#matthew broome as nick leister

[pascaloverx]

SHAMELESS

Summary: You are moving into the Leister mansion after tragically losing your father in a plane crash. He worked for William Leister, who immediately offered to take you in. The problem? His son, Nick Leister, who is far from pleased about having a stranger living under his roof.

Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment. The fanfic will likely contain strong language, violence, and adult content. Minors should not engage with it.

two

ONE

It's like a fairy tale—a young, poor woman turning into the new Cinderella. At least, that's what the media is saying. But that’s not exactly what’s happening in your life.

Your father spent his life working for William Leister. During a business trip, the plane he was on crashed, leaving no survivors. You had just started college and taken a part-time job to help your father pay the tuition. And now, you don’t even know what to do.

Well, actually, you do. You’re packing your bags to move in with your father’s former boss. He feels guilty, even if he won’t admit it, and decided to invite you to live with him and his son. So now, you’re leaving the house you grew up in to step into what the internet is calling a princess’s life.

They even sent a car to pick you up, which feels quite fancy. You still can’t believe the size of the place you’ll be living in—in fact, you feel almost out of place.

"I hope you had a pleasant trip," William says, embracing you gently. His staff carries your bags inside the mansion.

"It was smooth," you reply, following William inside his home. "With all due respect, sir, your house—or rather, your mansion—is truly enchanting," you say, marveling at everything around you.

"There’s no need to call me ‘sir.’ Just William is fine. Now, my house is quite large, and unfortunately, I’m running late for a charity event. It won’t take long, but I’m sure Nick will show you around," Mr. Leister says as he adjusts his suit and tie.

You feel a bit uneasy about relying on his son, but you nod in agreement and watch as he leaves the mansion, a bouquet of flowers in his hands—probably for a date.

"Are you planning to just stand by the door?" A male voice speaks from behind you. Surprised, you turn around.

"Not at all, but I fail to see how that’s any of your concern," you reply, still standing in place. It might have sounded rude, but he doesn’t seem too pleased either.

"Some might say that since you’re in my house, you could be a bit more polite," Nick says as he descends the stairs, his gaze fixed on you.

"If this is your way of saying you want me gone, you don’t have to say it twice," you retort, turning to grab your suitcase and leave. It might be a bit drastic, but you’re not about to be humiliated by some rich boy.

Before you can go upstairs to get your bags, however, Nick catches your arm—not forcefully, despite his muscular build, but just enough to stop you. The closeness between you is enough for you to catch the scent of his cologne. He, however, is clearly staring at your lips.

"You’re a guest of my father. It wouldn’t be right for me to make you leave. If anyone should leave, it’s me," Nick says, his eyes studying you, while you’re too focused on the proximity between you to say anything.

"Perhaps we should try not to get on each other’s nerves… at least for a while," you whisper, leaning in slightly. The tension is palpable, as if the two of you are trying to read each other through your gaze.

"We’ll see what the future holds," Nick replies before finishing his descent. "Oh, in case my father didn’t mention it, I don’t usually stay here overnight," he adds with a smirk, leaving you wondering what you’re supposed to do alone in this place.

"And I’m supposed to stay here all by myself?" you ask, surprised—or maybe indignant. Not that you need a babysitter, but you don’t even know where anything is.

"If you’d rather, you can come with me. But preferably, I think you’ll want to stay here—it’s safer," he says, sounding like some secret agent or mobster.

"I suppose I’ll have to go just to see how much danger I can handle," you reply, stepping closer and looking him in the eye, your faces mere inches apart.

"If you say so," he mutters, feigning disinterest.

"Your father said you’d show me the mansion," you remind him. You’re certain he won’t want to, but you can at least try.

"I think you’ll manage to find your way around. But if you do get lost, you can call my name—whether I answer or not, we’ll see," he says smugly before walking away, leaving you standing there.

[optimism-blooms]

Matthew Broome As Nick Leister | MY FAULT: LONDON (2025)

[nat111love]

MY FAULT: LONDON (2025)

[chimiye]

Matthew Broome as less toxic Nick Leister My Fault: London (2025) Dir. Charlotte Fassler & Dani Girdwood

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

My Fault London: Nick Blurbs

A/N: Kind of headcannons, kind of blurbs, all around just wanted to write for Nick :) Spicey Ver. Here!

Fast, Calculated

Nick’s car hums beneath you, the engine smooth as he weaves through the streets at an almost effortless speed. You know he’s in control, but that doesn’t stop your pulse from spiking every time he threads through tight gaps between cars like they aren’t even there.

“Nick—” you start, gripping the edge of your seat.

His smirk is almost lazy, but his eyes never leave the road. “Relax.”

“Relax? You’re going ninety in a fifty zone—”

Before you can finish, he smoothly takes a turn down an empty side street, braking just enough for the car to slide into place at the curb. His hand lands on your knee—firm, steady.

“You don’t trust me?” he asks, his voice softer now.

You exhale, your fingers still clenched against the seat. You hate that he always does this—pushes the limits, then pulls back just in time. Never reckless, but always toeing the line.

He watches you carefully. His hand doesn’t move. “I know what I’m doing,” he murmurs. “You know that.”

You swallow, heart still racing. Slowly, you force yourself to breathe.

Finally, you meet his gaze. “I do.”

His smirk fades into something almost unreadable, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Then, as if the moment never happened, he pulls away and taps the wheel.

“Good,” he says, voice back to its usual cocky drawl. “Now, you picking the music, or are we just sitting in silence all night?”

Protective to a Fault

The party is too loud, too crowded. You regret coming the second you realize how packed it is, but Nick insisted he wasn’t letting you stay home alone.

“You gotta get out once in a while,” he had teased. “Or I’m gonna start thinking you secretly hate fun.”

You had rolled your eyes, but now, as you shift uncomfortably in the too-warm space, you almost wish you had stayed home.

Especially because the guy you’ve been trying to politely brush off for the last five minutes isn’t getting the hint.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the guy slurs, leaning in too close. “One dance—what’s the harm?”

Your stomach twists. “I said no.”

“That’s not what your eyes are saying—”

And then suddenly, Nick is there, standing between you and the guy like he was waiting for this moment.

“Hey, buddy,” Nick says, voice light, but there’s something dangerous underneath. “Didn’t she just say no?”

The guy scoffs, barely glancing at Nick. “Who the hell are you?”

Now normally Nick isn’t one for talking much. He likes to use his fists to communicate. But after promising his mother promising you, not to be so violent, he finds his restraint ticking like a clock at the moment. Nick tilts his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Someone with a short temper and a lot of free time. You wanna find out what happens when you ignore her again?”

The guy sizes Nick up, like he’s thinking about pushing his luck. But then Nick shifts slightly, and you know he’s already decided what will happen if this guy takes another step toward you.

The guy mutters something under his breath before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Nick doesn’t watch him leave. Instead, he turns to you, scanning your face. “You okay?”

You nod, exhaling. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He doesn’t say anything—just hands you the drink from his own hand instead of yours.

You frown. “What—”

“Mine’s not spiked,” he says simply.

The realization hits you all at once. You glance down at the drink you were holding. Had that guy—?

Your stomach churns.

Nick sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I told you,” he mutters. “You gotta stop trusting people. I get to do that for you.”

Soft Spot for Animals

It’s past midnight when you walk into Nick’s garage, expecting to find him working on his car. Instead, you see him crouched down beside a tiny, scrappy-looking kitten, offering it a piece of leftover sandwich.

You stop in your tracks, biting back a grin. “Are you—”

Nick looks up sharply. “Shut up.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t say a word.”

He mutters something under his breath and focuses back on the kitten. It hesitates before snatching the food from his hand, its little ribs visible under its fur.

“You’re keeping it,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Nick scoffs. “Hell no.”

Two days later, you walk into the garage and find the same kitten curled up in his lap while he absently scratches behind its ears.

You smirk. “Not keeping it, huh?”

Nick doesn’t even look up. “It’s temporary.”

Sure.

Night Owl

Your phone buzzes at 2 AM.

Nick: Come outside.

You sigh but grab your hoodie anyway, stepping out into the night air. He’s leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking up at the sky.

“You always do this?” you ask, stuffing your hands into your pockets. “Show up unannounced in the middle of the night?”

He tilts his head toward the passenger seat. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured you couldn’t either.”

You blink. He’s not wrong, but… how does he know that?

Still, you don’t argue. You get in.

He drives with the windows down, the air cool against your skin. Neither of you speak, but the silence is comfortable. Eventually, he pulls up to an overlook where the whole city stretches below.

For a while, you just sit there, watching the lights. Then, out of nowhere, he says, “You ever think about leaving?”

You glance at him. “Where would we go?”

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows us.”

Something in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“You’d take me with you?” you ask quietly.

Nick turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable. Then, just as softly, he says, “Wouldn’t go without you.”

Actions Over Words

Nick isn’t the type to say he cares.

Instead, he just shows up.

When your car won’t start in the middle of the night while you’re over late at a friends house, you don’t even get through the second ring before he picks up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Car won’t start,” you mumble. “I—I didn’t know who else to call—”

“Where are you?” he asks, already moving.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulls up beside you. He doesn’t say a word—just pops the hood, fixes the problem in five minutes, then leans against the car with his arms crossed.

“Next time, don’t wait so long to call me,” he says.

You sigh, rubbing your arms. “I didn’t want to bother you—”

He clicks his tongue. “Dumbest thing I’ve heard all night.”

You smile. “So… I’m not a bother?”

Nick gives you a look. Then, to your surprise, he reaches out and flicks your forehead.

“You better not be,” he mutters. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

[twistedreads]

Are you gonna stay the night? — Nick Leister

summary— It’s your first time spending the night over Nick’s house since you guys started dating. What could go wrong?

Black Fem reader x Nick Leister My fault: London

warnings— none really, cute, lovey

a/n— I don’t know why I haven’t seen stories about Nick from my fault London, he’s literally so fine.

Masterlist

The smell of tomato sauce and freshly chopped basil fills Nick’s sleek kitchen as you lean against the counter, watching him struggle with the dough. His golden-brown hands, dusted with flour, press into the soft mixture as he furrows his brows in concentration.

