#marla singer imagines | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

strawbby-shortcake · 4 months

Text

"Welcome, what would you like?" ✰ X GN READER! ✰

[♡ Marla, Tyler, and Jack order at a cafe you work at. ♡]

✧.* Marla ✧.*

You never expected to receive any customers since it was an awfully slow day. The cafe was dimly lit with a few chairs and a table in one corner, and a broken record player in the other. You stood around fiddling with one of the bleached coffee filters until the door chimed and a sliver of sunlight creeped into the building for a split second.

A skinny, disheveled woman walked up to the counter and glanced at the menu, then you, then the menu again, and then back to you.

"Hello, what would you like?" you asked, giving her a small smile.

She took a long drag of her cigarette while looking around the cafe. You noticed that she had messy, black hair, slept-in makeup, and a silk night gown of sorts on.

"Something dark, like my soul," she said with a scratchy voice. Probably from the smoking, you guessed.

You simply nodded at the woman and grabbed a cup and a marker.

"Your name?"

"Why the hell do you need my name? It's emptier in here than it is on Paper Street at midnight," she croaked.

You stared at her, your eyebags mirroring hers, and didn't respond.

"Marla. Marla Singer."

You wrote her name on the cup in thick, black letters. Getting her order correct wouldn't be a hard task at all. You brewed a fresh cup of the strongest coffee you could find and gave it to her.

She glanced at your handwriting on the cup. "I'm not paying for this, but here," she said as she laid a torn piece of paper and two quarters on the counter. "...thanks," you responded, grabbing the items and pocketing them.

Marla hurried out of the cafe like an alley cat, not glancing back at you even once.

✰ ✰ ✰ Tyler ✰ ✰ ✰

The record player in the cafe was attempting to play a Pixies vinyl, but it was so scratched up that it sounded more like nails on a chalkboard that it did music. A few customers came and went, the usual cappuccino or grande latte.

The bell that was tied loosely onto the door handle chimed and fell with a sad clank as a tall, nicely-tanned man walked in. He didn't even bother picking up the bell. The man strolled and leaned over with one elbow resting on the countertop and the other on his waist.

Upon closer inspection, he had multiple cuts and bruises on his face and mid-section (which was clearly visible since he was wearing a crop top). Was he even wearing underwear? You didn't ask questions, because frankly, you don't get paid enough to.

He slid his red glasses to the tip of his nose and stared into your eyes. He had a faint black eye. Maybe from fighting, or falling down the stairs.

"Hello, what would you like?"

The man gave you a wide grin, but you noticed there was dried blood on his lips.

"Just your heart, gorgeous," he said with a wink.

You looked at him and furrowed your eyebrows. Who even is this guy?

"Yeah, not happening," you said.

He clicked his tongue and placed both hands on the counter, looming over you.

"You sure I can't convince you?" he whispered lowly.

He leaned in and parted his lips, causing you to place a muffin into his mouth. He jolted in surprise and looked bewildered.

The man scoffed and made his way out of the cafe. He took the muffin with him though. He threw a card onto the floor and kicked the door open with his foot.

After he was no longer in sight, you went over and picked the card off the floor. It was a business card that said: "Paper Street Soap Co. All Natural. Handmade. (288) 555-0153. Tyler Durden. 537 Paper Street • Bradford • 19808."

"Tyler Durden." Interesting.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ Jack (The Narrator) ੈ✩‧₊˚

A man dressed in a suit and black shades has been sitting in the cafe for the whole afternoon. Not once has he gotten up to order anything. He just sits there reading his newspaper, sometimes dozing off for a few minutes, or mumbling about some club.

You decide to walk up to him and make small talk, or at least offer him a coffee. There was no one else here, so you didn't see the harm in letting him stay a little longer.

"Hello," you said as you stood in front of the table he was sitting at.

The man looked up at you, acknowledged your presence with a "hmm," and went back to reading his paper.

"Do you want any coffee or anything? What would you like?" you tried again.

The man placed his newspaper on the table firmly and stared at you menacingly. He had dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept for days, some light stubble, and a mole on the bottom of his right cheek.

You stepped back from the table and shrugged.

"Oh well, I tried," you sighed.

The man got up and left his newspaper behind. He left the cafe with a low "see you."

You grabbed the newspaper and noticed a "HELLO my name is: JACK" label that was stuck onto one of the pages. You kept the newspaper in case he ever came back again.

