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Ex Boyfriend Blurbbb 😮‍💨

Colston shows up at her house drunk… few days after the break up… Colston being stubburnnnn. It wasn’t even like a bad break up or anything maybe a misunderstanding or something petty…

“I want my girl back”

“Fuck all that”

“I’m not leaving until we fix this “

“I’ll beat every guy in your phone don’t play with me”

“You playin with me and you keep pushing ima show you “

brutal (blurb)

background: anon ask above

notes: i did wake up one night and write this because of my insomnia. on the other hand, i sole heartedly relate to this fic so thats why it was so easy to plot out?? anon i loved the examples that i had to use em. this is part 1 of a 2 part blurb so part two will be linked here.

word count: 2.1k

warning: this is a alternative universe, set to michigan days,because colston never went to michigan before 21 hes 20 and underage drinking, welcome to college life. toxic relationship between reader and colston, usage of y/n..

thestoryofagirlxxx

[cl #84] he ain’t sharing you

what starts as “just a jersey” turns into colston making it very clear who you belong to. from the field after practice to the post-game interview, his possessive streak isn’t loud.. it’s certain.

you didn’t think it would matter.

it was just a jersey. oversized, navy, the sleeves long and baggy, borrowed from one of the guys after practice when the temperature dropped and you’d complained about the cold. someone laughed, tossed it to you, and that was that.

you didn’t notice the name on the back when you pulled it on. you didn’t think you needed to.

but he did.

colston’s hand found your waist before you even realized he was behind you, fingers curling just tight enough to stop you mid-step.

“whose is that?”

his voice was low, controlled, the kind that made the air around you feel heavier. like a warning wrapped in restraint.

you twisted slightly. “what?”

his grip tightened. not painful. just grounding. claiming. a silent reminder of exactly where you stood.

he turned you gently, but there was nothing gentle in his eyes when they dropped to the lettering stretched across your shoulders.

not his name. not his number.

something darker flickered behind his stare.

the field noise faded. laughter, whistles, helmets clattering, all background static compared to the way his jaw flexed.

“you cold?” he asked.

too calm.

you nodded slowly.

he let out a breath through his nose, like he was trying to rein something in. then his fingers hooked the hem of the jersey.

“take it off.”

your heart stuttered. “colston—”

“off,” he repeated, softer this time, but somehow more dangerous. not louder. just certain.

you pulled it over your head, hair falling back into place as the cold air rushed in. he proceeded to quickly grab the jersey from your hand. before you could protest, he shrugged out of his hoodie and tugged it over you, guiding your arms through like it was the most natural thing in the world. like it had always been his place.

it swallowed you whole. warm. familiar. him.

his hands lingered at your wrists, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin.

“don’t wear other guys’ names,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted your temple. “don’t like people thinking you belong to anyone else.”

your pulse hammered.

“who says i belong to anyone?” you whispered.

his hand slid from your wrist to your jaw, tilting your face up.

his expression softened, but the possessiveness stayed, burning steady beneath the surface.

“everyone who sees you next to me,” he said quietly. “they should know.”

his thumb traced your cheekbone, slow, deliberate.

then, softer, “mine.”

you could feel his teammates watching. the curious glances. the knowing smirks.

he didn’t care.

his hand settled at the small of your back, pulling you closer like it was instinct, like there had never been another option. and somehow, wrapped in his hoodie, held in his orbit, you didn’t mind at all.

he didn’t let go when someone jogged past and wolf-whistled. didn’t step back when a helmet thudded onto the bench beside you. if anything, his hand pressed flatter against your back, thumb hooking into the fabric at your waist like he needed the reminder that you were still there.

“practice is over, lover boy,” someone called.

colston didn’t even look. his eyes stayed on you, searching, like he was waiting for you to pull away, waiting for proof he cared more than you did.

you didn’t move. not an inch.

his shoulders loosened a fraction. “good,” he murmured, almost to himself.

the stadium lights hummed overhead, bathing everything in a pale glow. your breath puffed faintly in the cold, but inside his hoodie, warmth clung to you, his detergent, his cologne, something unmistakably him.

his gaze flicked down for just a moment to his teammate's navy jersey that was still in his hands, then back to your face, intensity softening slightly. “keeping it,” he said, low and certain.

not a question.

you tilted your head. “what if i wanted the jersey back?”

his mouth curved, not quite a smile, more like a warning softened by affection. “then i’d give you one with my name on it.”

your heart skipped.

behind him, one of his teammates muttered, “called it,” followed by muffled laughter. colston shot a look over his shoulder, brief and sharp, and the noise died instantly. when he turned back, the edge was gone again. just you in his space. just you under his hand.

his fingers slid from your back to lace with yours, rough calluses warm against your skin. he lifted your joined hands slightly, brushing his knuckles against your sleeve like he was memorizing the sight, like he liked how you looked wearing something that was his.

