sidewalk, and everything’s chaos. Emergency lights blur across the frame. A building burns behind the man speaking, his face sweaty, frantic, splashed with ash.

“They didn’t warn us,” he shouts into the lens. “There were hundreds. I swear to God hundreds of bodies just lying there. Like trash. Lined up on the sidewalks. Some of them were still moving. They just left them there.”

It cuts back to the anchor. She’s visibly shaken now, no longer trying to hide it. She swallows hard, eyes flicking to the teleprompter, voice barely above a whisper.

“North Carolina is the next state placed under federal martial law. All residents are required to report to their designated quarantine zones...”

She stops mid sentence. A crash echoes from offscreen. Something metallic falling. Then shouting.

Her head jerks toward the sound.

The studio lights flicker violently. The broadcast stutters, audio warping, and the screen cuts to black.

No more voices. Just dead air.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You start to move fast.

You throw on the hoodie JJ left on the counter, rip open the drawer for your charger, then yank open another and grab the biggest kitchen knife you own. You don’t stop to think, just stuff it into your backpack beside a water bottle and a flashlight.

The doorknob feels ice cold in your hand as you twist it.

— 

Outside, the island feels wrong.

The air is too still, too heavy, no wind through the trees. Not a single cicada hums.

Only silence.

Then far off a siren wails, long and piercing. Another joins it. Somewhere to the east, a car alarm hiccups into life, screeching until it cuts off like it was silenced. A few blocks down, tires screech. You hear something crash. Then a scream. Sharp, raw, human. The kind that cuts through bone.

The streetlights flicker above your head, stuttering like a dying heartbeat.

You step out slowly, kitchen knife clenched in your fist, your pulse thudding in your ears.

A shadow breaks across the end of the street.

“HEY!”

You spin, heart in your throat.

JJ barrels toward you at a dead sprint. Sweat beads down his temple, his blond curls stuck to his forehead, his chest heaving like he hasn’t stopped running in blocks. His T-shirt is ripped, shoulder bloodied, and there’s a bat strapped to his back.

"You're okay?" you ask loudly.

“Shit, Y/N,” he breathes, skidding to a stop in front of you. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“My mom called,” you say, breath catching. “They said they’re locking everything down—“

“I know. I know,” he says, already grabbing your arm, scanning the street behind you like something might crawl out of it. “They’re saying it’s a pandemic, but it’s way worse than that.”

“Worse how?”

“I don’t know. People are... sick. And violent. I saw one of the yacht guys bit someone at the marina. Didn’t stop.”

You stare at him.

“Bit them?”

“Yeah,” he says, low. “Didn’t stop until someone cracked his skull open.”

You try to process it, but it doesn’t stick. It doesn’t feel real.

“John B’s got a truck running—don’t ask. We’re getting off this island before they shut it down.”

You’re still frozen, knife in hand, mind racing to catch up. You feel sick.

JJ sees it in your face, the fear, the stall. He steps in close, cups your face in both hands like it’s the only thing that matters. “Hey. Look at me.”

His voice remains steady, but there's a fire beneath it, a sharp edge.

“We need to move. Now.” He laces his fingers with yours and pulls you forward. “It’s down by the marina,” JJ says under his breath, eyes cutting side to side. “John B said he ditched it behind the bait shack.”

The two of you move fast and low, ducking between hedges and shadows. The island feels like it’s holding its breath. You pass a front yard where someone’s porch light is still on, swinging gently in the breeze. The door’s wide open. Inside, it’s too quiet.

You keep going.

You’re half a block from the marina when you hear it. A wet, gurgling moan.

JJ freezes. Holds a hand out to stop you.

“Shhh...”

You strain to listen. Then you see it, stumbling into the middle of the road.

It used to be someone’s dad. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a fishing shirt, and one sandal. His face is slack, twitching. Mouth twitching like he’s trying to form words but only guttural clicks spill out. His neck is twisted too far to one side.

“What the hell...” you whisper.

“No fucking way” JJ mutters.

The man jerks his head at the sound. And then he runs.

Not stumbles… runs. Straight at you.

JJ reacts first.

“Back!”

He shoves you behind him and rips the bat off his back. The monster slams into him full force, and they crash onto the pavement. JJ rolls with him, shoving the handle of the bat between them as the man snaps his teeth inches from JJ’s face.

