~ NICK LEISTER ~
you see Nick at the fight club. That turns into a bond that you didn’t see coming
Warnings! Mature, violence, kissing, long writing, more like fluff-ish (idk), romance
If you would want me to keep going with this wring lmk bellow
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The first time you ever saw Nick Leister was through a haze of sweat and adrenaline at one of his underground matches. But you never would have ended up in that bloody concrete basement if your life hadn't been completely uprooted first.
You were brand new to London, dragged all the way from the Americas because your mother had somehow snagged a job across the pond. Though, if you were being honest, the real reason for the sudden move was the guy she’d been obsessed with on a dating app.
Crazy, right?
Being stuck in a massive unfamiliar city where you don't know a soul usually leads to one of two things: hiding in your room, or wandering into places you definitely shouldn't be. Naturally, you chose the second option. And that’s exactly how you stumbled into your first actual friend, Celia.
You had accidentally overheard someone talking about a secret meetup spot for illegal car meets and partying. The second you heard the details, you knew you had to go.
Partying was your thing.
There was absolutely nothing better than a drink in your hand and finding a crowd of people who actually knew how to talk about cars.
But not all nights end well. Just as the night was hitting its peak, blue lights flashed through the smoke, and sirens cut through the music. The cops were busting the spot.
Being a completely freaked-out American in a sea of locals makes you stand out like a sore thumb.
That’s when Celia appeared out of nowhere. Taking you under her wing before you could get arrested, she grabbed your hand tight and hauled you toward her car, desperately trying to escape the chaos before the exits were blocked.
Once the tires screeched and you finally managed to break away from the raid, the silence in the car was heavy. You were sitting shotgun with a total stranger, and it didn't take long for the conversation to start because when you're riding in a getaway car, you definitely need to know why the girl behind the wheel just saved your life.
Eventually, numbers were exchanged, and Celia gave you a ride back home to ensure you made it back in one piece.
Fast-forward to a few days later. You were standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating a bowl of cereal, when your phone buzzed.
Celia: Hey, there’s a fight happening late tonight. Wanna come?
You: Idk. Will there be cute British boys? 😉
Celia: I can’t promise you that, but it’ll surely be fun.
You: Alright whatever, pick me up.
Celia: 9:30. Be ready.
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Stepping out of Celia's car, you shut the door behind you.
You had spent an hour staring at your closet, but the final outfit choice was a perfect balance. You wore a skimpy white cropped beater that showed just enough skin, paired with baggy, slightly ripped washed-blue jeans held up by a black leather belt with a gold imprint buckle. To top it off and keep the chilly London air at bay, you threw on a dark brown leather jacket. It was effortless, classy, and undeniably attractive.
As you and Celia walked down the concrete stairs into the basement, a wall of pure testosterone, heat, and roaring voices hit you instantly.
Navigating through the packed crowd, you eventually found a spot to lean against a metal railing on an elevated floor. The extra height gave you a perfect, unobstructed view of the ring below.
The match was already underway. Both guys were bare-fisted, shirtless, and already wearing a light sheet of sweat and blood. You watched closely as the fighter with a goatee took a brutal punch directly to the jaw, knocking him hard to the concrete floor. The crowd exploded, a chaotic mix of ecstatic cheers and angry boos.
The victor— a guy with sharp features and frosted tips— held his arms out wide, circling the ring and shouting something into the roaring crowd that was completely drowned out by the noise.
Leaning in, you shouted into Celia’s ear, nodding down toward the ring. "Who’s that?"
Celia chuckled, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "Hm, that’s Nick. Nick Leister. He’s one of the best fighters here."
"Ahh..." You nodded slowly, your eyes tracking his movement.
But whatever you were about to say next caught in your throat. As Nick circled back around, his gaze swept over the elevated crowd and stopped dead on you. Right there, in the middle of a chaotic, illegal fight club, his eyes locked onto yours. He didn't look away.
Instead, a slow, arrogant smirk pulled at his lips, and he threw you a deliberate, devastating wink before turning back around to get his head back in the game.
A sudden flash of heat rushed straight to your face. Before you could even process it, Celia nudged your shoulder hard, a teasing grin on her face.
"Looks like someone’s caught his eye," she smirked.
“He is cute..” you mumbled as you crossed your arms.
The sudden rush of heat in your cheeks was entirely too loud for comfort, but you forced a laugh, tossing your hair back and leaning harder into the metal railing to keep your cool.
"Please," you scoffed over the roaring crowd, trying to sound completely unfazed. "He probably winks at every girl who isn't covered in sweat and cheap beer."
"Keep telling yourself that," Celia teased, her shoulder bumping yours again. "But Nick doesn't usually look up at the stands until after he's collected his cash. You're a distraction."
Down in the ring, the referee was finally raising Nick’s hand, declaring the official win. The crowd surged forward, people slapping him on his back and shouting his name. Even from the elevated floor, you could see the dark crimson smear of someone else's blood across his knuckles, and the way his chest heaved under the dim, buzzing fluorescent lights. He looked dangerous, reckless, and entirely in his element.
And then, as if he knew you were still analyzing him, he glanced back up.
