OH MY GOD. THIS IS SO CUTE, I'M CRYING 😭😭

Hello!!! Can you please write a Seo Moonjo fic, where he becomes possessive/obsessed with Jongwoo's gf or with a female who works with him?

Overcompensate

Absolutely lovely! Here's a bit of a drabble for you!

Pairing: Seo Moon-Jo X Reader

Warnings: mentions of gore & possessiveness, Moon-Jo shows very yandere tendencies, cannibalism allegories

Moon-jo was a simple man.

Not necessarily in theory, but in practice. He knew what it was he aspired to obtain in his lifetime and with the amount of work and dedication he put into those aspirations, it makes sense that he would achieve them. Simple.

But as to what he wanted and the lengths he would go to, stopping at nothing...that was a little more complicated.

To his surprise, he had found himself in a situation where the goal wasn't in relation to dentistry or murder. He was having a bit of an issue sorting out just exactly why the new tenant of Eden Residence was so captivating, so enthralling to him. What was it about the boy who lived next door that led Moon-Jo to believing that his existence was some sort of spiritual awakening he would have to come to discover? Why was he suddenly so fascinated in the idea of pulling back his brain and picking out all of his thoughts, consuming them in their entirety until there was nothing left of poor Jongwoo but a vessel of the human being he once was? It was Kafka-esque, a metamorphosis of his character; to watch him succumb to the ravaging animalistic qualities that Moon-Jo believed all humans to possess. It was strange and it was beautiful.

And oh, was it something Moon-Jo wanted.

So he put in the work. Day after day he spent trying to get under Jongwoo's flesh, tearing open another layer piece by piece to truly understand his newfound obsession. But with every step closer to his goal he got, the more confused he became. There was nothing he was learning that he had hoped for. Jongwoo was buckling under the weight of his neighbor's madness, yes. But he wasn't the right image of Moon-Jo's work. This frustrated him to no end.

He still remembers when everything finally clicked into place. The night had just fallen and the stars crept up in the sky, illuminating the long path to the Residence. Although the lights were dim, one could still make out the small cats darting back and forth as they played with one another in the underbrush. The air was crisp and still with no wind, a perfect temperature to end an outrageously hot summer day. Moon-Jo awaited on the rooftop with two beers, as he usually did, watching the path below for his Jongwoo to arrive back home with his furrowed expression of displeasure and overly large backpack slung over his shoulders from an excruciatingly long day at the office. He would be lucky to convince Jongwoo up to the roof where he sat and even luckier if he could manage to get him to drink his beer. He knew Jongwoo was onto him and his...stranger tendencies, but he would receive the fruits of his labor. He always did.

The beer can was cold under his grasp, the condensation slipping from his fingertips and falling beneath him as the drops pattered onto the cracked concrete. He was starting to grow slightly warm, however, he wasn't sure if it was because of the weather or the growing anticipation he felt as he awaited the boy's arrival. His eyes didn't leave the road once.

As he looked beneath him towards the winding street, he finally saw his neighbor trudging up the path, same expression on his face Moon-Jo had expected him to be wearing. But, to his surprise, walking beside the man he'd so desperately tried his best to court 24/7 was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life.

It shocked him-almost-his hand immediately dropping the beer he was holding as he lost his composure for the first time in many years. It was sudden, as though he'd been impaled by sword, piercing through his lungs and stopping his breath as his heart skipped a beat. He had never been so hungry, so devout for human meat. He didn't want to cannibalize you, no. But he so desperately wanted to consume you and your being which is almost the same thing...right? He knew what Jongwoo had meant to him now, it was almost so clear in the way it presented itself; Jongwoo was never meant to be the product of his manipulation. It had always had to have been you.

Your eyes looked up towards Eden, missing the strange man on the roof entirely. Moon-Jo found himself entranced by them, watching the way they shone under the stars and the soft light from the windows of the Residence. They were like Bosch's paintings of the divine, absolutely encapsulating the beauty of the gods. Your hair fell slightly past your shoulders and framed a face he could only assume belonged to heavens itself. Your body swayed with the movement of your feet as you followed your boyfriend's suit, duffel bag in hand.

Moon-Jo thought he had died and been met with the face of a deity.

On your end, the only thing you were thinking about was Jongwoo's warnings from earlier. Once he had moved to Seoul and started living in this dingy place, he had instantly been met with strange roommates whom he'd talk about often. You were worried about his dwindling sleep schedule and his overall safety, residing in a place like this on the outskirts of town. If something terrible were to happen here, you weren't even sure police would show up in this precinct. For Jongwoo's sake, however, you swallowed down your nervousness preparing to have that conversation with him later.

