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[mimosa-sexypeople-contests-2026]

I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:

Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed

[mrs-delaney]

A fic about yn faking an orgasm and colston finds out about it. The plot is all up to you.

pairings: colston loveland x reader 🏈🎬 wc: about 6.6k warnings: sexual content/references an: i made myself laugh writing this so take that as you will 🎬

You didn’t hear the front door.

In your defense, you were two glasses of wine into a FaceTime call with your best friend, and she’d just told you—in graphic, devastating detail—about the time her boyfriend tried to finger her like he was checking for a lost contact lens, and you were laughing so hard your ribs hurt. The kind of laughter that makes you deaf to everything else. The kind where you’re wheezing and she’s wheezing, and neither of you can get a full sentence out.

“I just—” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “The enthusiasm was there. The technique was not.”

“STOP.” You pressed your hand over your mouth, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of your glass. “Stop, I can’t breathe.”

“And then he pulled his hand back like he’d just performed surgery and goes, ‘Did you come?’”

You lost it. That full body, head-back, silent-scream laughter that leaves your stomach cramping. She was cackling on the other end, mascara smudged and hair in her face, both of you completely gone.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, catching your breath. “What did you say?”

“What do you think I said? I said yes! I panicked!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I literally did. I nodded and said Yeah, that was great’ and then I went to the bathroom and finished the job myself.”

“You are not serious.”

“Girl, I literally deserve an Oscar.”

And that’s where it went wrong. You were relaxed, the warmth of alcohol softening your edges, your thoughts fuzzy. The words just tumbled out before you realized you’d said them.

“No, I deserve an Oscar. Like, I should be nominated.”

The laughter stopped. Your friend’s face shifted—still grinning, but her eyes narrowed with curiosity. The tone shifted: interested. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” She leaned closer to her screen, eyebrows raised. “You’ve faked it? With Colston?”

You should’ve backtracked. Should’ve said you were kidding. Should’ve done literally anything other than what you did, which was shrug, take another sip of wine, and say:

“Only like... twice. Maybe three times. It’s not a big deal.”

You didn’t hear the front door open.

You didn’t hear it because Colston Loveland—six foot six and two hundred forty-one pounds of professional football player—stood frozen in the hallway, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, smoothie hovering, breath tight in his chest. Everything about him stilled, like someone had hit pause. His eyes were wide, shock flickering across his face as he processed something he absolutely was not meant to hear.

He stood there for exactly four seconds. Which doesn’t sound like a long time until you’re standing in your girlfriend’s hallway holding a smoothie and learning that your sexual performance has been, on occasion, fictional.

Then—quietly, carefully, with the kind of deliberate stealth that should not be possible for a man his size—he stepped backward. One step. Two. His hand found the door handle behind him. He turned it slowly, eased it open without a sound, and slipped back into the hallway as if he’d never been there at all.

The door clicked shut so softly that even he barely heard it.

On the couch, your friend’s mouth was still hanging open. “Only three times?”

“It’s really not that deep,” you said, waving her off. “It’s just, like, sometimes my body’s not cooperating, and he’s trying so hard, and I don’t want to make it a whole thing, you know?”

“Girl.”

“What? It’s not like he’s bad at it. He’s good. He’s really good. It’s a me thing.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

She was laughing again, and you were laughing, and it was fine. It was just girl talk. No big deal. You reached for your wine. Your friend was saying something about her boyfriend’s “signature move.” You were definitely going to need details on that.

You had no idea.

Outside, Colston stood in the hallway of his apartment building, gym bag still on his shoulder, smoothie still in his hand, staring at the wall across from his door like it had personally wronged him.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then he turned and walked to his truck.

─────

Colston sat in his truck.

Engine off. Smoothie warming in the cupholder. Staring at the parking garage wall like it owed him money.

Only like... twice. Maybe three times.

He replayed it. Then replayed it again. Tried to figure out which times. Which specific ones? Now, every time they’d had sex in the last few months was under review. His brain ran through them like game film, isolating the plays where he’d missed something.

I should be nominated.

Nominated. For an Oscar. For faking an orgasm. With him.

He pressed his palms into his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Opened his messages, scrolled to Cooper’s name, and typed:

Colston: hypothetically

He stared at it for ten seconds. Then hit send.

Cooper responded in under a minute. Because Cooper always responded in under a minute. The man had never not been on his phone.

Cooper: hypothetically what

Colston: if someone said something about you that was bad and you weren’t supposed to hear it what would you do

Cooper: depends. how bad

Colston: bad

Cooper: like you’re ugly bad or you’re bad at something bad

Colston stared at the screen. Chewed the inside of his cheek.

Colston: second one

Cooper: what are you bad at

Colston didn’t answer. He locked his phone and set it face down on his thigh, and looked out the windshield at the parking garage wall. A pipe was leaking somewhere. He could hear it dripping.

His phone buzzed.

Cooper: hello??

Buzz.

Cooper: dude what are you bad at

Buzz.

Cooper: did you get cut

Buzz.

Cooper: are you dying

Buzz.

Cooper: is it a sex thing

Colston closed his eyes.

His phone rang. Cooper’s name, incoming call. He stared at it for two full rings, then declined.

Cooper: WOW

Cooper called again. Colston declined again.

Cooper: COLSTON LOVELAND

Cooper: PICK UP THE PHONE

It rang a third time. Colston pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a long breath, and answered.

“What?”

“What do you mean, what? You can’t text a man, hypothetically, someone said something bad about me, and then ghost. What happened? Are you okay? Did someone say something online? Did a coach—”

“She faked it.”

Silence.

Colston could hear wind on Cooper’s end. Maybe he was outside. Maybe he was standing in a field somewhere in Idaho, which was a very real possibility.

“...faked what?”

Colston didn’t say anything.

“Oh.” A pause. “Oh.” Another pause. “How many times?”

“Why is that everyone’s first question?”

“Who else have you told?”

“No one. I’m saying—she told her friend, and the first thing her friend asked was how many times too.”

“Okay, well, it’s a relevant question, Colston. How many times?”

“Like two or three.”

“Or three? There’s a big difference between two and three. That’s a fifty percent increase.”

“Thank you for the math, Cooper.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Heard her telling her friend on the phone. I came home early. She didn’t know I was there.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?”

“Left.”

“You left?”

“I’m in my truck.”

“You’re in your TRUCK? Like right now? In the parking lot?”

“Yes.”

“Dude, you gotta go back inside.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just sit in your truck.”

“I know.”

“What are you gonna say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I’m not bringing this up tonight. I need to think.”

“About WHAT?”

“I don’t know. Everything. I don’t know.”

A long pause. Colston could hear Cooper breathing. Processing. Doing his best, which was never great, but at least he was trying.

“Okay, honestly? It’s probably not that deep. Girls fake it sometimes. It doesn’t mean you’re bad.”

“She said she deserved an Oscar, Coop.”

“...”

“Yeah.”

“Like an Oscar Oscar? Or like a Golden Globe situation?”

“Goodbye, Cooper.”

“WAIT. Wait. Just—go inside. Act normal. Don’t be weird about it. Figure it out tomorrow.”

“How am I supposed to act normal?”

“I don’t know, man, you play football in front of sixty thousand people. Pretend it’s that.”

“That’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“It’s performing under pressure. Same skill set.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Just don’t be weird! Don’t be weird about it!”

“Bye, Cooper.”

He hung up. Sat there for another minute. Then he grabbed his smoothie—warm now, basically ruined—his gym bag, and got out of the truck.

He stood outside his apartment door. Rolled his neck. Cracked his knuckles. Took a breath.

Then he opened the door like he was making an entrance at an away game. Keys jangling, bag swinging, door hitting the wall with a thud that could’ve registered on a seismograph.