“This is harder than it looks,” he mutters in his distinct British accent, his dark curls bouncing as he glances up at you. The frosted tips of his hair catch the warm glow of the kitchen lights, making him look effortlessly attractive.

You giggle, rolling up your sleeves and stepping beside him. “You’re acting like this is rocket science. It’s just dough.”

He scoffs, pretending to be offended. “Excuse me, love, but I didn’t see you volunteering to knead this. Your job is just standing there lookin’ sexy.”

You roll your eyes playfully before reaching over, pressing your hands into the dough with his. The warmth of his skin meets yours, and for a moment, you both pause, realizing how close you are. His eyes flicker to yours, a small smirk tugging at his lips before he leans in. “If you wanted to hold my hand, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”

You huff, shoving him with your hip, and he lays a smack on your ass, making you let out an unexpected yelp.

“Shut up and focus.”

You both continue working side by side, stretching and spinning the dough—well, you try to spin it, but it ends up flopping onto the counter in a very ungraceful fashion. Nick bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach.

“That was tragic. Absolutely tragic.”

“Okay, since you’re such a pro, you do it.” You cross your arms, challenging him.

With an arrogant smirk, he grabs the dough and attempts to toss it in the air. And just like fate had written it, it lands right on his head.

Your laughter echoes through the kitchen as he stands there, dough draped over his curls, looking absolutely ridiculous. He peels it off and glares at you, but the twinkle in his eyes gives away his amusement.

“You think that’s funny, yeah?”

“I know it’s funny.” You double over, wiping a tear from your eye.

Nick hums, a mischievous glint flashing across his face before he reaches for the bag of flour and—before you can react—puffs a handful at you. The fine white powder explodes into the air, coating your black tank top and shorts.

You gasp. “Nickolas Leister, I know you didn’t just—”

Before you can finish, he has already darted to the other side of the kitchen, laughing. “Oh, I did.”

It’s war. You grab the bag and chase him around the island, flicking flour at him while he dodges, knocking over a bottle of olive oil in the process.

After a good five minutes of absolute chaos, you finally call a truce, panting as you survey the mess you’ve made.

“Okay, this is a disaster,” you admit, brushing flour from your hair.

Nick grins, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Maybe. But we had fun, yeah?” His thumb traces lazy circles on your hip.

You smile, leaning into his touch. “Yeah, we did.”

Eventually, you get back to making the food, watching a TikTok video step by step as you add toppings to the dough before sliding it into the oven.

When the timer goes off, you pull the pizza out, letting it cool for a moment before cutting into it. The crust is golden, the cheese perfectly melted, and the smell alone has your mouth watering.

Nick grabs a slice, handing it to you before taking one for himself. You exchange a glance, almost nervous.

“Moment of truth,” he mutters.

You nod, holding the slice up dramatically. “If we poisoned ourselves, at least we go out together.”

He smirks. “Romantic.”

At the same time, you both take your first bites.

Silence.

Then, you slowly turn to look at each other, your eyes widening as the flavors hit.

“Wait…” you mumble, mouth still full. “This is actually—”

“—fire,” Nick finishes, voice filled with genuine shock.

“We snapped,” you gasp.

Nick nods in agreement. “Nah, we bodied this. We might as well open a restaurant.”

Without thinking, you both put your pizza down and smack a victorious high-five, laughing as the sound echoes through the kitchen.

Nick leans back in his chair, taking another bite. “This is dangerous, love. We cook like this, I might just wife you up.”

You grin, chewing. “Say less. ‘Cause I could eat this every day.”

He shakes his head, reaching over to steal a piece from your slice.

“Oi!” You swat his hand.

“Sharing is caring, innit?” he teases, dodging your glare.

The next few minutes are spent feeding each other bites, laughing when Nick deliberately gives you too big of a piece, nearly making you choke. He just sits there, smirking as you glare at him.

After dinner, you both head upstairs to his bathroom for a shower. Stripping from your clothes, you step inside. Steam curls around you as hot water rains down, enveloping you in warmth. Underneath the sound of the shower, you can still hear Nick humming softly, his accent making the tune sound even sweeter.

Reaching for the bottle of shampoo, you squeeze a generous amount into your palm. “Turn around,” you murmur, motioning for him to face away.

Nick arches a brow but obeys, water cascading down his golden-brown skin. His hair, usually fluffy and styled, is now damp and weighed down.

“You’re gonna wash my hair for me?” he asks, amused.

You nod, running your fingers through his curls, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. “Yeah. You got all that flour in it from earlier.”

He lets out a low, satisfied hum, closing his eyes. “Mm, I could get used to this.”

You giggle. His shoulders relax under your touch as you work the lather through his thick curls. When you gently scratch his scalp with your nails, he lets out the softest sigh.

“Feels good?” you tease.

“Too good.” His voice is practically a purr.

Once you rinse the shampoo out, he turns to face you, droplets of water running down his sharp jawline. His hands find your waist, pulling you close. “Your turn,” he murmurs, reaching for the shampoo.

You let him tilt your head back under the stream as he starts working it into your deep, dark curls. His fingers are gentle, slow, his touch sending tiny shivers down your spine.

“‘M I doin’ it right?” he asks, lips quirking up at the corners.

You nod, closing your eyes. “Yeah… it feels nice.”

His hands move in soothing circles, warmth spreading through you. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Then another, just above your brow.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, voice low.

You smile, cracking one eye open. “It’s the shampoo, dummy.”

He chuckles. “Nah. It’s just you.”

Your face warms—not from the water, but from the way he’s looking at you.

As he rinses your hair, his fingers brush over your cheeks, tilting your chin up so he can press a lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slow, sweet, the kind of kiss that makes your knees feel weak.

“Careful,” you mumble against his lips. “You’re tryna make me fall in love with you or something?”

He smirks, brushing a wet curl from your face. “Too late for that, sweetheart.”

You laugh, flicking water at him playfully. “Okay, smooth talker, finish helping me rinse.”

By the time you step out, wrapped in fluffy towels, your heart is so full it feels like it might burst.

“I think that might’ve been my new favorite shower,” Nick murmurs, pressing a final kiss to your shoulder.

You grin, nudging him. “Good. ‘Cause I plan on making you wash my hair every time now.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re annoying, you know that?”

You wink at him through the mirror. “And you love it.”

“Yeah,” he admits, pulling you close. “I really do.”

After drying off, you pull out two face masks from your bag. “Here. These will make our skin glow.”

Nick eyes the packet suspiciously, then looks at you. “You’re tryin’ to turn me into a beauty influencer?”

You snort. “Shut up and put it on.”

Reluctantly, he peels the mask open and presses it to his face, his expression twisting as the cool gel touches his skin. “This feels weird.”

“You look great,” you reassure him, snapping a picture before he can protest.

He peeks over your shoulder. “Oi! Let me see.”

You turn your phone to show him, and he shakes his head. “Nah, that’s mad. You’re not posting that.”

Laughing, you take a few more selfies together, making ridiculous faces before finally settling down. As the masks set, you decide to bake cookies, with Nick stealing bites of dough until you smack his hand away.

When the cookies are ready, you curl up on the couch with a plate, flipping through Netflix until you settle on Bad Boys for Life.

“Oooh,” you grin when Armando comes on screen. “That man is fine.”

Nick scoffs, pulling you closer. “Seriously?”

“What? He is.”

He makes a face. “He’s not even that good-looking.”

You smirk, turning to him. “Honestly… you kinda look like him.”

Nick blinks, then sits up slightly. “Wait, do I?”

You hum, dragging your fingers through his curls. “Mmhmm. You both got the curly hair, the jawline, the whole broody-but-still-pretty-boy thing.”

Nick smirks, clearly pleased. “Well, if that’s the case, you should be callin’ me fine.”

You roll your eyes. “I do, dummy.”

Satisfied, he pulls you back against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

As the movie plays on, your eyelids grow heavy. You don’t even realize you’ve drifted off until Nick shifts, lifting you into his arms and carrying you upstairs.

“Nick,” you mumble sleepily, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Shh, I got you.”

He lays you down in bed, sliding in beside you. Under the dim glow of his bedside lamp, he brushes a stray hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle.

“Tonight was fun,” he murmurs.

You nod, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. “It was perfect.”

Nick leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His fingers caress your waist as he deepens it slightly before pulling away, resting his forehead against yours.

“Sleep, love,” he whispers.

With your fingers intertwined, warm beneath the covers, you drift off, wrapped in the comfort of each other.

[henryofwales]

The Lip Thing™

[clubartaesthetic]

Their love, their story, London’s magic 💙✨💙

[vintageaesthetic20]

I cant BREATHE. OH MY GODD please please please write fanfics about him🙏🏻

P.s. if you find any fics please tag me.

[sutosid]

I know this is wrong and Nick working on his fight anger issue but.. this is also like a love language. Punch every garbage who hurt Noah 😝..

Don’t come at me yeah I don’t support violence too 😄

[blainesebastian]

moments

word count: 10,720 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language and expletives) summary: There are moments you know you shouldn’t compare your ex to Nick, there’s no place where the two converge. Or maybe, you suppose, that’s exactly the point. notes: idk man this movie has become my whole personality, i got nothing else to say. (other than the gifs are from this awesome gifpack!) notes 2: reader has an abusive ex. while there are no explicit scenes of abuse, there are discussions of past abuse and trauma edit: i now have a masterlist!

You met Nick at a party like this. 

You had just broken up with your boyfriend and instead of wallowing, your friends dragged you to the nearest party they could find. You’re not easily someone who believes in fate or the universe having a plan, but you think that something happened that night to bring Nick into your life. 

You can still feel the thrum of the music in your veins, bumping into him as he was carrying drinks to someone, right on the makeshift dance floor in someone’s house. You remember opening your mouth to apologize–

“You should really come with a warning label if you’re going to swing your arms like that.” He says, British accent thick, eyes sharp. 

He’s beautiful, you think. He’s also an asshole. 

Your hands fall to your hips, eyebrows drawing together as you take a look at him. Really take a look. You moved here because your parents had work, ironically with Nick’s father. You’ve heard of the infamous Nick but haven’t met him in person. 

Lucky you, that seems to be tonight. 