The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating look as he grabbed a grey towel from his coach and wiped down his neck. He gave you a slow, deliberate nod—an invitation, clear as day—before turning toward the exit tunnel that led to the back rooms.
"Well," Celia purred, crossing her arms and looking at you with raised eyebrows. "The VIP section is calling. Are we going to stand here like tourists, or are you going to go introduce yourself to London’s finest?"
You bit your lip, the adrenaline from the fight still humming in your veins. "Tourists? Never," you said, a matching smirk pulling at your lips as you adjusted the collar of your leather jacket. "Lead the way."
Celia grinned, clearly thrilled by your lack of hesitation, and began weaving through the sweaty, rowdy crowd. You followed close behind her, your baggy jeans swishing against your legs as you slipped past screaming bettors and guys downing cheap beers.
She led you toward a heavy metal door guarded by a massive guy with a shaved head and a scowl that looked permanent. But the moment he saw Celia, his expression softened just a fraction, and he pulled the door open without a word.
"Perks of knowing the organizers," Celia whispered back to you with a wink as you stepped into the back hallway.
The noise of the main floor immediately muffled, replaced by the low hum of heavy ventilation and the echo of distant chatter. The air back here was cooler, smelling faintly of liniment, damp concrete, and iron.
At the end of the hall, leaning against a graffiti-covered brick wall, was Nick.
He had a black hoodie thrown loosely over his shoulders, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his heavily taped forearms. The frosted tips of his hair were damp, and up close, you could see a fresh, dark bruise already forming along his ribs. He was talking to his coach, but the second the heavy metal door clicked shut behind you, his eyes snapped directly to yours.
He muttered something to the older man, who nodded and walked away, leaving Nick alone under the flickering yellow hallway light.
Nick didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, crossing his arms, his sharp gaze tracing your outfit—from the scuffed boots to the white cropped top, and finally back up to your face. The arrogant, devastating smirk slowly returned.
"Well," Nick said, his British accent smooth but rough around the edges from the fight. "Didn't think you'd actually have the nerve to come back here. You're not from around here, are you, love?"
You leaned your weight onto one leg, hooking your thumbs into the pockets of your baggy jeans. The initial flash of heat from his wink had completely faded, replaced by the familiar, electric thrill of a challenge.
"Is it that obvious?" you asked, letting a slow smile spread across your face. You didn't break eye contact, matching his intensity note for note. "And here I thought my outfit wrapped me up perfectly as a London local."
Nick let out a low, rough chuckle, shaking his head. He took a step away from the brick wall, closing the distance between you just enough that you could catch the sharp scent of his cologne mixing with the raw sweat of the ring. Up close, he was taller than he looked from the elevated stands, his presence completely filling the narrow concrete hallway.
"The outfit's brilliant," he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to the gold buckle of your belt before snapping back to your eyes. "But it's the energy. Locals walk down here looking like they're trying to hide from the dark. You walked in like you own the place."
"Maybe I do," you countered smoothly, tilting your head up. "Or maybe I just know a good show when I see one. Nice left hook, by the way. Goatee guy never stood a chance."
Nick’s smirk widened, a dangerous glint flickering in his eyes. He liked the bite in your tone. He raised his wrapped hands, flexing his fingers as if still feeling the impact of the match.
"Oh, so you were watching closely," he said, stepping just an inch closer. "I thought I was imagining things when I looked up. Celia usually brings around people who faint at the sight of a little blood."
Behind you, Celia cleared her throat loudly, a massive, knowing grin plastered across her face.
"Alright, I'm going to grab us some drinks before you two completely forget I'm standing here. Try not to start another fight while I'm gone." She gave your shoulder a quick, supportive squeeze and disappeared back through the heavy metal door.
The door clicked shut, leaving you entirely alone with him under the buzzing, flickering hallway light.
Nick tilted his head, his eyes tracking the movement of Celia leaving before locking back onto yours, his voice dropping an octave. "So... an American girl who likes underground fights and car meets. What's your name, stranger?"
"It's [Your Name]," you finally relented, giving him a small, teasing smile that let him know he'd earned it.
Nick repeated it under his breath, testing the sound of it, his smirk softening into something surprisingly genuine. "Beautiful. Suits you."
Before the moment could stretch any further, Celia drained the rest of her cup and checked her phone. "Alright, as much as I love watching this play out, we need to go if we're going to catch the first race before the cops get wind of it."
Nick stepped back, giving you a slow, lingering nod as you turned to follow Celia. "See you around, [Your Name]."
At the time, you didn't actually expect to see him again. You certainly didn't expect to get to know him—both the dangerous fighter in the ring, and the fiercely guarded person underneath it all.
But a few days later, your phone buzzed with an unknown London number.
Unknown: Celia gave me this. Said you were complaining about the lack of cute British boys. I figured I'd do you a favor.
Over the next month, Nick Leister slowly became a permanent fixture in your life. You learned about the suffocating reality of his life behind closed doors—the toxic, fractured dynamic with his parents, and how the illegal fighting and street racing were his only real escape from the wealthy, high-society cage he was trapped in.