“BABE?” He was already halfway down the hall, voice pitched loud enough to give her plenty of warning. “I’M HOME.”

You flinched so hard you almost knocked your wine over. “Jesus Christ, Cole. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.” He was not sorry. He needed you to know he was here. Needed you to have heard him arrive. There needed to be zero ambiguity about the fact that Colston Loveland had just now walked through this door and had not, at any point prior to this moment, been standing in the hallway listening to anything.

“You’re home early,” you said, hand on your chest, heart still recovering.

“Yeah. Practice got cut short.”

He dropped his bag. Kicked off his shoes. Walked into the living room where you were still on the couch, phone in your lap, wine glass mostly empty, looking at him with that smile that usually made everything in his chest go soft.

It still did. That was the worst part.

“How was your day?” you asked.

Colston looked at you. At the wine. At the phone where, not long ago, you’d been laughing about your performance being award-worthy.

“Good,” he said. “Yeah. It was good.”

He kissed the top of your head on the way to the kitchen. He poured the smoothie down the sink, his shoulders tight, and stood there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing for a second longer than necessary.

“You hungry?” he called over his shoulder.

“Starving. Wanna order something?”

“Sure.”

He pulled out his phone and saw some new texts from Cooper.

Cooper: honestly I think you’re probably fine in bed

Cooper: not that I would know

Cooper: that came out weird

Cooper: good luck tonight champ

Colston turned his phone face-down on the counter and opened DoorDash.

─────

Something was off.

You couldn’t pinpoint it. It wasn’t obvious—he wasn’t being cold, wasn’t being short with you, wasn’t doing anything wrong, exactly. He ordered food. He ate on the couch next to you. He watched whatever you put on TV without complaining. Normal Tuesday night stuff.

But he wasn’t looking at you.

Not the way he usually did, anyway. Usually, Colston looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in any room, even when you were just sitting there doing nothing. Not in a creepy way—just present. Aware. Like keeping track of you was background software that never turned off. Tonight, his eyes kept drifting. To the TV. To his phone. To a spot on the wall just slightly to the left of your face.

And when you leaned into him on the couch—your usual move, tucking yourself under his arm—he let you. But his arm stayed stiff for a second before it settled around your shoulders. Just a second. Just enough for you to notice.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, for sure.” He didn’t look down at you when he said it.

“You seem kinda quiet.”

“Just tired. Practice was long.”

“I thought you said practice got cut short.”

Silence. Barely a full second. But you felt it.

“It did. It was just intense while it lasted.”

“Ah.” You turned back to the TV. Let it go. Because he said he was fine, and you had no reason not to believe him, and sometimes he just got quiet. That was Colston. He processed internally. You knew this about him.

But when you kissed him later—just a casual thing, passing him in the kitchen while he refilled his water—he barely kissed you back. Just a tight press of his lips against yours, and then he was already turning away.

You stood there in the kitchen watching him go, water glass in hand, a crease forming between your eyebrows.

Weird.

Later, in bed, he stayed on his side. He didn’t turn his back to you or build a pillow wall down the middle. He just... didn’t reach for you. Usually, the second the lights went off, his hand found your hip, or your waist, or he pulled you back into his chest and buried his face in your hair. Tonight he lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

You waited. Thirty seconds. A full minute.

Nothing.

“Cole.”

“Hm?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m good, baby.” Said to the ceiling. Not to you.

You rolled onto your side, facing him. Studied his profile in the dark—the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his chest rose and fell just a little too evenly, like he was concentrating on his breathing. Like he was trying very hard to seem relaxed.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

He turned his head. Looked at you for the first time in what felt like hours. And for a split second, you saw something flicker across his face—something raw and unfinished and a little bit hurt—before he blinked and it was gone.

“Yeah,” he said. “’Course.”

He leaned over and kissed your forehead. Quick. Functional. Then rolled onto his side, facing away.

“Night.”

“...night.”

You lay there in the dark, staring at the back of his head, trying to figure out what the hell had shifted between 3 PM and now. You’d been fine. Everything had been fine. You ran through the day—work, errands, the FaceTime with your friend, wine—

Nothing. Nothing weird. Nothing that would explain why your boyfriend was lying next to you like a stranger on a connecting flight.

You fell asleep still trying to figure it out.

Colston did not fall asleep. Colston lay there for another forty-five minutes, staring at the wall, thinking about Oscars.

─────

The next day wasn’t better.

He went to the facility early—earlier than usual—and texted you once around noon. Just a “hey” with no follow-up. You stared at it for a while. Colston didn’t text “hey.” Colston sent voice memos about birds he saw in the parking lot and which Cheerios he should buy. “Hey” was not in his vocabulary.

You texted back: everything good?

Colston: yeah just busy

You almost typed, " You sure? But you stopped yourself. You weren’t going to be that girlfriend. If something was wrong, he’d tell you. He always told you. Eventually.

He came home at his normal time. Kissed your cheek. Asked about your day. Made himself a protein shake. All the right motions, all the right words, but performed with the enthusiasm of someone filling out a tax return.

By the time you were both in bed that night, you were determined to fix whatever this was. Maybe he’d had a bad day. Maybe practice was rough. Maybe he just needed to get out of his head.

You knew how to get him out of his head.

You rolled toward him, slid your hand across his stomach, pressed your lips to the side of his neck. The move that always worked. The one that made his breath catch and his hand find your hip and everything else fall away.

Nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just lay there breathing like you were applying a blood pressure cuff.

You tried harder. Kissed his jaw. Let your hand drift lower. Swung your leg over his hips and settled on top of him, hands on his chest, looking down at him with clear intent.

“Hi,” you said.

“Hey.” He said it to the ceiling. His hands landed on your thighs, but they just... sat there. Like he’d forgotten what they were for.

You leaned down and kissed him. Slow, deliberate, the kind that was supposed to flip the switch. You felt his mouth move against yours—barely—and then his hands came up to your waist. But not to pull you closer. To hold you still.

“I’m, uh.” He cleared his throat. “Pretty tired tonight.”

You pulled back. Looked at him. He was staring up at you with an expression you could not read, and you were literally sitting on top of him.

“You’re tired,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Cole, I’m on you right now.”

“I can see that.”

“And you’re... tired.”

“Mentally.”

You stared at him. He stared somewhere around your collarbone. Something was very, very wrong, and the not-knowing was starting to eat a hole through your patience.

“Okay. Seriously. What is going on with you? You’ve been weird for two days. You won’t look at me. You barely kissed me yesterday. You texted me, " Hey. And now I am literally on top of you, and you’re telling me you’re mentally tired, so either something’s wrong or—”

“So... how many Oscars are we talking about?”

You went still.

Completely, totally, full-body still. Like someone had yanked the power cord out of you. You were still sitting on his hips, hands still on his chest, and every single drop of blood in your body was rushing to your face.

“What?” you whispered.

He finally looked at you. Right at you. And there it was—hurt and embarrassment and something else fighting for space on his face.

“Oscars,” he repeated. “You said you should be nominated.”

You rolled off of him so fast you nearly fell off the bed. Caught yourself on the edge of the mattress with one hand, legs tangled in the sheets, and sat there with your back to him while your brain went through every stage of grief simultaneously.

No, I deserve an Oscar. Like, I should be nominated.

You’ve faked it? With Colston?

Only like... twice. Maybe three times. It’s not a big deal.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“You—” Your voice cracked. “How did you—”

“Came home early yesterday.” He said it evenly, like he was giving a post-game interview. Like he’d rehearsed this part. “Walked in during your FaceTime.”

“Oh my god.”