You don’t think. Instinct takes the wheel.

You surge forward, knife gripped so tight it carves into your palm. The blade sinks into the infected man's side, deep and fast but he doesn’t even blink. No scream. No hesitation. Just a low, sickening grunt as he whips around toward you, jaw unhinged.

“The head!” JJ yells, voice cracked with urgency.

Your hands shake as you yank the blade free. You aim higher.

You shove the knife straight into his throat and feel it grind against something solid. He gurgles, still moving. You rip it out and slam it forward again, this time just under his chin, until the resistance gives and he drops like a sack of wet meat.

It’s over.

But the silence afterward is louder than the fight.

Your chest heaves. Your arms are trembling, coated in blood, some of it yours, most of it not. The knife clatters to the pavement, slick and red.

JJ pushes himself up from the ground, sweat pouring off him, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon. His shirt’s soaked, splattered with dark streaks.

“You okay?” he asks, voice raw, eyes locked on yours.

“Are you?”

JJ drags in a breath, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything at once.

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice cracks around it. “I’m fine. Fucking hell...”

He grabs your hand, not waiting for you to find your balance. He hooks his arm behind your head and buries your face into his neck, the sound he makes is like a half-groan, half-sigh, torn from something deeper than relief.

“Don’t stop now.” he mutters.

And you run again, blood on your hands, shadows at your heels. JJ doesn’t let go of your hand as you cut through backyards and over fences, dodging overturned trash bins and shattered glass.

You spot the truck before you see them. The engine growls low as it idles by the curb, headlights off. A shape leans out the passenger side window and waves both arms.

“There!” JJ yells, tugging you forward.

You sprint the last block, lungs on fire, your shoes slamming the pavement with each step. Pope jumps out and yanks the door open before you even reach them.

“Where the hell have you been?” he shouts. “We heard screaming, I thought you were dead!”

“We almost were,” JJ snaps, climbing in behind you. “One of those things came at us.”

John B leans forward over the steering wheel, face grim under the red dashboard lights. “We’re out of time. They’re shutting everything down. Bridge is already crawling with military trucks.”

You slam the door just as the engine revs.

The tires screech. John B jerks the wheel, pulling away from the curb so hard you feel your body lurch sideways. He doesn’t slow down. The street blurs past—yards, fences, blown-out porch lights. You see fires in the distance, smoke bleeding into the sky.

“Is it true?” Pope asks from the front seat. “That it’s everywhere?”

“Yeah,” JJ says. “It’s not just the island. They’ve got martial law orders all over. We have to make it off before they barricade everything.”

John B kept the truck low and fast, weaving between abandoned cars, fences, and bodies. Real ones. Not just the infected.

“Where’s that quarantine zone?” Pope finally asked, breaking the silence. His voice cracked. “The emergency one they’re setting up. It’s even real?”

JJ answered before John B could.

“It’s real. I heard guys at the marina talking about it. FEMA and FEDRA are setting up temporary holding zones like processing centers before they move people to the inland.”

“Where?” you asked.

JJ glanced at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “Mainland. By the old ferry terminal.”

You sat back, feeling the hum of the tires beneath you. Processing centers. Like livestock.

When you arrive at the bridge, it’s loomed ahead lined with military vehicles, barricades, men with rifles and stiff jaws.

John B slowed as he pulled onto the shoulder behind a row of silent, idle cars. A single checkpoint light flickered weakly in the dark, casting shadows against chain-link fences. A soldier stepped out. He raised one hand.

“Stop the vehicle! Keep your hands visible!”

John B’s fingers tightened around the wheel. “Everybody, don’t move.”

Another soldier moved along the side of the truck, rifle aimed low but ready.

“What’s your status?” the man barked.

JJ muttered under his breath, “What the hell does that even mean?”

Pope answered fast, “We’re healthy. No bites. We’re just trying to get out.”

The soldier’s light cut across JJ’s face. “ID?”

“We’re local,” John B said, and that clearly wasn’t the right answer. The soldier turned his head, muttering something into a radio clipped to his vest.

JJ shifted. You reached across and grabbed his wrist under the bat.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“Step out of the vehicle. One at a time. Hands up.”

You all moved, slowly, carefully. JJ was the last to exit. The four of you stood in the orange glow of floodlights as the soldier swept a scanner over each of your arms. A cold beep followed each one.