[END]

#fight club #fight club 1999 #narrator fight club #marla singer #tyler durden #fight club fanfic #imagine #drabble #meme #fight club x reader #tyler durden x reader #narrator x reader #marla x reader

62 notes · View notes

pigeonpalacade · 1 month

Text

Homestuck day... I couldn't resist a crossover

#happy homestuck to those who celebrate #i cant imagine theres that big of an overlap bewteen these fandoms but yknow... for the three people who can appreciate #blood castes were picked off of ednort brad and helenas star signs #no matter how much tyler screams cerulean blood to me #fight club #fight club fanart #soapshipping #the narrator #tyler durden #marla singer #homestuck #homestuck fanart #413 #happy 413 #my art

32 notes · View notes

jacksprostate · 3 months

Note

f Narrator wanting to murder maim mutilate m marla.. or marla/ male marla and narrator/f narrator worsties/besties. or marla/male marla and tyler… or anything with marla/ male marla..

Marlon called me, interrupted me at work, and he said he had a bruise. He said I needed to come and look at it right away, because he needed to know.

This was him, asking me, pounded flank steak, to look and tell him the nature of his bruise.

Marlon hasn't had health insurance in years, so he tries not to think about it, usually. It's easy, since there's no difference when you have health insurance. It's old hat.

But today, he thought about it.

And he noticed a bruise.

So I'm walking up to the Regent hotel after work, and he's in the lobby in his limp little tank top. He'd call it a wifebeater and imagine himself in place of the wife, I'm sure. I wonder if he isn't cold all the time. Mr. Marlon Singer, such a masochist just so he can show off his skeletal body with all the cigarette burns I have to hear him and Tyler laughing over.

I am Jane's abnormal hemorrhoid development.

He doesn't mention what Tyler and I stole from him, even though I think it was all the cash he had. Even though just three days ago he tried to chase me around the house and beat me with a broom. He made me and Tyler go sleep in the junkyard. Buried under our furs, howling at the moon. Maybe I can't fault him for that.

He couldn't keep it here where the guys he brings back could get at it, he said, and sure. But he should've known better than to tell Tyler about it, because now it's bags upon bags of lye being kept in the driest room in the house.

I work on grinding cracks into my remaining teeth as he grabs his neighbors Agatha and Dianne's Meals on Wheels kits. The delivery lady remarks on what a good young man Marlon must be, helping out these old ladies. Oh, yeah. A real, upstanding, mummified rat of a man. Maybe he helped them into the ditch. He yaps at me the entire walk up to his room, and I don't hear a word as I methodically rip up the skin around Tyler's kiss on my hand with a broken nail. It's been infected since Tuesday, and the ring of puffy red flesh makes the ghost of her lips white like the center of a neon tube. Always buzzing.

We get to his room, he says to me, "One of these boxes is for you, you know."

I think about all the women who bother to use what little time they have to operate charities that keep the poor and destitute alive enough to want to kill themselves. All that time spent cooking mac and cheese en masse and putting little packets of powdered milk next to little cartons of the liquid, like they get at schools and prisons, packets that can only be opened by the nimble fingers of caring relatives these elderly recipients do not have.

Sure.

Tyler told me I need to be eating at least two meals a day, or she'd steal a blender and make me drink raw chicken. So I eat the Meals on Wheels box. Sorry Agatha. I rip open the powdered milk packet, dump it into the carton, hold it closed, and shake it. Twice the calories. A recipe for palliative care.

Marlon's sitting there, quiet, eating Dianne's latest last meal. All the urgency is gone. Sucked dry. He's got pallor like a hospice heart failure. When dogs get treated for heartworms, the worms die, and sometimes, not all of them break apart. Sometimes, there will be thin, dead cords of necrotized nematode strung through their heart waiting for the right beat to fall apart and clot a vital artery. This can take years to happen. Your pet recovers perfectly from treatment until seven years down the line, you give it a doggy cupcake and a pulmonary embolism for its tenth birthday.

Marlon looks like he's had his first melarsomine injection and his owner is thinking about taking him to a dog park instead of bothering with the second. If you let a dog get its heart rate up too high when getting treated for all the parasites you let grow in it, its heart will explode. Or all the worms will clog its lungs. Whichever one it is, it's happening to Marlon here in this room. On this bed.

He says he'd found a bruise, a while back. A nasty little thing, like the crush of a plum under your thumb. Near one of his ankles. And Marlon Singer knew he couldn't afford any novel treatments, and he'd seen too many people rot from the inside out from them already. He did not go to the clinic down the street that gets its windows broken in often enough that there's just big black billowing sails of trashbags over their storefront more often than not. Marlon says he once saw a rat nailed to the door, which is something you'd think would be too neat and poetic for real life. He didn't go to the clinic because he didn't have to. And maybe if he was fucking guys he wanted to he would be a bit more cautious, but the men Marlon Singer gets to fuck are the type to have given him those bruises in the first place. They're the reason there's single mothers visiting that clinic, like half melted wax getting scraped out of the picture. He says he shouldn't feel guilty.

