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iamquiantrelle · 2 months ago

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XOXO YOUR FAVE WAG • iamquaintrelle

# summary: the first match of the season at real madrid. # pairings: kylian mbappe x black spoiled gf (fc: 6kenza) # wc: 3.6k # tags: @kmlottin @masn-mount @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @szariahwroteit @muglermami @goodgyalgonebadd @sailurmewn # author’s note: got a scenario for your fave wag? - send them here // one shot series masterlist

PART II: SCHLICK

The weight of eighty thousand expectations pressed against the soundproof glass of her private box, transforming the Bernabéu into a cathedral of white-clad devotion.

She leaned against the balcony, mesmerized by the sea of jerseys filling the massive stadium. The roar was muffled but still palpable, creating a strange bubble of calm amid the chaos. Below, groundskeepers were making final preparations for Real Madrid's season opener against Valencia.

"Would madame like another drink?" A server appeared at her elbow, startling her.

"Oh, non, merci," she replied, still clutching her half-full champagne flute.

Technically, she wasn't alone in the box—there were servers, security, and a handful of club officials milling about—but she might as well have been. The other WAGs were two boxes over, a deliberate separation that hadn't gone unnoticed by social media already.

"Trouble in Madrid paradise? Mbappé's girlfriend gets separate box at first game."

She'd seen the headline pop up on her phone ten minutes after arriving. Someone on the inside was clearly feeding the gossip machine.

The truth was much simpler: she preferred her space on game days. After finally making inroads with the WAGs at that second training session and the lunch that followed, she’d been surprised to receive multiple invitations to join them in their box today. Camila had been particularly insistent, Sofia had promised homemade Spanish treats, and even the usually reserved Eva had texted to say there was “plenty of room.”

But game days were different. She needed space to feel her nerves, to curse in French when things got tense, to be herself without cameras capturing every reaction. So she’d politely declined, sending a quick message to the WAG group chat:

Thanks ladies, but I need my own box for this one. Match day superstition… don’t want to jinx Ky’s debut! Save me some treats for after?

Their responses had surprised her:

Camila: Totally get it. I was the same until Rodrygo made me join the group. Something about “team unity” 🙄

Sofia: No pressure! The offer stays open for whenever you’re ready.

Eva: Superstition = you watching in your lucky underwear 👀

Lucia: First rule of WAG club: respect the superstitions. We’ll keep your seat warm for next time!

That last message had made her smile. Acceptance, without pressure. Maybe the Madrid WAGs weren’t the ice queens she’d initially thought.

Her smile grew at Kylian's pre-game text:

Cherchez-moi après l’échauffement. Je te ferai un bisou. Le premier objectif est pour toi, Squirtle.

Sentimental dork. She typed back:

Les vrais hommes marquent des tours du chapeau lors de leurs débuts. Je dis juste.

Défi accepté. Regarde-moi.

She grinned, pocketing her phone as she spotted the teams emerging for warm-ups. Even from this distance, Kylian was instantly recognizable—something about the way he moved, electric and fluid. Pride swelled in her chest watching him, now dressed in pristine white instead of PSG blue.

He looked good. Happy. Like he belonged here, despite what half of Paris was saying about betrayal and loyalty. She knew the truth: how he'd agonized over the decision, how he'd cried the night he told Nasser he was leaving. The public only saw the headlines, the salary figures, the glamour. They didn't see the boy from Bondy who still sometimes couldn't believe this was his life.

True to his word, after warm-ups, Kylian jogged to her side of the pitch, looking up at the boxes. She pressed her hand against the glass, and even though she knew he probably couldn't see her clearly, he blew a kiss in her direction. The gesture was caught by cameras, instantly broadcasting on the stadium screens.

A collective "awww" rose from the crowd, followed by enthusiastic cheering. On impulse, she decided to mark the moment. She snapped a selfie with the pitch behind her, making sure the diamond "K" pendant resting against her collarbone was visible. The necklace—Kylian's first big gift to her two and a half years ago—always brought her luck on game days.

She posted it to Instagram with the caption:

her_instagram: first match in madrid! ⚪️ #halamadrid #nervousbutexcited

She barely had time to set her phone down before the notifications started flooding in. Unlike the usual barrage of hate, there seemed to be more positive comments this time:

@madrid_fan_2002: Ok I wasn't sure about her but she looks happy to be here. Welcome to Madrid!

@footballwags_daily: That VIEW though 😍 Separate box is a flex

@kylianm10_stan: The K necklace is back! Lucky charm for our boy

@fashion_footballers: Still wearing the famous K pendant I see 👀 Some things never change even in a new city

She smiled, scrolling through more comments, until she landed on one that made her nearly spit out her champagne:

@wags_uncensored: We all know Mbappé has a thing for seeing his initial around her neck... word is he gets turned on seeing her wearing his "brand" if you know what I mean 😏

"For fuck's sake," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

The K pendant had been the subject of ridiculous speculation for years. What had started as a sweet gift—a simple diamond "K" that Kylian had given her after signing his loss in the World Cup—had somehow morphed in the public imagination into some kind of kinky ownership symbol.

The rumors had started after a tipsy night out in Paris when she'd posted a bathroom selfie with Kylian visible in the background, looking at her with unmistakable heat in his eyes. She'd been wearing just the pendant and his jersey at the time (and pants, contrary to the rumors). The internet had gone wild with theories about Kylian's supposed possessive streak and kink for "branding" her.

There was a tiny grain of truth to it—Kylian did get a particular look in his eyes when she wore his initial.

And now the discourse was starting up again in Madrid.