“Looks clear” the man muttered.

But he didn’t lower his weapon. A second soldier approached with a clipboard. “Group of four, unregistered. No assigned housing, no prior QZ status. They go into temporary hold.”

“Where?” Pope asked.

The man didn’t answer. He just motioned toward a fenced-off zone across the bridge. You could see other groups there huddled, cold, some with children, others coughing into their sleeves. Canvas tents stood crooked under floodlights. Men in hazmat suits moved like ghosts between them.

JJ stared, jaw clenched. “You said this was just a checkpoint.”

“This is the checkpoint,” the soldier replied. “That’s where you wait.”

He shoved open the gate.

— 

The temporary quarantine zone smells like sweat, bleach, and dirt. It’s sterile, metallic. Like biting a battery.

Canvas walls flap weakly in the wind, barely held by aluminum rods hammered into cracked pavement. The floodlights above burn too bright, bleaching everything in cold white. The kind of light that makes shadows too sharp and the air too thin.

A steady line of people winds toward a folding table where two soldiers stand beside a man in scrubs holding a clipboard. The stench of antiseptic clings to everything. You feel exposed. Like the light’s stripping you down, inch by inch, peeling the skin off everyone. Every breath feels too loud. Too desperate.

The line crawls forward. The murmurs around you are like a low hum, a desperate need to be anywhere but here. Sniffling kids, a father hissing at his son to sit still, a woman rocking back and forth, whispering prayers to no one. Someone coughs behind you, a wet, raw sound that causes everyone to stiffen, but no one dares to turn around.

You don’t remember when your legs started shaking. It’s like your body knew before your brain did.

This place isn’t for keeping people safe. It’s for sorting them. And you’re not sure what category you belong to.

The hum of the floodlights burrows into your skull. It’s not just a sound anymore, it’s a thought like a high-pitched idea that echoes through your teeth.

Obey. Obey. Obey.

The line shifts again, and Pope is gone. No time for goodbyes, just a sharp glance, a silent command “stay sane” but it’s hard to imagine that’s even possible. Then John B follows.

And then it’s just you and JJ. The silence between you two feels heavier, thicker. Like the air’s curdled around you, pressing down.

JJ’s breathing is too fast. You feel it before you hear it—the twitch of his hand at his side, the nervous tapping of his foot against the cracked pavement, like a countdown to something he dreads but can't stop. He glances around like he wants to bolt, but doesn’t know where to run or how to start. He looks at you, his mouth a tight line, and you feel the weight of the moment hanging in the air while he fidgets, his hand jerking toward his pocket before he stops himself.

The soldiers close in. The one who steps toward you is nothing but cold eyes and rubber gloves, moving with a precision that feels practiced. The soldier who points to you might as well be death itself.

Her voice is soft. Too soft. “You. Next.”

JJ’s hand shoots out before you even realize it, gripping your arm like he’s already losing you. His voice raw and desperate. “Just a second—”

They move toward him, and it’s like the world shifts. His grip tightens around your arm, but it’s not enough to keep you grounded. His face is strained, his eyes wild with something you can’t name, but the words die in his throat before he can say anything more.

And then they drag him away.

You don’t have time to say anything. There’s no chance to reach for him, to stop them. They take him, just like that, like it’s nothing more than routine and all that’s left is the cold light and the echo of his name still hanging in the air.

You feel like you can't move. The soldier’s eyes are cold, uninterested. She’s already moving you forward.

You can still feel JJ’s grip. Like a phantom pulse in your skin.

[yatsurinamikaze]

Swan and Shadow [Sakusa Kiyoomi x Miya!Reader]

Summary: Where the brooding Sakusa Kiyoomi unknowingly falls in love with the Miya sister. What happens next?

Chapter 12 [Masterlist]

Sakusa sat on the edge of his bed, still in his tracksuit. The only sound was the dull hum of the ceiling fan and the muted pounding in his head. The towel from the game was still clenched in his fist, damp from stress, not sweat.

MSBY lost. And he knew exactly why.

Before he could spiral further, the front door creaked open.

"Yo!" Sakusa looked up, barely lifting his head. “Motoya.”

Standing in the doorway with snacks, in socks half sliding off, was Komori - his most consistent visitor. “Thought I’d come cheer up the tragic prince,” Motoya said, tossing a bag of chips on the table.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Hey—come on.” Motoya flopped onto the couch. “It's our ritual.”