Your eyes draw in the line of his jaw, the way his eyes flit over to yours, assessing you as you take in him. Your gaze runs from the light blonde, highlighted curls in his hair, to the strong shoulders, to the tapered waist. 

And then you spit out, “So should you, if you’re going to open your mouth.” 

He’s taken back, you can tell, a flicker of amusement in his eyes now at having the banter to play with. The corners of his mouth twitch in an almost smile, “Then I guess we better steer clear of one another,” He replies, leaning closer so you can hear him over the music.  You can smell laundry detergent, expensive cologne, “Two warning labels usually infer a pending explosion.” 

Keeping your distance didn’t exactly work, though. Your friends are in the same circles, and two curving lines have no choice but to eventually converge. It seems like everywhere you turn around, Nick is there. Other parties, weekends at lush spots, fighting rings, underground driving events, the list goes on and on. 

You seem stuck in this man’s orbit, this layer of so-called ‘danger’ slipping warmly into your veins and heating you up from the inside out. With every interaction, there’s still the barbed exchanges, the rolling of eyes, the quirk of lips. But you’re not sure how much of that is show—you both know how to have a good time with your set of friends, sometimes even with eachother. You’re not sure you’d call Nick a friend but…you suppose it’s better than what you were when you first met. 

As you move through the crowd of people gathered in the large, mansion-esque living room of the latest party you’re at, you do your best to find Jenna. She’s not the friend you came with, but you wanted to catch up, maybe even dance? You’re not exactly in the mood to be here tonight, so maybe that’ll open you up a bit more to having a good time. 

Turning down a hallway, you pause as you almost run into someone. A guy taller than you, eyes glassy, giving you a onceover before a grin, “Lost?” 

You sigh audibly, shaking your head, “Nope,” Voice full-American, which seems to bring a twinkle of amusement to the guy’s face, “Just headed that way.” You point towards the kitchen. 

“I can show you around,” He offers, trying to sling an arm around your shoulders, “Sounds like you might need a tour guide.” 

And boy, are you getting tired of that boring line. You get it, you’re not from London, but just because you’re American does not mean you need someone to show you around. You’ve been here for half of a year, you’re not about to call yourself a native, but you’re definitely settling in. 

“No,” You push his arm away. 

“Stop being so ungrateful,” He scoffs, taking two heavy steps forward. The movement is awkward, like his body is catching up with his brain. You’re not anticipating it, so you find yourself stumbling back, knocking into a table as he grabs your arm. 

“Get off me,” You snap, trying to yank yourself free, but this guy won’t let up. 

He’s wearing a ring on his one finger and it’s twisted in the wrong direction so that the stone actually slides against your arm when you try to create some space. It’s a quick cut, nothing you’d write home about but t’s the fact that he won’t back up, he won’t let go–

“Hey!” 

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice, Nick, coming down the set of stairs near where you’re standing. He rounds the corner, reaching in one fluid movement to yank the guy off. Tall guy stumbles back, tripping over the carpet, Nick’s body suddenly standing in front of yours. 

“Are you deaf?” Nick snaps, cocking his head as if he’s really trying to understand. His body lines up at an angle, as if he’s ready for a fight and that’s the last thing you want. Your hand gently moves to the back of his shirt, a soft tug, his muscles flexing beneath your touch. 

He glances over his shoulder at you before turning his attention back to Tall guy, movements relaxing—he bends to your request. No fighting. 

Until Tall guy opens his mouth.

“Didn’t know she was going to be such a bitch about—” 

There’s barely a moment in which the sentence is finished before Nick’s fist is flying through the air. It lands on this guy’s nose and he crumbles like a house of cards. A small gasp leaves your lips, your eyes wide as blood spurts from between the guy’s fingers and Nick rolls his shoulders, turning to check you over. 

“Look at me,” He says, hand touching your arm. Your eyes snap to his and he scowls at the cut there, red and angry thanks to that guy’s ring. “C’mon, let's clean you up.” 

Nick’s hand slips down to gently clasp your own, tugging you towards the kitchen. It’s not very busy, or maybe people are clearing out at the look on Nick’s face, either way you’re glad it’s not as stifling as some of the other rooms. He scoots you backwards until your legs find a stool and you prop yourself up on it, Nick moving to grab a washcloth from one of the drawers. You watch him carefully, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. 

“You didn’t need to hit him.” 

He pauses and then turns to look at you with his eyebrows raised. A scoff tumbles forth, “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’.” 

Now it’s your turn to look surprised, “For what? Punching someone?” 

His eyebrows draw together, amusement flickering in his eyes like a heated fire, “You have the strangest way of showing people your gratitude.” He moves towards you like a force. He’s not that much taller than you, but Nick’s the kind of person to take up space. The kind of person you step aside for. Handsome and unpredictable, just like the first day you met him. 

Blame it on the action from tonight, the leftover adrenaline shaking your body, prior experience with hands on you in ways that have not been kind, something—but when Nick reaches out and takes your arm—you flinch. 

He notices instantly, letting go and taking one step back to give you space. His eyes dance over you for a moment and you know he’s taking in the way you’ve wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders drawn in, the slight shaking to your hands. 

“Sorry,” He apologizes, voice a shade gentler than it was before. 

You swallow over an unspoken emotion in your throat before straightening your shoulders, eyes narrowing as you take a look at him. “I’m just saying I could have handled it.” 

He doesn’t argue with you this time, must sense you need to own that somehow, and just nods, “Can I see your arm?” 

You’re holding your arm to your chest like an injured bird does its wing, even though you’ve had worse. You’ve been through worse. Scars that you can’t see but are still there. You run your tongue over your teeth before relaxing your spine, slowly extending your arm towards him. 

Nick takes that as permission to walk back towards you and at the angle of the stool, you’re almost eye level, his body slightly between your knees as he turns your arm over in his hands. He takes the washcloth that he’s dampened and drags it across your skin. 

You close your eyes, biting down on the inside of your cheek, hating to admit what you’re about to say as your pulse slows,  “I didn’t…actually…have that handled.” You hate to think of what could have happened if Tall guy hadn’t backed off, if you couldn’t have stopped him, if no one would have thought twice to check if you were okay.

Nick doesn’t say anything though, just continues to clean the cut, his eyes trained on your skin. His thumb brushes the inside of your arm, a silent comfort, encouraging you to speak again, 

“My ex was a real jerk, put his hands on me.” You do not elaborate, but it seems like you don’t need to. Nick’s movements still a moment, his jaw working. “Not something you get used to or over quickly.” 

“Your ex is lucky he’s still in America.” He mumbles after a few breaths, his thumb still tracing back and forth over the inside of your elbow, his eyes finally meeting yours. You’re not sure why you’re surprised at what you see there. A gentleness, an anger, a protective warmth that you…maybe knew Nick was capable of but hadn’t seen firsthand. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth, your hand settling on his, “Not your problem.” 

“Shouldn't be yours either.” He says, squeezing your fingers. 

There’s this moment where you can’t tear your eyes from his, that heat that’s associated with Nick winding itself around you like ivy, digging between your ribs. It’s like something magnetic, you can’t quite look away, and yet you remind yourself of what was shared between the two of you when you first met. Two warning signs, indeed, could mean some sort of explosion. 

And yet, this person right here? The one standing in front of you? You think that might be worth the risk. Someone that’s maybe just as kind and thoughtful as they are opinionated, and impulsive. Velvet over broken glass. This version is not the Nick you thought you knew…and you’re not sure what to do with that. 

“Uhm,” You clear your throat, breaking the moment, “Have you seen Jenna? I was gonna see if she wanted to dance but now I kinda want to head home. Just want to say bye.” 

He shakes his head, helping you off the stool by slipping his hand into your own. “No, but I can drive you.” 

You soothe your hand over your jeans, “You don’t have to go out of your way.” 

Nick smiles a little, the expression open, “Don’t worry about it—this party is quickly losing its appeal anyways.” 

You don’t fight him on it twice. 

—

In spite of so called ‘warning labels’—there are sometimes shared looks, quiet smiles, and a warmth that blooms as you get to know one another. Maybe that’s friction. Maybe it’s something else. 

��Swear no one hears me when I say I don’t like onions,” You crinkle your nose in the booth of a diner, pressed to the one corner, Nick across from you as Jenna and Lion share the other seats. The table is completely covered with food to share, Jenna laughing as Lion tries to steal her fries. 

There are raw onions on the burger you ordered, despite asking for it without. Before you can lift the bun to take them off, Nick reaches across the table and swaps your plates. He says nothing, doesn’t even lift his eyes to look at you—but his burger is now in front of you. Onion free. 

A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth and you can’t help the small thrill of butterflies in your chest as you add ketchup to your fries. 

—

Your parents don’t know about your ex. 

You just…never wanted to tell them what happened. Especially since it didn’t matter, you were moving to London, leaving him behind and all the problems that came with it. Maybe if they knew your mom would talk to you about what healthy relationships look like, maybe they would suggest therapy. Maybe you’d even go. Sometimes it’s hard to admit that the person who went through what happened was actually you. As if you’re a spector in your own life. 

Every so often, you deny you have emotional scars. The physical ones have long faded to healed skin. Except, scars run deep, and sometimes you’re not even aware they’re still there until they flutter to the surface. They rear their ugly heads in the most unexpected of times. 

Or maybe it shouldn’t be surprising at all. 

A glass shatters. 

Your entire body goes rigid even though Jenna is laughing and leaning into Lion over it. The sounds start to warp around you and you’re staring at the glass at the floor, as if the shards will leap into the air and perform some sort of circus act. You’re over Nick’s house with your friends, having drinks and hanging out by the pool, you’re all getting a refill and someone overreaches for a glass in a cabinet. 

“Butter fingers,” Lion teases his girlfriend, grabbing her hand to spin her close and kiss her shoulder. 

“Was an ugly glass anyways,” Giles replies, crinkling his nose. 

Your hand lingers on your chest a moment, your heart hammering under the pressure of your fingers. You try to tell yourself that it’s an accident, that you’re not in danger, that you’re not what happened to you. You talk through all that helpful language you googled that’s supposed to help center yourself when you feel like you’re on the edge of a panic attack. You remind yourself that you’ve been doing well, you’ve been coping, that past memories belong in a box in the back of your mind and that a sound isn’t strong enough to unleash them. 