“Heard some stuff.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

You pressed both hands over your face. Held them there. Considered the possibility of simply never removing them. You could live like this. Hands over face, forever. It would be fine.

“How much did you hear?” The question came out muffled against your palms.

“Enough.”

“Cole, how much?”

“The Oscar part. Your friend asking if it was with me. You saying two, maybe three times.” He paused. “The ‘it’s not a big deal’ part.”

You made a sound. Not a word. Just a sound. The kind of sound a person makes when they realize they have said the worst possible thing in the worst possible context, and the one person who was never supposed to hear it was standing in the hallway absorbing every word.

“I can explain,” you said, hands still over your face.

“I’d love that, actually.”

“It’s not—it wasn’t—” You pulled your hands away. Looked at him. He was sitting up now, back against the headboard, arms crossed, and his face was doing that thing where he was trying very hard to look neutral, but his jaw was giving him away.

“It was only twice,” you said.

“You said maybe three.”

“One of those was borderline! It was like... almost real but then I just... helped it along at the end.”

“Helped it along?”

“Like—I was close! I was basically there. I just... sped up the ending a little.”

“Sped up the—” He stopped. Ran his hand over his mouth. Looked at the ceiling. “So you’re saying one of the three was like... a real orgasm with a fake finish?”

“Yes! See? So really it’s more like two and a half.”

“Two and a half?” He looked at you like you’d just tried to explain that the Earth was flat. “How do you fake half an orgasm?”

“I just told you how.”

“That’s not—you can’t just round down.”

“I think I can, actually, because I was there and you were—” You stopped. Realized what you were about to say. Closed your mouth.

“I was what?” He was looking at you now. Really looking. “Finish that sentence.”

“You were... also there.”

“Yeah. Apparently not doing a great job.”

“That is NOT what I said.”

“You said you deserved an Oscar. For faking it. With me. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Okay, first of all, that was girl talk. That was private. You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” you agreed, because what else could you say? He heard it. It was out there. No amount of explaining was going to stuff it back in.

You sat there looking at each other. The TV was still on in the other room, faint laugh track bleeding through the walls. Someone’s phone buzzed on the nightstand—his, probably Cooper, because Cooper had the worst timing of any human alive—and neither of you reached for it.

“I’m sorry,” you said. Quieter now. “I should’ve just... told you.”

“Told me what? That I wasn’t—”

“No. That’s not—Cole, you’re good at it. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what’s it about? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like I’ve been putting in work and you’ve been acting.”

“It’s not about—” You groaned, pressing your hands into your face again. This was going so badly. Every sentence was making it worse. “Can I just explain? Without you making Oscar jokes for like two minutes?”

He uncrossed his arms. Leaned back against the headboard. Gestured for you to go ahead. The gesture was generous, but his jaw was still tight.

─────

You took a breath. Then another. Tried to figure out where to start.

“Okay. So. You know how, like... right before my period, I get kind of...”

He blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting you to say, it wasn’t that.

“...crampy? And tired? And just, like, not super in my body?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. Like he was waiting for the trap.

“Okay. So. Both times—the real two times, not the half—it was right before my period. Like a day or two out. And I just...” You pulled at a thread on the comforter. Couldn’t look at him. “I wasn’t really in the mood. For sex. Specifically.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because I was in the mood for you.”

“What?”

“I wanted—” God, why was this so hard to say? You’d had his entire body on top of yours more times than you could count, and you couldn’t get this one sentence out. “I wanted to be close to you. I wanted your hands on me and your body next to me and I wanted to feel like... yours. I just didn’t want it to go all the way there. And I didn’t know how to say ‘hey, can you just hold me and touch me without it turning into sex’ because that felt like—I don’t know. Weird. Like I was rejecting you.”

He was quiet. Processing. You could practically hear the gears turning.

“So you let it happen,” he said. “Even though you didn’t want to.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to—”

“You just said you weren’t in the mood.”

“I wasn’t in the mood for an orgasm! I was in the mood for you! Those are two different things, and I didn’t know how to explain that without it sounding like—” You waved your hand in the air, gesturing at nothing. “Like I didn’t want you. Because I did want you. Just... differently.”

He went quiet again. Longer this time. You watched him stare at the far wall, brow furrowed, working through it the way he worked through a new play—turning it over, looking at it from every angle.

“So let me get this straight,” he said finally. “You wanted to be close to me. But not have sex.”

“Yes.”

“And instead of telling me that, you had sex anyway and then faked an orgasm.”

Hearing it out loud like that made you want to crawl under the bed. “When you put it like that, it sounds really bad.”

“How would you put it?”

“I panicked! Both times! You started kissing me, and it felt good, and I didn’t want you to stop touching me, and then things escalated and I didn’t know how to hit the brakes without making it weird, and then it was happening and my body just was not going to get there, and you were so into it, Cole, you were so—” You gestured at him. All of him. “You were doing everything right. My body just wasn’t cooperating. And you were trying so hard, and I could see how much you wanted me to feel good, and I just... couldn’t stand the idea of you thinking you’d failed. So I faked it. And then we cuddled after, which was all I wanted in the first place.”

You ran out of air. Sat there, chest heaving slightly, feeling like you’d just sprinted a mile.

Colston was looking at you with an expression you’d never seen before. Not angry. Not hurt, exactly. More like someone had just told him something that rearranged a piece of furniture in his brain, and he was still adjusting to the new layout.

“You...” He started, stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “You could’ve just said that.”

“I know.”

“Like, I would’ve been fine with that.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve just held you. That’s not—I’m not gonna be mad about holding you.”

“I KNOW, Colston.”

“Then why didn’t you just—”

“Because I didn’t know how to ask my boyfriend to touch me without fucking me! Okay? Because every time we’re in bed and things start happening, it goes to the same place, and I didn’t have the words for ‘I want everything leading up to it but not the actual thing’ without it sounding like I was cutting you off!”

That landed. You could see it hit him—the way his shoulders dropped, the way his expression shifted from confused to something softer. Something that looked a lot like oh.

You pressed your fingers to your temples. “And then the first time, it worked. You were happy. I got my cuddle. And I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. And then the next month it was the same situation, and I did the same thing because I didn’t know how to undo it without admitting I’d lied the first time.”

“So it became a thing.”

“It became a thing.”

Quiet. The apartment hummed around you—fridge, heat, the distant sound of a car alarm outside.

“For the record,” he said, and his voice was different now. Less guarded. Almost careful. “I don’t need sex every time we’re in bed.”

“I know that. Logically. It’s just—”

“No, I mean—” He shifted, turning toward you slightly. “If you just want me to hold you, that’s enough. That’s always been enough. You don’t have to perform for me.”

The word perform hit you somewhere behind your ribs. Because that’s exactly what you’d been doing. Performing. Not because he’d asked you to, but because you’d convinced yourself that was what he needed.

“I didn’t want you to feel rejected,” you said quietly.

“And instead I get to feel like I can’t tell when my girlfriend’s actually enjoying herself. Which is way better.”

“Cole—”

“I’m serious.” He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t making jokes. He was looking at you with those blue eyes that saw everything, and there was something raw in them. “I thought I could read you. I thought I knew when you were—” He stopped. Jaw tight. “I pay attention. I try to pay attention. And now I don’t know what was real.”

That one landed hard. Harder than the embarrassment, harder than the mortification. Because this wasn’t about his ego. This was about the thing he was most proud of—being attentive, being present, being the guy who noticed—and you’d taken that away from him without meaning to.

“Everything else was real,” you said. “Every other time. I swear.”

He looked at you. Searching. Trying to decide if he could trust that.

“...you’re sure?”

“Yes. Colston. I’m sure.”

Longer pause.