Sakusa didn’t budge.

“We’ve done this since we were five. You tank a game, we break it down, frame by frame, and cry into snacks after. It’s practically sacred.”

Sakusa let out a sigh but finally dragged himself to the couch, dropping like dead weight beside him. Motoya was already scrolling through highlights on YouTube. “Okay, what happened to you in the second set? You pull a muscle? Get food poisoning?”

Silence.

Sakusa slouched deeper into the cushions, eyes on the floor. Motoya raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He kept clicking.

Click.

Click.

Then froze.

The screen wasn’t showing volleyball clips anymore.

Nope- it was a curated carousel of ballet videos. You, dancing in a pale blue leotard. You, twirling in soft golden light. You, bowing at the end of a duet—Shinjiro at your side.

Motoya stared at the screen, dead silent.

“…Huh.”

Sakusa’s head snapped up in horror. “Don’t.”

Too late.

Motoya stood up on the couch, holding the remote high up like Simba in his hand, “What the hell is this?!”

Sakusa lunged, but Motoya scrambled backward, still towering on the cushions.

“Bro. BRO. You are one video away from making a FAN-CAM.”

“Give me the remote.”

“No.” Motoya squinted at the screen. “Wait—isn’t this the Miya sister?”

Sakusa let out a sound that wasn’t quite human. "You think I dont know that?"

“I mean—she’s hot, I get it. But dude. You hate drama—she comes with twin-sized baggage and a boyfriend!”

“It’s not—” Sakusa snatched the remote, flopping back onto the couch with a groan. “It’s not like that.”

Motoya raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Because this playlist says ‘ballet angel – slow motion edition.’”

Sakusa glared. “I didn’t name it.”

“You still saved it.”

Silence.

Sakusa stared at the paused video—your profile mid-turn, caught in soft spotlight.

“I just… like watching her dance,” he muttered.

Motoya sat beside him again, this time quieter. Realization hits him, “Wait, was she at the game? Is she why you lost your mojo?”

Sakusa sighs, then nods. "Her and..Shinjiro." Sakusa tells Motoya everything he saw. 

Motoya sits beside him again, this time quieter. “Do you like her?”

Sakusa doesn’t answer immediately. Then, quietly, “I don’t know.”

Motoya studies him for a second. “Okay. Does spending time with her make you happy?”

Sakusa nods once.

“Do you think about her a lot?”

Another nod.

“…do you feel like you want to kiss her?”

Sakusa pauses. Really pauses. He doesn’t even realize he’s nodding until Motoya lets out a sharp breath and drops the joking tone entirely.

“Then snap out of it. Now is a terrible time for you to be feeling this way.”

Sakusa blinks, startled as Motoya continues,

“I don’t know if it’s a crush or infatuation or whatever, but this? This is not healthy. One—she’s a Miya. You know how that plays out. And two—she has a serious boyfriend. Like, press photos serious.”

Sakusa looks at him, wide-eyed and silent.

“I can’t control how I feel,” he finally says, voice low.

“No,” Motoya agrees. “But you can control what you do about it.”

There's a long pause as Sakusa takes in Motoya's words.

Then Motoya nudges him lightly. “So… what are you gonna do about it?”

Sakusa doesn’t answer. He just stares at the screen—at your paused silhouette, frozen mid-spin—and breathes.

Maybe it’s infatuation. Maybe it’s not.

But either way, he knows now— he can’t keep doing nothing.

Edited: Realized the next chapters weren't aligning. lol.

[ras-favourite-balor]

[A set of 12 voices come over the shipwide communications.... singing? Other Systems appear to begin to be sabotaged as their "Song" continues]

Knock Knock

Who's There?