But nothing helps. 

Your vision narrows and then goes glassy, fuzzy black fades in from the edges, it feels like there’s a hand around your throat, squeezing. You excuse yourself quietly for the bathroom and your friends don’t notice, which is fine, you’re not sure you’d be able to stop even if they did. 

You make a b-line for the bathroom, turning a corner too fast and bumping into—

“Whoa,” Nick’s hands come down on your shoulders. When he gets a good look at your face, his eyes widen slightly. “Hey—” His voice is soft, dipping his chin to try and catch your gaze, “Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“I—” You choke out, air constricted in your throat, “I can’t—”

Nick seems to understand, gently backing you up towards the bathroom. The door doesn’t shut completely, angling towards closed, which you’re grateful for—the room doesn’t feel any smaller than it already does. Tears gather in your eyes, frustration and concern building up in your chest like a bonfire. You don’t claw at your skin, but you’ve been there, where it feels like the only way that you can possibly feel better is to peel it off your neck. Like there’s a literal barrier between you and breathing. 

You don’t even realize you’ve sat down on the closed toilet seat until Nick’s kneeling in front of you. His voice sounds like it’s underwater and he takes your hand to rest it on his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart under your fingertips, the steady intake of air as he speaks again.

He keeps repeating the same phrase as tears spill down your cheeks, “Copy me.” 

“Wh-what?” You stutter out, his words suddenly coming in sharp, clear. 

His other hand, the one not holding your hand on his chest, cups your cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. He curls your hair around your ear, fingers resting against your neck. 

“Breathe with me,” Nick’s voice is patient, squeezing your fingers, his thumb working back and forth along your knuckles, giving you something to concentrate on. “In—” He draws breath into his lungs, then, “Out—” He whispers, letting it go. 

You copy, barely, chest aching. It comes out as a gasp. 

“Good,” He nods, “Again.” He waits. “Again.” He soothes, “Again.” 

Until it becomes easier, until it doesn’t feel like your entire chest is caving in. The hyperventilating slows, your eyes slide shut, your pulse calms in your throat. You don’t open your eyes until the dull roar disappears in your ears, Nick’s thumb still moving calming circles against your knuckles, your neck. 

Your gaze eventually meets his brown ones, concerned as they trace your face. His hand moves again, the one on your neck, cupping your cheek and removing another tear track. 

“There you are,” He says softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I got you.” 

You swallow over what feels like glass in your throat, your fingers still holding onto his t-shirt against his chest like a lifeline. You don’t often get panic attacks like that, but when they come? They drive through you with the force of a freight train. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

You blink, trying to figure out if you do, in fact, need something. A glass of water might be nice, but you don’t want him to move, the weight of him against your legs grounding in a way you can’t explain. 

You decide on shaking your head, your hand eventually falling from his chest to rest in your lap. His hand follows yours, brushing his thumb along your knee. 

“They always come on fast like that?” 

You shake your head, “Sometimes I think they’re completely gone, they just—pop up out of nowhere.” You sniffle, curling your hair around your ear. You have no idea why your cheeks flush in embarrassment, but they do, to let someone see where you’re struggling the most. Where you feel the most vulnerable. 

But when your eyes meet Nick’s, there’s no judgement there. Just a soft gaze, open, waiting. 

“A glass fell in the kitchen, broke and—my ex used to throw things when he got pissed off. The sound, it just—” You’re not sure you have to explain, hoping it’s enough.

Nick’s face is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—a dangerous sort of calm that you wouldn’t wish on anyone. He traces his thumb around your knee. 

“Sounds like a real tool.” 

The comment is so out of pocket that a laugh bubbles up in your chest and you nod, “He was. Sometimes I feel like relationships are just always meant to end messy, one way or another.” Or maybe you’ve convinced yourself, somehow, that you don’t deserve something good. You put yourself out there with your ex, and look at what happened. 

Nick shakes his head, holding your gaze when he says, “Not all of them.” 

There’s a small thrill that works its way into your chest, something weighted in the way he says it. You chew on your lower lip, Nick’s eyes slipping to your mouth, and you’re suddenly reminded of time you’ve spent together. While you have the same friends, you’re not sure if you’d consider that to define your relationship. And yet here he is, on his knees in front of you, making sure you’re alright. 

“Thought it was best we steer clear of one another,” You repeat his suggestion from the first time you met but your voice is teasing. “Pending explosions and all.” 

Nick stands and your head tips back to look at him. He seems to give it careful thought, his pursing lips making a soft laugh leave your lips. “Think I can handle a little danger—can’t you?” 

You find yourself nodding and take his hand when it’s offered, tugging you up off the toilet to head back out to your friends. 

—

Nick spends the night checking in with you—it’s not so much words he uses, but its eyes dancing over your form, it’s a tentative hand on your lower back, it’s making you laugh—long and hard, it’s picking you up over his shoulder and jumping into the pool with you, it’s your lips brushing when you float to the surface when he’s grinning. 

It’s like he’s suddenly everywhere, not just here at his place, but over the next few weeks that you end up spending time with one another. A hand brush here and there, a shared grin, hushed laughter and an ease and comfortability that was not there before. 

A so-called ‘warning label’ begins to fizzle down to its base form—what it actually is.

Attraction. And that’s not something that feels so hazardous anymore. 

—

You love dancing. You’re not altogether good at it, but that doesn’t matter. After enough to drink, the alcohol buzzing like warm bees in your system, with your friends around you, the lure of letting off steam and feeling comfortable in your veins just overwhelms you. 

The club that you end up at is a typical haunt on a Saturday night, your smile bright as you wrap your arms around your best friend from behind. Jenna laughs nearby, turning to smack a kiss to Lion’s cheek. Nick brings back a tray of shots for everyone and you take yours eagerly, tipping it back. 

When you set the glass down, Nick has his eyes on you, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. He's dressed in a black t-shirt, and you can’t help but sneak a peek at his biceps, how well he fills out the fabric. His long sleeve shirt is gone somewhere, maybe where everyone was once sitting before. He looks comfortable, like you could curl up against him, like his arms could lift you up—

“Enjoying the view?” He asks over the music, leaning closer. 

You shiver, refusing to show how much a simple question has an impact on you. Because yes, you were. 

You shrug, “It’s not bad. I’m still deciding.” 

He steps closer, into your space, his hand sliding down your arm and when he speaks this time; his lips brush your ear. “Anything I can do to influence that decision?” 

This time you can’t hide your body’s reaction, you know that Nick feels it, his fingers brushing over goosebumps that appear on your forearm. You hate the smug look on his face as he pulls away, so you decide the only distraction that’ll work at this point is tugging him onto the dance floor. You turn your arm in his hand, sliding up until your palms meet. 

“You can dance with me.” 

Nick smiles, following you onto the floor,  your friends following. It’s a small circle of moving bodies, and despite the nerves that are skittering along your nerves like spiders, you let yourself slip into the music. It’s some sort of bouncy electronic bop that you know well and you find yourself singing along to the chorus as you dance along to it. You can’t help but laugh as Nick grabs your hand and spins you, angling his body closer to yours. There’s a swaying motion, his hands ending up on your hips. 

He squeezes; a question in his eyes, if it’s alright to put his hands on you like this. Because it’s slightly more intimate than small, insignificant touches you’ve shared before. You’re overwhelmed by the gesture, that despite how close you’ve gotten, he still wants to make sure it’s okay. That permission means everything to you. 

You respond with a grin, your arms wrapping around his neck, keeping him close. And you’re inseparable for the rest of the night. 

—

Nick has a driver pick you all up so no one has to worry about driving. There’s a few minutes outside the club, waiting on the pavement. When you wrap your arms around yourself, a slight breeze causing a chill down your spine, he slides off the long-sleeve shirt he came in and drapes it over your shoulders. The warmth of his body lingers and you draw the fabric over your hands, breathing in the scent of his cologne. 

When an SUV arrives, you end up sharing a row with him. The sway of driving rocks you gently, your eyes slipping closed as your head rests back against the seat, and when you wake up at your place, you’re tucked under Nick’s arm along his side. 

—

Nick hands you a book in passing, something that he had tucked away in his car as you’re about to get into Jenna’s to leave the underground driving circle. It’s so unexpected and somehow odd in a place like this that you kinda blink. Your fingers brush as the book transfers from one palm to another. 

“Thought you might like this,” He says. 

It’s well-read, obviously by him. And it’s something so simple, saying ‘I thought of you’, ‘I think about you’, ‘you’d like this’—something your ex never did. 

He never thought about you. Not like that. Not gently. Not with concern and affection. Not in a way that mattered, that made you feel good. 

You look down at the title, a small smile tugging the corners of your lips—The Things They Carried. Somehow it’s fitting. 

“You think about me?” You ask, voice teasing, holding the book to your chest. 

Nick grins, “Hard not to.” 

And before he can back away, you wrap your fingers in his shirt and pull him close, tipping your head up to kiss him. 

It’s everything you ever thought it might be. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before he cups both sides of your face, angling the movement down, tongue teasing the seam of your lips. His body presses against yours but it fits perfectly, lines up with your own, as if something was missing beforehand that you were unaware of. 

“Thank you,” You whisper after a moment, against his mouth. “For the book.” 

Nick licks his lips, his thumb brushing over your lower one. “Definitely have more recommendations if this is the general reaction.” 

And well, you’ve always been a reader. 

—

“Oh come on,” You chew on your lower lip, “Pancakes all the way.” 

Nick scoffs something far too attractive, crinkling his nose as he heats up the waffle iron. “Knew there had to be something wrong with you, after all this time, just didn’t know it was gonna be this.” 

You toss a blueberry at him and he, annoyingly, catches it, popping it into his mouth with a grin. He points a spatula at you. 

“How have you lived a life thinking pancakes are superior to waffles? This an American thing?” 

“This is an ‘I’m right’ thing.” You toss back, looking at all the different combinations of sweets that can go on or in these pancakes (or waffles). “The ridges in waffles make it difficult to spread butter evenly.” 