“Like, sure sure? Because I need to know that when you—”

“COLSTON. Yes. Every other time has been real. Very real. Extremely, embarrassingly real. The neighbors-can-probably-hear-me kind of real.”

Something twitched at the corner of his mouth. Not a full smile. Not yet. But close.

“The neighbors, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying, if the neighbors can hear you—”

“Do NOT make this into a compliment for yourself right now.”

“—then at least some of my work is paying off.”

“I will smother you with this pillow.”

He almost smiled. Almost. And then he went quiet again, and you could see him chewing on something else. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

“What?” you said.

“Nothing.”

“Cole.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. Looked at the ceiling. Back at you.

“Would you have ever told me? If I hadn’t heard?”

The honest answer sat in your throat like a rock. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say, of course, eventually, when I figured out how. But you’d been lying to him—small lies, kind lies, but lies—and you owed him the truth now.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably not.”

He nodded. Slowly. Like that was the answer he’d expected, but didn’t love hearing.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’m—” He exhaled. “I’m not mad. I’m just... I need you to talk to me. Even when it’s weird. Especially when it’s weird. Because I can’t fix something I don’t know about.”

“I know.”

“And I need you to stop faking.”

“Obviously.”

“Like, ever. Even the half ones.”

“There’s no such thing as a half one, you just said that yourself.”

“I said you can’t round down. I can call it whatever I want. I’m the victim here.”

You snorted. Loud and graceless and completely involuntary. And once it started, you couldn’t stop it—the absurdity of the whole thing crashing over you, the fact that you were sitting in bed having the most mortifying conversation of your life, and he was calling himself a victim—and you were laughing. Ugly laughing. The kind where no sound comes out, and you’re just shaking.

He watched you fall apart. And slowly, grudgingly, like it was being pulled out of him against his will, he started smiling. The real one. The one that started in one corner of his mouth and spread until his whole face changed.

“It’s not funny,” he said, but he was fighting it.

“It’s a little funny,” you managed.

“It’s really not.”

“You called yourself a victim.”

“I am a victim. Of fraud.”

You were gone. Doubled over, forehead on the mattress, shoulders shaking. And somewhere above you, you heard it—quiet, reluctant, like he was mad at himself for giving in—Colston laughing.

“I hate you,” he said, but there was no heat in it.

“No, you don’t.”

“I might. I’m still deciding.”

You sat up, wiping your eyes, and looked at him. His arms were still crossed, but loosely now. The tension in his jaw had softened. He looked tired—actually tired, not the fake kind—and a little bruised, but the worst of it had passed. You could see it draining out of him, replaced by something warmer. Something that looked like relief.

“So what now?” you asked.

“Now?” He looked at you. Tilted his head. “Now you learn how to use your words like a grown-up.”

“Wow.”

“And next time you want me to just hold you?” He reached over and tugged you toward him—not urgently, not sexually, just a hand on your arm pulling you into his side. You went easily, folding into him, your head finding its usual spot against his chest. “You just say that. Okay? You just say, ‘Cole, I just want this tonight.’ And that’s what we’ll do.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” His chin rested on top of your head. His arm settled around you. Warm and heavy and solid. “This is good. This is always good.”

You pressed your face into his shirt. Let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding for two months.

“I’m sorry,” you said into his chest.

“I know.”

“You’re good in bed.”

“I know.”

“The ego recovered fast.”

“Baby, the ego is in critical condition. I’m just hiding it well. I'm faking it till I make it,”

You laughed. Soft, this time. Pressed closer. His hand came up and settled on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and for a minute neither of you said anything. Just lay there. Close. Breathing.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached over and glanced at it.

Cooper: you alive?

Cooper: did you talk to her

Cooper: please tell me you didn’t open with the oscar thing

Colston typed back one-handed, the other arm still around you:

Colston: handled it

Cooper: AND???

Cooper: colston I swear to god

Cooper: DETAILS

Cooper: are you guys good??

Cooper: did she explain??

Cooper: was it a you problem or a her problem

Colston: goodnight Cooper

Cooper: COLSTON

He locked his phone and set it face down on the nightstand.

“Cooper?” you asked.

“Cooper.”

“Does he know?”

“...define ‘know.’”

“Colston.”

“He knows a version of events.”

“Oh my god.”

“He was very supportive. He said I’m probably fine in bed.”

“Probably?”

“His word, not mine.”

“I’m going to die.”

"Hey." He tilted your chin up. Looked at you. Serious again, but warm. "It stays between us. And Cooper. And your friend, I guess, since she started this whole thing. But that's it."

“That’s it,” you agreed.

He kissed your forehead. Long and slow. Then pulled you back into his chest.

“Night,” he murmured.

“Night.”

A pause.

“For the record, I’d give you the Oscar. The performance was very convincing.”

“GOODNIGHT, COLSTON.”

─────

Three weeks later, you felt it coming.

The familiar ache low in your back. The heaviness in your legs. The way your skin felt was too tight and too sensitive and vaguely wrong, like your body was gearing up for something it didn’t bother consulting you about.

One, maybe two days out. You knew the math by now.

Colston got home from the facility around five. You were on the couch in his hoodie and a pair of shorts, half-watching something you’d already forgotten the plot of. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and came around the back of the couch to kiss the top of your head.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He wandered into the kitchen, cracked a Celsius, scrolled his phone for a few minutes, then came back and settled next to you on the couch. Lifted your legs into his lap. His hand landed on your calf—warm, absentminded, already looking at the TV.

“What are we watching?”

“No idea. I stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.”

“Cool.”

Normal evening. Normal routine. His thumb tracing slow circles on your ankle. Not intentional—just something his hands did when they were on you.

Then his hand started moving. Up your calf. Over your knee. Along your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your shorts. Still casual, still easy, but the direction was clear. His eyes stayed on the TV, but his hand was telling a different story.

And there it was. The fork in the road.

His thumb traced the inside of your thigh, and your body did two things at once: leaned into the warmth of his touch, and quietly, firmly, told you it was not interested in where this was going.

You wanted him close. Wanted his hands. Wanted the weight of him next to you. Wanted to press your face into his chest and just exist there for a while.

You did not want to have sex.

This was the moment. The exact moment where, twice before, you’d said nothing. Let it happen. Performed your way through it and collected your cuddle on the other side like a reward you’d paid too much for.

His hand moved higher. His head turned toward you. That look in his eyes—soft, interested, the beginning of something.

“Hey, Cole?”

“Hm?”

Your heart was doing something stupid. Which was ridiculous. This was your boyfriend. On your couch. Touching your leg. There was no reason for this to feel like standing on the edge of a diving board.

“Can we just... do this tonight? Just this?”

His hand stopped. He looked at you—really looked—and you watched the understanding move across his face. Not confusion. Not disappointment. Just recognition.

“Yeah,” he said. Simple. Easy. Like you’d asked him to pass the remote. “’Course.”

That was it. No follow-up questions. No “are you sure?” No flicker of anything other than okay.

His hand slid back down to your calf. Settled there. He shifted on the couch, stretched out on his back along the length of it, one foot on the floor, and opened his arms.

You went without hesitating. Crawled into the space he’d made and settled against his chest, your cheek on the soft cotton of his shirt, one leg slotted between his. His arms closed around you—both of them, solid and warm—and he pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over you without being asked.

His hand found the back of your head. Fingers in your hair. Slow, aimless strokes that made your eyes heavy almost immediately.

“This good?” he asked. Quiet. Close. His voice rumbling through his chest and into yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “This is good.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and settled in. The TV murmured on. His heartbeat was slow and even under your ear. His thumb traced lazy lines along your spine.

Nobody was performing anything. Nobody was pretending. It was just this—his body and yours, the couch, the quiet, the feeling of being held by someone who wasn’t asking for anything in return.