Knock Knock

Better Run and Hide

Your Home's Turned Into a House of Glass

Think of the Lives Your Wasting Now

So Throw Out Your Negotiations

Knock Knock

Anybody Answer

Knock Knock

We're Coming Through the Doors

Knock Knock

Your Ceiling and Your Floors

Knock Knock

Should've Given You the Bark

Things are Gonna Get Dark

Don't Choke When Ya Fear Us

Cause We Aren't Smoke

Or Mirrors

Pushing All Your Buttons but Ain't Got Mute

But All You'll Hear Is Silence When We Find You

So

KNOCK KNOCK

Better Ready to Answer

KNOCK KNOCK

Forgetting All Your Manners

KNOCK KNOCK

Barricade Your Doors

KNOCK KNOCK

Your Ceilings and Your Floors

Floating Into Your House

Bringing You a War

//WHEELLOCK\\

Brigand stands on the bridge, gazing out through Shallow Crimson Tide. His single eye is dim, casting a puddle of weak red light around him, as he stares off into the middle distance. Around the room, the bridge crew throw nervous glances at their absent captain. The bridge crew, the loyal few, are all non-corsairs. All are clearly grizzled veterans, marked by time's heavy hand. Their myriad scars exaggerated by the low light of the bridge, long shadowed valleys carved in old skin. Most are augmented in one way or another. There might just be more prosthesis than natural flesh in the room. Most bear tattoos, even if their not visible here. The logos of long dead pirate crews, symbols denoting great deeds and greater violence. One by one, the terminals around the room go dark. Still, Brigand does not react, yet The Black Hand twitches with each downed system:

"We've lost long and short range comms!"

"No more surveillance Cap'n, powers been rerouted t'life support. . ."

"Even hydroponics is dark. . ."

"Engineering bays 1 through 7 have gone silent!"

"Lost contact with medbay."

"Flight capabilities are gone Captain! We're sitting idle now. . ."

"Habitation's lost it's spin, gravity ship wide is on the fritz!"

"Quartermaster Able says they've lost power down in cargo!"

"C.R.E.W. on gunnery 1, 2, and 4 report near complete power loss!"

"Internal weapons systems are offline?!"

"Hangers are locked tight, nothing in or out."

"They've got control of locking corridor doors sir, security couldn't reach them, even with hull cutters, their like fucking gho-"

The Black Hand slams into the nearest wall. The bridge goes near silent, the sound only whirring fans and beeping terminals. Brigand heaves heavy breaths, distorted to sound like some dying, demented pipe organ. Every head turns to gaze upon the captain. . .

And for just a moment the mask has slipped. It is clear in how he stands, slumped and teetering slightly, that the suit is all that holds him upright. Even then, he leans heavily on a support beam, warped by The Black Hand's impact and it's lasting presence. He seems so small in this moment. A man broken by the world, given in to madness and death. Consumed by hate and the influence of that terrible, black appendage. He looks as if he will collapse under the weight of it all, before he stands mostly straight.

He turns to address the bridge. Yet when he speaks, his voice lacks a degree of threat. He is tired, worn down, when was the last time he slept? No one has seen him sleep since donning Shallow Crimson Tide. . .

[BRIGAND} LABYRINTH, TELL ABLE TO BRING OUT THE PIPECLEANERS, SHOOT TO KILL, OVERRIDE SAFETY PROTOCOLS.

He takes a shaking step forward, regaining his composure by the moment. An older man with a snake tattoo coiled about his neck nods and begins hammering away at his keyboard. Most of the terminals are off, less than a dozen remain on. The pale glow lights waiting faces. He looks to a heavily scarred woman, much her face replaced with crude cybernetics.

[BRIGAND} COSSACK! FIRE THE BLINK DRIVE. I DON'T CARE WHERE, SOMEWHERE REMOTE. THEY WON'T LEAVE HERE ALIVE.

The woman nods, connecting a cable from the terminal to a port roughly where her temple should be. The remaining crew are split, those with terminals still active start checking status of remaining systems preemptively, while the rest look expectantly to Brigand, awaiting orders. Brigand eye flares as he bellows through the tinny speakers:

[BRIGAND} OILER! WHATS OUR STATUS WITH MAINTE-

He is cut off by the woman with the metal face, Cossack. Her voice is similar to his own, but more human somehow. The not quite synthetic voice is a jumble of emotions. Foremost is confusion, and concern, followed by fear:

[Cossack]> SIR! I don't know how to tell you this but. . .

Yet there is also humour, a nervous laugh spills out as she pauses.

[BRIGAND} WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING AT COSSACK? [Cossack]> The blink drive sir, it-its. . .

She laughs again, disbelief pushing through the digital staccato. Brigand lurches towards her terminal. But he is a giant among hedgerows. The space between control stations is tight and there is no room for him. The eye burns with contempt, settling on Cossack like a searchlight. His voice is worse, peaking the limits of it's distortion as his temper flares.