More comments rolled in:

@madridista4ever!: Does the K stand for Kylian or Kinky? 😂 We've all heard the rumors girl

@footy_gossip_queen: I see the ownership tag is still firmly in place. Get you a man who makes sure everyone knows you're his property 🔥

@mbappeswifey21: That necklace is LITERALLY a collar don't @ me

She groaned, closing the app. It was going to be one of those days.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Alexia:

Girl the comments about your necklace are SENDING ME. Pretty sure Ky is trending for his "kink" not the game 💀

Don't encourage it omg. It's a normal necklace! Not my fault people are pervs.

Sure Jan. Bradley says Ky used to get all growly in the locker room whenever someone mentioned you wearing his initial. Just saying!

I hate you.

You love me. Also are you watching the pre-game? They just showed your post on the broadcast lmao

She quickly switched to the small TV in the corner of the box. Sure enough, the commentators were discussing Kylian's debut while her Instagram post was displayed on screen. One of them was actually pointing to the K necklace, seemingly speculating about its significance.

"Putain de merde," she groaned.

As she continued scrolling through comments, she noticed a new theme emerging:

@madridsocialite: Are we not going to talk about how her boobs look way bigger than in Paris? Madrid upgrade includes surgery?

@wags_body_watch: The K necklace is a distraction from the obvious boob job. No shame girl, they look good!

@footballfashionista: New city, new... assets? 👀 #ChestUpgrade

She stared at her phone in disbelief, then looked down at her chest. She was wearing a simple yellow vest, and yes, her breasts did look fuller than they had a few months ago, but that was because:

1. She'd gained a perfectly healthy five pounds since moving to Madrid (stress eating pastries, thank you very much)

2. She'd switched to the hormonal implant in her arm for birth control, which had the side effect of making her boobs swell

Not that any of that was anyone's business, but it certainly wasn't plastic surgery.

"Putain," she muttered for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Couldn't she just exist in her body without commentary?

Her phone rang. It was her sister.

"Salut, t'es bonne?" her sister asked, barely containing her laughter.

"Don't start," she groaned.

"I just saw your post. You're trending on Twitter, you know."

"Of course I am. God forbid they focus on Kylian's actual football skills."

"To be fair, he's trending too. But yeah, half the comments are about your chest and that necklace. Maman called me asking if you really got surgery. I told her it's just the implant."

"Merci. At least someone believes me."

"You could just ignore it, you know."

"And let them make up their own narrative? Non, merci."

Her sister sighed. "Tu sais que je t'aime, but maybe stop giving them ammunition? Every time you respond, it just keeps the story going."

"So what am I supposed to do? Just let them say whatever they want?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Or lean into it. Make it a joke. I don't know."

She sighed, turning her attention back to the match as it began. Kylian was electric from the start, his speed causing problems for Valencia's defense. When he scored in the 23rd minute—a rocket into the top corner—she leapt to her feet, cheering wildly. True to his word, he pointed directly at her box during his celebration, making a small "K" with his fingers before being mobbed by teammates.

The second half was even better, with Kylian scoring again and setting up a third as Madrid cruised to a 3-0 victory. When the final whistle blew, she felt a genuine surge of happiness and belonging for the first time since moving. This was why they were here—for moments like this. Kylian was thriving on the pitch with his French buddies by his side. She was finally finding her place with the WAGs. Even Milo had stopped eating her shoes (mostly).

When she made her way down to the family area after the match, the other WAGs were waiting, Camila immediately pulling her into a hug.

"There she is! Our good luck charm!” Camila exclaimed. "We’ve decided the K necklace is mandatory for all matches from now on."

"I second that," Sofia agreed. "My husband says Kylian played like a man possessed today."

"Possessed or trying to impress someone," Eva added with a knowing smile. "Either way, it worked."

Before she could respond, the doors to the players’ area swung open. Kylian emerged first, now in his team trackie with his hair damp from what must have been a quick shower. His eyes scanned the room, lighting up when they landed on her. Unlike his usual composed public demeanor, he made a beeline straight for her, ignoring the waiting press and club officials.

"There she is," he said, loud enough for nearby people to hear, before pulling her into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped possessively around her waist, and he buried his face in her neck for a moment, right where the K pendant rested.

"You were amazing," she murmured, surprised by his public display of affection. They usually kept things more reserved in front of cameras.

Instead of answering, he pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss that was definitely not their usual public peck. His hand came up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing against her jawline, while his other arm kept her firmly pressed against him.

When he finally released her, she was slightly breathless. "What was that for?" she whispered.

"Just happy," he said with a grin, but there was something heated in his gaze as it dropped to the K pendant. His fingers came up to touch it briefly. "Lucky charm worked."

She caught Camila and the other WAGs watching with barely concealed amusement. Sofia made an exaggerated fanning motion, while Eva whispered something to Lucia that made them both dissolve into giggles.

A reporter approached, microphone extended. Kylian kept his arm firmly around her waist, tucking her against his side in a way that was unusually possessive for him in public.

"Kylian! Congratulations on the debut goals. Your celebration seemed to have special meaning?"

Kylian's media-trained smile appeared, though his arm remained locked around her. "Thank you. Yes, special meaning for someone special." He squeezed her hip.

"There's been quite a reaction online to your girlfriend's post today, particularly the necklace—"

"I think," Kylian interrupted smoothly, "we should focus on football today. It was an important win for the club, for the fans."

"But there's speculation about your relationship dynamic—"

"The only dynamic people should be concerned with is how I'm connecting with Vini on the pitch," Kylian cut in, still smiling but with a clear edge. "That's what matters today."

The reporter, recognizing defeat, pivoted to questions about the match. Throughout the interview, Kylian kept her pressed against his side, occasionally letting his fingers stroke small circles on her hip or brush against the K pendant at her throat. It was subtle but definitely not their usual public behavior.

When the interviews finally ended, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Let's get out of here."

"Don’t you have team obligations? Dinner or something?"