“let's get you home” he asserted, quieter now.

he didn’t release you as you crossed the field. didn’t loosen his grip when the cold wind swept through the stands. and when you leaned into him, just a little, his arm came around your shoulders automatically, pulling you into his side like he’d been waiting all day to do it.

possessive. protective. certain.

as if there had never been a world where you weren’t right there.

and as you left the lights behind, wrapped in his warmth and his certainty, one thought settled softly in your chest.

maybe he was right.

maybe everyone should know.

the thought lingered longer than you expected.

it didn’t feel like pressure. didn’t feel like being claimed in a way that took something from you. it felt chosen. steady. like stepping into something you had already been circling for weeks.

his hand was still warm at your lower back as you reached the edge of the lot, thumb moving in slow, absent patterns like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. like touching you had become instinct.

you could have stepped away.

you didn’t.

instead, you leaned into him more fully, letting your shoulder press against his side. his reaction was immediate but subtle, his arm tightening just slightly, chin dipping toward you for a second like he was checking that you were still there.

you were.

he opened the passenger door for you, one hand braced at the top of the frame, the other still at your waist. when you slid into the seat, his hoodie bunching around your hands, he adjusted it without thinking, tugging the sleeves down over your knuckles.

possessive, yes.

but careful.

his gaze softened when he noticed you watching him.

“next time you’re cold,” he said quietly, thumb brushing once more against your hip before stepping back, “you ask me.”

not a command.

a promise.

your heart did that same stutter again, softer this time. steadier.

because it wasn’t about the jersey.

it was about the way he looked at you like there was no version of this where you weren’t walking out beside him.

you reached for his hand before he could close the door, lacing your fingers through his.

“okay,” you said simply.

his jaw flexed once, but this time it wasn’t jealousy.

it was satisfaction.

when he finally shut the door and rounded the black truck, you caught your reflection faintly in the window. swallowed by his hoodie. marked without needing to be.

and for the first time, you didn’t just think maybe everyone should know.

you wanted them to.

the next day, the memory of last night clung to you like the lingering scent of his hoodie. your fingers absentmindedly tugged at your sleeves as you walked toward the edge of the field, the cold air sharp but somehow easier to bear after the warmth you’d carried with you. the stadium lights buzzed faintly overhead, empty now except for a few stragglers, and the echo of distant whistles and clattering helmets felt softer than before.

you should have known better.

the feeling lingered beneath your ribs, a quiet insistence reminding you that even though it was a new day, the pull of him hadn’t faded. you laughed lightly at something one of the guys said, trying to focus on the easy conversation, small talk filling the space while you waited for colston to finish up with the coaches. harmless chatter but impossible to ignore the way the memory of him threaded through every step, every glance, every breath.

still, you felt it before you saw him.

that shift in the air. that quiet, magnetic pull.

the other player stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking past you with a knowing look. “uh oh,” he muttered, already stepping back. “i’m not getting between that.”

you turned.

colston was walking toward you, helmet dangling from two fingers, expression unreadable in the way that meant it absolutely was not unreadable. controlled. contained.

his gaze dropped briefly to where you’d been standing close, too close, then returned to your face.

he didn’t slow down. didn’t stop until he was directly in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to hold his stare.

“practice ended ten minutes ago,” he said.

you blinked. “i know.”

his eyes flicked once in the direction the other player had retreated, then back to you. something dark and possessive sparked behind them.

“you looked comfortable.”

your pulse skipped. “we were talking.”

his jaw shifted, like he was deciding which version of himself to give you.

his hand slid to your waist, firm, steady, not asking, guiding you half a step closer until your hip brushed his. the contact sent heat straight up your spine.

“you laugh like that with everyone?” he murmured.

your breath caught. “like what?”

his thumb pressed slowly into your side. “like you forgot i was standing right here.”

you hadn’t. not really.

his gaze searched yours, jealousy and something softer tangled together, like he hated the feeling but hated the idea of not claiming you more.

“colston,” you said quietly, “you’re jealous.”

he didn’t deny it. didn’t pretend.

his fingers tightened slightly at your waist, then relaxed, like he was choosing control over impulse. “don’t like watching other people think they’ve got your attention,” he admitted.

your heart thudded. “they don’t.”

his eyes held yours, searching for hesitation, doubt, anything that might make him pull back.

he didn’t find it.

his shoulders eased a fraction, but his hand didn’t leave you. instead, he drew you closer until the space between you disappeared entirely, his voice lowering near your ear.

“good,” he murmured. “because i’m trying real hard to be patient.”

the words sent a shiver down your spine.

“patient?” you whispered.

his breath brushed your temple. “yeah,” he said. “about not reminding everyone here who you go home with.”

heat flooded your face.

you could feel people nearby. feel the attention. feel the way he didn’t care.

his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fingers spreading like he belonged there. like you belonged there.

