a/n: literally couldn't find a gif on Instagram and all the ones on Tumblr were of Nate smh...
wc: around 2.5-3k
Nick Diaz x gf!reader
It’s a warm California night, the kind where the air still feels alive even after midnight. The streets are loud, neon lights reflecting off car windows and the pavement still holding the heat from the day.
You’re walking beside Nick Diaz, his hand loosely hooked around yours, his pace a little faster than yours but not by much. He always walks like that, purposeful, like he’s headed somewhere even when he isn’t. You’ve been with him long enough to recognize the rhythm of his steps, the way his shoulders stay loose but ready, the way his eyes move constantly like he’s scanning everything without trying.
It’s one of the things that drew you to him in the first place. Most people look at Nick and see the fighter from Ultimate Fighting Championship, the guy who throws punches in a cage and talks trash in interviews, but you know the quieter side too.
The one who runs miles before sunrise, the one who gets ridiculously excited about a good burrito, the one who’ll sit on the couch with you for hours watching dumb late-night movies like he’s got nowhere else to be.
Tonight you’d gone out with a few friends. Nothing crazy, just a bar downtown with cheap drinks and music that was a little too loud. Nick hadn’t wanted to go at first. “People are annoying,” he’d said, stretching his arms over his head while you tried to convince him. “You say that every time,” you’d told him. “Yeah, and I’m usually right,” he’d answered.
But he still came, because you asked, and because even if he complains he likes being around you. Now the night’s winding down and you’re walking toward the car parked a few blocks away. The sidewalks are busy but thinning out, groups of people laughing too loudly, the occasional car rumbling past with bass vibrating through the street. Nick’s thumb is brushing slowly over the back of your hand, absentminded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“You had fun?” he asks suddenly. His voice is low, a little rough, the way it always sounds after he’s been talking over loud music.
“Yeah,” you say. “Did you?”
He shrugs. “It was alright.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“What? I was there, wasn’t I?”
“You spent half the night telling me the bartender watered down your drink.”
“He did.”
You laugh and bump your shoulder against his arm. He glances down at you with a crooked smile that’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but you catch it. That’s another thing about Nick, his smiles come quick and disappear just as fast, like he doesn’t want people to notice them.
You’re about halfway down the block when it happens. At first it’s nothing. Just another guy standing outside a bar doorway, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand. You barely look at him as you pass, but he looks at you. Really looks. His eyes track you in that slow, obvious way that makes your skin prickle. You try to ignore it. This kind of thing happens sometimes when you’re out, guys looking, guys saying things they think are clever. Usually it’s easy to brush off.
But then he speaks.
“Hey,” he calls out.
You keep walking.
“Hey, girl,” he says louder.
Nick’s hand tightens slightly around yours, not enough to hurt, just enough that you feel the shift. He heard it. Of course he did.
You glance over your shoulder despite yourself. The guy is pushing off the wall now, walking a few steps closer. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, clearly drunk but not stumbling.
“You don’t gotta ignore me,” he says with a grin that isn’t friendly. “I just said hey.”
Nick stops walking. That’s the first sign things might go bad. Normally he’d keep moving, let it slide. Tonight he doesn’t. His hand slips from yours but only so he can turn around fully.
“Keep walking,” you murmur quietly, touching his arm.
But he’s already facing the guy.
“What?” Nick says flatly.
The guy looks him up and down, like he’s sizing him up. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Nick’s jaw tightens slightly. You can see it even in the dim light from the streetlamp.
“Yeah,” Nick says, voice calm but edged. “I know.”
The guy laughs, taking another step closer. “Relax, man. I’m just saying your girl’s cute.”
You feel heat crawl up the back of your neck. Normally that kind of comment would just be annoying, but right now it feels like gasoline near a spark.
“She’s not interested,” Nick replies.
The guy shrugs, smirking at you instead of him. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah,” Nick says. “I’m sure.”
You tug lightly at his sleeve. “Nick, let’s just go.”
For a moment you think he will. His shoulders shift like he’s considering it. But then the guy speaks again, louder now.
“You don’t gotta answer for her, man.”
Nick takes one slow step forward.
The distance between them shrinks to just a few feet.
You can feel your heartbeat picking up. Anyone who knows Nick knows that quiet tone in his voice is the warning sign, not the shouting.
“I’m answering because you keep talking,” Nick says.
The guy laughs again, shaking his head. “What are you gonna do about it?”
And just like that the tension snaps tight.
You step between them before you even think about it. “Okay, that’s enough,” you say quickly. “We’re leaving.”
Nick doesn’t move. The other guy doesn’t either.
For a second everything feels frozen, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Then the guy reaches out.
Not toward Nick.
Toward you.
It’s not even aggressive exactly, more like he’s trying to brush your arm, but it’s enough.
Nick’s reaction is instant.
His hand shoots out, grabbing the guy’s wrist and shoving it away from you.
“Don’t touch her,” he says.
Now people nearby are starting to notice. Conversations quiet, heads turning.
The guy jerks his arm back. “The hell’s your problem?”
“You,” Nick says.
The guy squares his shoulders, stepping closer. He’s bigger than Nick, heavier. Under different circumstances that might mean something.
But you know who Nick is.
You’ve watched him train for hours, watched him spar, watched him move like fighting is the most natural thing in the world.
“Nick,” you say again, softer this time. “Please.”
He glances at you for half a second. That half second tells you everything. He’s already in it.