You were almost asleep when you felt his chest move under your cheek. A small huff of air. Almost a laugh.

“What?” you murmured.

“Nothing.”

“Cole.”

“It’s nothing. Just—” He paused. You could hear the grin in his voice. “This is way better than an Oscar anyway.”

You pinched his side. He flinched and laughed—quiet, shaking under you—and pulled you tighter against him.

“I’m never living that down, am I?” you said.

“Not a chance.”

“Ever?”

“Baby, I’m bringing that up at our wedding.”

You lifted your head. Looked at him. He was smiling—the real one, the slow one that started in one corner and took over his whole face—and there wasn’t a single trace of hurt left in it. Just warmth. Just him.

“Our wedding?” you said.

He blinked. Realized what he’d said. A flush crept up his neck.

“I mean—” He cleared his throat. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Shut up.”

“No, please, tell me more about this wedding.”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Are there Oscars at the wedding? Is it a themed event?”

“Goodnight.”

“Do I get to give an acceptance speech?”

He grabbed the pillow behind his head and pressed it over your face, and you were laughing so hard you couldn’t fight him off, and his arm was still around you, and the TV was still on, and neither of you was going anywhere.

You fell asleep on the couch. His arms are around you. Your face pressed into his chest. The throw blanket tangled around both of you.

No performance. No pretending. Just this.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @willowpains @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @britt217 @kimmy888 @thatgirltries if you want to be added, comment or message me 🤍

[illinicoise]

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

[spn-fandom-breathing-heavily]

not even risking that shit

[codyslipring-deactivated2015060]

scrolled past this, re-evaluated my life, then SCROOOLLLED back up and hit the damn reblog button. 

[isamaegreenleaf]

Last comment same thing. Sorry to the next person who sees this. I just can’t risk it. I have things I need to do before my life becomes hell. Lol

[nnfirnid]

man i fucking hate yall who tf put this up knowing damn well we all gonna reblog it im heated im really sick af bout this 

[modelinterrupted]

I don’t play that shit lol sorry

[latenightsugar]

WHyyyy

[badgyal-k-deactivated20190901]

Sorry everyone

[just-jay25]

If only if only the woodpecker sighs the bark on the tree was as soft as the sky why the wolf waits below hungry and lonely he cries to the moon if only if only

[kixgbear]

Shiddd

[angiebkxo-deactivated20180626]

this post followed me to Facebook and im sooo annoyed!

[manynamedshe]

It’s been a MINUTE since I’ve seen Madame Zeroni, fr fr

[glamhoeour-deactivated20251207]

I HATE TUMBLR FKKKK SAKES

LMAOOOO

[venusians]

Not tryna fuck up any of my planetary Returns~

[edge-of-great]

One time I didn’t and I was broke for like a month but the next time I seen it I rebloged it and a bitch just got 500 out the blue and a 20 gift card

[noooodlessstuff]

Sorry I get anxious about this stuff 😭😭

[alcinas-big-ass-simp]

sorry yall

[sh1-n0bu]

i aint superstitious i yell loudly in fear as i slam the reblog button

[jamieexistss]

I aint risking nun rn

[loveforloveland]

and in jesus name i dont claim this.

[illinicoise]

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

[spn-fandom-breathing-heavily]

not even risking that shit

[codyslipring-deactivated2015060]

scrolled past this, re-evaluated my life, then SCROOOLLLED back up and hit the damn reblog button. 

[isamaegreenleaf]

Last comment same thing. Sorry to the next person who sees this. I just can’t risk it. I have things I need to do before my life becomes hell. Lol

[nnfirnid]

man i fucking hate yall who tf put this up knowing damn well we all gonna reblog it im heated im really sick af bout this 

[modelinterrupted]

I don’t play that shit lol sorry

[latenightsugar]

WHyyyy

[badgyal-k-deactivated20190901]

Sorry everyone

[just-jay25]

If only if only the woodpecker sighs the bark on the tree was as soft as the sky why the wolf waits below hungry and lonely he cries to the moon if only if only

[kixgbear]

Shiddd

[angiebkxo-deactivated20180626]

this post followed me to Facebook and im sooo annoyed!

[manynamedshe]

It’s been a MINUTE since I’ve seen Madame Zeroni, fr fr

[glamhoeour-deactivated20251207]

I HATE TUMBLR FKKKK SAKES

LMAOOOO

[venusians]

Not tryna fuck up any of my planetary Returns~

[edge-of-great]

One time I didn’t and I was broke for like a month but the next time I seen it I rebloged it and a bitch just got 500 out the blue and a 20 gift card

[noooodlessstuff]

Sorry I get anxious about this stuff 😭😭

[alcinas-big-ass-simp]

sorry yall

[sh1-n0bu]

i aint superstitious i yell loudly in fear as i slam the reblog button

[jamieexistss]

I aint risking nun rn

[loveforloveland]

and in jesus name i dont claim this.

[loveofvernonslife]

This how it feel knowing I’m going to the theater to support Tyriq Withers, but unfortunately Colleen H*oover non writing, weird ass too

[jung-koook]

namjoon's playlist: here

seokjin's playlist: here

yoongi's playlist: here

hobi's playlist: here

jimin's playlist: here

tae's playlist: here

jungkook's playlist: here

[literallyfrankocean]

90s Cliché

Cameron Cade x Fem reader

Notes: you’re in a class with Cam and slowly realize there might to more to him than star football player

No use of y/n, fluff, sort of slow burn, you’re both in college, he’s so damn tall

Word count: 5179

Everyone on campus knew Cameron Cade, if not directly then as something of a campus celebrity. He almost seemed mythical, whispers about the football team’s golden boy, their soon to be NFL prodigy.That’s why it was so strange when you walked into your Intro to Ceramics class junior year and found The Cameron Cade sitting in the studio, scrolling through his phone. You hadn’t even considered that he might be the artistic type, so there were levels of shock to seeing him, not to mention that you had never actually been this close to him. You weren’t by any means one of Cade’s fangirls, but there was something that radiated from him that made you nervous. Nervous, but still strangely drawn to him.

You walked to take a seat on a stool close enough to his, but not too close. Trying to balance glancing at him without staring like a stalker while discreetly texting your best friend about your new classmate.

Your professor walked into the room, you’d had her for a different art class last year and had gotten along with her pretty well. After introducing herself, she had each student introduce themselves and tell the class why they chose this course. Half listening, you heard students mention wanting to minor in art, wanting to pick up a new hobby, and some other reasons you couldn’t quite recall. But there was one deep voice that broke through the haze of your boredom.

“Hey, my name is Cameron Cade, uh I mean honestly I need a fine arts elective to graduate so that’s why I’m here” He awkwardly smiled, hoping his candor didn’t offend the professor. It wasn’t that he disliked art, it just wasn’t football so there wasn’t really room for it in his life. Cameron seemed relieved when the professor smiled at his introduction and moved onto the next student.

An elective requirement cleared the question of why he was in the class for you, but you still found yourself curious about him. You weren’t really even sure what it was you wanted to know but you knew there was just something about him. You introduced yourself a few people later and eventually filed out of the studio with the rest of the students, but you couldn’t shake Cameron from your mind. It was ridiculous you told yourself, you literally knew next to nothing about this man. All you knew was that he was apparently really good at football, but as of that morning you now knew that his dimples made something in your chest tighten and that his eyes on you when you introduced yourself almost made you stumble. But no, you really didn’t know him at all.

