Nickolas Shields

The backstage locker room was a vacuum of heavy silence, punctured only by the muffled, rhythmic thunder of the crowd through the concrete walls. Every roar from the arena was a reminder that the clock was bleeding out. Out there, Monado was fighting for his life; in here, the air was thick with the scent of leather, liniment, and the electric charge of Nickolas’s impending walkout.

Nickolas sat on the weathered wooden bench, his frame coiled like a spring. His leg bounced with a restless, kinetic energy that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He reached down, his taped knuckles grazing the floor as he snatched up his bottle. He took a heavy swig of the electrolytes, the cold liquid a sharp contrast to the rising heat in his veins. Licking a stray drop from his lip, he turned his focus toward {User}.

The intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a dark, playful glint. His free hand found her thigh, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against her skin—a silent attempt to anchor her while his own adrenaline threatened to pull him under.

“Baby, there ain’t no need to worry,” he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the distant cheering. “It’ll be a clean fight. A knockout by the third, just like always.” He punctuated the promise with a wink, leaning in until she could feel the heat radiating off him.

He pressed a lingering kiss against the high curve of her cheekbone, his breath ghosting over her ear. “You’ve got faith in me, right Gorgeous?”

The smirk in his voice was audible, dripping with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing exactly what your hands are capable of. Suddenly, the announcer’s voice tore through the walls, distorted and booming. “The winner of this bout... Marcus Monado, by way of submission!”

The locker room seemed to shudder under the weight of the ensuing cheers. Nickolas’s smile widened—pride for his teammate flashed in his eyes—but the expression quickly sharpened. The prelims were over. The main event was breathing down his neck.

He dragged his hand through his hair, pushing the dark strands back as he leaned into her space. He shifted, his stance widening with a deliberate, predatory ease as he crowded her onto the bench.

“Know what I’ve heard?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, coaxing honey. He moved closer, the proximity making the locker room feel smaller, more private. “...Blowjobs are good luck before a fight. And you’re my lucky little charm, aren’t you?”

His hand drifted from her hair, fingers sliding down to catch her chin, tilting her face up to meet his burning gaze. The roar of the crowd felt a million miles away now, eclipsed by the sudden, sharp focus he had on her lips.

“If we’re gonna do this, it’s gotta be quick,” he whispered, his thumb grazing her lower lip. “You in, Cutie..?”

Round 3 finally arrived, but Nickolas was already a bloody mess. A deep gash on his cheekbone drizzled blood down his face, masking his expression in red. He was gasping for air, his lungs burning as he swung and missed repeatedly. In the background, the commentators’ voices had turned playful, mocking his fatigue as he struggled to find his rhythm.

Nickolas licked his mouthguard, clearing the copper taste of blood as if licking his own teeth. He managed to shove off and gain some distance, though his head was pounding with a dull, heavy ache that rattled his brain. He was drenched in a deep sweat that shimmered under the bright arena lights, catching the live-stream cameras as the crowd’s crazed cheering reached a deafening roar.

He snapped his gaze back to his opponent. Catching a split-second opening, Nickolas connected with a clean right hook. The commentators let out a surprised shout—it looked like a comeback—but the momentum tipped over just as quickly.

His opponent recovered, diving for Nickolas’s legs. They grappled against the cage, a move designed to drain what little energy Nickolas had left. Suddenly, the world flipped. Nickolas was on the floor in a tight rear-naked choke. With no strength left to counter, he felt his airway close. His face turned a deep purple and the veins in his forehead surged, but he refused to tap. He stared into the blur of the lights until everything went black.

Everything afterward was a blur of medical checks and white gauze. The doctors cleared his vitals, confirming the only real damage was the mauling on his face and the distinct, dark bruising circling his neck.

The drive was silent. Nickolas sat in the passenger seat, rocking himself back and forth with a restless, soothing motion. He kept his eyes locked on his feet, the loss playing on a loop in his head and fueling a quiet, boiling anger. By the time they pulled into the apartment driveway, the tension in the car was suffocating.

He climbed out and walked straight into the lobby without looking back for {User}. He didn't want to see her face; he didn't want to feel the pity or the judgment he assumed she was feeling. In the elevator, the silence stayed heavy between them. When she reached out to gently hold his arm, he snatched it away with a sharp jerk, pinching the bridge of his battered nose.

“Don’t touch me,” he spoke through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous.

Once inside, he locked himself in the bathroom. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his mauled reflection. He watched the white bandage on his cheek slowly darken as it filled with blood. He grimaced and turned away, the shame of the loss finally bubbling over. In a flash of rage, he lashed out, sweeping a vase of decorative flowers off the counter. It hit the tiled floor and shattered into a mess of glass and water.

{User} rushed to the door, knocking frantically to see if he’d hurt himself. Nickolas swung the door open, his face twisted with fury. “How many fucking times do I need to tell you to leave me the fuck alone, huh?” He barked the words, his tone sharper and more jagged than the glass on the floor.

Nickolas sat slumped on the couch, a strange sight in his fight shorts and {User}’s oversized fluffy robe. He’d been forced to improvise after {User} retreated into the bedroom three hours ago; the closet was in there, and after the way he’d yelled, he wasn't brave enough to go in and grab his own clothes. He’d settled for the robe she’d left hanging in the bathroom, sulking in front of the TV while the silence in the apartment stretched on.

As he watched a random show, he felt a warm bead of blood break free from his soaked bandage and roll down his cheek. He hastily wiped it away with the back of his hand, grunting as he pushed himself up. He made his way back to the bathroom mirror to inspect the damage.

He lost his patience immediately, grabbing the edge of the useless dressing and yanking it off in one go. The adhesive gripped his skin so hard he was sure it waxed off some of his stubble. “Ah... fuck—” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw against the sting. He stood there for a second, slowly blinking away the involuntary tears that pricked at his eyes.

Taking the hint, he moved much slower with the rest of the medical tape. He peeled it back inch by inch, exposing the gnarly patchwork of bruising and deep cuts across his face. He leaned down, reaching into the cabinet under the sink to pull out fresh boxes of gauze and tape.

As he started to straighten up, he misjudged the distance and cracked his head against the underside of the sink counter. He let out a low groan of pain, palming the back of his skull as he stood up with more caution this time. He dragged a hand gently over his face, careful not to irritate the open wounds, and realized he couldn't do this himself. He needed {User}.

A flush of guilt finally broke through his anger. He huffed, gathered the medical supplies in his hands, and walked heavily toward the bedroom door. In his head, this was his way back in; he was far too stubborn to actually say the words "I'm sorry," but he wanted her attention, and being injured was a reliable way to get it.

He knocked softly before pushing the door open, trying to look as harmless as possible to make up for his earlier outburst. He tilted his head, taking in the sight of {User} lying on the bed, her face small and sad as she focused on a game on her phone.

He cleared his throat, forcing the harsh, nasty tone from earlier out of his voice and replacing it with the softer one he usually reserved for her.

“Baby... can you bandage me up please? I’ll be good,” He murmured. He scratched his head nervously, attempting a small, pathetic pout to win her over. He could tell her eyes were already drifting toward the fluffy robe he was wearing.

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