I tell Marlon about where I got the idea for poisoning all the food at the Pressman hotel.

He asks me what I mean by that, and I tell him about my first boss at the company I work for now.

When I first started there, I was selling our cars to companies. Bulk orders for work vehicles. My job was to not fuck up any contracts we already had. Marlon is probably aware, but the type of man involved in that sort of thing, he knows he's got you on a collar and chain. You and him both know he'll be renewing the contract, but you have to do the song and dance for him. Pretend you like how close he gets to you. Pretend you don't want to rip his testicles from his ballsack when he leans in sweaty and tells you how he likes your hair, did you go and do all that just for me?

Because he knows. And you know. But enduring this is what you were hired to do. If you were a man, you would've been hired to create a sense of the old boys club with this guy. But you're not.

There is so much pretense in the world.

Anyway, my first boss, call him Joe — whenever I'd return from those trips and dinners, Joe wouldn't pretend that it wasn't a shit job. He'd commiserate and wish me luck with the next one. He didn't overstep, he wasn't creepy, he kept his distance. The best you could hope for. Thirty days on the job, they asked me how I was doing, and I told them I was doing great. The job was amazing, I felt embraced by the company, my boss was great. One of those things was true to me.

And when Joe got his promotion, for being such a great regional manager, he cornered me in my cubicle and informed me he'd been jerking off into my nicely labeled thin salad lunches each time they showed up in the office fridge. He told me this with the same smile he'd always worn.

Marlon, he's next to me, and he leans closer like we're having a nice little confession. My skin itches.

It was before the 90 day clause kicked in my health coverage, so I had to wait at one of those free clinics like Marlon's, and I was surrounded by a lot of young men, wispy mangled pears. What little flesh was left was soft. When I told the nurse what happened, I watched myself die in her eyes. Dappling up with rashes and bruises until I was all painted and sunken like a bog body.

For the longest time, I wondered if I'd become the oral Mary. How many times I vomited in that office toilet, I don't know. I stopped bringing lunch.

The thing is, I couldn't see it in his face. Joe's, I mean. Not even when he told me. I couldn't see it in anyone. So I stopped eating out. Stopped eating altogether, really.

Marlon, his response was to go to the support groups. His tragedy was that it was a slow death, coming for him. Best to wriggle into the pile of dying bodies, see what it's like. Maybe that could muster enough suicidal impulse.

I tell Marlon, of course, I couldn't go to HR. I was a new hire with no evidence and previous record of liking my boss. I didn't want to tell my mom. I didn't want her to know. Those uncomfortable dinners became absolutely, wretchedly unbearable as I thought about the food I was being forced to share.

When the option came up for a dead end job in the least loved department in the building, I put on the best performance of my life to get the part. Best aspiring Compliance and Liability head and sole department employee, that's me. My new job was to keep secrets. It was, already, old hat.

For months I thought about waking up from a narcoleptic fit at my desk, with Joe leaning over the cubicle wall and asking if I was alright. I watched my stomach like it was nuclear. Every extra second it took until I bled like usual slid me closer to buying myself a shotgun and pumping a slug or two into my brain.

It's an unavoidable fear, I tell Marlon. You can't do anything about it. Once you know, you know. At some point, you have to find the peace in it. Imagine yourself, a balloon popping with meaty chunks flying apart, splattering onlookers and raining viscera.

For a month, six months, I had cancer. Worse than cancer. Every time I eat out, I get it again.

Marlon is looking at me, melting stained glass, drowning in that sort of shared pity you build together with someone who's dying.

I don't want Marlon to feel guilty.

I tell Marlon, that's why I poison the food at the Pressman hotel. Someone's got to do it. Blood in the tomato sauce, spit on the steak. Imagine what you could do to a soup. The men who go to the Pressman hotel, they're the kind that leave Marlon bloody and walking around Paper Street calling for Tyler to come out and burn more holes into him. They're the kind that get promoted from regional manager. They're the kind that lean in close, pull your wrist towards them, and say there's one way they know you could secure the contract renewal. The kind that almost ruin it in a temper tantrum when you don't, resulting in an upper management intervention on the 24th day of your new job. They're the kind that hear that shit and say you should've been more appeasing. More polite.

Don't feel guilty, Marlon.

I hope all of them rot so everyone can see the maggots eating their insides.

Marlon isn't smiling. I am unavoidably bad at distracting him. There's something final in it, when he sighs, and takes off his tank top. He says it's on his back, and I should just tell him.