[BRIGAND} THIS IS NO TIME FOR ANOTHER OF YOUR "JOKES". [Cossack]> The blink drive is gone, sir. Not offline, it's not even present, not even here. Empty air where it should be. . .

The room is silent again for a moment as Cossack's not-voice trails off. All stare at her, faces painted with confusion, with disbelief. She turns away from the gawking crowd and works at her terminal. The rest of the crew converse in hushed tones, those with working terminals start their own checks. After a moment, a flickering hologram is projected above them all. A live feed diagnostic with accompanying 3D wire map.

The room is silenced.

The blink drive is gone.

[orisonsmarthome]

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[astracora]

A Mandated Holiday Break - Chapter 6

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc (poly lads)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 971

Written: 21st December 2024

Notes: Post-relationship Sylus/MC-centric but poly LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Masterlist AO3

Sylus' body is an inferno. He's well used to running hotter than most. It's just another part of who he is, that doesn't occur to him the majority of the time.

The first few times you'd shared a bed, you'd wriggled out of his grasp, sweating and uncomfortable. Had he had less control over himself, he'd have pouted. (You probably didn't miss the furrow in his brow though.)

So he'd slept wearing as little as possible.

Still too much, waking up in the middle of his sleep schedule to find you across the bed, covers thrown off to cool down. Shedding your discomfort.

Next he'd taken to pulling your clothes off. Always a delight, this time a driven aim. It had worked somewhat, you'd wrapped yourself into his embrace and tangled around him, seeking out the heat of his body like he was your personal pillow.

It lasted longer, but still he was awoken by you edging away, seeking the chill of a turned over pillow and the outside of the duvet.

He'd changed the type of bedding he used, bought you new bedding.

You'd told him to stop worrying, to stop paying expenses, sometimes it was just too warm.

Sylus was sure at that he'd grumbled like a child. He wanted to hold you, and he wanted to wake up with you in his arms.

Everytime you moved out of his reach, he itched and ached like scales growing through raw skin. It was one of the few times he envied the doctor, he never seemed to have trouble with keeping you clinging throughout your slumber.

Eventually he had two things fitted, a ceiling fan and air conditioning. The change to temperature meant so little to him, unbothered by heat or cold. When you'd seen them on your next visit, you'd been incredulous. Since when did he need either of these?

He didn't answer that he needed them for you, for him, he just made an offhand comment about the best, and preparation for the future. (The immediate future. His sleep quality.)

His relief that day when he'd woken up, your head under his chin, legs tangled with his, and arms around him. Seeking out his skin against yours.

The second you left the bed, however, you'd complained for the chill. He left the remote for the new tools of his victory, in your hands, but he had gleefully held you as long as he could, chin on shoulder and hands dancing across cool skin.

Your week off has allowed him to experience that for a few days now, he's using your sleep pattern for the week, though there is no real track of time in the sky of the N109 Zone. He doesn't want to make your return to work difficult.

As he wakes, this morning you have stayed asleep, catching up on long hours. Your back is pressed to his chest and you're holding onto his arm. He won't tease you about the drool out the corner of your mouth, but he files away the image for himself. Tickled and endeared.

He doesn't want to wake you, you're so peaceful... but he can't stop himself from pulling as close as he can. Burying his nose in the crook of your neck, and breathing you in.

You smell like his last meal in every life. Like he could bite down and die happy, your blood in his mouth and your soul in his chest.

If he were a weaker man, perhaps he'd drool as well, salivating and starving.

He certainly feels starved when he cannot keep you close, desperate and dogged.

You'd teased him that he reminds you of a wolf, and he thinks that's more accurate than he likes. He would bite your hand lovingly, but tear and snarl at your command, if that's what you wanted from him.

Sylus wants to get up, if he can get breakfast ready, he can see your eyes light up. Hand you a mug of coffee, that turns his nose, in bed. So you'll kiss his cheek and sigh happily.

He feels satisfaction when he sees you happy because of him. Yet...

Pressed against you, your chest moving with each breath. So alive, and warm and his. You trust him to guard you, to kiss your neck when the scent drives him to madness, to keep you warm against the cold. He once mused that you still took his hand despite how dangerous he was, and every day he marvels more at how you continue to do so.

Now when you take his hand, you place a kiss on his knuckles. That if he had no healing ability, would be scarred and torn and ruinous. He thinks, that even if that were the case... you would still kiss them tender and raw.