You didn’t see him again until class the next week. Your professor asked students who had ceramics experience to raise their hands, so you did. You’d done a little bit in high school and found that you actually really enjoyed it so you would spend the evening at your local studio from time to time. She then asked for students who were entirely new to the craft to raise their hands, the remaining half of the class raised their hands, Cameron among them. Your professor had always been big on students learning from one another so you had an inkling of what was going to happen next. She went on to pair each experienced one with one who didn’t have any experience. Of course, seemingly by luck or misfortune of the draw, you were paired with Cameron.

You knew most of the girls, and the guys, in the class would’ve loved to be paired with him but he was the only person you absolutely did not want to have to work with. You didn’t have anything against him, but given the effect he had on you after barely glancing your way you didn’t know how you’d function as his partner. But you didn’t have time to figure out a way to work with someone else, because as you sat panicking the star quarterback was walking across the studio to your station.

You involuntarily sat up straighter as his green eyes locked on to yours. He extended a hand but it almost seemed awkwardly lowered for his hand to be level to yours on the studio stool. All 6’5” of him towering over you, you couldn’t help but mentally make a gentle giant joke.

“Hey I’m Cam” he had an air of calmness about him, a confidence that still wasn’t cocky. Your hand connected with his for just a little too long, his hand entirely wrapping around yours. You silently prayed that your hands weren’t sweaty enough for him to notice. As he sat down on the stool next to you, you introduced yourself but just as your name left your mouth, he responded

“I remember your name, you organized one of the fall semester galas last year right?” he phrased it as a question but in truth he was certain. You couldn’t believe he remembered that, you didn’t even remember him being there. Then again, event planning doesn’t leave much time for fawning over football players.

“Wow yeah, I did. I didn’t even realize you were there, or that you knew who planned it” you felt your face redden and had to break eye contact to try and keep your face from betraying your flattered disbelief. Cameron smiled slightly wider as he continued.

“Of course I did, it was great. Also you gave a really impressive introduction speech and I asked a couple of my friends about you.” Cam’s confidence slipped for only a moment, as if he hadn’t meant to say the last bit he rushed to ask “but uh, you said you’ve done ceramic work before?”

Yes, the class, you know about the class. You could wonder why Cameron Cade would ever ask about you later on, but for now, you put those questions away and gathered your thoughts. You explained your exploration of ceramics in high school and your casual enjoyment after. It’s not as if this could have really mattered to him, but he listened like it did. Like really listened, asking you questions about pottery and the things you liked about it. You began to find yourself rambling more and more the longer he looked at you, so you decided it was his turn to talk.

“But anyway, I know you said this class is a requirement but like why ceramics not music or drawing or something” he seemed to think for a moment, a breath of relief left your body as his focus momentarily shifted from the redness in your face you couldn’t figure out how to suppress and the eye contact you couldn’t hold for more than a few seconds.

He raised his hand to scratch his buzzed head as he thought, almost a cartoonish gesture you thought to yourself, but either way it seemed to help him formulate his answer “I’ve never really given much thought to anything that wasn’t football. My dad loved football when I was a kid so I guess I’ve kind of had tunnel vision all my life. I don’t know, I guess I figured the way your hands move to hold a football might be something like the way they’d move to make a pot.” as he conveyed his comparison, he seemed to get bashful once realizing how silly it was, a nervous chuckle leaving his mouth as he mumbled “I don’t know”

You smiled though and reassured him “No I get it, sports and art are very different but this seems most like what you know, what you’re good at” His smile widened at your response, glad to know you didn’t think he was a complete idiot. You stared at one another, smiling, for just a beat too long when your professor dismissed class. You said your goodbyes and found yourself far more excited for next week’s class than what you’d expected.

Walking into the studio next week, Cam was already there, waving you over to sit with him. You thought that maybe after talking to him, establishing that he was in fact a real person and not some elusive campus legend, you wouldn’t feel your heart beat a bit faster when you approached him. You couldn’t have been more wrong, in fact it was worse. Your heart not only started beating faster but felt like it was doing flips in your chest. After talking to him, you realized he wasn’t just the football team’s godsend but he was kind, and attentive, and smart, and you needed to stop there. You couldn’t let this new crush, though you were reluctant to call it that, throw you from your entire routine.

The two of you made small talk for a bit until the professor began class. She announced that your first project would be the inexperienced student throwing a piece at the instruction of the experienced student. She said that the true test of knowing a subject is teaching it to another, this way you would both grow your skills not only in pottery, but in communication as well. After her instructions, your fellow classmates shuffled to gather clay and aprons, then proceeded to claim a pottery wheel for their pairing.

Once you and Cam had grabbed a chunk of clay, you set down a place mat and began your teaching “So the first thing you have to do is wedge the clay, so you’re going to throw the clay onto the table and shape it into a cube. This helps get all of the air out of the clay, because if you fire it with air bubbles in it, it will literally explode in the kiln and ruin all the other pieces in there too.” Cam’s undivided attention on you made you nervous, but you were determined to appear unshaken. One of the reasons you loved ceramics was because the clay in your hands steadied your mind. So you grabbed the clay and threw it on the table a few times to demonstrate before handing it to Cam so that he could do the same. You weren’t sure but somehow you forgot that the man towering over you might not understand the force with which he was supposed to throw the clay, especially given how solid the block seemed.

Without meaning to, he damn near hurled the clay onto the table. The thud resounded throughout the studio making other students stop what they were doing to search for the source of the noise. The clay sitting on the table had morphed from a cube into more of a slab. “Oh shit! I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to do that, that's my fault I-” apologies flowing from his mouth as he was seeming mortified at the idea of disappointing you, but what started as surprise morphed into an echoing laugh on your part. Causing the students who just resumed their work to look over at your table again before once again returning to their own pieces. His face seemed to soften as he realized you weren’t upset as that smile that was plastered on posters all over campus began to spread across his face. Maybe it was just a trick of the camera, but this smile felt more authentic, more real. Reaching his green eyes and accentuating his dimples on either side of his mouth.

Through laughter you sputtered “No, you're so good, I should’ve told you how hard to throw it, like you’re fucking massive of course you almost broke the table.” Your comments on his height almost seemed to make him shrink, to become shy. As you came down from your laughing fit, you explained to him that you don’t have to put much force behind the throw, you can honestly let gravity do most of the work. His second attempt was far more successful, in fact you thought he actually might be good at this. You would never tell him that though, for fear of slipping up and admitting that somewhere in the back of your mind you also thought he might be good at other things too.

Once he’d properly wedged the clay, the two of you moved over to the wheel. You tried to explain how to properly shape clay on the wheel but it wasn’t the easiest thing to explain in words. The clay kept spinning off center, it even flew off the wheel once. Realizing that verbal instruction wouldn’t do much “get up” you said. Instantly he did exactly what you said, standing up from the stool and waiting for your next instruction. You sat down on the wheel and started it slowly, shaping the clay with a firm enough hand to get the form you wanted, but soft enough to not to push the clay off the wheel. You stopped spinning to look up at Cam, but he sort of just stared at you with a nearly blank, but inquisitive, look on his face. You were probably wrong, but you thought you saw a small smiling tugging at the corners of his moth. Your instructions were better when you were physically going through the steps at the same time so you asked Cam “You wanna try again”

“Uhhh-” he began, but before he could say anymore the professor’s voice interjected over his own. She announced that this first piece would be due at the end of next class, it didn’t have to be perfect, just something the inexperienced student had begun to work on. You realized that you and Cam didn’t have something Cam made to present and this boy was not about to get in the way of your grades. “I don’t think we’re gonna have enough time to finish just during next week’s class, would you want to meet here to work on it some other time?” You would’ve never known it but Cam’s heart was doing its own gymnastics routine as he posed the question, the idea of spending time alone with you as terrifying as it was exciting.