I look. I see it. Black hole, botfly, necrosis. There's so many things these broken blood vessels could be. Withering, snapping apart like mummified heartworms. I imagine driving the two inch melarsomine needle deep into the muscles bunched upon his spine.

I look.

I press my hands into him, and I grip like I'm trying to rend my fingers through his skin, deep into his body cavity to rip out his guts. Like I'm trying to grab the rope of his small intestine and strangle him with it. Marlon's yelling at me and trying to hit me, arms flapping like a chicken, and I am bruising ten deep circles into the soft pearskin of his abdomen. It's the only place left on him that's mealy, that isn't frayed rope under worn out leather.

I tell him, you've got bruises. They look mostly normal, to me.

Don't worry too much about it.

And Marlon, he leans into me, and I let him.

#asks #fight club #female fight club au #my writing #obv directly in parallel to the book chapter #this has been sort of floating in my head #in the book its probably the most caring moment the narrator has for marla #and i think that is the same here actually #its just female narrator off the charts detestes marlon more in the first place. puts all her sense of sympathy and shared solidarity into #Tyler. but. yeah #anyway made marlon's life absolutely miserable #and the narrators #i actually went back and forth on that #i dont want to... necessarily... give her Solid Reasons in a way male narrator doesnt have #but its sort of inescapable that fucked up misogynistic shit would happen #and i was thinking how to resolves the food contamination question in my head #hard to explain #inherently more horrible shit will happen to her than male narrator #but not excessively and i want it to feed into the same issues. in this case her complete subjugation in the office and inability to freely #reject the horrific shit shes forced to play along with #resulting in her doing the same to the fat cats rolling by #anyway #she does care about marlon #its complicated

38 notes · View notes

manderin7765032 · 2 months

Text

CUSTER

TYLER DURDEN

Tyler loved hardcore sex. The type where it could be categorised as abuse, or torture. Being suffocated and struggling to breathe while having his dick sucked was Heaven to him. His favourite type of blowjob was sloppy, messy and having his balls fondled. It would have him whining and moaning for his release like he was a virgin.

"You fucking whore, you like sucking my dick don't you"

Indeed he liked being at another persons complete mercy but he too enjoyed being the perpetrator of this abusive pleasure. Using a chain around their neck to make them crawl around him and beg with their pretty whore-ish mouth to be spanked and fucked like a dirty bitch. He loved watching them flinch and moan at their vulnerable parts being whipped and slapped by his cruel desires. Wanting to see them cry from his torturous sex from pulling their hair back to view their dirty face smiling from the pleasure.

"Please slap my face Tyler, I need you so bad"

Tyler loved big tits. How they bounced and slapped against his body when they would ride him. God when they would ride his cock. Feeling their heat squeeze around his throbbing cock would make him so weak and close to impregnating them. He wanted to make them his so badly, ruin them so they were attached and reliant on Tyler, and Tyler only.

"God, you love it when I pinch your nipples don't you, you dirty bitch"

Though he liked making them perform for his imaginary friend. Swaying their fucking insatiable curves for him, even though she had no idea that she was indeed having another man watching her every move and instructing Tyler how he wants to fuck her because the imaginary ego could only stroke his cock at the sight of her. He could ironically only imagine of thrusting his cock into her tight asshole and reaching his arm around to put her in a chock hold with his other hand holding her hips down to get the most pleasure out of the whore. That's what the bitch deserved.

"Pull her hair back for me, she has such a fuck-able face doesn't she?"

Even on a Saturday in Lou's Basement when he was slick with sweat and panting from a fight. He loved seeing their face scrunched up around his cock while he fucked their face against a pillar. They similarly loved seeing Tyler with a bloody face thrusting his cock into their sloppy mouth to give him pleasure. Their knees becoming bloody from the dusty gravel floor and moaning from the dangerous mixture of pain and pleasure.

So this was a dream I had about Tyler Durden (the narrator) that I decided could not go unshared. I tried to use they/them terms but half way through you can see I gave up. The person I am describing is not Marla Singer. This is not really meant to be related to a part of the movie but rather the characters only that are still in a sorta fight club.

I hope you filthy bitches enjoyed <3

#Tyler Durden #Fight club #the narrator #the narrator fight club #Edward Norton #brad pitt #david fincher #god I am in love #dream journal

7 notes · View notes

queenpiranhadon · 5 months

Note

OKAY I KNOW I JUST SENT AN ASK BUT

In a modern AU, what kind of jobs do you think the main eight from HCH would have? Like I know the royal trio and Lucas and Luna might have rich backgrounds but if they wanna make their own money so that they don't have to rely on their family's money???

Oooh okay I like this hehe.

I think Saph would be an artist, I can just imagine her in a giant studio where she can do crazy- either that or a comic illustrator.