“you’re trouble,” you murmured.

his mouth brushed near your ear, not quite a kiss. “only when i have to be.”

for a moment neither of you moved, the world narrowing to shared warmth and the steady pressure of his hand holding you exactly where he wanted you.

possessive. grounded. certain.

like letting go had never crossed his mind.

since that moment, days have passed. the memory of that closeness still warm and steady in your chest. the quiet possessiveness, the way he claimed you in small, certain gestures, lingered like a pulse you could feel even when apart. when game night finally came with bright lights, cameras, and cheering fans, the same energy threaded through him. it didn’t fade with the final whistle, didn’t disappear under questions or flashing lights. his presence was still yours, subtle and commanding, the kind of quiet attention that left no doubt about where you stood in his world.

this energy carried through even when he’s getting interviewed post-game. it didn’t fade with the final whistle.

the stadium lights still glared overhead, the night air sharp and cold after the last whistle was blown. reporters were lined up along the sidelines, cameras and microphones ready, while colston wiped sweat from his brow, now in his navy no sleeve shirt with eye black smeared across his face.

one reporter leaned in, smirking. “we saw your girlfriend in the stands tonight… can we get her thoughts?”

colston’s gaze swept across the stands, sharp and deliberate, until it landed on you, tucked into the crowd. a slow smirk tugged at his lips, and his eyes lingered on you for a moment before he motioned subtly with his head.

“c’mere, mama,” he called, his voice low, steady, commanding in that effortless way only he could manage.

you grinned and made your way over, boots crunching softly against the ground. he shifted on the bench to make room, extending his hands to guide you onto his lap the second you were close enough. the thick grey blanket he had been wrapped in shifted slightly as he lifted it and draped it over your shoulders, making sure you were fully covered. he knew you hated the cold, knew how it bit at your fingers and nose, and even if it left him shivering, he didn’t care. he’d rather feel the chill himself than let you be uncomfortable.

his big arms wrapped around you. one of his hands now settled at your waist, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your side. subtle, protective, undeniably his.

“hey, everyone!” you greeted brightly, still riding the high of the win.

the reporters began tossing questions your way, mostly about how well he’d been performing lately.

you leaned back into him, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his chest. “i’m so proud of him,” you said, your voice soft but sure. “he’s worked incredibly hard, and i’m just really happy everyone got to see that tonight.”

a few reporters let out quiet awhs, nodding in agreement.

“we’ve all seen what he can do on the field,” one of them added with a grin. “but what’s he like off the field?”

you tilted your head slightly, smiling. “he’s an amazing boyfriend. honestly, i feel like i’ve found my other half. he’s so fun to be around.” you paused, turning your head and body to glance at him mischievously. “and you didn’t hear it from me, but he runs a pretty strict program around here.”

colston shot you a knowing look, immediately catching your reference to the jersey incident earlier. a laugh rumbled from his chest, and he just shook his head, letting it slide as the interview rolled on.

his grip tightened on the blanket, tugging you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. he rested his chin on top of your shoulder, and you sighed softly, smiling into the warmth of him. the reporters’ voices slowly faded into background noise.

all that mattered was this small, quiet bubble, the two of you wrapped up together, the cold night powerless against the heat you shared.

by the next morning, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. notifications stacked up endlessly: tweets, posts, DMs, comments. all reacting to last night’s interview. clips of you and colston on the bench were circulating: you bundled in the blanket, leaning into him, the warmth and subtle intimacy practically radiating through the screen.

fans were obsessed. they were laughing, swooning, and joking all at once. every little detail was being highlighted. the way he pulled you onto his lap, how his hand rested lightly on your side, and of course, your playful comment about the “strict program.”

"the way he said 'c’mere, mama' and she just went??? i would fold immediately."

"not him pulling her onto his LAP during an interview. that is POSSESSIVE boyfriend behavior and i support it."

"'he runs a pretty strict program around here' EXCUSE ME??? we need elaboration immediately."

"the way he tightened the blanket around her??? oh he is not letting that girl go anywhere."

"his hand never left her waist. not once. that man is down bad horrendously."

"the way he looks so proud when she praises his performance and how well he is as a boyfriend"

"strict program = she belongs to him and everyone knows it"

"why does he look like he’s guarding the last slice of pizza. sir, that is a human being”

"the way he said 'c’mere, mama' like it wasn’t a suggestion”

"subtle possessive energy. not loud. not toxic. just very 'yeah, that’s mine’”

"he tucked her into that blanket like he was sealing a contract”

"you cannot convince me he wasn’t proud showing her off. look at his FACE”

"the real question is what happens when she breaks the strict program”

"that man was guarding her like a trophy and i respect it”

you scrolled through with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, occasionally stifling a laugh. colston glanced over at you from where he was sipping his protein shake, eyebrows raised slightly. “see? everyone noticed,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“they’re obsessed,” you admitted, laughing softly.

“good,” he said, voice low and certain. “they should be.”

more fan edits popped up: slow-motion zoom-ins on your smile, playful GIFs of your “strict program” joke, captions emphasizing his “protective/possessive energy.” people were entertained, swooning, joking but entirely in awe of the quiet, affectionate bond you shared on camera.

the next buzz comes before you can even lock your phone. another clip. another angle. this one closer, zoomed in enough that you can see the exact second his hand flexes at your waist when the reporter says girlfriend. the exact second his jaw sets like he likes the word, like he’s been waiting to hear it said out loud on camera.

you glance at him. he’s already looking at you.

“what?” he asks, too casual.

you tilt your screen toward him.

he watches the replay in silence. watches himself pull you closer under the blanket. watches the way you melt into him without hesitation. watches the way his chin settles on your shoulder like it belongs there. his mouth twitches.

“they slowed it down,” you murmur.

“good,” he replies.

your stomach flips.

another notification slides in.