Nick licks his lips, his finger tracing the handle of the spatula as he turns pancakes over in the pan. He adds batter to the waffle iron. “Not if you try hard enough.” 

You shake your head, amusement skittering along your spine as you can’t help but look down at his hands. He’s wearing two rings today, something comfortable and simple. But the only thing it does is highlight the shape of them, gorgeous, like they were made to play an instrument. 

“I think you’re just trying to infer that you’re good with your hands.” 

“What was that about my hands?” He raises his eyebrows, voice impossibly warm like dripping honey. 

He sets two finished pancakes on a plate and flips the flame off under the pan. He leans against the counter as he looks at you, something molten slipping from your stomach to between your legs as you hold his gaze. 

“You heard what I said.” 

Nick wanders over, encroaching on your space in the best way. He tilts his head down a little, brushing his lips over yours as he lifts you onto the counter in one even swoop. 

You can’t help but grin, your hands settling on his shoulders as he slips between your legs. 

“Sounds like you’re going to need a hands-on demonstration.” 

“I can’t believe you said that with a straight face.” But your laugh comes out as a whimper as Nick’s fingers press against the center of you, an easy target given how you’ve splayed your legs to accommodate his body, the fabric of your leggings leaving nothing to imagination. 

“Oh,” Nick whispers against your lips, amusement dancing across his handsome features as he begins to move his thumb, “Maybe you don’t need a demonstration at all.” 

And this asshole actually dares to move his hand, as if he’s giving up the suggestion. You clamp your knees together as best you can, his body in the way, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as his hand becomes trapped between your thighs. 

“Don’t you dare.” You mumble against his mouth.

“Is that a threat?” He nips at your lower lip, tugging it between his teeth at the same time his hand encourages your thighs to open to give him room. He pushes into the waistband of your leggings, a smirk decorating his mouth as you scooch closer to the edge of the counter. A shiver skitters down your spine at the feel of the cold metal of his rings brushing against heated skin. 

You hate giving him the satisfaction of any noises leaving your mouth but at a certain point, it becomes undeniable. And he knows that. You swear that having him like this is something you’re never going to get used to, despite that things are still new between you two. His thumb drags over your clit, one finger slipping into you, your back bowing a little when he adds another. 

“That’s it,” He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss on your neck, your heartbeat pounding in your ears as he picks up the pace. It doesn’t take much, he’s so precise with his fingers, leaning into every tell your body has, reading you like an open book every time you make a sound. 

When his tongue travels over your pulse point and his thumb pays close attention to your clit, tight even circles, you don’t stand a chance. Pleasure snaps like a band, your body clamping down on his fingers. You lean up to drape yourself over him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, tucking your face in his neck. 

The arm that’s free slides along your back, brushing up and under your shirt, running his fingers along your spine and you press a kiss to his shoulder, threading your fingers through his hair. You tug on his curls, just a little, just to arch his head back a bit. 

He smiles up at you, eyes dark, lower lip wet from biting it, a visible strain in his sweatpants. You open your mouth to reply, to offer reciprocation, but then smoke in your periphery catches your attention. 

“Shit,” He mumbles, pulling away from you to turn the waffle iron off. You wince a little but a small laugh bubbles up in your chest, leftover butterflies in your stomach, cheeks warm, body feeling far too empty. 

“Can’t believe the waffles burned.” You comment lightly, running a hand through your hair. 

Nick glances at you, a small smile on his face, mischief lighting up his brown eyes. He tugs you forward, but this time, he’s got the fabric of your leggings between his fingers, yanking them off. 

“S’alright,” He replies, spreading your legs again, intending to sink his head between them, “Think I’m more of a pancakes guy anyways.” 

—

Nick is nothing like your ex, there is no place where the two converge. Period. 

—

You hate that Nick fights in the ring. Sometimes there’s gloves, other times there’s bare fists. You hate the blood and the bruises and the fact that fucking Lion bets on him like he’s a winning horse. Most of the time you can’t even watch. Like tonight. You wait in the car, everyone headed back to Nick’s afterwards to debrief, to let off steam. 

You can tell he’s pissed the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. 

There’s lines pulling his face, his shoulders tight and the muscle in his jaw feathering. There’s a bruise starting along his jawline, cuts on his cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut and your fingers dig into the plush leather. 

You don’t ask how it went because you already know. 

When you make it into his kitchen, leaning against the counter, you watch as he paces a moment, stewing, his hands shaking as he looks over at Lion. 

“It wasn’t called at the right fucking time.” 

“It was,” Lion says evenly, “The refs—”

“The fucking refs are fucked,” He snaps, his voice echoing in the space. You swear you can hear the glass in the cabinets tremble, “He threw a punch after the bell rung. What’s the point of doing any of this if it’s not going to be fair?” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be doing it at all,” You mumble, arms crossed over your chest. It’s quiet, but you can tell the moment that he hears you. His entire body goes still before he turns and rolls his shoulders, like he’s still in the ring. Like he’s itching for a fight. 

“That’s cheap coming from you, isn’t it? You won’t even step through the doors to support me.” 

Your mouth falls open at the same time Jenna hisses Nick, your response only serving to amp him up even further. 

“I’m not going to go in there and you know it.” You know why, is what you actually want to say, but you don’t give him that satisfaction. You’re calling him out on his bullshit well enough. 

Besides, you’re not the one he’s really mad at, he’s just taking his frustrations out on you. But before you can tell him how fucked up that is, Lion pipes up with a —

“You’re gonna have to fight him again, a re-match.” 

Nick explodes, the kind that he warned you about the first night you met, his arm snapping out and striking items on the kitchen counter. It’s not glass, but the reaction you have is the same. A plastic fruit bowl spins and hits the cabinets, oranges rolling out of it, a set of papers flutter to the floor like birds, and something cracks loudly against a chair, someone’s iPhone maybe. 

It doesn’t matter what it is because you go rigid, eyes wide as you stare at the items on the floor. He runs both of his hands through his hair, his gaze finding your face when you let out a short breath out of your mouth, attempting to unhook your shoulders from your ears. Nick looks at the floor and then back to you, muttering shit under his breath. 

He takes a step towards you, “Y/N,” and you mimic one back, keeping space between you. A defense mechanism but it doesn’t stop that look from sliding onto his face, regret replacing anger, concern replacing frustration. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Nick says, voice pinched, “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

You shake your head, putting your hand up so he stops talking. You need space, you need to go outside and take a breath. You slip out of the kitchen towards the pool and Nick must try to follow you because you hear Jenna stop him in his tracks— just leave her alone for a little while, man.  

He’ll come find you though. He always does.

—

You debate leaving but end up sitting by the pool instead. Your legs are drawn up against your chest, fingers dragging through the water, chin resting on one of your knees. You hear and feel him more than see him come out onto the pool deck. 

“Can I join you?” He asks, hovering. 

You know that if you told him no he’d respect that, he’d listen.. But you can’t, even though a small part of you wishes you could. You nod softly, not looking at him, waiting for him to slide down beside you. He’s facing you, one leg in the pool, one curled up underneath him. He smells like clean soap, fresh clothes—he must have showered and changed to give you some time. You ache to run your fingers through his damp curls, to touch him somehow. But you don’t. 

It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of your shared breathing and your fingers gliding through the water. 

Nick clears his throat, “I have a temper, I’ve always had it.” Since his mom, are the unspoken words. “Despite how hard I try to bury it…it seems to always find its way to the surface.” His voice is soft, gentle, as if he’s afraid he might spook you, that you might run. “It’s why I’m good at racing or fighting.”  

You know this, you know he has an anger inside of him that sprouts like weeds, recognizes it in him like you did your ex…even though they are not the same, will never be the same. Nick has talked to you about his mom countless times, you’ve met her and Maddie and know that they’re working on their relationship. They’re in a good place, despite the emotions that Nick still feels sometimes. Maybe they’ll always be there. 

He tentatively reaches for your hand, and when you allow him to touch you, he tugs your laced fingers to rest in his lap. He traces circles around your knuckles, “Look at me.” 

You breathe out through your nose, turning your gaze away from the pool and meeting his eyes. You’re struck by him, always have been, you think. Ever since you ran into him at that party. There must be a soft pout to your lips because he brushes his other thumb along the corner of your mouth.

“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. But I know I don’t want to see that look on your face ever again.” He shakes his head, ripping his gaze from yours, as if he’s embarrassed. You know what he’s talking about. Fear. What must have been on your face—it’s not something that can be helped, no matter how much you’ve been working on it.

“Not because of me.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat over that, over the fact that Nick, at the core of his being, wants to protect you. Despite his rough demeanor, despite the fact that he sometimes leads too much with his fists or can have a nasty set of words for someone, he’s good deep down. Something your ex never was. 

You squeeze his hand back, reaching out to touch his cheek. You angle his face up, running your thumb over his cheekbone, 

You don’t say that it’s okay, because it’s not, but you do want him to know, “I trust you.” You say after a moment. It is not something you give easily, something that’s definitely earned. And Nick has. He holds your gaze after that, a soft nod, turning his chin into your palm. His nose and lips brush the love line on your hand and he presses a kiss there. 

“C’mere.” He whispers, encouraging you closer, to sit on his lap. You fold into him easily, as if you’ve always fit there. 

–

There’s a long sigh out of your mouth as you move from your spot on the couch to get the front door when there’s a series of knocks. You kinda hope it’ll go away, but your parents aren’t home to check. There’s a twinge in your nose and a headache building behind your eyes, the worst head cold you’ve had for a while. Exhausted, slightly nauseous, throat sore, and kinda ready to throw hands at whoever is making you answer the front door when you could be passed out on a bunch of pillows and blankets. 

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing your throat, “Sheesh.” 

Without looking at the small video monitor for security set up next to the door, you yank it open, getting ready to give whoever is selling something a piece of your mind. But then you stop, blinking, because it’s—

“What are you doing here?” Your voice croaks, Nick wincing at the sound. 

He’s in a pair of sweats, a white t-shirt, and oversized jacket, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into his curls as he takes a look at you. Your cheeks are flushed thanks to being sick, but you feel like your fever has kicked up a notch under the careful inspection. You have no idea what you look like, but you can guess it’s a mess. 