August I think would be a law school student who works at a bookstore in his free time and he loves it!!

Percy would be a karate teacher, hands down or a Boy Scouts instructor, I feel like he’d love kids and they would actually learn useful things from him.

Odette would be maybe like a park ranger or like a culinary student with a pet snake at home.

Marla would be a preschool teacher or a guidance counselor idk why it just suits her 😭

Lucas as stated before is a really good singer- I see him being a small but big celebrity- like he becomes really famous after a hit song, a lot like JVKE if you think about it. I do also believe he would go to college- not sure what he would do though.

Luna would probably be like a scientist or a makeup artist lmaooo. Like she would totally be completely happy mixing chemicals in a lab and discover new things- but I can just imagine like a movie gets the Oscar for makeup and costumes and it would all be because of Luna due to her amazing *cough* transformation *cough* skills

Personnally, I think Nic would be a law student too, because he’s driven so much by his moral compass that he wants to create a change in the world. He probably works as a McDonald’s employee on the side 💀

This was fun :DD

12 notes · View notes

4dmc · 1 year

Text

Sucker Punch was the feminine equal to Fight Club's masculine

They're not similar, I even think Sucker Punch takes inspiration from Fight Club as the older film by a decade.

They are both psychological, thematically about fighting the system through their perspectives, and speaking of, both have supposed unreliable narrators or are structured to tell us a sort of flashback. But the flashback story isn't quite as straightforward.

They're both from the weary, exhausted and common, perhaps invisible, voices.

Fight Club may have "Tyler Durden" who is an upper-middleclass man, but he's not particularly significant in his job. The club he establishes invites common men, some may have been white collar, but mostly of blue collar jobs. They want to escape, as escape rather, and violence was there means of that.

Sucker Punch is much crueler. The asylum houses mentally-disturbed women, their backgrounds unimportant. The Brothel World leaves a very important subtext of what is being done to the women in the asylum. Their only escape is literally and figuratively their wits, their imagination.

Both definitely delve into how their psychosis copes and helps them adapt with their problems, but their problems aren't the same.

Fight Club deals with a transgressive thought of how men are both restricted and neglected with their expected tasks, norms, roles, etc. They are not to sway away from this path, which is disheartening for those who want and need financial and social mobility. The story showcases so many men who need help, but the therapy groups feel lacking. It's as if the society that has given them so much may not be what could complete them all along. And yet there lingers a "Tyler Durden", who opposes these expectations, especially as it's seen as a way that it was handed to them, not really earned. But "Tyler Durden" is destructive in his ways, especially to himself. He had given to his urges and was going to bring a lot of people with him down. The ending has him accept the consequences and even accept "Marla Singer" herself, instead. He wanted freedom from being just another revenant common man passing by, who's mental illness and perhaps implied physical illness, a cancer maybe, was neglected. He finally frees himself by "killing" that part of him that wasn't going to help him.

Sucker Punch deals to us a meta-narrative of women, in real life and in fictional media. The actual events of what happened is unimportant, though lore theorists are welcome to try. The significance of the events that had been "presented", as it opens with a theater curtain being pulled apart, to us are all metaphor, implied, subtext, to create a more cinematic show to present a grim reality of how some suffering is invisible to the public. And even more so how the most important type of strength is also invisible. There's a dichotomy of a battle of wits and quiet, versus the cinematic "imagination" of how a battle is supposed to be presented to us. It's not important if "Babydoll" did exist through Sweet Pea's survivor's account, but her conclusion tells us there's lots of "Babydolls" out there in real life fighting for their lives, even if nobody will ever know. And knowing that, their fight is worthy after all.

#fight club #sucker punch #film analysis #there's so much to say #PLUS both have the soundtrack Where Is My Mind and Emily Browning sang it as a cover for Sucker Punch

40 notes · View notes

kitwalker02 · 1 year

Text

In Tyler We Trust

A/N: This is a little Fight Club thingy I wrote and posted on ao3 but wanted to share here also! Enjoy! There’s really no warnings other than mentions of suicide and stuff.

Six months later… and I couldn't sleep.

I couldn't sleep.

No one was asking me if I knew Tyler Durden. Why Tyler’s not here. For all they knew, he had a mental breakdown and retreated back into his repetitive, copy of a copy of a copy, perfect little Ikea world. A safe and secure job behind a computer and hidden away from the world within the blank walls of a cubicle.

Six pairs of black pants. Six perfectly ironed white dress shirts.

At the very least, Tyler Durden could have ended up in an asylum. Wrapped up in a straitjacket. Going crazy looking at the same four white walls day in and day out until he finally loses the last of that weak, pointless grip on reality, or maybe he gets lobotomized like in the movies, or simply takes one too many Xanax and goes out Marla Singer-style… even getting his balls cut off back at the police station would have been a better ending than the one he got.