"They’ll understand," he said, his hand sliding to the small of her back. "I’ve got other priorities tonight."

As they made their way toward the exit, she noticed his eyes dropping to her chest momentarily. "So," he said casually, though his voice had dropped lower, "I see the comments about certain… changes."

She rolled her eyes. "It’s the implant. And maybe some stress eating."

"Mmm,” he hummed, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Whatever it is, I’m not complaining."

“Kylian!” she hissed, swatting his arm. "People are watching."

"Let them," he shrugged, unconcerned. "Maybe it’ll give them something else to talk about besides that.” He tapped the K pendant lightly, but the gesture made her skin warm under his touch.

"You know, you're not exactly helping with the rumors when you act like this," she pointed out as they approached his waiting car.

"Like what?" he asked innocently, though his hand had slid to rest lower on her back than was strictly necessary.

"All... possessive and touchy. People already think you have some weird ownership kink with this necklace."

Instead of the denial she expected, he just laughed, opening the car door for her. "Some rumors have a grain of truth, Squirtle."

"Kylian!" she gasped, genuinely surprised by his admission.

He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed her ear. "What? I like seeing you wear it." Then, as the cameras continued to flash around them, he added in a whisper only she could hear: "And I like taking it off you even more."

Her cheeks flushed as she slid into the car, Kylian following close behind. As they pulled away from the stadium, she couldn't help but think that maybe the internet wasn't entirely wrong about the K pendant after all.

The front door shut with a soft click behind them, the quiet of the villa wrapping around them like a secret. Milo’s tags jingled faintly from his bed in the corner, but it was Gatsby’s loud, nasal snore echoing down the hall that made her laugh softly.

“He’s louder than the fans at Parc des Princes,” she muttered, slipping off her heels.

“Shhh,” Kylian whispered from behind her, already toeing off his sneakers. “Don’t wake him. I need you too bad to stop now.”

His arms wrapped around her waist before she could take another step. He pressed himself against her back, hands gliding up her ribs and then down again, slow and purposeful, like he couldn’t decide which part of her he wanted to touch first.

“Kylian—”

“Tu m’as manqué toute la journée,” he murmured into her neck, lips brushing over the spot he knew made her shiver. “Je te veux maintenant.”

Her breath caught. “Really?”

He turned her around, eyes dark, lips already parted. “I’ve been hard since you walked into the press area with my initial bouncing on your chest.”

She smacked his chest lightly. “You’re a menace.”

“Non, bébé,” he said, walking her backward toward the couch with slow, stalking steps. “Je suis affamé.”

The backs of her knees hit the couch, and she fell onto the cushions with a little gasp. Kylian was on her in an instant, kneeling between her legs, hands pushing her vest up, mouth already tasting the curve of her stomach.

“I missed this,” he groaned, licking up to her sternum, then pulling her vest all the way off. “Tes seins… putain, regarde-les.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the heat rising to her cheeks. “They’ve literally been attached to me this whole time.”

“Pas comme ça,” he said, squeezing them with both hands, thumbs brushing her nipples. “Pas à moi. Pas dans ma bouche.”

Her breath hitched as he dipped his head, sucking her nipple into his mouth, tongue circling slow and deliberate until she arched up into him.

“Kylian,” she gasped, threading her fingers through his curls.

He kissed his way up her throat, his voice ragged now. “J’ai besoin de te sentir. Tout de suite.”

She didn’t protest when he hooked his fingers into her waistband, dragging everything—jeans, panties, the last of her resistance—down in one swift pull. Her legs fell open easily, welcoming, needy.

“You gonna be good for me tonight?” he asked, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Or you wanna fight again?”

“Depends,” she said breathlessly. “You gonna fuck me like you mean it?”

Kylian chuckled, dark and low. “Oh, bébé. Je vais te baiser jusqu’à ce que tu cries mon nom.”

He stood just long enough to strip, his erection already thick and leaking, and she bit her lip at the sight of him. He knelt back down, pulling her hips to the edge of the couch, guiding himself with one hand while the other gripped her thigh.

“Ready?” he asked, voice thick with heat.

She nodded, but it didn’t matter—he was already sliding in, one slow, unrelenting thrust that made her whimper.

“Putain, toujours si serrée pour moi,” he grunted, eyes rolling back for a second.

Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, heels digging into the small of his back.

He fucked her like he’d been waiting all week. Deep, rhythmic strokes that made the couch creak beneath them. One hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face toward him, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“Dis-moi que tu m’aimes comme ça,” he growled, sweat starting to bead on his brow.

She moaned, hands scrambling for purchase against his shoulders. “I love you like this. I love you all the time.”

His thrusts got harder, messier.

“Tu vas jouir pour moi, hein?” he whispered against her lips. “Crème pour moi, bébé. Mon Squirtle.”

Her mouth dropped open in a wordless cry as her body tightened around him, pleasure ripping through her in waves. She clenched down so hard it dragged a strangled groan out of him.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasped, hips stuttering as he came, burying himself deep, holding her through every trembling second of it.

They collapsed together, tangled, breathless, damp with sweat and satisfaction.

Gatsby snored louder from down the hall.

She started laughing.

Kylian looked up, lips swollen, brow furrowed. “Quoi?”

She wiped her eyes. “I think Gatsby’s jealous he won’t get to be little spoon tonight.”

Kylian laughed, dropping his forehead to her collarbone. “He can have his turn tomorrow.”

She grinned, stroking his back. “You’re so generous.”

“I know,” he said smugly. “Now let’s take this to bed.”

She didn’t move.

“…Bébé?”

“…Five more minutes. My legs don’t work.”

Kylian lifted his head from her collarbone, a smug-ass grin on his face. “Cinq minutes? You think I’m that patient?”