"strict program lore, we need the backstory immediately"

you snort. “they are not letting that go.”

his eyes drop to your mouth when you laugh. not subtle. not embarrassed. interested.

“maybe you shouldn’t have said it,” he says lightly.

“maybe you shouldn’t run one.”

that earns you a look. not playful. not quite. measured.

he sets the protein shake down slowly, like he has all the time in the world. then he shifts closer on the couch until your thigh is pinned between his. not aggressive. just deliberate. just enough to remind you that space is optional when it comes to him.

“you make it sound like i’m strict,” he says quietly.

“you are,” you tease. “don’t wear other guys’ names. don’t laugh too hard. don’t stand too close.”

his hand slides up your thigh, stopping just above your knee.

“i never said don’t laugh.”

you swallow.

“just don’t forget who you’re laughing with.”

there it is again. not anger. not insecurity. certainty.

you study him for a second. the calm confidence. the way he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t need to.

“you really don’t like sharing, do you?”

his thumb traces slow circles against your skin, the same rhythm as the blanket last night.

“not when it’s mine.”

your heart stutters. outside, the world is dissecting thirty second clips, zooming in, theorizing, romanticizing. inside, it’s quieter. closer.

your phone buzzes again and this time he reaches for it before you can. not to check it, not to scroll, just to turn it face down on the table.

“they’ve had enough of you today,” he says.

“have they?”

his gaze drags over you slowly, like he’s taking inventory.

“yeah.”

you shift slightly, testing the invisible boundary he’s drawn with his body. “and who decided that?”

his hand leaves your knee and moves to your waist, pulling you fully into his lap like it’s instinct, like he’s been thinking about doing it since the moment you mentioned the edits.

“i did.”

your breath catches when your hands land against his shoulders.

“colston,” you warn softly, even though there’s no real warning in it.

he leans back into the couch, bringing you with him, one arm firm around your back, grounded and steady.

“you like that they noticed,” he murmurs.

you hesitate. “maybe.”

his eyebrow lifts slightly.

“i like that they know,” you admit.

his expression shifts at that, something warmer replacing the sharp edge.

“know what?”

you hold his stare this time. “that i’m yours.”

silence settles heavy between you. not awkward. charged.

his hand slides up to cradle your jaw the same way it did on the field, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone, slower now, thoughtful.

“you are,” he says quietly.

not possessive in the loud way. possessive in the steady way. like gravity.

you lean into his palm without thinking. his shoulders loosen at the automatic movement, like he needed to see that, needed to feel it.

“and you’re mine,” you add softly.

that does something to him. you see it. the way his breath shifts. the way his fingers flex at your waist. because that’s the part people don’t clip. not the blanket. not the lap. not the strict program joke. this. the way he doesn’t just claim. he stays.

his forehead presses lightly to yours.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i am.”

and somehow, the promise in that feels bigger than fabric. like something official. like something everyone will see.

you grin at him, reaching up to tug lightly at the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing the warmth of his skin. “so what i’m hearing is i get special access.”

his mouth curves slowly, that quiet confidence settling over his features again. “you always have.” there’s no edge to it, no teasing challenge. just fact. like he’s never once questioned your place beside him.

your phone buzzes again on the nightstand and this time he doesn’t turn it over or push it away. instead, he reaches for it casually, unlocking it with the passcode you gave him months ago like it’s second nature. he scrolls with an easy expression, shoulders relaxed.

“oh this one’s good,” he murmurs.

you lean into him to look, your arm brushing his. it’s another edit, slowed down and dramatic. the moment you walk toward him after he called you. the exact second he lifts the blanket and pulls you into his lap, no hesitation, no glance around to see who’s watching.

caption: he did not hesitate

colston huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “i didn’t.”

you glance up at him, studying his face. “you really didn’t.”

“why would i?” he asks simply, like the answer is obvious. like there was never a world where he wouldn’t reach for you.

he keeps scrolling, reading a few comments out loud now, tone almost amused.

“he looks proud" “he absolutely loves that girl” “the confidence is insane"

he hands the phone back to you and meets your eyes. “they’re right.”

you blink, warmth creeping up your neck. “about which part?”

“all of it.”

there’s no arrogance in it. just certainty. he watches the way you react, like he likes seeing the flush on your cheeks, like he likes knowing he can still make you shy even after everything.

“you know what my favorite part was?” he asks after a second, voice softer.

you shake your head.

“when you leaned back into me without thinking.” his thumb brushes absently against your hip as he says it. “you do that a lot. like you trust i’m gonna be there.”

your smile turns gentler. “you are.”

“always.” the word comes immediately, steady and grounded.

it settles between you, warm and solid.

he shifts then, easing you back against his pillows until you’re lying comfortably, and he follows, propped up on one elbow beside you. his hand finds your waist again automatically, like muscle memory, like it belongs there.

“next game,” he says casually, eyes tracing over your face, “i’m scoring for you.”

you laugh softly. “oh? is that part of the program too?”

“nah,” he replies, lips curving. “that’s just me showing off.”

you roll your eyes but you’re smiling, and he leans closer, brushing his nose lightly against your temple in a way that feels almost absentminded but completely intentional.

“you looked good out there,” he murmurs.

“i was in the stands.”