Instead, Tyler Durden was a button-down, oxford cloth Ikea boy.

He lay in bed with his tumor, Marla Singer, who now had a tumor of her own, one they'd name within the next few months. It could be Tyler, reincarnated from one too many drug-induced, erotic nights, or another Marla. Now, that would be just perfect.

At least there's still the option of getting my penis cut off.

Underground fight clubs and rubbing one off to a bowl of clam chowder were things of the past. Tyler Durden is just an idea now.

The ankle Tyler broke, had long since healed. The gash in my cheek closed up. It would never be gone entirely, but the doctors said it was healing nicely. Every bruise and scar I got from fight club faded and paled, but the chemical burn on my hand remained.

The scar was as prominent and brutal as the night I got it. The lye kiss. Tyler's kiss.

I swear it still burned every time I washed my hands, but then again, I tend to have a pretty active imagination.

After all the destruction, chaos, and pain… why did I miss Tyler Durden? I was perfectly happy in my monotonous, predictable life, wasn’t I? Every day was the same. Wake up, go to work, cry at my support groups, and go to sleep.

But I couldn't sleep.

Because I missed Tyler Durden.

I dreamt about Tyler Durden. He was mad at me. Pissed that I killed him. He said it was my own fault that my life was miserable again. I had a chance to accomplish something, become something, and I blew it all up. Then he'd hit me. Hard. Like the night we met. I'd wake up to Marla above me, shaking me back to consciousness; the following day, my face would have a new bruise.

But then Marla left.

My tumor was removed. My cancer cured. She said all my thrashing around at night made me dangerous to the baby. Our baby. She was scared I was going to lash out. Apparently, I had been becoming violent.

"Go get that fucking abortion like you wanted, Marla."

A bit winded, but that was the last thing I ever said to her.

Now I was alone. I couldn't cry. I couldn't sleep.

That night, when I wasn’t really awake and I wasn’t really asleep, it was just me and Tyler; no one else existed in my unconscious consciousness. Not Marla Singer. Not a tumor on a tumor. But best of all, not a Fight Club around. Just empty parking lots and back doors to bars. No, it was just me and Tyler now, as it used to be. The way it was supposed to be.

Tonight, we were in the rickety old bathroom in the house on Paper Street. The same bathroom where we talked about our fathers…or father. About the great fights we had and will have. The bathroom was filled with so much desire to be different, to fight against the enslavement we call society. And now I was lying fully clothed in a tub filled with murky water. My white button-down was soaked through, my suit jacket weighed me down and Tyler Durden crouched beside me, pressing a sharpened pocket knife into my hands.

"This is freedom. Losing all hope is freedom."

My words coming out of Tyler's mouth. How the tables turn. "This world doesn't need you anymore." His fingers brushed over my burn, over his permanent kiss.

I nodded my head to his words. In Tyler we trusted. "Forget what you think you know about life, about death and especially what you think it means to hit bottom." My whole life was one big letdown. I could only hope death would give my pathetic existence some sort of meaning. And if that meant finally hitting bottom the way Tyler saw fit, then so be it.

"I want you to do me a favor."

Anything for you, Tyler, anything. Just don't let me wake up again. I don’t want you to go.

He tapped his fingers against my fist. The one that held the knife. Our knife.

You want me to slit my wrists. Don't you?

"Wrists are for pussies."

Of course Tyler would think that.

"I want you to slit your throat."

Now how does one go about slitting their own throat?

What did you say? It’s not that I was questioning him; I was just scared that if he stopped talking, I would be shaken awake again, Tyler Durden turning into Marla Singer. Me and Marla alone in our dark room, her lies reflecting my lies. We weren't happy. We were never happy. Not alone and definitely not together.

But she was gone, and by tomorrow morning, so would I.

"Listen to me. This is the sacrifice. Your whole life is fucked. You need to wipe the slate clean. Start over, man."

I wouldn't be waking up this time, would I?

Tyler Durden smiled. When Tyler Durden smiled, the rest of the world got its volume turned down.

Everything else was so far away. Bruises fade, and people go, but not Tyler Durden. He is the only sure thing in this entire fucked up world. I know that now. My eyes are open.

"Have I ever let us down?"

I couldn't argue with that. Not again, never again.

“Everything's going to be fine.”

I met Tyler Durden at a very strange time in my life.

"Hey. It's you and me."

Who I was with Tyler Durden is not who I was with the rest of the world.

And in Tyler I trusted.

