Fight Club Aesthetic Novels & Stories

Beggar The woman like After are both built as fighters. Mercy got hips, big breast and a curvy tall body that can make any man feel lesser. After is more lean, but her stomach is ripped and her shoulders are broad, which makes up for her short form. “You were fucking screaming so loud I heard you from outside,” Venus bursts out laughing. I was witness to that day. The Satan Sniper's Club was a lot different from the few bikers I have run into a long my years in Washington DC.

Alice sighed before she stood up straight and delivered the final bullet to his head. It was almost nine when she got to Walsh Hanson’s fight club. Walsh was a stubby fellow, polite when he needed to be and always paid his dues to Don Diablo on time. He had been running this fighting ring for as long as Alice could remember, and a lot of men came in to fight for cash and a few additional strings. If some were lucky, they were offered the opportunity to join Walsh’s club if they wanted. This was the place to be on a Saturday night, if someone was interested in seeing women and men kicking the shit out of each other. Alice had heard that a skilled fighter was coming to fight one of Walsh’s box

Fight club the next. Tyler Lockwood's life? A damn rollercoaster.

“I want to see how long you can last before you’re begging me to stop making you feel so good it hurts.” The Beast. A wolf skull mask. Bleached bone and brutal honesty. His photo is nothing but forearms, thick and inked, veins popping beneath skin. His shirt is black, too tight, arms crossed like a challenge. He didn’t smile. Didn’t need to. “I don’t do soft. I take. I fuck. I leave marks. Don’t wear anything you want to keep.” I didn’t hesitate when I saw them. Didn’t ask myself if I was ready. I just hit reply.

The sharp aches flow up my arms, pulling at my nerves. “Apologize,” I order, reaching down and grabbing dickface by his collar. “For your disrespect of my mate. For going against the rules of the arena by fighting outside of the Challenges. For insulting me without provocation.” Dickface growls in response, then eats my fist as I bury it in his face. Over and over, my knuckles collide with his face, beating away skin and cracking bone. Blood gushes from his mouth, and he coughs. “What was that?”

Afgan was struggling because he was holding Adelia. “You can stop right now, or you'll regret it,” Afgan said, his face turning red. “We won't be afraid of you. You both have to pay for what you did earlier.” The man said as he held his cheek, which was still sore from the blow from Afgan earlier. “Attack!” he ordered a group of his friends, most of whom had body tattoos and studio faces. The fight scene began. Afgan took on several men with his well-trained martial arts skills. Punches and kicks were exchanged between them.

Shit. They stood there, looking at us. Like fucking goofballs with their arms crossed over their chests. They tried puffing out their muscles to look bigger, but I swear they were gangly little fucks. Rich bitch boys who didn’t have a hope or a prayer in this world of stacking on muscle. And yet, I remembered the fight clearly. All three of those gangly assholes had a mean punch to them. They had been much stronger than they looked, and I’d be a damn fool to assume these other two fuckers would be any different. “What do you want?”

It made my skin tingle all over again. I spotted another group of fighters—four strong men this time. Their bodies gleamed with oil from the morning's fights. Sweat mixed with it, running down their muscled chests and arms. One guy had a long scar across his chest, red and raised like a mark of pride from past battles. Another had dark tattoos snaking up his arms, thick lines that looked like twisting ropes. The other two were just as built, one with short blond hair matted to his head, the other with a shaved scalp that showed off his thick neck.

Blood and Lust The basement was thick with sweat, smoke, and raw testosterone. The illegal fight club was in full swing– two massive fighters circling each other in the makeshift ring while the crowd roared. I shouldn’t have been here. But the moment I saw him, Jax, shirtless, covered in sweat and bruises, stepping into the ring, something primal woke up inside me. He was lethal. Muscles rippling, tattoos snaking across his chest and arms, eyes sharp and dangerous. Our eyes locked across the room. He smirked.

“They won’t see any titties or vajayjays tonight. Black Dragon is a strip club-slash-MMA gym. They blow off steam there — with their fists, not their dicks.” “But that’s gonna change,” she adds casually. “When Jackson’s new fight ring is done. Totally underground. Very exclusive. Almost illegal. Definitely hardass. I’m helping with the design — wanna join me?” I nod. Yeah. That actually sounds … fun. Normal. Something solid to do with my hands while my heart tries to reboot. Her voice becomes a background hum as I drift into my thoughts. I messed up. Big time. But hey — there’s one thing about hitting rock bottom … you can only go up.