“exactly.”

you swat at his chest and he catches your hand easily, lacing his fingers with yours and pressing them gently into the mattress beside your head. there’s nothing forceful about it. just closeness. just him wanting you near.

there’s something steady about him like this. no jealousy, no tension. just confidence. like he knows exactly where you stand and doesn’t need to prove it to anyone.

your phone buzzes again, another flood of notifications lighting up the screen. this time, you don’t even reach for it.

“let them talk,” you say quietly.

his thumb traces slow, lazy circles against your hip, grounding and warm. “they will,” he agrees easily.

“you mind?”

he shakes his head once. “i like that they see what i see.”

you tilt your head slightly, studying him. “and what’s that?”

his gaze softens in a way that cameras never quite capture, something quieter than the confident smirk he wears in interviews.

“you choosing me,” he says.

it’s simple, but it lands heavy in the best way.

you lean up and press a soft, intentional kiss to his mouth. he hums against your lips, hand sliding up your back to keep you there just a second longer before letting you settle again.

when you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, breath warm and even.

“strict program,” you whisper teasingly.

he smiles, slow and sure, eyes half lidded but steady on yours.

“nah,” he murmurs. “just mutual agreement.”

and somewhere online, another edit is probably already being made. slowed down. romanticized. analyzed frame by frame.

but in here, it’s just you and him.

steady.

certain.

and very, very known.

hope you guys liked this one. if you want to read another one of my works, then you can check out my other writing for colston here: click me.

behind the scenes: in case ya’ll needed a visual image of colston during the interview portion with gf!reader, i drew inspiration from this pic hehe:

picture credits: pinterest

stripe divider credits: me lol

thestoryofagirlxxx

[cl #84] your hands on his body

you’re drowning in anatomy notes and desperate to pass your exam when colston offers his body as a “study aid.” your stressful study session turns into a dangerously flirtatious, hands-on lesson.

you’re going to fail this exam.

you’ve accepted it. you’ve made peace with it as the clock ticks past midnight.

you’ve already imagined yourself dramatically telling colston you’re dropping out to become a barista with a mysterious past. with your eyes wide and hair wild, you have become the tragic hero of your own life story.

which is ironic, considering you’ve spent the last three years fighting your way through an athletic training major, surviving taping labs at 7am and clinical rotations that left you smelling like icy hot and turf. you didn’t come this far to quit over one anatomy exam. but right now? dramatics feel justified.

your anatomy textbook is sprawled across your coffee table. the pages are full of labeled muscle diagrams that now look like abstract art. highlighters bleed neon across the pages. your notes are color-coded. flashcards are stacked in precarious towers, and your brain is completely fried.

it’s not just anatomy. it’s the foundation for everything you want. injury prevention. rehabilitation. return-to-play protocols. the science that keeps athletes on the field and out of operating rooms. the science that, someday, you hope to practice on the sidelines instead of just reading about in textbooks.

the faint hum of the heater blends with the soft tick of the living room clock, while the television mumbles quietly in the background. distant cars pass outside. tires crunching over the gravel driveway, and somewhere faintly, a dog barks. your highlighter squeaks against paper. the scent of your coffee, which is most definitely now lukewarm, mingles with the lingering smell of your vanilla body wash. it blends subtly with the freshly baked cookies scent that still hangs in the air from earlier. you try to blink the exhaustion away. it doesn’t work.

“if one more tutor says ‘it’s not that hard,’” you mutter, pressing your highlighter into the page a little too aggressively, “i’m going to start swinging.” your fingers clench the pen like it’s a lifeline, knuckles whitening, and the stress makes your chest tighten with every labored breath.

because it is that hard. memorizing origins, insertions, innervations. not just to pass a test, but because one day you’ll be responsible for recognizing when something isn’t right. when a hamstring strain is more than a strain. when swelling means stop, not push through. dating an nfl player has only made that weight heavier in the best and worst ways.

from the couch, colston chuckles. his long legs stretched out with one arm propping up his head. black hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. he looks impossibly relaxed for someone who had just crushed a football game and then still had the energy to lounge around your living room like he owns the place. today’s game ended in a 32–28 bears victory over the rams. somehow, he’s barely winded. he’s just calm, loose, and entirely too comfortable in your space.

you had watched that game differently than most girlfriends probably would. not just the touchdowns. not just the catches. but the way he planted his foot after a cut. the angle of his knee on a tackle. whether he favored one shoulder after contact. you always watch like an athletic training student first, girlfriend second.

he occupies the space like he owns it, being effortless and unhurried. you’re the complete opposite as you've found yourself caught in the storm that comes before an exam. your brain is buzzing with medical terminologies you barely memorize, and the plate of freshly baked cookies near you have remained untouched.

each small motion, including the stretch of his legs and the flick of his fingers, tugs at the edges of your attention refusing to be ignored. the faint scent of his cologne clings to the fabric of his hoodie smelling warm, musky, and familiar. your stomach clenches despite yourself.

“you’re doing great,” he says, voice smooth. cocky, teasing, casual. the warmth in his tone makes your pulse jump.

“i’m not,” you groan. “there are too many muscles. who decided we needed this many?”