Collecting himself, Moon-Jo practically sprinted towards the stairs and made his way down to Mrs. Eom's desk, leaning against the dilapidated building's walls, forcing himself to contain the sparks flying through his veins. He had to keep himself together, make the most impeccable first impression and swoon you over, whoever you might be. He needed you to like him, to trust him. If he ruined his image right off the bat by voicing his true inner monologue, it would be so much harder to mold you to his image and sway you into his grasp.

"Jongwoo, are you sure this is something you want to do? We could always sleep at my place if you're as uncomfortable by this place as you say." You said, closing the heavy door behind you and setting down your duffel bag for a moment to regain your breath.

Jongwoo shrugged and picked up your things containing all your overnight clothes and whatever else you'd brought to work that day. He had just simple given you a "yeah, this is fine" before turning around to be met face-to-face with the one person he didn't want to see or have the imposition of introducing to his girlfriend at all. He had hoped he might be able to sneak you past and into his room before anyone even noticed he was there; as he usually did. He'd presumed Moon-Jo to be on the roof for his nightly drink, whenever he stayed at the residence and not in his own apartment.

Beside the wall-almost eerily so-Moon-Jo stood, ignoring Jongwoo completely. His eyes were trained on you as you gathered yourself enough to take him in, watching the man before you breathe in the very fiber of your being. He was tall and dark haired with extraordinary cheekbones. With a face card like that, you were sure he'd have had to be a model or do side-gigs of the sort. His smile was a pleasant one as it seemed inviting, but upon staring at it for a few moments, something about it felt off to you. His black button-up was loose around his collarbones and neatly tucked into his slacks. He was fairly handsome, you thought, forgetting that Jongwoo had warned you of this 'crazy neighbor' before inviting you to stay at his place to catch the train back home tomorrow.

A piercing feeling of nervousness took over your body and shocked you instantly. There was something extremely peculiar about this man and you wanted nothing to do with finding out what it was. There was something haunting about the depth of his cold, dark gaze, contrasting Jongwoo's warm and inviting one. You swore to yourself in that moment not to walk anywhere on these premises without Jongwoo for fear of running into this man alone.

However uncomfortable you may have felt, Moon-Jo was in love, if that's what you would call it. He wanted this-you, so intensely and so immediately that his entire body felt as though it were shaking with tremors. He would stop at absolutely nothing to have you, to own you. You were what he had been unknowingly waiting for his entire existence and Jongwoo had only been the key. Smiling, he shook his hand out towards yours, ignoring the complaints from your boyfriend from beside you.

"My name is Seo Moon-Jo. The pleasure is all mine."

"(Y/N)." You replied.

DOGSDOGS

CHAPTER ONE

I partnered up with the amazingly talented @ka3trv to create this multiple part dogsdogs fic!! Show their account some love, this story is probably my new favorite thing in existence and they're the mastermind behind it all! Will Graham is appointed to Bucharest after the events that unfolded following Hannibal's death. He's struggling with the new scenery, even more so now that Jack needs him to follow the case of the most dangerous men who live there. Nigel knows of the tabs the FBI has on him and he will do whatever it takes to make sure he gets out of this situation unscathed. A life without Gabi and a life without running.

The entirety of the room had only been lit with that of a singular light fixture; a complete contrast to that of the dance club outside the heavy doors of this private area where the men resided. The florescent purple and pink hues from the dance floor cascaded in patterns on the tiling through these doors, an invitation to the rest of society should the men choose to. However, despite the wafting smells of liquor and the promise of a good time through the eyes of the male gaze, Darko and Nigel sat unbothered and undetected, across from one another on the black leathered couches. This room was considered to be one reserved for "private showcases," and was quite lavishly decorated for its small size. Darko was comfortably sat with his arm flush against the decorative couch, seemingly calm for the situation at hand. Nigel, however, was having more difficulty finding comfort in the events of the folder strewn out before his eyes.

As if his scarring hadn't left him enough of a headache, there was now this tumultuous churning in his stomach in regard to how he and Darko would respond to this. There was an immediate threat to not only their work but their lifestyle, as this information being spread could land them in prison, or worse, with the death penalty. Nigel had escaped death once before, he didn't think he would be so lucky as to avoid it a second time.

He placed his fingers gently on the scar which adorned his forehead, a promise he made to himself never to allow his emotions grasp the better of him again. The sound of the police's bullet grazing his forehead and leaving him wounded on the streets of Bucharest resounded in his skull as a promise of his beloved Gabi's final departure from him. She would be pleased enough to live her life in the arms of that unruly American, Charlie. So be it. Her actions had aided him in his escape anyways as he was presumed dead. Continuing the story of his faux end wouldn't be hard when he pulled strings with Darko, partnering with him once again.