But it was his actions that truly started to shift things between you. For someone who made his living with brutal, blood-stained fists, Nick was shockingly gentle with you. It started with small things. A casual brush of his hand through your hair to fix a stray strand. The heavy, comforting warmth of his palm resting on your shoulder. The reassuring pressure of his hand against the small of your back, guiding you effortlessly through crowded rooms. They were silent, protective gestures that made your heart do treacherous things.
Which is exactly how you found yourself completely submerged in the crystal-clear, heated water of the massive, in-ground swimming pool in his parents' backyard.
Calling this place a house was a massive understatement. It was a sprawling, ultra-modern estate in one of London’s most exclusive neighborhoods—concrete proof of the wealthy, "posh boy" lifestyle Nick despised. His parents were out for the evening, leaving the backyard intensely quiet. The only illumination came from the deep blue glow of the underwater pool lights, cutting through the dark water and casting rippling, ethereal reflections across the stone patio and your skin.
The night air was crisp, but the pool felt like a warm sanctuary. You were floating effortlessly in a sleek bikini, the water coming up to your shoulders, while Nick waded a few feet away in his swim trunks.
Without the heavy hoodies and leather jackets he usually wore, you could see the raw reality of his life. The blue light illuminated the sharp contour of his collarbones, the lean, defined muscle of his chest, and the fading remnants of the bruises from his latest matches. He looked less like a distant street fighter and more like someone entirely exposed.
"They don't even use it," Nick said smoothly, breaking the heavy silence. He swam a little closer, his broad shoulders cutting through the water without making a sound. His voice was a low rumble. "My parents. They bought this place just to show they could. Half the rooms in this house are just for display."
You turned in the water, tilting your head up to look at him as the frosted tips of his damp hair caught the reflection of the pool lights. "And what about you? Do you use it?"
Nick stopped, the distance between you vanishing until he was standing just inches away in the shallow end. A slow, familiar smirk played at the corner of his lips. "Only when I want to escape."
The sudden proximity immediately shifted the air, making the space between you thick and heavily charged with that electric tension that had been building over the last month. The warm water swirled between your bodies as Nick raised his hand from beneath the surface.
For a guy who broke jaws for a living, his movements with you were always agonizingly slow. His wet hand moved through the water until his fingers lightly brushed against your hips.
It wasn't a rushed movement, but a slow, deliberate graze of skin against skin beneath the glowing blue water. The rough, calloused edge of his thumb stroked the soft skin, sending a sudden, undeniable jolt of heat straight up your spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the pool.
Neither of you moved away.
Nick’s gaze dropped instantly to where his fingers were underwater, his touch lingering, barely pressing against your skin but completely refusing to break the contact. In the quiet of the backyard, the water around you felt electric. When he looked back up, the arrogant smirk was completely gone, replaced by a dark, burning intensity that made it impossible to look away.
"Nick..." you mumbled, the sound of his name almost lost to the gentle lapping of the water as your heads leaned closer together.
The heat between you was magnetic, pulling you both forward until your back gently pressed against the smooth tile wall of the pool, giving you the support you desperately needed to stay still.
The water buoyed you up, making every movement feel weightless and slow. Nick’s fingers held yours lightly beneath the surface before his hand slid smoothly under one of your thighs, lifting you slightly and stepping in close between your legs.
"No one's here," he murmured, his eyes briefly scanning the dark, empty backyard before locking right back onto yours. "Tell me you want this."
Nick’s face was dangerously close, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours. He moved his head just a fraction, teasingly close, completely toying with you as he hesitated to finally close the remaining distance.
Too nervous to form actual words, you simply nodded your head slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
A sly, triumphant smirk spread across his face. He leaned in, making you certain he was finally going to kiss you—but at the very last second, he juked you. He bypassed your lips entirely, burying his face in the crook of your neck instead.
A soft gasp escaped your lips as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your neck instead of your lips.
The heat of his breath contrasted sharply with the cool night air hitting your wet collarbones. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just beneath your jaw, his lips moving with an agonizing slowness that made your hands instinctively grip the smooth stone edge of the pool behind you.
"Nick..." you breathed out, your fingers tightening as a shiver ran down your spine.
He let out a low, rough chuckle against your skin, the vibration sending another jolt of electricity straight through you. His hand shifted under your thigh, lifting you just a fraction higher against the pool wall, completely anchoring you to him. The proximity was overwhelming; every lean muscle of his chest was pressed firmly against yours, the heated water swirling around your trapped bodies.
"Got you," he murmured, his voice a gravelly purr against your neck. He didn't pull away, instead trailing another light, teasing kiss along your pulse point, right where your heart was hammering frantically.
You tilted your head back against the concrete wall, completely exposed to him under the glowing blue lights of the massive, empty backyard. The hesitation was entirely gone now, replaced by a heavy, magnetic pull.
Nick slowly slid his lips back up to your jawline, his breathing just as shallow and uneven as yours. He paused a mere millimeter away from your lips, his dark eyes locked onto yours, burning with a triumphant, wicked intensity.
"Still too nervous to speak, love?" he whispered against your lips, his thumb lightly stroking the side of your hip underwater. "Because I can keep playing this game all night."