#tyler durden #naarrator #tyler durden x narrator #fight club

42 notes · View notes

clawdiia · 4 months

Note

fuck marry kill (imagine they are all separate entities, or not i don’t care) : tyler durden, the narrator, marla singer

FUCK TYLE,R MARRY NAREATOR KILL MARLA

#LOVELY ASK #i dont hate women btw. i didnt mean it for real. im sorry marla. 1000 Knive #asks

2 notes · View notes

esouliie · 2 months

Note

have you watched fight club? because I really have this idea in my head a Wanda x reader fic, but unfortunately I am not talented enough to write it...just imagine...

The Narrator is Wanda, Marla Singer is the Reader and, Tyler Durden is the Scarlet Witch.....also the Narrator in the movie had done some things that is so(kinda?) Wanda coded... Also the ending of the movie is Wanda and Reader coded....

'where is my mind' by the Pixies could literally be Wanda's theme song....

naurr i’ve not seen fight club unfortunately :(( but omg i’ve listened to where is my mind and yes that so could be her theme song!

#anon msg!💌

1 note · View note

carters-coffee · 4 years

Text

Imagine Marla staying at a nice house for the first time

Word Count: 325

"Is this supposed to be your coffee maker?" Marla asked, curiously poking at the machine. It beeped a few times and she jerked her hand back.

"Uh, yea." You answered distractedly. You were busy at the stove making breakfast.

"It looks like something out of a damn sci-fi movie." She started to light a cigarette, but you quickly plucked it out of her mouth.

"Not inside." You lightly scolded.

She cocked her eyebrow at you, then turned to look around the kitchen. "Yea, I suppose it'd be a shame to stink up a place like this."

'A place like this' happened to be your house. You had brought her here last night after finding her on the side of the street, rambling about how she had been evicted from her apartment. She had clearly taken something, maybe one too many prescription meds,and you practically had to drag her to your place. By the time you got through the door, she had all but fallen asleep on your shoulder. You had ran a cold bath for her and sat with her in bed until morning, so she was only just now really seeing what your house looked like. She almost reminded you of a child, roaming around and fidgeting with things here and there. Looking in your fridge. Tracing her fingers along the counter.

"I haven't stepped foot in a house this nice in a long time."

You glanced over at her, unruly hair and thrifted dress slung over her frail figure. She looked out of place in your sleek and shiny kitchen.

"Well you're welcome to stay here as long as you like." You offered, placing a plate of food on the table.

She paused her fiddling and looked over at you in surprise. "Stay here?"

"Yea. At least until you get on your feet again." You nodded towards the plate, indicating that it was for her. She took a seat.

"Thank you."

****

For anon

#sorry if this isn't exactly what you asked for #i hope you like it tho #marla singer #x reader #imagine #fight club #helena bonham carter

101 notes · View notes

headofhelios · 3 years

Text

theres something so funny to me abt referring to a character just by their actor's name

#like yes i have done this before but i still think its funny #posts brought to you by me seeing a reddit thread titled 'marla singer is another figment of edward nortons imagination'#personal #also my tablet is working again *does a little dance* im making something dumb

4 notes · View notes

deusluxuria · 3 years

Note

headcanon(s) you haven't shared before & were waiting for a opportunity to (im the opportunity)

OH SHIT

yeah so here are some random small ones

Risotto's cover-up/daylighting job is that he's a mortician/funeral director at a death-positive co-op. So he sets up viewings, funerals, burials, etc., according to what the deceased wanted or what the next-of-kin wants ethically and culturally.

Narancia is non-binary and their pronouns are they/them.

Kakyoin has epilepsy.

Kakyoin plays the piano and is pretty damn good at it. Can play two of them at once. While singing. He writes a lot of strange songs that make absolutely no sense to anyone else, but he also writes a lot of honest, painful things that could bring relief to people who stay quiet about their pain.

Johnny is also a pianist and a singer. He had so much free time during his 2-year hiatus from horseracing, that music was just about all he did. Music was a safe place for him while he was struggling emotionally. He has a startling, unexpectedly beautiful singing voice. (Gyro cried the first time he heard him lol)

Jolyne's favorite bands are Mommy Long Legs and Babes in Toyland. Her music taste has influence from Jotaro, who listens to a lot of classic punk.

N'Doul has a cold, biting, sarcastic, snarky personality. Dio is one of the only people who can stand him. (I imagine him being a lot like Marla Singer from Fight Club).

Abbacchio's favorite band is Skinny Puppy.

Dio's is Ministry.

Pucci dislikes many things about the Catholic church, and has a different approach to Christianity than maybe the average person does. He's extremely open-minded and non-judgemental. Which actually makes him an ideal prison chaplain.