“biology?” he offers casually, a smirk tugging at one corner of his lips.

you throw a crumpled-up notecard at him. it bounces harmlessly off his chest. he grins, that infuriating grin. you try so hard not to notice how good he looks in that hoodie. the way the fabric stretches just over his shoulders when he shifts. the faint curve of muscle you can see even through the fabric. the subtle warmth radiating from him that makes your palms itch. the soft swish of fabric draws your attention despite yourself.

you also can’t help automatically identifying structures under the fabric. acromion. deltoid. the clean slope where muscle meets bone. your brain categorizes him clinically even as your heart refuses to cooperate.

he sits up and stretches. his arms reaching high above his head with his fingers interlacing. his back arches slightly. the hoodie rides up just a little, teasing, hinting at the sharp lines of his abs. a strip of warm tan skin appears. all you could see is his lower stomach with hip bones that disappear into the waistband of his sweatpants. the rise and fall of his chest makes your pulse stutter.

rectus abdominis. external oblique. you know these. you do know these.

your eyes flick over. brief. involuntary. you snap them back to your textbook like you’ve just committed a crime. the paper suddenly feels heavy in your hands. your notes blur. highlighter ink smeared from your slightly shaking fingers.

“see something interesting?” he asks, voice low, amused, leaning back on his elbows like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“no,” you reply, too quickly, not even trying to sound convincing. your throat feels tight.

“mhm,” he hums, clearly enjoying this, the smirk tugging wider.

he rises from the couch, rolling his shoulders with effortless ease. each step toward the coffee table makes your heart thump faster, like you’ve been caught in slow motion. the soft swish of his hoodie, the faint scuff of his slippers against the floor, the way his gaze flicks to you like he’s teasing without saying a word. it’s all so dizzying. the room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, and more intimate.

“what’re you stuck on?” he asks, coming up behind you. his chest brushes your back lightly. this sends a ripple of warmth down your spine, and your breath hitches.

“everything,” you sigh. “biceps, triceps… they all blur together.”

especially when you think about how quickly a biceps tendon can rupture. how often triceps strains are mismanaged. your brain won’t stop attaching clinical consequences to every word.

his hand hovers near your shoulder for a second, teasing, the faint warmth of his skin brushing yours. then, he leans over your notes and scans the diagrams. your brain short-circuits. the smell of him, once again, fills your senses. your fingers clench at the edge of the table.

“feel this one contract?” he murmurs, pressing lightly on his bicep.

“i know that,” you reply, sharp.

“and this relax when you stretch?”

“i know.”

he chuckles. “okay… so what’s the problem?”

you turn your head slightly. huge mistake. he’s so close you can see the faint stubble along his jaw. there's a tiny crease between his brows, and the cold from earlier has left his nose and cheeks a faint pink shade. your pulse hammers in your ears, and a soft heat creeps up your body.

“the problem,” you whisper, “is that it’s hard to visualize.”

hard to separate textbook diagrams from real, living tissue. hard to believe that one day you’ll evaluate athletes built exactly like him and be expected to know what to do without hesitation.

he hums thoughtfully. “okay.” he steps back a little. “then use me.”

you stare. blink. “what.”

“you’re studying muscles, right? i have muscles. you can point them out. hands-on learning.” his grin spreads, cocky, teasing, challenging, and your stomach flips at the thought.

“you’re offering to be my anatomy model?”

“i’m offering to help,” he corrects, voice low, teasing, aware. “unless you think you’ll get distracted.”

“i will not get distracted.” you say it too firmly, though your chest tightens.

you’ve taped ankles in chaotic locker rooms. assessed sprains with parents yelling in the background. you can handle this. probably.

he raises an eyebrow, smirk never faltering. “sure.”

you stand, trying to act professional. “fine. stand still.”

he obeys, stepping into the living room space, spreading his arms slightly. you flip your textbook to the upper-body page. with his 6'6" frame and full attention on you, it makes it impossibly hard to concentrate. the soft hum of the fridge suddenly seems louder along with the beating of your heart.

“deltoid,” you murmur, stepping forward and placing your hand on his shoulder. even through the hoodie, you can feel the curve of solid muscle, warm under your fingers. the pulse of his heartbeat vibrates against your palm, and your stomach twists.

you imagine palpating like you would in lab. identify landmarks. assess tone. isolate movement.

he inhales softly. “good start.”

“don’t talk,” you snap, though your voice betrays you.

“yes ma’am,” he teases.

you trace down his arm. “biceps brachii.”

“flex?” he asks, cocky.

“yes.”

he flexes, and you immediately realize how much your brain has short-circuited. your fingers press lightly against the contracting muscle, memorizing the feel. the subtle warmth of his skin, the way the muscle moves beneath your touch, is overwhelming.

you think about muscle fiber recruitment. concentric contraction. how this exact motion wins him games.

“that helps,” you whisper.

“happy to assist,” he murmurs, smirk growing, eyes glinting with playful challenge.

you step closer. “pectoralis major,” your palm brushing his chest through the fabric. his heartbeat quickens under your touch.. so does yours.