She let out a hoarse laugh, tossing her arm over her eyes. “You were just inside me—like, thirty seconds ago.”

He shrugged, unfazed, brushing his hands along the inside of her knee. “And I’m ready again in ten. Footballer stamina, remember?” A kiss against her cheek. “Elite recovery time.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, skeptical. “You said that last time. Then you needed electrolytes and a nap.”

He smirked, wicked and proud. “Because you squirted all over the sheets and drained my soul like some succubus. Not my fault you’re greedy.”

“Greedy?” she laughed. “You’re the one who just fucked me like a crazy person.”

“Still am,” he murmured, eyes glinting. Then he scooped her up without warning, and she squealed as her legs flailed.

“Kylian! My legs don’t even work yet!”

He grinned as he walked them toward their bedroom. “Good. Less resistance.”

The door creaked open. Gatsby snored on his dog bed in the corner, rolled onto his back like the most peaceful third wheel on earth, one paw twitching like he was chasing a dream squirrel.

Kylian laid her down with a surprising tenderness, but the look in his eyes was anything but gentle. Hungry. Focused. His gaze trailed from the sheen of sweat on her collarbone to the diamond “K” pendant that rested between her breasts. He thumbed it once, eyes narrowing in quiet satisfaction.

“You know this pendant’s a problem, right?” he asked, voice low and lazy.

She blinked up at him, breath already hitching. “You gave it to me.”

“I know.” He let the “K” sway between them, the cool metal brushing her skin. “But every time I see it on you, I wanna fuck you stupid.”

She laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “Three years together and you still talk like we just started dating.”

Kylian grinned, lips ghosting along her jaw as he nudged her further up the bed. “That’s because you keep leveling up. My girl gets finer and filthier. It’s a beautiful thing.”

She opened her mouth to sass him—but then his hand slid between her thighs.

Schlick.

Her gasp was immediate. His fingers moved slow, deliberate, tracing through the slick heat of her.

“Yeah,” he murmured, watching her face. “There she is. Look at how messy you sound, putain. You hear that?”

Schlick. Schlick.

“Kylian,” she whimpered, eyes fluttering shut.

“T’entends ça?” he murmured, licking his lips. “That’s the sound of a girl who’s gonna make a mess all over my hand.”

She whined, squirming as he curled his fingers just right, knuckles dragging against the spot that made her see stars.

“Stop it,” she hissed, not even meaning it. “You’re gonna make me—”

He stilled. Smirked.

“Again?” he asked, eyes lighting up like she’d just scored a hat trick. “Squirtle, don’t tell me you’re about to—”

“I hate you,” she groaned, tossing her forearm over her eyes as her thighs tried—and failed—to clamp shut around his hand.

“You love me,” he whispered against her throat, his fingers picking up pace again, stroking her like he knew her body better than she did. “You love when I make you do this. When I fuck it out of you with my hands. Regarde-toi, bébé. Tu dégoulines.”

Her body jolted, thighs trembling violently.

“No—Kylian—shit—I’m gonna—”

Her orgasm hit her like a freight train, her hips lifting off the bed, an involuntary cry ripping from her lips as her pussy clenched and pulsed around his fingers—wet, gushing, soaking his hand and the sheets in a rush of heat.

Kylian didn’t stop.

He watched her fall apart, smug as ever, his free hand smoothing up and down her thigh like he was calming something wild.

“Voilà,” he murmured. “Regarde-moi ça. Fucking beautiful.”

She collapsed into the pillows, breath stuttering, hair a mess across her face.

“You’re insane,” she panted, blinking up at him.

“And you’re messy,” he grinned, holding up his dripping fingers like a trophy. “My favorite.” He then sucked them clean. “Still the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Kylian!”

“What?” he said, already crawling between her thighs again. “I need to mark my territory.”

“Again?” she asked, wide-eyed, barely recovered.

He glanced at the puddle beneath her, then at his dick—already hard again and nudging her thigh.

His grin widened, lips brushing hers. “You tell me, Squirtle.” Kylian then slid back into her—slow, thick, deep—and her mouth fell open in a moan as her body welcomed him like he never left. He kissed her jaw, her neck, her mouth. “You feel like home,” he whispered. “And I’m never leaving.”

“Kylian—bébé—”

“Je t’aime,” he whispered against her skin. “Every goddamn inch.”

“Je t’aime plus,” she mumbled, dazed and open under him, her hands splayed over his back.

They moved like they’d done this a thousand times before—because they had. And it was still this good. Still this much. They came together again, this time slower, deeper, mouths barely touching, fingers tangled like they couldn’t get close enough.

After, they lay in silence, her hand absently tracing the damp curls at the nape of his neck, Gatsby’s snores still going strong in the background.

“Okay,” she whispered eventually. “Maybe your stamina’s improved.”

Kylian cracked a lazy smile. “Told you.”

“Still not enough for a third though.”

He rolled her on top of him, dick stirring back to life already.

“Wanna bet?”

#quainwritings #xoxo your fave wag #kylian x your fave wag #kylian mbappe smut #kylian mbappe fanfiction #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappé #kylian mbappe #real madrid fanfic #footballer x reader #footballer fanfic #football x reader #footballer x black reader #footballer x oc

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i-was-today-years-old-when · 2 years ago

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i learned that Treadmills Were Originally Created as a Form of Torture

The treadmill was invented as a rehabilitation device by a British man named William Cubitt in 1818. It was originally designed as a way to make prisoners more productive by milling corn, and pumping water at the same time. However it became a popular “atonement” device for lower level criminals.

It was a lot like the sport of log-rolling, only instead of falling safely into the water, participants would end up falling onto the hard ground below, and run the risk of becoming gravely injured.