Mista is mixed race + ethnicity; black, latino, white. "Mista" is also a nickname and not his real surname.

Squalo was in the military for 2 years before joining Passione. Much like Abbacchio, he made a horrible mistake and caused deaths, leading him to the criminal underworld.

Tiziano never went to any sort of school. He and his mother were always moving, sometimes living in hotels, and he was usually left by himself. He saw his mother very sporadically, sometimes not for several days in a row. He pretty much raised himself, becoming independant and self-sufficient by age twelve, for his own survival. He learned how to read and write in his teen years.

75 notes · View notes

jacksprostate · 2 months

Text

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The five days Tyler's stolen my voice from me, I spend watching. The commons, group therapy. I visit my cave with my eyes open. Mills should get used to the cold. I've heard if it drops below 50 while your respiration is this depressed, you go to sleep and never wake up.

Valley of the Dogs.

An orderly with fresh bruises peppering his temple lets me take my walk in the same time Mills is carted around. This is how I must've looked for months. Glazed. Drooling. At this point they probably have to use elephant tranquilizers on me, the tolerance I've built.

God, his petty ass, we meet up for one on one and he says he has to give me some bad news.

No, it's not about Mills.

Tyler, whatever.

He is giving me the bad news, of the passing of one Marla Singer. Everyone seems to think this is bad news. Found dead in her apartment because she didn't pick up any Meals on Wheels for her neighbors for three weeks, and they worried about those little old ladies, up there all starving alone since their angel in black stopped showing up.

Her corpse was found, instead. I imagine it all waxy, tits rotted off just like she said, at some point you're so sick even the bacteria in your gut won't bother decomposing you. I imagine Marla's skin pulling back, fleeing, away from her eyes, her teeth, like a mummy. Dried out as all her collagen rots.

Paper clutched in her hand. A will, sort of hasty and half-assed.

Marla's many worldly possessions all fit on a hotel notepad.

Many other worthless things go to a small number of worthless people Marla has mentioned leaving behind in her life, and god says, Marla Singer has left me something.

That's the entire reason I get to know all of this.

If not, I would've never known.

The world could blow up, and you'd never know in here unless it was in someone's will to tell you.

Marla Singer left me her dildo.

Oh, Marla.

Addressed me in the will half the time as Tyler.

I wonder, did the cancer spread from her tits to her brain, like the cancer I didn't have. It's everywhere now. God says they're working out treatment. I wonder if it matters.

Without Tyler between us, I don't really know what connected me and Marla.

What kept her calling.

I liked her. Another psycho boyfriend in her stories. There will never be another, unless she's gone to Heaven, the real one, and they've got some sort of exchange program going on for her to have fun with.

I think Marla might deserve that. She deserved better than this.

I wonder if it was pills. There was no Tyler to save her, this time. No one to listen to her death rattle. I don't have the voice to ask.

I won't be getting her dildo, because you don't get possessions in a psych ward. It'll get dumped in some other landfill to persist for time immemorial with all the other plastic iconography of our stupid, stupid lives.

Released back out to pasture, I watch Mills. His wife was murdered. Murdered, you see, it's an action, and it's solvable. Mills solved it.

You can't solve the slow death. Not really.

I think about how empty Mills is.

Am I empty?

An unidentifiable amount of time ago, Marla called me again, and she told me all about what happens at the new support groups she goes to, since I ruined the old ones for her. They were willing to rally behind her for the whole blowing my brains out show, and she only would've had to wait them out for six months or so, but she decided to just find new ones. A new church, with new temptations like Living With Angels, a group for those caring for severe dementia patients, and Recovery Road: a program for those trying to rebuild their lives after a loved one blew them up. She said, when I got out, we could both go to that one, and I could talk about Tyler, and she could talk about me, and we could have fun getting kicked out together.

Marla was always talking about that. When I got out.

I wasn't ever hearing any of it.

Mills, they've let up on him, finally, you can see his eyeballs aren't floating with all they've juiced him up on. He's watching me, back.

I wonder if he knows about Marla.

Would Tyler care?

Tyler had said, don't call this love.

Does it need to be?

When I get my voice back, I bury my thoughts on the subject and Marla and everything in a relentless campaign to needle Mills until he looks like a voodoo doll in a shitty tourist trap.

#fight club #my writing #se7en (1995)#se7en #something smth destabilizing parallel event #i always think abt how marlas time is limited. another thing i hate abt chucks sequels. they do what the movie does and just ignore her own #shit??#anyway the narrator doesn't know how to handle this because his little rat ass could barely handle how he felt about marla on a good day #if this seems like it came out of the blue. i alluded to it earlier haha #this is like 3k now and i have 2k notes... oopsie

33 notes · View notes