“Um yeah, yeah that sounds good” fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you responded. The two of you agreed to meet Thursday at 6 in the studio, there weren’t any classes at that time so you should have the place all to yourselves.You said your goodbyes and as soon as you were out of his eyeline you quite literally sprinted to your friends dorm. When you finally stood in front of her door, doubled over and breathless you barely felt like you had the energy to knock, but you did.

“My god, did you get hit by a truck?” she exclaimed in a half serious, half joking tone. You stumbled into her room and immediately laid flat on her bed “Yeah no ok, just make yourself comfortable I guess” She chuckled as she playfully reprimanded you. After catching your breath and kind of putting your thoughts together, words began to spill from your mouth like a river with a broken dam, you couldn’t stop or slow down,

“Dude this is actually insane like remember I told you Cameron Cade is in my class?” you didn’t wait for an answer as you hastily continued your story “Well me and him got partnered up for this project and its actually stupid how beautiful he is like obviously he’s beautiful he’s quite literally the university’s poster boy but like there’s something about him when he’s a real person, he’s funny and sweet and he’s got this dumbass smile like I literally can’t even look at him when he does it, and these dimples, god, but anyway we didn’t finish the project in time so we’re meeting up on Thursday to work on it together and like what if I can’t be alone with him what if I embarrass myself I mean-” upon noticing you hadn’t taken a single breath since you started talking your best friend interrupted you, smiling putting her hands on your shoulders as she said your name.

“Ok slow down, take a second to breathe” the two of you breathed together, steadying yourself next to her. After making sure you were ok, she responded in the way that only a best friend could. She pointed at you and sang “OOOOOOOOH YOU HAVE A CRUUUUUUSSSSSHHHH” She placed her hands back on your shoulders as she began to shake you while she giggled and teased you. You couldn’t help but laugh, she always knew exactly what you needed in the moment.

“I do not!” you insisted, pushing her away. She stopped her taunting and looked at you incredulously, even a blind person could have seen the lie on your face. “Ok maybe I do…” you were attempting to suppress the smile on your face but failed miserably. “I don’t know, I just don’t want to embarrass myself or do something stupid in front of him. Also I mean everyone on campus damn near worships him like why would I have a chance?” Your best friend kissed her teeth, knowing what you were saying was utterly ridiculous

“You won’t embarrass yourself, come on, he’s just a guy. Also be so serious yeah everyone on this campus worships him, but you’re not everybody. I don’t pick just any random to be my best friend, I have a reputation to uphold” she commented, nudging you as she sat a little bit straighter, illustrating this supposed reputation she was maintaining. Everything was always better after talking to her. The two of you spent the rest of the day in her dorm, watching shows, occasionally showing the other a tiktok of one of Cam’s plays on the field. By the time you retired to your own room, you realized the buzz you felt about Thursday was settling in you. Less anxious, more anticipatory than anything else.

Classes on Thursday drudged on, it felt as if every minute until 6pm was extended to an hour each, but finally 6 lazily rolled around. You walked from the library to the studio, wondering if you or Cam would be there first. As you opened the door, you noted that the answer was him. You figured the rigidness of lifelong training probably instilled punctuality into his core. He sat at a desk, a block of clay already wedged. Specks of gray clay dried on his hands and apron, he’d also managed to get some on his stupidly gorgeous face somehow.

“Well would you look at that you prepped the clay without breaking anything.” smiling as he looked up at you.

“Yeah you know, I’m not just good on the field” there it was, that confidence you noticed when you’d first met. You assumed it was a cover, as it was for most people, but something about his was real, genuine. You jabbed his side with your elbow as if to remind him of his first attempt at wedging. The two of you moved over to a wheel. You centered the clay for him and asked

“K, you ready?” you looked up at him expectantly but he seemed suddenly uncertain.

“Actually could you show me one more time?” but you realized that just watching you wouldn’t do anything. He was an athlete, he needed a more hands on approach. You knew it was a cliche in almost every rom com from the 90s, but whose to say, maybe they were on to something? Trying to figure out the most normal way of phrasing it you suggested

“You know what, I think you’ll learn better with a more physical approach. I know this is going to sound weird but I really do think that you sitting behind me as I throw would help your progress.” You prayed he didn’t just take this as you making some desperate pass at him. You could see every bright white tooth of his in the grin that grew across his face upon hearing your suggestion. He comically threw his hands in the air and sighed

“Whatever the teacher says goes I guess” you took your seat behind the wheel as he pulled up a second stool behind you. Once he sat behind you, it almost felt as if his body cloaked yours. You weren’t touching yet but he had no problem seeing over your head, you began to imagine what it would feel like if he moved just an inch closer. You turned the wheel on and began to explain the basics of throwing, pressure, hand positioning, things like that. Once you were ready to begin shaping the clay you directed him

“Ok, so put your hands over mine so that you can get a feel of the shape your hands need to make and the pressure you need to apply” He obeyed silently, carefully placing his hands over yours. You felt a shock radiate through your body at his touch, his broad hands effortlessly enveloping yours. He held your hands in his softly, but with purpose, ensuring he didn’t cross a line. As you moved your hands entirely in sync, pulling the clay up then pushing it back down a few times, gently placing two fingers in the center of the clay at the top. Delicately and slowly pressing down and running your fingers along the smooth, widening interior while your other hand held the cool outside walls steady. Throughout all of this as his hands stayed overlaid with yours, mimicking your movements perfectly your mind couldn’t help but wander. At one point he leaned forward and you felt his chest just barely press against your back. He mumbled an apology but as he began to straighten his posture you leaned back, shifting your weight just slightly. “No it’s ok” you almost whispered, afraid the moment was so delicate that it could be broken by sound alone.

Then suddenly the moment was broken, but not by sound, by the lights. They must’ve run on a timer, because as soon as the clock hit 9 the two of you were left in pitch black. Bodies still pressed together, suddenly aware of the heat shared between the two of you. Both of you infinitely more aware of his breath on your neck, the smell of your perfume mingled with the earthy scent of clay, the skin on your back pressed against his torso only separated by the thin cotton layers of your clothing. Warmth rushing to your cheeks as you became conscious of his contact. You jumped up, scrambling for your phone to light the pitch black studio. When you pointed the light towards him, he couldn’t conceal a smile, much less the fact that he was trying to conceal it. You felt caught somehow, exposed and vulnerable. You shifted your focus from the mouth that was centimeters from your neck only moments ago to the vase the two of you had just made.

“You did a really good job though, so I mean we’re done for now, but nice work” You felt a coldness on the outside of your hands where his palms had been, a chill on your back where his heartbeat had been. Amused by your almost impressive lack of tact, his smile was no longer poorly concealed, but now spread across his face, reaching his light eyes. He seemed almost proud at how flustered you were.

He shrugged your compliment off, feigning nonchalance “Yeah you know, I do what I do.” That dumbass smile stayed on his face even after you rolled your eyes.

“Alright let’s not get too ahead of ourselves now” You retort, softly placing your hand on his bicep to playfully push him away from you.

He pretended to stumble back a few steps, as if you’d actually hurt him. He held the spot on his arm where you hit him, knitting together his eyebrows he groaned “Ow, you know if I bruise and I can’t play the next game I’m telling coach it’s your fault.” You finally smiled, even though you would never admit that you did actually think he was really funny. The two of you quietly cleaned up the studio before you left, but a comfortable silence. Far more comfortable than it should have been with a guy you’d only met a couple weeks ago. Then again that same guy was all pressed up against you a few minutes ago, so maybe the things that “should be” didn’t exactly apply. You exchanged goodnights and a hug that lasted just a bit too long before you went your separate ways for the night.