“Jenna said you weren’t feeling well,” He steps forward and when he does you notice he’s got a paper bag in his hand. “Though I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me that yourself.” 

You rub the back of your neck—you really just…didn’t want to be a burden. “I didn’t want you to get sick.” Is what you say instead, which isn’t exactly a lie. 

“Well,” Nick hums, brushing his fingers through your hair, “Lucky for you, I have an impeccable immune system.” 

You crinkle your nose, fit to argue with him, but the moment you open your mouth, you turn and sneeze. A small smirk sounds from Nick when you groan. “Bless you.” 

You straighten your shoulders, rubbing some of your fingers against your temple as you turn to look at Nick. You want to tell him that it’s not necessary, that he doesn’t need to do anything extra for you, regardless that he’s here already. But at the same time, you also know he’s stubborn—he’s not going anywhere. And what’s the harm of allowing someone to take care of you? 

Your ex never would have showed up like this. The moment you’d let him know you were sick, he’d make a joke to keep a distance. Maybe that’s why, subconsciously, you never even thought to let your current boyfriend know you were struggling. 

“You better have a miracle cure in that bag,” You tease, the lightness in your voice covered by congestion. “I’d settle for tissues.” 

Nick reaches into the bag and pulls out a whole box. A whole box of tissues that have lotion in them. He gives you a small, knowing smile. 

“Did I mention you’re my favorite person?” You ask, snagging the box. You open it up, taking some tissues out. 

Nick breezes past you with a kiss to your temple, “I know—but reminders are always appreciated.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Not only does this man make you soup, and make sure you have cold-relief meds, but in that paper bag of wonders he has one of those heatable stuffed animals, the ones that you can put in the microwave and smell like lavender (if you could breathe through your nose). You settle into the couch, the half-eaten soup on the coffee table as a movie plays in the background. You’ve kind of lost the plot, your eyes falling closed as you’re surrounded by some pillows and blankets, the warmed-up stuffed fox pressed to your abdomen. Nick’s seated in the corner of the couch, arm stretched out along the back—you’ve been trying to keep your distance but…god, he really looks comfortable.

He smiles a little in soft amusement, as if he can read your mind, his eyes sliding over to yours. His lips quirk, tilting his head a bit in his direction, 

“C’mon.” 

You shake your head, “I really don’t—” 

“Get over here,” He interrupts, leaning over to wrap his arm around your waist and tug until you're pressed against his side. You don’t fight it, a shiver wracking down your spine as you settle against him. “Cold?” 

You nod, fitting against his side, underneath his arm, tucking your face into his shoulder. You wish you could breathe him in, that comforting scent of his expensive cologne mixed with something that’s just purely him. He helps you adjust the blanket, his hand settling on your thigh with a gentle squeeze. His other hand threads his fingers through your hair in a way that’s meant to put you to sleep. 

“You’re gonna get sick.” You mumble, eyes fluttering closed. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Don’t worry about me.” 

But you do. And he does. 

But it’s nice being able to take care of him too. 

—

Sometimes you sleep over. It’s one of those things that happen naturally—hanging out with friends, messing around in the pool, playing darts near the garage, coming back from a party, curled up watching a movie. Tonight is no different, except you’re a little drunk. You sit down on the edge of the bed, the room spinning slightly, Nick passing you a t-shirt of his to tug on. You love how it lays on you, the fabric unbelievably soft. 

He lingers in front of you, a smirk on his lips, tipping your chin up and leaning down just enough to brush a kiss over your temple, “You need help?” 

You let out a long, dramatic sigh that flutters your lips. It turns into a slight pout, “I need a kiss.”

Nick hums, his eyes appraising you, “Yeah? Where at?” 

And you hate how that makes you squirm. You squeeze your legs together, an action not missed by him, before pointing to your cheek. He licks his lips, crouching to press one right where you’ve requested. His fingers curl under your shirt, lifting it off in one fluid motion. He crouches before you, hands on your knees, waiting. 

You smile a little, skin warm, pointing to your shoulder blade. He follows through and you can’t stop yourself from running your fingers through his hair, his hands moving to splay along your waist, squeezing. That heat between your legs dips, tugs, hums. 

“Where else?” 

“I’ve definitely got some ideas but could you tell the room to stop spinning for a second?” 

Nick smiles, fingers moving to the button on your jeans. “Can I take these off?” 

Always with the permission. Always with making sure you’re okay. It’s something that’s so deeply important to you, something you’ve never told him. And yet he knows. 

“Need you to help me out,” He undoes the button and you stand on wobbly legs, hand holding onto his shoulder for support. He slides them off and tosses towards a chair in the corner. You sit back down, running your hands over your face, which probably smears your makeup ridiculously. 

You touch to the right of your belly button, “Here please.” 

Nick smiles, shaking his head a little. “Only because you were so polite.” 

You bite down on your tongue when he does it, when he kisses you there, swallowing the cheeky response that you know he’d do it anyways. 

He slips lower, kissing the side of your knee without you asking. Just because he wants to. He then leans back on his heels, giving you a onceover before taking the shirt he handed you, helping to slide it over your arms. Pressing a few kisses to your cheeks, mostly just to make you laugh, he pulls away. 

There’s definitely an audible whine you’ll deny making later. 

“I’m getting a washcloth for your face,” He laughs softly too, taking your hand to squeeze, “Get your makeup off.” 

You shake your head—wow, how’d you get so lucky? 

“Think it’s the other way around.” He assures you as he heads to his bathroom and you blink—apparently you said that outloud. 

As you wash the makeup off your face, Nick changes out of his clothes, a simple t-shirt and briefs. He tugs down the comforter and helps you under the covers, tugging them back up to your chin. It’s one of those moments that feels so intimate that your chest hurts a little. You lie on your side, not facing him, and he hooks his chin over your shoulder. 

“You okay?” He whispers, arm sliding around your waist. Your fingers lace together in an easy motion. 

“Perfect.” You reply, already dozing. By the time he turns the light out, you’re fast asleep. 

—

It’s one of those parties in which you can’t keep your hands off eachother. 

Nick’s obviously a tactile person, he talks but he says more with his actions, with his touch. A possessive hand on your waist, a protective arm around your back, a brush of a kiss to your temple, a cheeky nip of your lower lip. You can read him like a secret language, a message whispered in the dark. And you love that you can so easily reply in kind. A hand sneaking up and under his jacket to rest on his toned back, slipping your fingers into his back pocket to grab his ass, hooking your ankle around his under a table, a kiss to his cheek when you’re excited, his hair when he falls asleep on your chest. 

Tonight is no different. 

You separate for one instance so you can head to the bathroom and when you come out, you bump into someone who is waiting. 

“Shit sorry,” You apologize with a smile before raising your eyebrows. The guy you practically checked shoulders with is holding a book. A book at a party. And like, no judgement, obviously, but…it’s really the last thing you expected. 

“No worries,” He’s tall and kinda lanky, but soft looking, attractive in his own way. He smiles down at you, a sheepish hand rubbing the back of his neck as he catches you looking at his book. “Summer classes,” He admits, “Organic chem.” 

“Gross,” You offer with a soft laugh and he grins. 

“Yeah, not exactly party material. I’m trying to relax but uh, not the best at it.” 

“Well I’d put down the chemistry book, for starters.” You smile and you can tell he’s about to open his mouth and ask for something, maybe to offer to get you a drink, maybe something else. You’ll never know because you see Nick just past where this guy is standing. 

His gaze is set on you, never looking away once, but you can tell he must have noticed this guy towering over you because an arm slides around your waist, hand squeezing your hip. A clear message to anyone who might be confused. 

“Was wondering where you went.” And you raise your eyebrows at that, as if he doesn’t know you went to the bathroom. 

“Well you found me.” When Nick turns to look at you, there’s a heat to his eyes that almost takes your breath away. You can’t help but gaze back, like the darkness that you find is capable of pulling you under, under. 

Tall guy lets out an awkward laugh, snapping his textbook closed. “Well just gonna—” He motions to the bathroom but Nick takes a step towards it with you in tow, pressing you towards the doorframe and then steps in front, effectively blocking your body with his own. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna need to find another bathroom,” He tells him, leaning his palms against the doorframe. A soft laugh bubbles up in your chest as you lean against the sink, running a hand along the side of your face. 

Textbook guy blinks, makes an uh noise with his lips—and when he just stands there looking confused, Nick snaps out, “Fuck off.” 

And slams the door in his face. 

Your hand covers your mouth as Nick turns, taking measured steps towards you as you lean back against the sink. Feels sturdy enough—it’s one of those built-in counter ones, plenty of space for toiletries. 

“Textbook guy was nice, you know?” You inform him, a smirk mapping your lips as Nick leans in, encroaching on your space. He encourages you to lean back a little as he cages your body with his own, arms on either side of you. 

He whispers into your ear, “I don’t care.” 

When he pulls back a bit, your noses brush and you lift your hand to play with a curl on his forehead. Amusement sits on your tongue, heat between your legs, “Didn’t know you could get jealous.” 

Nick’s gaze lands on your lips. You expect him to deny it, but instead he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, dragging it out, nipping at your lower lip with his teeth. Then he kisses you completely, slotting his own body along your own, tongue sliding into your mouth. The moment you moan is when he sinks his hands into your hair, keeping you close. Your own glide down his sides, digging into the fabric of his jeans, tugging—

A sharp noise, a groan from the back of his throat, sets little electric zips along your skin. 

You can feel the hardness of him against your hip and breathing patterns change, just a little uneven, pulling back so that your lips fall to his neck. Your hand wanders, one destination, undoing his jeans so that you can slip inside. 

“So,” You whisper, tilting your head back, getting a good look at him. Your fingers wrap around him, beginning to palm his cock. His pupils are blown as he licks his lips—you can feel the twitch of his hips, driving him a bit forward. Your thumb works at the bead of moisture at his tip, back and forth, down along him. 

You smile, “Yes to being jealous?”

His hand slips around the back of your neck, squeezing a little, gathering a bit of your hair in the process. It’s barely a tug, barely any pain, and yet heat shocks down your spine, settling in your core. 

“Of anyone who makes you laugh like that.” 

And for some reason that reaches into the center of your chest and squeezes. You can’t find the words to reply. So you don’t. 