“originates from the clavicle and sternum,” you recite softly, following the line with your fingers. they brush against the collar of his hoodie, the fabric soft yet firm, and your pulse jumps.

and inserts along the lateral lip of the bicipital groove. you add it silently in your head, proud that you remember.

a pause.

you look at him. “can i?”

he tilts his head, his brown eyes darkening just slightly. “yeah.”

you hook your fingers into the hem of the hoodie and pull it slowly. he raises his arms to help. the fabric slides over his stomach, over his chest, over his shoulders. it catches slightly when he stretches his arms higher again, teasing you even more, exposing him fully before the hoodie clears his head.

your breath catches. the warmth of his skin, the faint sheen from earlier practice, and the strong line of his abs make your chest tighten. goosebumps rise along your arms.

this is the body you analyze every sunday with quiet professional instinct. now it is inches from you.

he drops his arms. bare chest. broad shoulders. defined lines under the warm kitchen light. your fingers are still tangled in the hoodie before letting it fall onto the couch. the quiet between you is heavy, almost electric, charged enough that even the faint hum of the refrigerator feels amplified.

he doesn’t say anything. just watches, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth, eyes dark and aware.

“latissimus dorsi,” you whisper, stepping closer, brushing your hands along his sides. skin warm. alive. each breath he takes sends subtle vibrations through you.

“external oblique,” you continue, fingertips sliding over his waist. the light friction makes him shift slightly under your touch.

he exhales slowly. “is this helping?”

“yes,” you say honestly, breath hitching slightly.

it’s helping more than you expected. the structures feel real. connected. purposeful. this isn’t just memorization — it’s understanding how a body like his stays resilient through a seventeen-game season.

you crouch slightly. “quadriceps.” hands smoothing over his thighs through sweatpants. muscles tense instinctively, solid and warm.

you think about force production. explosive starts off the line. the way rehab timelines hinge on fibers like these.

“hamstrings,” you murmur, stepping behind briefly, pressing lightly. he lets out a small sound, and you freeze. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says, voice low, teasing gone, replaced by something heavier. the heat radiating from him makes your pulse spike.

you step in front, closer now, almost too close. his hands hover at his sides, near enough to brush if he wanted, and the anticipation makes your stomach knot.

“rectus abdominis,” you murmur, palm flat against his stomach. skin shifts under your touch as he breathes. your fingers trail downward before stopping above the waistband. professional. you are being professional.

you also know exactly how crucial core stability is for injury prevention. how everything connects back to this center.

“i think this is actually working,” you whisper.

“yeah?” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

his hands settle on your hips. steadying. not pushing. just… there.

“prove it,” he says, voice low, challenging.

“sternocleidomastoid,” you murmur, brushing fingers along his neck. he tilts into your touch.

“masseter,” you continue, thumb along his jaw.

“orbicularis oris.”

your thumb grazes his bottom lip. he kisses you. slow, testing. your hands slide up his chest, exploring warm skin, pulling him closer by the hips. soft, familiar, but charged.

“still studying?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“hands-on learning,” you whisper.

and maybe, someday, sideline learning. nfl stadium lights. headset on. evaluating athletes with the same calm confidence you’re trying to fake right now.

he huffs, laughs low, and kisses you deeper. hands slide from hips to waist, up under your shirt, warm palms pressing. you gasp softly.

“cutaneous receptors,” you murmur, breath hitching.

“you’re unbelievable,” he murmurs against your jaw.

his lips trail down your neck, deliberate, teasing. your fingers dig into his shoulders. the faint pulse of his skin against your fingertips makes your head spin.

“feel this one?” he murmurs at your pulse point.

you shiver.

“and this?” his hand slides down your spine, resting just above your waistband.

you suck in a sharp breath. his thumb hooks lightly into the elastic — not pulling, just there. asking.

“colston,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“i have an exam at 9am.”

an exam that gets you one step closer to being the kind of athletic trainer who keeps players like him safe.

“i know.”

his lips brush yours again, slower, deeper. heat radiates between you, body pressed, hands exploring, careful, teasing.

“after your exam,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“after my exam,” you agree, neither moving. thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband, making your pulse skip.

one last soft, lingering kiss. then he pulls back, bare chest rising and falling, hoodie forgotten on the couch.

“go study,” he says gently, brushing hair from your face. “you’re going to crush it.”

you sit, breathless, warm, memorized in a completely new way.

“best study session i’ve ever had,” you murmur.

“anytime,” he grins.

legs shaky, textbook open, diagrams finally clicking. every muscle, every line, every curve has been etched into your mind.

and maybe that’s the irony of it all. you’re studying how to protect bodies like his, while falling in love with one.

back on the couch, colston pulls his hoodie back on, but not before you steal one last glance just to be certain you have actually learned something.

the fabric slides slowly over his shoulders, over the defined lines you had traced only minutes ago with careful academic focus that had not felt entirely academic. for a brief second you catch the flex of his stomach as he tugs the hem down into place, and warmth blooms low in your chest again. When the hoodie settles against his torso, it feels strangely final, like something private being tucked away.

he catches you looking.. just like earlier.

of course he does.

his mouth curves into that lazy, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip every time. there is no embarrassment in his expression, only quiet amusement and something softer underneath. you turn back to your textbook too quickly, shuffling your notes as though you have not just committed every inch of him to memory.

the room feels warmer than it did before. charged in a subtle way that lingers beneath your skin. The television continues its low recap of the bears’ win, analysts dissecting plays with clinical detachment, but the sound fades into background noise. all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your own pulse and the faint echo of his hands at your waist.

you press your palm flat against the anatomy textbook, grounding yourself. the diagrams no longer look abstract. they look familiar now. tangible.

like future patients. like future athletes. like him.