Cubitt created several different versions of the treadmill. The most popular one was originally located at Brixton Prison in London and consisted of a wide wheel that prisoners had to run on. It could hold 24 prisoners. Most included partitions to prevent the prisoners from socializing.

The treadmill proved to be so popular that half of all prisons had them by 1842. Those unlucky enough to receive this punishment often did so for up to ten hours per day. One of the most famous people to endure it was Oscar Wilde, during his imprisonment for gross indecency.

The popularity of the treadmill, however declined. The British started to emphasize education as a means to rehabilitate their prisoners. Many argued that the treadmill was a dangerous practice that led to an unusually high death rate of prisoners. By 1898, they were outlawed.

Designs for a new type of treadmill designed for exercise emerged in 1913 when American inventor CL Hagen was issued a patent for a “training-machine.”

Later on, an American engineer named William Staub would create the modern form of the treadmill, called the Pacemaster 600.

Today, treadmills are one of the most popular types of exercise equipment in the world, though I’m pretty sure they are still considered to be a type of torture for some.

#today i learned #facts #truth #history #treadmill

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sewards-phonograph · 15 days ago

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*click, mechanical whirr*

Recorded by myself at the close of a singularly disappointing day. Weather clear. Mood inclement.

It is a curious thing to find oneself before this infernal machine, baring one’s soul like a cadaver on the slab. But I simply must, if only to rid myself of my thoughts. They are becoming circular – like a horse on a mill-track, grinding its own will into the dust.

I was – nay, am – a fool, and worse – a sentimental one.

This morning I proposed to Miss Lucy Westenra.

I had suspected some fondness, or at least some leaning, but hope is a treacherous thing, not easily strangled once it has been allowed breath. Her generous, warm manner invites misreading.

Or perhaps it does not guarantee reciprocation.

Regardless, she is kind. Not cruel. The fault is mine.

I had prepared myself in every conceivable way. Composed the speech. Rehearsed my posture. Polished my shoes – and that is a sure sign of emotional collapse in a man of science!

I did sit on a hat, but I know she is not shallow enough for that to account to anything. She must have known what to say all along.

I told her how dear she had become to me, how I might lean on her laughter like a crutch in my lonelier hours, and how, in my mad little world of shrieking inmates and sedatives, the thought of her had become my sole, unmedicated comfort.

She could have laughed, or hesitated, or made the whole affair seem petty. Instead she cried – Goddamn it, she cried FOR ME. I don’t know what to make of it. Perhaps that is worse.

She told me there was someone. No matter. I bowed, thanked her, and made some asinine remark about always being her friend.

Quincey was next. He’ll survive. Those types always do. The wild ones. The smiling ones. The ones that don’t bring a lancet to a proposal. (Apparently that isn’t normal?)

I saw Art later in the evening. It doesn’t take a clinician to diagnose a newly affianced man. So that answers that.

Good for him. Good for him.

*click*

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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

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As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Three: bonnie

tw: non-con

Department stores always have a synthetic scent to them.

Simon’s stomach twists as he stands in the midst of one with his arms crossed over his chest. Rubber and animal feed hangs heavy in the air around him as he huffs. This is the last place he wants to visit after a long day of butchering animals and cutting them into palatable pieces, but there’s something he needs. Something that proves to be difficult to find. Plastic is incorporated into everything these days—it's weaved into food bags and molded into anything one can think of. Cheap trash. Something that breaks too easily, unlike flesh and metal.

Dark eyes scan the rack of dog collars in front of him with disappointment as nothing but plastic and nylon stares back at him. Fluorescent reflective yellow, glittery princess pink—disgusting. They’re poorly crafted; simple items that will fray and break within no time. Putting either of his pets into something so gaudy seems inhumane, and his nose twitches underneath his mask at the very thought.

No, he needs something more dignified. Something real.

Thick-soled work boots hit the concrete floor with a dull thud as Simon rounds the other side of the rack. It takes everything in him not to scoff at the plump purple faux leather collar that greets him on the second row, but as his eyes meander downwards, he finally catches sight of the good stuff. Dark cow skin tanned and conditioned into lovely leather, coupled with a smooth, malleable interior for comfort. His knees creak as he bends down and reaches a hand towards one of the collars. Smooth—it smells leagues better than the synthetic bands a few rows above.

Once he makes his choice of a dark brown leather collar, Simon straightens himself before cutting through the store. There’s only one more thing he needs to retrieve before returning home.

Your name.

The engraving machine sits at the ready with a flashing LED screen with photos of dogs and cats cycling through the monitor. There’s an array of different shaped tags that the machine offers, but Simon isn’t interested in any of them. Dog bones, stars—all of it. Cliche. Annoying. Though he’s certain Johnny would like for you to have the heart shaped tag, he opts to go with a simple circle.

The screen prompts him to type a name to be engraved into the metal. Simon’s thick fingers tap on the electric keyboard.

B. O. N. N. I. E.

Bonnie.

Of course, Simon knows your other name. Your old name. The one that’s on your lease and etched into your driver’s license. The one your mother always coos when you talk on the phone together. It doesn’t suit you, and you’re under his care now. After all, a new life demands a new name.

As the machine whirs and whines in front of him, Simon sneaks his phone out of his pocket. Several customers mill around the aisles behind him as he opens an app that sports a house-shaped icon where he’s instantly brought to a live feed of the rooms in his home. The videos illuminate in a grid on his phone, and though the images are too small to clearly see the contents, he knows exactly where he can find you and Johnny.

Clicking on the live feed from the bedroom, Simon nearly smirks when the video pops up on his screen. Johnny has you nearly naked on the bed with nothing but a tank top to cover your torso. He’s stradling your chest as he shoves his cock into your mouth, leaving your hands to pound against his stomach as your legs flail from underneath him.