Luckily both of you are both attune at speaking without saying anything at all. 

Your other hand rests on the side of his face, your thumb brushing over his lips before kissing him again. 

It doesn’t take long after that. Nick helps gets his jeans down, peeling your skirt up, practically ripping your underwear to get them out of his fucking way. He presses you back against the sink, it’s not the most comfortable—the edge is biting into your muscles, but at this point it just adds to the pleasure that’s already building in your lower belly. He lifts your leg a little, holding you, sliding forward until his cock brushes against your entrance. 

“Nick,” You moan and that one word has him pushing inside. 

Your head tips forward, forehead ending up on his shoulder, rolling your hips until he’s completely inside of you. It’s not as drawn out as you want, but you know it’s only a matter of time until someone comes knocking on this bathroom. You hike your leg up a little more, encouraging him deeper as he moves, as much as you can at this angle. It’s too fast, a little too hard, and the movements are a little too desperate. 

But fuck if that stops you from cumming hard. 

The moment Nick’s mouth finds your neck and sucks while his one hand not holding you slips between, fingers circling your clit, you lose it. 

Your body clenches around him and you bury your face in his shoulder, clinging to him as ripples of pleasure slam into you. Your fingers dig into his back and there’s two more thrusts forward until Nick loses himself as well, a soft tremble following as both of you breathe one another in, wait for pulses to slow, for breathing to settle. 

He pulls back slightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, curling your hair around your ear. A soft smile tugs the corner of your mouth and you slowly turn a bit to face yourself in the mirror. 

Jesus. You’re really not fooling anyone—you look utterly wrecked. Your hair is mussed, face flushed, and you attempt to fix a bit of yourself as Nick cleans himself up and grabs a washcloth on the shower cabinet near the mirror. He dampens it in the sink before crouching, cleaning up your inner thighs. You let out a slow breath as he drags the fabric along your cunt, gentle and yet tortuous. 

Nick licks his lips, looking at you in the mirror, settling his chin on your shoulder. You find his gaze in the reflection, his one hand coming up and resting on the side of your neck. His thumb brushes a blooming hickey near your pulse point. His eyes never leave yours, 

“In case there’s any further confusion for anyone.” 

When you run into the textbook guy again later that night, Nick’s arm draped lazily over your shoulders as he talks to Lion, your boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind this time around when you ask him with a teasing lilt how organic chem is going. 

He zeros in on your neck right away, and Nick fucking smirks. 

—

Maybe the warning labels, the explosion, the danger you both once spoke of isn't exactly what you assumed. It's not that you'd end up being bad for one another, or somehow get in the other's way. It's not the underground fighting ring or the racing or past trauma with your ex. It's something deeper, emotionally grounded, something that's capable of taking you out right at your knees. You knew love had teeth, you just didn't realize you could be devoured by it. 

The way you care about Nick bites into you and doesn't let go. 

You're quiet as you clean up the tiny cuts on Nick's knuckles, using a bit too much antiseptic but not relishing in the way he winces. You can't meet his gaze, even though you know he's trying to capture yours. Seated side by side on the edge of his bed, you let out a long breath before setting the bloody cotton ball aside and grabbing another. 

Stupid re-match that Lion set up. Nick won, but that's not really the point. 

You waited outside in the car, eventually getting out to pace, leaning back against the driver's door until they all came out. A split lip, a blackening mark underneath his eye on his cheekbone, bruised ribs and cut-up knuckles. 

You hate this. You hate it so fucking much. You're practically buzzing with this anger but know better than to speak. Nick seems to know better too, because he's utterly still beside you. Curling your hair around your ear, you set another used cotton ball aside—you can’t use bandages on these small cuts. They’re not that bad, he doesn’t need any, and yet…leaving them open like this makes your chest ache. You can’t patch them up, but…maybe an ice pack wouldn’t hurt. For his ribs at least. 

When you move to stand, Nick’s fingers gently wrap around your wrist, a silent plea not to move. You close your eyes, can feel yourself trembling—

It’s not so much the blood. It’s seeing him hurt. It fucking guts you. Even though he’s okay, you know he’s okay. It doesn’t make it any easier. 

“I really wish you’d stop doing this,” You eventually say, your words sounding too loud in the silence. Too choked. That anger from before unfortunately fizzles out into the real emotion it was hiding: concern. “All—all it takes is one wrong hit and—” You sniffle, cutting yourself off. 

Nick lets out a long sigh through his nose before a gentle nod follows. He inches himself closer to you on the bed, until your knees bump together, his hand wrapping along the back of your neck. Despite wanting to pull away, wanting to create distance, he encourages you to lean into him. You relent as if it’s not the easiest thing you’ve ever done, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. 

He tips his chin down, his face burying itself in your hair, and he keeps you close until you stop shaking. 

–

That’s the last fight Nick’s in, he tells Lion not to involve him in any others. 

–

Admittedly, cars have never really been your thing. You admire them, you appreciate the work that some people put into them, or how much someone is willing to pay to enhance them, but they’ve never been something to spend your own money on. You upkeep the Jeep that your parents bought you on your eighteenth birthday, and that’s always been enough. 

Nick though? He loves his cars. Has a full garage of them. A collector, an enthusiast, and you love that about him. One of the many things. Love that you can learn something new about something he’s clearly passionate about. 

He’s got a love-hate relationship with your Jeep though. 

“She’s ol’reliable.” 

Nick just crinkles his nose. 

“Don’t look down on Donna like that.”

“Please do not call your jeep that.” 

You giggle, “Donna is timeless.” 

“Donna sounds like an old bitty who’s been working too long at the corner diner. She smells like grease and has menus sticking to her hands.” 

Now you laugh something bold and bright and it twitches the corners of Nick’s mouth. “Hater.” 

He pulls you into a kiss, pressing your back against the door of your Jeep. He certainly trusts it enough for that. 

Though, this is what you get for calling your Jeep ‘dependable’ and ‘reliable’, speaking too soon when she conks out on the side of the road. You attempt to restart her a few times but finally groan and give up, slipping out of the driver’s seat. You’ve put a lot of money into her but…Nick’s freaky car-sense about her is right—not ol’reliable in the least. 

Pursing your lips, you press on Nick’s name, listening to the line trill. He picks up on the third ring, “What’s wrong?” 

You purse your lips, “I can’t just call you because I miss you?” 

Nick hums, “Donna died, didn’t she.” It is not a question. 

You scoff out a sound, “You gotta make it sound so final like that?” 

He sighs but you can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks, fabric rustling in your ear as well. You picture him in bed, maybe reading, getting up to get his shoes. “Where are you?” 

You drop a pin and it doesn’t take him too long to get to your location. You hear the rumble of an engine before you see him, a sleek red car pulling up beside poor Donna. A tow truck is not far behind and you smile sweetly at your boyfriend as the door pops up and Nick steps out. 

“Hate to break it to you but I think it’s time for Donna to visit the car lot in the sky.” 

Your lips form a pout and Nick smirks out a soft laugh, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. He presses a brief kiss to your lips, turning to watch as the tow truck parks behind Donna and begins to wheel her into place. 

He stretches his arm over your shoulders, drawing you close to brush another kiss to your temple, “C’mon,” He motions towards his car, “I’m sure she’ll be well taken care of.”

“You’re probably hoping they’ll take her to a scrap lot and squish her with one of those car crushers.” 

“I would never.” 

He places his hands on your shoulders, encouraging you forward until you get inside the passenger door. He closes it behind you, slipping into the driver’s seat. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you lean back into the seat, the smell of expensive leather and his cologne comforting, despite leaving Donna behind. You rest your head back against the headrest, a small smile on your face as your eyes drink in his profile. 

“Where can we go?” You’re not in the mood to go home. 

Nick turns his head to look at you, a gentle smile, his one hand on the wheel while the other rests on your knee. “Anywhere.” 

You can’t help but smile back—you love the sound of that. 

[pascaloverx]

SHAMELESS

Summary: You are moving into the Leister mansion after tragically losing your father in a plane crash. He worked for William Leister, who immediately offered to take you in. The problem? His son, Nick Leister, who is far from pleased about having a stranger living under his roof.

Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment. The fanfic will likely contain strong language, violence, and adult content. Minors should not engage with it.

one three

TWO

You tried to explore the Leister mansion but ended up completely lost. So, you decided that going with Nick might be the better option, even if he had hinted that accompanying him would be dangerous. But really, what kind of trouble could a spoiled rich boy possibly get into?

Another challenge was figuring out what to wear. Certainly, you couldn’t just pick any outfit, but you didn’t have many elegant options. There was one dress—years ago, your father had bought it so you could accompany him to a Leister party, but you had fallen ill and couldn’t attend. Now, you had no other choice but to wear it.

The dress fit your body perfectly, though it was somewhat eye-catching. After taking a shower and getting ready, you kept an eye out for any sign that Nick was about to leave. One of the maids kindly informed you that he was heading out soon. Slipping on a pair of high heels—ones you rarely wore—you hurried down the stairs, nearly stumbling in the process. The moment you spotted Nick at the foot of the staircase, you called out his name.

He turned to you as if you were in a movie, one of those scenes where the heroine descends the stairs in slow motion toward the hero. Your face burned when you realized he was scanning your body from head to toe.

"What are you doing?" Nick asked as you carefully made your way down—not to captivate him, but because with every step, you felt like you were about to fall.

"I'm trying not to smash my face on the floor," you exclaimed, losing focus on your steps and nearly tumbling. You only avoided disaster by throwing yourself into Nick’s arms as he stepped forward to catch you.

"A desperate attempt to get my attention?" he teased, a smug smile curling on his lips.

"In reality, a desperate attempt to feel your muscles holding me tight, or perhaps just to see what it’s like to have your handsome face this close to mine," you countered provocatively, dragging your fingers over his biceps.

For a moment, your lips curled at the thought of where else you might touch him. Giving in to the temptation, you trailed your hand up to the nape of his neck, gently threading your fingers through his hair and tugging—just enough to test his reaction.

"If you keep doing that, we won’t be going anywhere tonight," he murmured, his voice low, the tension between you thick and charged.