The guy shoves Nick’s shoulder.
That’s the moment it starts.
Nick doesn’t shove back.
He punches.
It’s so fast you barely see it. A sharp, clean movement his fist snapping forward and connecting with the guy’s jaw with a sound that echoes down the sidewalk.
The guy staggers backward in shock more than pain.
People shout. Someone curses. The energy in the street shifts instantly from casual nightlife to something raw and electric.
The guy swings wildly, drunk and angry.
Nick ducks under it like he’s done it a thousand times which, technically, he has.
His counterpunch lands harder this time, driving the guy back another step.
“Nick!” you shout.
But he’s already moving again, controlled and precise in a way that makes the whole thing almost surreal. This isn’t some sloppy bar fight for him. It’s instinct.
The guy lunges, grabbing at Nick’s shirt.
Nick twists sideways, yanking free and shoving him back into the wall. The impact rattles the metal sign hanging there.
“You done?” Nick says.
The guy spits something angry and swings again.
Nick slips the punch and answers with two quick shots to the body that make the guy double over.
Gasps ripple through the small crowd forming around them.
You feel frozen in place, heart pounding, adrenaline buzzing in your ears.
The guy tries one more time, pushing forward with a clumsy tackle.
Nick sidesteps and hooks his leg, sending him crashing onto the pavement.
Silence hangs for a moment.
The guy groans, rolling onto his side.
Nick steps back, breathing hard but steady.
“You’re done,” he says.
The crowd murmurs, people whispering to each other. A couple of phones are out now.
Your brain finally kicks back into gear. You rush over and grab Nick’s arm.
“That’s enough,” you say urgently.
He doesn’t resist when you pull him away. His eyes stay locked on the guy for another second, making sure he’s not getting back up.
Then he turns with you and starts walking.
Fast.
You follow, your legs shaky.
Neither of you says anything for half a block.
The noise of the crowd fades behind you, replaced by the distant hum of traffic.
Finally you stop.
“Nick,” you say.
He turns toward you, chest still rising and falling.
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately.
The question catches you off guard.
“I’m fine,” you say. “Are you?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, though there’s a faint redness forming across his knuckles.
“He touched you,” he mutters.
“He barely—”
“He shouldn’t have.”
You stare at him for a moment, emotions tangled in your chest.
“You could’ve gotten arrested.”
He shrugs again. “I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
He looks away briefly, jaw tight.
The streetlight above casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the stubborn line of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, though the words sound reluctant.
“You’re not sorry,” you reply.
“No,” he admits. “I’m not.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples.
“Nick.”
“What?”
“You can’t fight every guy who says something stupid.”
He exhales sharply, pacing a couple steps before stopping again.
“I know that,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because it didn’t seem like it.”
He looks back at you, eyes dark but softer now.
“You didn’t hear the way he was talking to you.”
“I did hear it.”
“Yeah but—”
“I can handle some drunk idiot hitting on me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
He hesitates.
“You’re with me,” he says quietly.
You blink.
“That doesn’t mean you have to prove something every time someone looks at me.”
“I’m not proving anything.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
For a moment the tough exterior cracks just enough for you to see what’s underneath.
“I don’t like people disrespecting you,” he says.
The anger in his voice is gone now, replaced by something more vulnerable.
You step closer.
“Nick,” you say softly. “Guys have been hitting on girls since the beginning of time. It doesn’t mean you have to knock them out.”
“I didn’t knock him out.”
“You almost did.”
He sighs, glancing down at his scraped knuckles.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m… worried.”
“Why?”
“Because someday someone’s going to press charges or pull a weapon or something.”
He looks up sharply at that.
“You think I can’t handle myself?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
He’s quiet again.
You reach out and take his hand gently, examining the skin across his knuckles.
“They’re gonna swell,” you say.
“Probably.”
You pull a small pack of tissues from your purse and press it against the scrape.
He watches you with that intense focus he gets sometimes, like the rest of the world fades out.
“You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says after a moment.
“Deal with what?”
“Guys being like that.”
You give a small smile.
“That’s sweet, but it’s reality.”
“Still.”
You look up at him.
“You know what I’d rather deal with?”
“What?”
“A drunk guy making a dumb comment than my boyfriend getting into fights on the street.”
He lets out a short laugh.
“Fair.”
The tension between you finally starts to ease.
Cars pass by, headlights sweeping across the pavement.
You finish cleaning his knuckles and drop the tissue into a nearby trash can.
“Next time,” you say.
“There won’t be a next time.”
“There will definitely be a next time.”
He grins faintly.
“Okay, maybe.”
“So next time, just let it go.”
He tilts his head, considering.
“I’ll try.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“It’s the best you’re getting.”
You shake your head but can’t help smiling.
He reaches out then, sliding his arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer against his side.
“You still mad?” he asks.
“A little.”
“You still my girl?”
You roll your eyes.
“Unfortunately.”
He laughs quietly, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head.
“Good.”
You start walking again toward the car, the night calmer now, the adrenaline slowly fading.
Behind you somewhere the city keeps moving music, laughter, arguments, but here in this moment it’s just the two of you under the streetlights.
And even though you know Nick Diaz will probably always have that fighter’s instinct in him, you also know something else.
When it comes to you, that instinct isn’t about pride or ego.
It’s about protecting the person he cares about most.
And somehow, despite the chaos of the night, that realization makes you squeeze his hand just a little tighter as you walk.