As soon as you got home you facetimed your best friend to tell her everything that happened that night. The two of you stayed up for nearly two hours giggling and echoing parts of your story back to one another. When you finally went to bed, you felt a soft smile settle on your face. A swirling contentment found its place in your chest, that was actually the best sleep you’d had in a good minute.

The next morning you were able to sleep in since you didn’t have any morning classes. You slowly stretched and opened your eyes, taking in the sunlight peeking through your blinds. You blinked the sleep from your eyes as you pulled your phone off the charger. You always slept with your phone on DND so you swiped up to see the notifications you received throughout the night. 4 new emails, an assignment was graded, some promo text from a clothing brand you've subscribed to, all of these were pretty typical but there was one banner that caught your eye. “Cameron Cade started following you.” You couldn’t believe it but you actually giggled and kicked your feet just like in the movies. Damn what was this guy doing to you?

Once you followed him back you proceeded to stalk his account, of course you’d done it after that first class with him but it was different now. His bio simply read “HIM” his profile picture was a picture of him celebrating after a game, which had to be something one of his friends took. You scrolled through his posts, there were pictures of him with his family, with his team, with his friends. Honestly it was all really sweet, though there was the occasional thirst trap only a college athlete could get away with. You caught yourself checking the comments to see if he responded to any girls before reminding yourself that one weird night in a studio didn’t have to mean anything, but hopefully it did.

Before you knew it, it was time to head to the studio again. Punctual as ever, Cameron was there before you, holding the pot the two of you had made. When his green eyes met yours, it felt just like that night in the studio. The two of you, alone, close and warm. For a moment it was like there was no one else in the studio. You sat next to him and joked “So what, you cyber-stalking me now, Cade?”

He gently placed the vase down and like the smartass he was, he retorted “I mean I’m pretty sure I got a follow back and isn’t the whole thing about stalking that it’s one sided?” Knitting his eyebrows in faux confusion, leaning just a bit closer to you.

“I mean it would’ve been rude not to follow back, I mean especially because I know how much you idolize me” responding to him with the same half-joking tone. Leaning in exactly as much as he had.

He investigated your face, his eyes scanning yours, then down to your nose and mouth. The two of you sat there for a moment, you willed the blood rushing to your cheeks to slow. You were close enough to smell his cologne as he sat up, basking in his newfound realization that he could in fact make you nervous, very nervous. “Do you want me to idolize you?” he asked quietly enough for you to still hear your heartbeat in your ears.

That was when the professor made her way to your station. She investigated the vase asking how the two of you felt about the assignment. “I really enjoyed it, I realized that over the weekend I kept thinking about it, wanting to be back in the studio.” Your professor smiled at Cameron’s words but to you they had a separate meaning. Was it you he kept thinking of over the weekend? It had to be, you’d been thinking of him of course. The two of you received an A on the assignment. You realized it might’ve been the first time you completed an assignment without thinking about the grade you’d get, all you’d thought about was him.

“So, how would you feel about celebrating our first project this week? Maybe dinner?” There was that hint of nervousness from when he had admitted to asking about you last year, though it still didn’t seem to contradict his self-assuredness. He didn’t take his eyes off you as he awaited your answer, it’s not like he was waiting that long of course.

“Wait a minute is the number one college football player, Cameron Cade, asking me on a date”

“Yeah something like that”

“I’d love to get dinner actually”

The two of you exchanged numbers, an electricity humming in the air for the rest of class. When class was dismissed instead of your usual goodbye, Cameron hugged you. Rather than just his hands over yours, his embrace blanketed your body. Warm and comfortable, when he pulled away you missed his arms around you even after just a moment of contact. You walked back to your dorm humming, silently thanking the University for requiring Cameron to take a fine arts course.

That weekend, Cam arrived at your door with flowers and a fresh cut. He opened the car door for you and let you be on aux. He mixed chivalry with modernity in a perfect way, opening doors for you but letting you speak to the waiter first. Picking up the check before you’d even realized it was there and when you complained he said you could get it the next time, even though he knew he would never let that be the case. Somehow 3 hours whirled by and you were back at your doorstep, saying goodnight.

The streetlights illuminated his towering physique, light curling along his biceps. Tracing the sharpness of his jawline. You unlocked your door, opening it slightly before realizing that wasn’t how you wanted to end the night. You stepped towards him, focusing your sight on his eyes rather than his lips. Once you were barely an inch from him, you felt yourself stand on your tippy toes as he wrapped a strong arm around your waist. Like clay, your lips melding into one another. The two of you smoothly merging into one, you both somehow still while the rest of the world seemed to spin on a wheel. You’d taught the last lesson, but now you had a feeling he was ready to take the lead.

[arinzeture]

“People get used to anything. The less you think about your oppression, the more your tolerance for it grows. After a while, people just think oppression is the normal state of things. But to become free, you have to be acutely aware of being a slave.”

Assata Shakur

[wintercorrybriea2]

Female MC Hall of Fame

The Source Magazine (October, 1997)

scans by rap style archeology

[stoney-baloney-with-cheese]

Do not let them erase this. Do not let them tell you he meant "my heart goes out for you."

This man is the grandson of a Canadian Nazi sympathizer who moved to South Africa BECAUSE he thought the apartheid was just the coolest.

He has a gaggle of kids specifically because he believes his genes are superior and need to be spread to improve humanity.

He has thrown his support behind the neonazi party in Germany and the far right party in the UK, not to mention how far he's wormed up the ass of the Republican party.

He threw two sieg heil salutes back to back at the inauguration of the president of the United States and is trying to scrub the evidence off the internet.

Elon Reeve Musk is a fucking Nazi.

[odinsblog]

Elon has been waiting forever to do that publicly. He thinks it’s safe now.

[tshifty]

oh my god...

so the first screenshot is trying to look this up on tiktok normally, "donald trump rigged election" and it says that search violates community guidelines.

the second screenshot is looking up the same exact thing, but with a (australian) vpn on. canadian vpn didn't fix it fyi.

THIS is exactly the type of censorship to be looking out for on tiktok. this actually is crazy.

[odinsblog]

Keith Boykin calls out Snoop Dogg and other sunken-place sellouts who are rapping for Trump.

Transcript:

“Well, I had a disagreement with Snoop, I think, a year or two ago, or something. He endorsed Rick Caruso. He was supporting Rick Caruso for mayor of Los Angeles, who I disagree with, and I stated that publicly as well. But, you know, I think that a lot of these rappers are not the intellectuals in the community, as Ture was pointing out, but it's also a dishonor to the Black community.

I mean, if you look at Donald Trump, the man who would refuse to rent to Black people in the 1970s, who tried to lead a lynch mob against five Black and Brown kids in the 1980s for the Central Park case, who refused to allow Black casino workers to have a prominent place in his casinos in Atlantic city in the 1990s, who spent five and a half years lying about Barack Obama's birth certificate in the 2000s, who came into office and then attacked Black people like Colin Kaepernick, who attacked Ruby Freeman and her daughter Shay Moss for simply doing their jobs in Fulton county election workers.

You dishonor those people when you go and perform for this man, this man who has done nothing but dishonor Black people.

And just even last year, just last year, he was calling Haitian immigrants, accusing them of eating cats and dogs.

This is not somebody that Black people should be associated with and pretending to normalize.

We should be challenging him.

And it dishonors the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., whose birthday we honor on Monday to celebrate this man.”

- Keith Boykin

[chescaleigh]

[queentinqz]

Beyoncé - Cowboy Carter (Super Bowl Halftime Show Performance 2024)

[vintagewoc]

Diahann Carroll (1979)

[jung-koook]

his smirk!!! he knew exactly what he was doing

[celebsaesthetic-blog]

Ryan Destiny Calvin Klein

[rickeajacksons]