“you’re blushing,” he says casually from the couch.

“i am not.”

“you are.”

you risk a glance over your shoulder. he is sprawled across the cushions again. his eyes are focused on you in a way that feels deliberate. observant. like he is studying you the same way you were studying him.

“you are such a distraction,” you mutter, turning back to your notes.

“you invited me to help,” he replies, completely unapologetic.

despite yourself, your lips twitch.

the truth is, the information is clicking in a way it was not before. when you read pectoralis major, you remember the warmth under your palm and the steady beat beneath muscle and bone. when you review rectus abdominis, you picture the controlled rise and fall of his breathing. the knowledge feels embodied now instead of theoretical.

and when you think about your future, about standing on a sideline with a credential around your neck. it doesn’t feel impossible. it feels earned.

the couch creaks softly as he stands. you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. instead of standing behind you this time, he pulls out the chair beside yours and sits close enough that your knees brush lightly. the contact is small, almost accidental, but it steadies you more than you expect.

“you’re going to pass,” he says quietly.

the teasing edge is gone. what remains is calm certainty.

you hesitate before answering. “what if i don’t?”

the question slips out more vulnerable than you intend. beneath the flirting and heat, the anxiety is still there. the pressure. the fear of disappointing yourself. the fear of not being good enough for the career you want so badly.

he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “then you take it again.”

“it’s not that simple.”

“it kind of is,” he replies gently. “one exam doesn’t decide who you are.”

he’s right. one exam doesn’t determine whether you’ll be a great athletic trainer. it doesn’t decide your competency, your compassion, your ability to keep someone safe.

you stare at your notes, then at him. “do you ever get scared before games?”

he laughs softly. “every time.”

“you don’t look scared.”

“that’s because i don’t let it run the show,” he says. “preparation does.”

preparation. hours in the training room. film study. reps.

hours in labs. taping drills. flashcards at midnight.

the simplicity of it settles somewhere in your chest. he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple before falling away. the touch is light but grounding.

“you’re allowed to be tired,” he adds.

something about that makes your throat tighten.

the heater hums steadily. the clock ticks past twelve thirty. outside, a car passes slowly, tires crunching over gravel. the world feels small and contained inside your living room.

you close the textbook halfway and look at him fully. “quiz me.”

his eyebrows lift in surprise. “we are serious now?”

“very.”

he picks up a flashcard and deliberately mispronounces the first muscle name. you roll your eyes and correct him automatically. one card becomes five. five become ten. the answers start coming without hesitation. your voice steadies. the information feels solid instead of fragile.

he listens carefully to every response, nodding as if he actually understands more than he lets on.

eventually, a yawn escapes you.

he notices immediately. “bed.”

“one more section.”

“bed,” he repeats, softer but firm.

you close the textbook this time without arguing. he stands and holds out his hand. you take it without thinking. his grip is warm and steady as he pulls you up from the chair. for a moment you are standing close again, close enough to feel the heat of him through the fabric of his hoodie.

the earlier tension flickers between you, but this time he only leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“go sleep,” he murmurs.

you change into an oversized shirt and slip under the covers. he joins you a minute later, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. when he pulls you back against his chest, your body relaxes instantly. his arm wraps around your waist, palm resting flat against your stomach. protective. steady. familiar.

your breathing gradually syncs.

the exam is still at nine in the morning. the stakes are still real. but the panic has softened into something manageable.

one test closer to clinical rotations. one test closer to earning the right to stand in a training room and matter.

you trace slow patterns along his forearm with sleepy fingers. “thank you,” you whisper.

“for what?”

“for being my anatomy model.”

a quiet laugh vibrates against your shoulder before he presses a kiss into your hair. “anytime.”

and maybe someday, when you’re the one evaluating his ankle after a bad landing or reminding him to actually rest something that hurts, you’ll think back to tonight.. to the first time everything clicked.

the clock ticks past one.

for the first time all night, your mind does not spiral. the muscle groups blur into something coherent. the fear quiets.

you might still be exhausted.

you might still be nervous.

but you are building a future that fits perfectly beside his.

and you are not alone in it.

and that makes all the difference.

well, that's the end of this plot. if you want to read another one of my works, then you can check out my other writing for colston here: click me.

behind the scenes: none for this one

picture credits: pinterest

stripe divider credits: me lol

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JUSTICE FOR TONEA MILLER!

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JUSTICE FOR TONEA MILLER!

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I do not give any permission for my work to be duplicated/replicated in any way or any app!

all of my smau's from when i first startd writing are retired fics and you can find them here (coming soon)

the graveyard of my fics (soon) started: 2/16/26

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they BEEN did that 😂

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I APOLOGIZE FOR DISRUPTING YOUR SCROLL… but YOU ARE going to have lots of wins for JUNE!

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Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.