"I can't stop, even if it feels wrong," you whispered, your gaze dropping to his lips before locking onto his with a hunger for something more.

"Wrong? Or just daring, little miss perfect?" he mused, closing the space between you, his fingers brushing over your lips as if studying your face.

"I suppose we shall find out in due time. For now, you—" you say, pointing at him before letting your hand glide down his back, slipping into his back pocket to retrieve his car keys.

Nick wets his lips slightly before tilting his head. "We’ll return to this matter later, but for now, we really need to go." With a swift motion, he plucks the keys from your grasp, then takes your hand, leading you toward the garage.

The sight of his car leaves you momentarily speechless. Sleek, polished, and undoubtedly worth more money than you could ever dream of having, it feels almost surreal. You stand frozen, unable to move.

"Did you short-circuit?" Nick teases, holding the door open for you.

"This car looks ridiculously expensive. Are you sure we can’t take something a little less… extravagant?" you ask, still hesitant to step inside.

"Trust me, this is the perfect car for where we’re going. Now get in, or do I have to carry you inside myself?"

He extends his hand toward you, and with his assistance, you step into the car. He follows swiftly, sliding into the driver’s seat with practiced ease before starting the engine. Without hesitation, he speeds off, navigating the streets with the precision of a professional racer. The way he handles the car, smooth yet reckless, leaves you stunned.

"Would you mind telling me where exactly we’re going, Fast and Furious?" you ask, your tone caught somewhere between criticism and surprise.

Nick chuckles but keeps his focus on the road. "A place for street races and some… unconventional fights. Nothing too extreme." Your eyebrows furrow as he turns into a dimly lit area, the atmosphere shifting into something almost electric.

"Should I be worried?" you ask, already sensing that trouble is imminent. Your gaze locks onto Nick's, your concern unmistakable.

"Just stay behind me. I'll protect you," he assures, finally pulling into the crowded lot and parking the car.

The place is buzzing with energy—people gathered in tight clusters, anticipation thick in the air, as if they’ve been waiting for Nick’s arrival.

"I don’t need your protection, pretty boy. I need your common sense," you retort with confidence. And it’s true. You know how to defend yourself. Your father had wanted a son, so instead, he had trained you in combat techniques and self-defense.

"If I lack common sense, you can have it for the both of us," he quips, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before stepping out of the car.

Moments later, he circles around to open your door. "Do you always treat the women you bring here this well?" you ask, convinced that he’s putting in extra effort with you. Perhaps desire is the best motivation for good manners.

"You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here," he admits as you both step into the throng of people.

The revelation catches you off guard, leaving you pleasantly surprised, but before you can respond, a man approaches and, without warning, drags Nick onto the hood of a parked car.

He punches Nick in the face and is about to land another blow when you jump onto his back, wrapping your arm tightly around his neck. You feel his breath hitch as he thrashes wildly, trying to throw you off. It’s only when Nick approaches, blood trickling down his face, that you finally release the man.

"Hey, Y/N, look at me…" Nick says, crouching in front of you as you collapse onto the ground after letting go.

"Your face is a mess," you murmur, almost feeling sorry for him as the blood continues to drip.

"Thanks for the brutal honesty," he says, running a hand over his face, watching the blood drip down.

"I need you to stay out of what's about to happen," Nick says as he pushes himself up from the ground and pulls off his shirt. His body is undeniably toned, momentarily distracting you.

"What are you going to do?" you ask, just as the man from before suddenly charges at Nick, knocking him to the ground.

The two of them trade blows while the crowd roars, chanting Nick’s name along with someone called Ronnie—who must be the guy fighting him. You consider stepping in, but a couple nearby blocks your path.

"Hey, troublemaker, hold on. If you step in now, you'll only make things worse," the guy from the couple says, holding you back.

The girl, however, interjects, "Lion, stop blaming her. Let’s be honest—Ronnie attacked Nick like a coward, she was just trying to defend him." She then turns to you. "I think it was brave of you to stand up for Nick. He usually doesn’t have girlfriends willing to risk that much for him. By the way, I’m Jenna," she introduces herself as you glance at Lion, feeling slightly calmer.

"I’ll let you go, but you can’t attack Ronnie from behind, or Nick won’t make it out of this alive," Lion warns, finally releasing you.

"But we need to put an end to this damn fight," you say, your voice edged with desperation. Through the gathered crowd, you catch glimpses of Nick and Ronnie exchanging brutal blows. Then, in a decisive moment, Ronnie knocks Nick to the ground. His expression is fierce, sending a shiver of fear through you.

"Which one of these cars belongs to Ronnie?" you ask urgently, as if your life depends on your speed.

"The flashy blue one over there," Jenna answers, despite Lion’s clear reluctance. He seems wary of whatever you’re about to do.

"What exactly are you planning, girl?" Lion questions, following you toward Ronnie’s car.

"Turning up the heat a little," you reply, pulling out your lucky lighter.

"Do either of you have any alcohol on you?" you ask, and after a brief pause, both pull out what appear to be hip flasks. You pour the alcohol over the cars, then flick open your lighter, setting the liquid ablaze.

You instruct Lion and Jenna to use your pocketknife to slash the tires of other cars nearby, making sure they remain unnoticed. Soon, the scent of smoke grows stronger, and you step back, watching as the commotion begins. Shouts erupt as people call for Ronnie. The moment he turns toward his car, you seize the opportunity, sprinting toward Nick to get him out of there.

Jenna and Lion help you lift Nick, who is conscious but badly injured. As he leans partially against you for support, he turns to you and says, "You look stunning in the role of a savior, kitten," flashing a brief smile before letting out a pained groan.

"Wow, Leister’s really smitten with her," Lion remarks to Jenna, who smacks his arm in disapproval.

"Where are your car keys?" you ask as you help ease Nick into the passenger seat.

"In my pocket," he replies, causing Lion and Jenna to chuckle. You silently pray it’s not his back pocket, but after searching through the pockets of his jacket, you realize the keys aren’t there. You glance up at him, now so close that you’re practically in his lap.

"Is it okay if I…?" you ask, locking eyes with him. Your proximity borders on dangerously intimate, his slightly parted lips tempting you. He smirks, and despite his pain, he reaches into his own pocket and hands you the keys.

Immediately, you snap back to focus and slide into the driver’s seat. There’s no time to say goodbye to Jenna or Lion—you have to get out of there before anyone catches on. You seize the moment to do something you’ve always wanted—drive a car in the middle of an escape, just like in the movies. The best part? Watching Ronnie’s crew desperately try to follow you, only to fail miserably.

[optimism-blooms]

Matthew Broome As Nick Leister | MY FAULT: LONDON (2025)

[nat111love]

MY FAULT: LONDON (2025)

[chimiye]

Do you think you're better off alone? My Fault: London (2025) Dir. Charlotte Fassler & Dani Girdwood

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

My Fault London: Nick Leister headcannons

Note: All these headcannons are mature aka SPICY HEADCANNONS ✨Mentions of drinking! Afab reader! Step-Sister reader!

Nick Leister who… doesn’t really care that other people are around. He doesn’t mind being public with you, but it’s you who gets anxious. ‘What if someone sees us?’ ‘What if someone hears us?’ He doesn’t care. He does whatever he wants because he can. At social events, while everyone’s mingling about with their drinks and fake smiles, he’s face deep into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent and drilling himself into you like no tomorrow. Backed up against a wall legs wrapped around his hips. He’s drinking up every sound you make, certain on easing your worries about getting caught while hitting that spot that has you seeing stars. He knows people will question him, ask him where he’s been and what he was doing. He wants to answer you, but he smiles and says he just needed a breath of fresh air.

Nick Leister who… waits for your mother and hid father to leave for the weekend, going on a business trip and ignoring their ‘Be careful! Be nice to each other!’ And oh is he nice, so nice because he takes his time kissing you through the kitchen, caging you against the countertop with his arms and hips, heated kiss so deep you don’t notice his hands shaking as they rest on your waist, just under the hem of your shirt. He’s so nice, letting you run your fingers through his hair, and groaning when you pull just right to make his head spin, nails raking against his scalp and he lives for it.

Nick Leister who… catches you trying on his clothes, a large shirt covering your frame. He watches from the doorway, watches you spin around in his shirt, a tie of his loosely around your neck. He grins when he realizes he likes the sight of you in his clothes more than he’d realized. He especially likes taking them off you. ‘They’re not yours, it’s only right I help you take it off. Don’t you think?’ He’ll lift the shirt off you, leaving you in a tie as he takes his time with you, showing you why you don’t go snooping (though for what it’s worth, you definitely don’t regret it after having his face between your thighs) He’ll get on his knees, looking up at you after asking where you need him most.

Nick Leister who… does whatever you ask of him. It starts with little things at first. ‘Can you pick me up from..?’ Or an occasional, ‘Can you pick up some coffee for me?’ Simple favors. Something only a good ‘house-mate’ would do. But he loves when you ask for help on other things. Like when you tip-toe into his room late at night once your parents have gone off to bed, large sleep shirt draped over you as you shyly knock on his door. He’ll let you in, buying the fake excuse that you ‘had a bad dream’ and let you stay in his bed. And he’ll help you all the same when you ask him to get you off, ripping off your panties faster than you can finish your question. He’s between your legs in an instant, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you pull him closer, grinding onto his face because his tongue is ‘oh-so-good’ and he grinds into the bed beneath him at your moans.

Nick Leister who… loves seeing you in that pretty bathing suit. Watching you run into the water, hair tied back and not a care in the world, running into the waves and letting the water roll off your skin when you call for him to join you. And he does, painfully and running as fast as he can as to avoid the questions about the growing tent in his pants. He’ll throw you under water, splash and grab you, but all he can think about is how much better you’d look when he takes it off you. And he does, finally after so many torturing hours of watching you run around in that little bikini. He’ll skip his fingers under the fabric, fingers working their way through your folds to get to where you need him most. He’ll kiss down your chest, nipping and biting at the skin like if his life depends on it, leaving little hickies and bite marks over the swell of your breast. He isn’t going to hide it. Doesn’t want too. He’ll push the fabric to the side, lowering his swim trunks just enough to get inside you, and fighting the urge to finish right then and there.

Nick leister who is just addicted to you <3