You had always seen something in him that no one else did. Flowers suiting his soul, a smile worthy of his face, love belonging in his hands.

He feels sick with the feeling, overflowing from where joined hearts beat in his chest, but it's a sickness he would never wish to heal himself of. Peace found despite how little he probably deserves it.

Sylus is selfish though. A fragment, a taste, a burst of you had not been enough. Millennia's will not be enough. Until the end of the world itself he will never think this is enough.

No matter his sullied hands, or the actions he has made, some of which he would not apologise for, he will never relinquish his treasure.

His Soul.

You who owns his heart for eternity.

As he bites down at your shoulder, stirring your sleep, and laves with his tongue to your sleepy pleasure, he settles for a taste of the cure to his hunger, that he plans to draw out forever.

[hamsterbellbelle]

CC list #1 for Messy Christmas Apartment🎦:

CC list #2 HERE

Alcohol bottles || Animated candy canes/mirror/pillow/wrath || Animated fan || Animated holiday lights || Animated light garland/plastic box/snow decal/gingerbread house/hanging stars/reindeer light/gift pile (deco) || Armchair || Bathroom bottles || Bathroom clutter || Bathroom wall hanger || Bed || Bedframe ||

Beer bottle || Blinds/cable box/power strip/tv remote/VHS tapes/wall outlet || Books - A - B - C || Books stack (tall) || Boots/umbrella basket || Bowl pile || Bucket with water dip ||

Candle (bathroom) || Cardboard boxes || Cardboard rug || CD stack || Ceramic jar || Chair with bag || Christmas food (deco) || Clothes (floor)/bag/light with towel || Clothes (floor) ||

Clothes rack/vinyl player/clutter box/speaker || Computer || Cookie || Counter || Cup noodle/Food can/sandals || Curtains/books || Dirty dishes || Divider || Document box || Drink crate || Dustpan ||

Electric box/dishes bucket/tool box || Electric meter || File cabinet table/graffiti || Floor [Day 12] || Floor/ceiling || Folded chairs || Food clutter (coffee table) || Framed pictures/newspaper ||

Glass crack || Graffiti || Guitar (wall)/amp || Hamper (deco) || Hanging chains || Headphone/controller and keyboard display || Key tray || Keyboard || Kitchen rack || Laptop (deco) || Laptop suitcase ||

Magazine || Mails/dirty dishes/take out || Mug stand || Neon - Santa - Thunder || Newspaper || Notebook/mini calendar/trash can with trash/stationary plate || Paper bag/mug || Papers || Papers ||

Phone (with cord) || Pipes || Plants/stacked dishes || Plants - A - B - C || Plastic stool (bathroom) || Poker table || Polaroid - A - B || Post-It notes || Rangehood/cereal boxes || Shoe box || Shoes || Sink (kitchen)/kitchen clutter || Soap bottle || Sofa || Speaker ||

Suitcase/beauty case/photos || Sunglasses || Surge plug || Table light || Take out coffee tray/golden disk deco/guitar case/microphone/music stand/mixing table || Toilet paper || Toilet paper (floor) || Toilet || Toothbrush mug || Toothpaste || Towel (kitchen) ||

[transmisogynistic]

I think the most consistent thing in my life is losing the remote that controls the ceiling fan/light for at least 3/7 days of the week. Once my ceiling light was broken and I just didn’t get it fixed for like a year and a half. Just didn’t need it. I love the dark, darkness, evil, villainy, death, destruction, etc

[mistywjj]

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[env0]

So my fans working. Because it just takes time it seems to reset

My dad complained it was chewing up electricity. So now I'm going to pester the shit out of his 5 monitor 2 laptop 1 TV setup that's always running.

It's doing nothing. Sir it circulates air in my small ass room so it's not stale and so I can sleep better.

Okay but turn it off during the day.

If i could I would but the whole system is so fucked, as I've told you twice now, that shutting the light switch off kills the entire room. No lights no air no power. And I have no control when it'll return. I don't use the remote or the light switch. I manually use the pull strings on the ceiling fan.

Bro... I swear to God I'll throw cash at you to shut up. You turned the ac down multiple times last few nights when it's cool out.

Fuck the fuck off. Costing us money, you dumb fucking scrooge.

Have your tuppence.