Simon knows just what he would hear if he turned the audio on. Even now in his mind he can hear Johnny’s pathetic grunts and your gagging and panting as you struggle to suck in air. It’s not his first round with you that day, and Simon doubts it’ll be the last. Simon’s watched the cameras like a hawk all day since he left for work. He witnessed every second of Johnny fucking your thighs. Pathetic. Almost cute. So close to your cunt, yet not quite the real deal.

He has to make sure his pup listens to the rules, even when he’s not around. He would hate to get rid of you if the silly pup had fucked you properly.

The machine in front of him beeps, signaling the completion of your freshly engraved name tag, yet Simon’s eyes refuse to look away from his phone. Johnny’s hips begin to stutter, and with one final push, he presses his cock down your throat. Your body trashes as you try to squirm from his grasp, but Johnny’s weight keeps you pinned to the bed as he throws his head back.

Simon can nearly hear the groan in his mind. His fucked out, mouth open gaze trains on the ceiling as his spend trickles down your throat. Eventually, his legs give out, sending him collapsing onto the bed next to you, cock pulling out of your mouth in the process.

Once you’re free from Johnny’s weight, you sit up as coughs rattle your body. Even through the graininess of the camera, Simon can see the spit and cum dribble down your chin and onto the mattress. He huffs as he watches the moisture soak into the duvet—yet another mess that he’s not excited to clean up when he gets home.

Simon turns his phone off with a sigh before he finally retrieves your tag out of the machine. His thumb grazes over your new name. The letters are cut so deep that he can feel the texture as the metal splits and widens. Nodding, he pockets it along with his phone before going to pay for your collar.

The bold cashier that is unfortunate enough to serve Simon looks at him with his towering height, intimidating mask, and concerning choice of merchandise with what can only be described as faint disgust accompanied by caution. Simon doubles down on his cold expression. His eyes trace over the man’s features, counting the ten different ways he knows how to filet a human. Even now he can see how easily his knife could sink into the socket of his shoulder and how a simple twist would get the limb to pop free. A flash of silver is all it takes to slice through tendons and ligaments—Simon could have the man ready for shipment by the top of the hour.

Neither of them speak as the cashier scans the collar, but Simon wishes that he could grab his knife instead of cash when he’s asked to pay for it. Animals shouldn’t look at owners like this—as if he was a monster.

If an animal wasn’t a pet, then the only look he should receive from them is fear.

Instead, he grabs the collar from the counter the moment the man takes his money, and he doesn’t look back as he exits the store, not even as the clerk calls after him asking about his change.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here (tentative of patreon tos)

#ilium writing #sr ilia #jm ilia #pet!au #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #female!reader

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simdertalia · 1 year ago

Text

☕ ACNH Coffee Stuff Set ☕

Sims 4, base game compatible. 26 items. I hope you enjoy! This set is brought to you by the lovely patrons who voted 💗

I hope you enjoy! 💗

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

Build:-Wall | 2 swatches | Tile & Paneling

Type “acnh coffee" into the search query in build mode to find quickly. You can always find items like this, just begin typing the title and it will appear.

Always suggested: bb.objects ON, it makes placing items much easier. For further placement tweaking, check out the TOOL mod.

As always, please let me know if you have any issues! Happy Simming!

📁 Download all or pick & choose (SFS, No Ads): https://simfileshare.net/folder/214327/

📁 Alt Mega Download (still no ads): https://mega.nz/folder/QpAV0bZS#am_IxERH1ShD4Go0r-7e3w

📁 Download On Patreon

Will be public on April 1st, 2024 💗

Happy Simming! ✨ Some of my sets are early access. If you like my work, please consider supporting me:

★ Patreon 🎉 ❤️ |★ Ko-Fi ☕️ ❤️ ★ Instagram📷

Thank you for reblogging ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

@sssvitlanz @maxismatchccworld @mmoutfitters @coffee-cc-finds @itsjessicaccfinds @gamommypeach @stargazer-sims-finds @khelga68 @suricringe @vaporwavesims @mystictrance15 @moonglitchccfinds @xlost-in-wonderlandx @jbthedisabledvet @public-ccfinds @freeexclusives4thesims

The rest of my CC

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tipcoengineer · 6 months ago

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A mill machine is a versatile tool used in various industries for grinding, cutting, and shaping materials. From manufacturing to construction, the applications of these machines are vast, and understanding their types and advantages can help you choose the right one for your needs.

#mill machine #types of mill machine #mill machine price #milling machine #benefits of mill machines

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cl0udy3 · 4 months ago

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Shinjiro aragaki X reader slow burn, reader fell first but shinjiro fell harder

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

shinjiro aragaki x fem!reader fluff, angst?? a/n: literally dont know how to feel about this one cause its a little rushed but i really hope you enjoy it :D

The first time you saw him, it wasn’t some earth-shattering moment, no fireworks or music swelling in the background. It was just a normal afternoon, a cool breeze drifting through the air as students milled around the school gate. You were waiting for a friend when you noticed him—Shinjiro Aragaki, the upperclassman with a reputation that followed him like the scent of cigarette smoke.

He leaned against the gate, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. He didn’t seem to be waiting for anyone, nor did he seem in a hurry to be anywhere. Something about that quiet solitude, about the way he carried himself like he was bracing for the world to throw the next punch, caught your attention.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. But curiosity had a way of turning into something deeper before you even realized it.

---

The first real conversation you had with him was an accident.

It was late, the kind of late where the dorms had settled into silence, the only sound the faint hum of the vending machine in the common room. You had come downstairs for a drink, not expecting to find anyone else awake. But there he was, sitting on the couch, a can of coffee in his hand, an old book resting on his knee.

You hesitated. He wasn’t the type to invite company, but something about the way he stared at the pages without really reading them made you linger. Finally, you sat on the opposite couch, cracking open your own drink with a soft hiss.