And this was the reason for him sitting before Nigel, clad in a professionally tailored black suit. It was properly fitted and steamed, an indication of the wealth this man possessed. No matter the attire, anyone who gazed upon his frame would've run for the hills upon sight. Nigel, however, wore his infamous dog printed button down, upon which he remembers first having given his warning to that wretched Charlie.

He had to stop himself. He couldn't afford to think of his Gabi in a time like this. Her bright red hair had signified the ever-burning flame of his love, now just tarnished embers. He had killed for her. He had died for her. All for her to choose another man.

Darko was the one to snap him out of his pit of nostalgia. He cleared his throat and gestured to the stack of papers uncovered by the manilla folder on the table in front of him, directing Nigel's attention to the task at hand. Even with Darko now on his side, a shiver ran through Nigel's being.

Within these papers were photographs, the professionally taken kind which came from the cameras of forensic specialists. These were not an uncommon sight to either of the men, as they had been partners in the craft of murder for quite some time. With an uneasy silence, save for the bass-boosted electronic beats coming from the club, Nigel's heart dropped with every single one of the images being removed from their place. Laid out before them, Darko was the one to speak first.

"They never seem to have enough, do they?" He asked, in a deep and throaty voice. He was referring to the sheer number of tabs the FBI had on the two of them and their work and was growing more and more irritable by the moment. There was more information to be gathered by the specialists and more bodies of their making to be uncovered in due time, Nigel and Darko knew this. They were in deep shit if the FBI had managed to track them to Bucharest.

Darko motions to one of the cameras placed in the corner of the ceiling above them, beckoning with his hand for someone to bring them drinks. He had owned this club which would eventually make the most sense for future business discussions with his clients. There would be no disturbances as long as the recordings had been deleted later on.

A man in a suit came in ad handed Darko a bottle of Prosecco and two respective glasses. He left almost as swiftly as he came, not wanting to be caught between the men and their business conversations, as he knew Darko's side hobbies quite well. Glasses were poured and he handed one to Nigel, whom downed the wine in two short gulps.

"They're appointing a man by the name of Will Graham to our case. He's supposedly the best in their system." Darko had procured this information from one of his insiders, however, intel was difficult to get out of the country. This was hearsay but had a substantial amount of evidence to back this claim, as these images had come straight from the FBI quarters in Virginia. Therefore, this ordeal must be met with precise planning, in the case of actuality. Preservation of one's image and freedom was never a bad idea.

Nigel was growing slightly frustrated. Darko had initially promised him that he knew a specialist to distribute the bodies of their victims in ways where they wouldn't be caught. Nigel's newfound life and identity relied heavily on this; he couldn't remain a dead man in the eyes of the government if he was on a wanted list for murder.

"We should make plans to kill him, another addition to the list won't make a goddamn difference." He stated, his words coming out more harshly than he originally intended. He wanted this ordeal to be done and over with as quickly as it had been sprung upon him as he wanted to go back to his life without potential persecution from the country. Not that he had much keeping him tied to Bucharest.

There she was again, flush in his mind. He thought back to the coffee he had earlier that he bought solely because it came from her favorite shoppe. The aroma of the freshly ground beans still reminded him of her.

"You know that's entirely unrealistic," Darko went on to explain, "If the FBI sent him to us as a means of profiling, if he were to go missing or wind up dead they would pinpoint us exactly." He stated, matter of fact. Now, Nigel wasn't one who didn't understand the inner and outer workings of their job, but he had been recently guided by anger. An angry man in a dog shirt. Irony at its finest.

"What do you suggest we do then?" Nigel inquired, tossing one of the photographs back down on the table he'd previously been examining. It was one of the man whom owned Darko money back in September; they'd gutted his insides and sold them off to make back every penny he'd owed.

"You will become his new best friend and we can form an alliance with the guy," Darko said, raising his glass to his lips and finishing the liquid, "Its been a year since she left, Nigel. You could use some company."

It was almost a sick joke the way the man had phrased his internal and now external pain. Nigel wore the wound on his head as a memoir to his long gone lover, whom he would never truly be over. Darko had a way of belittling everyone that worked for him and Nigel would be no exception. Yet, his counterpart was right. It would take careful consideration and calculation on their end to throw this "Will Graham" off of their path so they could continue their line of work.

"Don't be fucking ridiculous, I want no part in forming this shit." Nigel exasperated, even though he knew Darko's plan would be a good one. This way, they could throw of Will's intel on them and even gain some in the process. An FBI agent who could show some of their inner workings would only benefit them. He just didn't want to put in the effort of a pretend friendship to gain it.

"Unless you want another bullet to the face, then I suggest you shut your fucking mouth and do as I tell you." Darko angrily shot back, clearly disinterested in any of Nigel's potential discomfort with the ordeal. He needed this just as much as the former did. There was no way Nigel wouldn't succumb to this offer. He needed to remain out of the eye of the government.

"How long do you expect me to pretend this man is of importance to me in his presence?" Nigel began, clearly in a state of annoyance. Darko would always be the one to have someone else doing his dirty work.

"As long as it takes. We won't be the first to reach out though. That's practical suicide," Darko said, gathering up the files and handing them to Nigel to dispose of, "We will wait for this man to approach us since we have no idea what kind of intel he has on us already. We also don't want him to know we are familiar with his existence."

"What do we know about him, other than the fact he's profiling us?" Nigel asked, trying to get any potential help he could when he would be forced into an allyship with the man. Common interests and understandings worked the best for companionship.

"He's a professor. Teaches all that macabre shit. We also know he's not technically considered a real agent because he failed his psychological screenings. The man's deemed unstable."

Nigel looked at the front of the folder which had an image of the man thought to be tracing them. It was securely paperclipped despite all the other contents of the folder being haphazardly thrown in.

Something panged on the inside of his chest upon gazing at the man. There was an uncomfortable familiarity, despite not even having known him. The brunette with a form fitting blue flannel and corduroy trousers wasn't looking at the camera when the image was procured, but his piercing grey eyes were not to be missed. The man was most likely in his late thirties, with a clean stubble and two long scars stretching across the right side of his face. There was another one, slightly smaller than the two that was placed among his forehead, clean as if a knife had grazed his skin. What kind of history did this man have that would lead to such a bodily disfiguration? Although Nigel couldn't be one to talk, considering his own scars.

Despite never having met Will Graham, there was a certain aura he had that he couldn't place upon him.

Noting Nigel's eventual acceptance of the task, Darko withdrew himself from the room they'd discussed business matters. Nigel sat alone for a moment and replayed the conversation in his head. He would do this mission for himself, for the eventual life he wanted to live without Gabi. He hadn't had a murder-related task outside of his affections for her since they'd met.

He would never let anyone get that close to him again.

...

Lecturing on the topic of death had always been something Will was astute at. It had been his profession for years, to gaze upon the dead with an analytical brain, psychoanalyzing their physical states to determine their causes of death and the mentalities of those who were behind them. Pictures upon pictures of various crime scenes and people whose names and faces Will never had the intention of learning had been displayed upon the projection board above him. This was always the job description and it had never bothered him. Garrett Jacob Hobbs had come close to leaving a pit in Will's stomach as he'd been the one responsible for his death, but no one who'd been killed had ever left him with a feeling such as the departure of Hannibal Lecter.

The man who'd been his acclaimed psychiatrist and had worked his way into his heart had been around for the longest time that after he'd passed, Will no longer knew what to do with himself. It also didn't do him any favors that he came to the realization his feelings with which he shared with the man were more than platonic. It wasn't until their last moments with each other where Will was pulled into Hannibal's arms, the two of them soaked in the blood of the Great Red Dragon that he was finally able to understand what Hannibal had meant in seeing the beauty of death. And in seeing the beauty in what their relationship truly was and all that it could have been.

And it was taken away from him in the same night he was given it.

However, this work of his under the FBI had called to him once more, leading him to his recent affiliations in Bucharest. Jack had managed to convince him to set up site somewhere other than Quantico and pulled a few strings. Will had been an on and off professor at one of the universities, coming in only when the extra person was needed and then hitching a flight back to Wolf Trap, where everything reminded him of everything. In Bucharest, he was able to form himself another identity, one that existed outside of the gaze of Hannibal Lecter. On his lengthy stays at home, however, he caught himself in a perpetual waiting room, always with the underlying hope that maybe, just maybe, his partner would come strolling through the front doors of his house in that suit he always wore. He would pet Will's dogs as they all rushed to greet the man and he would smile at him with that same unsettling smirk he'd always had.

But the last memories Will would ever be graced with would be the moment they shared at the bottom of the cliff. There had been stars in Hannibal's eyes that night, an acknowledgement of Will's total and utter true form. Hannibal had seen Will for who he was and had loved him in his entirety for it. He wanted to push him past the limits that everyone else had placed upon him and to coerce Will towards the understanding Hannibal had all along. He wanted to mold him with his bare hands into the idealized shape of the gods, someone who would see and understand the elegance in the world beyond the living. Hannibal was never a religious man, but his devotion to Will was nothing short of worship.