He didn’t acknowledge you at first, but after a few moments, he sighed, setting the book down. “You’re always up late.”

“So are you,” you countered.

A huff of amusement. He didn’t argue.

That was the first night you spent in companionable silence with him, each of you nursing your respective drinks, the television flickering quietly in the background. You didn’t know it then, but that was how it started.

Then came the night everything changed.

It was raining, the city wrapped in the kind of cold that seeped into your bones. You found him outside, sitting on the dorm’s back steps, rain soaking through his coat.

“Shinjiro,” you called, stepping closer. “You’re gonna get sick.”

He didn’t look at you. Just exhaled slowly, the cigarette between his fingers burning low. “I don’t care.”

Something in his voice made you pause. It wasn’t the usual gruffness, the irritation he sometimes used as a shield. It was something raw, something heavy.

You sat beside him without a word. For a while, the only sound was the rain. Then, softly—

“You ever think some people don’t deserve happiness?”

You turned to him, frowning. “What?”

His gaze was distant, unreadable. “Some people… they just screw up too much. Hurt too many people. Doesn’t matter what they do after that. It’s already too late.”

Your heart ached. You didn’t know the full extent of what haunted him, but you knew he carried something heavy. You wanted to reach for him, but you didn’t. Instead, you said, “That’s not true.”

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you,” you countered. “And I know you’re not a bad person, Shinjiro.”

He shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You don’t get it. You—” He stopped, fingers digging into his palm. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Anger and frustration flashed across his face, but beneath it, there was something else—fear. Fear of what you’d say, fear of how you’d look at him if you knew the whole truth.

The rain fell harder, drumming against the pavement, against your skin. You reached out, your hand wrapping around his wrist. He flinched at first, but you didn’t let go.

��I don’t care,” you whispered. “Whatever it is, whatever you think makes you unworthy of happiness—it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Shinjiro’s breath hitched. He turned to you then, really looking at you, his eyes stormy with emotions you couldn’t quite name.

“Why?” His voice was hoarse, almost desperate. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I love you,” you admitted, the words slipping from your lips before you could second-guess them. “And I know you love me, too.”

For a moment, the world stood still. Then, before you could process it, he was kissing you.

It wasn’t gentle—it was rough, urgent, desperate, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you against him, like he was afraid this moment would slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His hands cupped your face, rain mixing with the heat of his touch.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven. “You’re an idiot,” he murmured, voice raw with emotion. “You should’ve given up on me a long time ago.”

You smiled, brushing wet strands of hair from his face. “Too late for that.”

A shaky chuckle escaped him. Then, quieter, “I love you, too.”

The words were hesitant, like he wasn’t used to saying them, but they were real. And for the first time, Shinjiro didn’t try to push you away. He let himself fall.

And this time, he didn’t fight it.

#shinjiro aragaki #p3 shinjiro #persona 3 #persona #shinjiro x reader #p3 #persona 3 shinjiro #i want to pass out #i hate class

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inbabylontheywept · 2 years ago

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"The reaper had a scythe. I have a combine harvester."

Arlach tapped his fingers nervously. He’d have gladly given up his life for the liberation of his people. A combine harvester (even a deluxe AI driven model) was a pittance compared to that. Still, he didn’t really understand what he was hearing.

“I uh… heard you’re hooking up my strawberry picker to an air defense cannon?”

The human technician assembling the gun held up a hand, finishing up some last tweaking of the wire harness. He touched two wires together carefully and swore when a shower of sparks shot out of the contact.

Set back, but not defeated, the man paused his task to answer the farmer’s question.

“See, you’re looking at this wrong. It’s an AI harvester, and it works great for strawberries, but machines don’t really see ‘strawberries’. They rate strawberry-ness. There’s a lot of ways to manage that, but it looks for a generally pointed shape, some seeds, and that nice red color. So your run of the mill strawberry generally receives an almost perfect strawberry-ness score, but something like this-”

His hands dug through all the pockets of his work suit before they finally found their target. He fished out what had been a standard ferroslug before it was painted bright red and smattered with a handful of black dots. He took a moment to admire it himself before tossing it to the farmer and continuing.

“Well, it’s not a strawberry, but it scores as one. Well enough that the machine gets positive feedback from its alignment unit every time it puts one of these babies where it's supposed to go.”

Arlach stared at him blankly.

“So what, you’re convincing it to fill a cargo container up with painted bullets?”

The technician grinned.

“There's no a limit to how fast it's allowed to fill that container up. At no point did the alignment protocol even consider that it'd be capable of throwing a 'strawberry' at mach nine. And the cargohold is important, but the rocket its attached to is more so. You know what looks a lot like a surface to orbit rocket?"

Arlach’s brain clicked.

“The hypersonic missiles they've been throwing at us.”

The grin widened. Arlach himself felt slightly awed to have found the connection.

“Will it work?”

The human nodded.

“It’s damn near the only thing that can. To shoot down something going that fast, that low, you either need a dummy missile that can brute force outrun it, or enough computing power to hack a station. The alliance is too chickenshit to send over their actual military AI's, but these myopic-type digibrains are supposed to be safe for civilian use because the idea of convincing your tractor that a bullet is a strawberry and a WMD is a cargo loader was a little too creative for the morons over at John Deere Galactic. And if that digibrain just so happens to function near the exoflop level, they're going to have a hard time sneaking anything larger than a bee through this airspace.”

The alien’s hands went over its crest as its mind reeled.

“They're not the only ones who would never think of this. It's brilliant. I never would've considered it.”

The tech shrugged good naturedly and went back to retrieve the two ends of wire that he’d dropped earlier.

“Eh, it's not coming from nowhere. There’s something of a human tradition about using farm equipment for war. I'm just lucky to be part of the next evolution in this. The reaper himself only used a scythe. Now I get to use a combine harvester.”

#hfy #humanity fuck yeah #humans are space oddities #science fiction #scifi #humans are space orcs #big fucking gun #bfg #AI theory #vaguely war in Ukraine inspired #Never pass on a chance to dunk on John Deere #humans are weird #everything can be a gun

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poisonheadcrabsalesman · 3 months ago

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okay so you killed him now what is the opposite of killing miller?

(this is a prompt)

Hi Zita, it's been 84 years. I wrote something for this finally. There's puns and genuine feelings and baby facts in here, learned firsthand.

Miller's been in the same room for the last 6 hours. That was the last time he left to pop down the hall to get water and snacks for his charges. Before that he was back in the room fiddling with the light settings, helping adjust the hospital bed, and reminding nurses and patients of the most recent pain ratings, meds and dosages, and questions. So many questions. Mostly from Roland.

S-IVs don't need as much sleep as normal people, which is a blessing and a curse. It's what got him into this situation.

All hands on deck means all hands on deck when the Infinity picks up a distress signal and responds to a colony-ship abandoned by its AI.

Roland makes sure to express his opinions straight into Jared's ear, but he switches gears when triage happens. They work in tandem with little bickering as the Infinity's numbers swell with their new pick up.

It's a lot of civilian types, entire families with many generations all milling about and a cloud of anxiety over them. Miller can feel the weight of their stares and the burning curiosity Roland exudes as he leans on Miller's Mjolnir to look closer at so many new people.

Children weren't something he'd seen up close before.

He ends up forgoing the helmet given how jumpy they are around him. The results are night and day: he goes from a faceless tool of the UNSC to Jared Miller, awkward guy and newly designated Au Pair.

Cmdr. Palmer would be laughing at him if there was a single motherly bone in her body allowing her within 500 yards of the makeshift maternity ward in this corner of the infirmary.

Miller had also forgone the helmet due to the amount of questions he'd been receiving from all sides. Between the kids, the civilian parents glaring at him, and Roland's unfettered access to his eyes and ears, he wanted a breather from the HUD and proximity alarms as brave tweens and toddlers approached him.

The previous 12 hours had been a deluge of:

"Have you killed any aliens?"

"Spartan Miller, ask that nurse about the new mottling on the baby's skin. It's probably just newborn rash, but you should ask."

"Why are you so tall? Did they give you more bones?"

"Miller, ask to hold the baby, I want to use the armor's sensors to check oxygen levels."

"Do you know Master Chief?"

"Spartan Miller, are you ignoring me?"

"Mister Spartan, can you get us some extra blankets?"

"Can I hold your gun?"

It's 2300 when the extended family of the newborn shuffle off to parts unseen to get some rest and give the new parents space when it happens. The brave faces tire and the frazzled nerves shine through. Technically, Miller is off the clock. He should go recover in his own quarters. He should leave.

He does.

The assemblage bay is a hive of activity. A well oiled machine taking apart its smaller machines and putting them away for future use. Miller feels more human in his ready gear with a shower and a meal in him.

He wanders back into the infirmary and smiles awkwardly at the faces lighting up to see him.

The baby's just been fed and needs swaddling. Mom hasn't slept in close to 48 hours, and her wife is struggling to keep her eyes open from the awful makeshift bench. Cots were elsewhere and this is what they had to work with.

Mom just needs to lay down without worrying about the baby for a half hour till the next nurse comes. Wife just needs to sit down. Miller takes first watch and swaddling duty. He'd seen it done a dozen times over the last day and then some. Make a triangle with the cloth, tuck the arms gently so they don't scratch the face, move the cloth left over and under, the bottom up and over a shoulder and right over left. Secure and warm in hands big enough to dwarf the less than eight pound bundle. Hat affixed to a dark head of hair to retain heat. Tiny features squinch up and relax at the change in pressure and temperature.

Facts from the last day and a half pour over Miller's mind. Support the head and neck. Check for blue around the mouth in case of oxygenation issues. Newborns lose 10% of their weight the first few days. You have to train them to eat, they're used to getting food automatically. The diapers won't be pretty but black tar and brickdust are normal for the first few days.

He stands and sways. Dinosaurs of all colors look back at him from the swaddle. Wife succumbs to sleep with her head pillowed on a jacket and a spare blanket over her. Mom holds a pillow and curls up, too warm in a newborn temperature room. She dozes as Miller sways, squeezes, and shushes the little one. A red face and a small cry let him know it's nearly time to change the diaper. A glance at the clock lets him know the nurse should be there soon. A golden bit of text on one of the panels lets him know that Roland is still hellbent on learning, nagging, and all around being involved in the whole process.

The nurse comes in for Mom's 4 hour check and another round of meds. They help Mom sit up and adjust in the hospital bed while Miller changes the diaper.

He keeps up a steady stream of words at the little squirming bundle. "I know, I know. It's so cold right? Well we'll get you warm in juuust a second."

Miller's grateful for the nurses and the well-stocked bassinet. Diaper changed, baby cleaned, and the tiny squealing human calms from squeaking cries to small grumbles as they shift from upset-red back to healthy pink.

They're so small. It's insane.

Miller's still staring when the nurse approaches to check and prep for another round of feeding and skin-to-skin contact.

"You're a trooper." They say, nodding to Miller.

"Actually I'm a Spartan." He jokes as he goes to wash his hands.

The baby mewls loudly before quieting again.

"Didn't think it was that bad of a joke…"

Mom smiles and the nurse rolls their eyes.

Miller comes back and moves his vigil to the chair in the corner over the next several hours.

It doesn't get any less surreal, but something's shifted.

#asks #my writing #Spartan Miller #Roland the AI #i need to quit my job and go be an auncle

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