"Achillies wished all the Greeks would die so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. It took divine intervention to stop them." Hannibal had whispered to him the night at that museum, standing in front of The Primavera, a Botticelli painting. The Primavera has stood as a symbol of new beginnings, and that was where their relationship stood. Will would travel to any continent in search of what he'd had with the man in hopes of a possibility of something new.

He wished the universe would have allowed him anything other than having to wake up on the damp rocks below, water harshly crashing into their sides, with the realization his life had been spared solely because Hannibal had wrapped him in his arms.

He stared at the card with the Romanian translation in front of him. He had spilled traces of coffee from one of the shoppes by the train station onto the cards, but he had a sufficient amount of practice by now. He was able to cite the exclamation in a rocky translation of the language. "As it is shown in the image, there's an obvious persistent difference between the simple murders. The left one is an act of...hatred, the right one an act of liberty. The dead man, whom upon arrival to the scene was deducted to be Michael Gerard. A victim of stage four cancer. After further research on the case, the mortuary team concluded that the wounds we found along the body of the man were explained by his son's desire to 'save him.' That son was none other than Jeremiah Gerard himself." Will stated, in the lecturing voice he'd grown so used to using over the years.

Ignoring the hands raised in the air, he shut the projector off shortly after finishing his sentence, dismissing the class and his thoughts from the events a year prior. This was not the time to reminisce. But there he was, Hannibal himself, standing at the back of the classroom with eyes turned towards will in a mocking manner. Will's encephalitis has gotten the better of him on numerous occasions and now a part of him was worried he was becoming borderline schizophrenic. He saw Hannibal everywhere he turned, almost hoping he were still alive. The hallucination disappeared from his gaze as he tried his best to use the counting method he'd picked up from extensive therapy.

1,2,3, and he was alone in the room once more, briefcase in hand and almost empty coffee in the other.

His newfound scars burned with his vision.

Although Bucharest was quite the sight, there were none of the winding roads and beautiful foliage Will had come to fall in love with in Virginia. This place was entirely urbanized, and social interaction was never just common, it was expected. Much to Will's dismay. There was no way one could get away with physically hiding themselves from conversation in the outdoors with a population this vast, druggies running around in the streets and children on corners with chalk in their hands. Despite this entirely new setting, Will had never felt more like himself. He understood everything now that he'd had it brought out of him, a spiral of emotions threatening to spill over until they had hardened into the person he was now. Every day without Hannibal was the same monotonous and boring schedule, but he had never felt the same since.

He pulled up to the apartment in which he resided while he was in Bucharest and not back at home. Either place was entirely lonesome; after the events that unfolded; Molly had decided for it to be the better they'd divorced. Even though he had loved her, he'd never felt such relief and remorse at the same time. And there were no more conversations with Alana, whom Will used to consider as one of his only friends now that she'd gone about her life somewhere hidden with Margot Verger.

And he was here, across the world, hoping to figure something out about this case. Maybe even about himself.

The apartment was cold for autumn because the windows weren't properly sealed. He'd been meaning to get that fixed but he hadn't the time. There was a fire going in the hearth Will had started from the moment he walked through the door as a means to try and stay warm through the night. An empty teacup and a spread of newspaper clippings were the only remnants of the night before, thrown about the hardwood floor in seemingly no correspondence. Will had gone to Bucharest in search of a new life, of course, but there was another factor at play.

Jack needed him to profile the guys responsible for the stream of Bucharest murders.

Bodies upon bodies had popped up along the waterfront, all disposed of without their organs. They were clearly uncared for, unlike the murderous artists he'd grown familiar with over the course of his work, and had their remnants carelessly strewn about. The most recent body to have been discovered was that of a man by the name of Darrow Lux, a supposed criminal with a background in Con artistry. No prints had been left among the body, just like the others. No organs either.

This wasn't a case unlike anything Will had dealt with before. There was, however, a surmountable less passion in his work than he'd had. sure, he wanted his old life back with the FBI but he still stung on the inside. He'd been subjected to some of the worst physical and emotional turmoil over the past few years, this last year being the worst.

Sighing, he picked himself up off the floor and headed to the barren kitchen, save for a small fake plant in the middle of the island. He never bothered to stock the place with food, preferring to eat out if he had the chance or skip his meals entirely. He'd lost a fair amount of weight since everything changed, but he was still pushing through.

Pouring himself a glass of water from the kitchen sink, he looked out towards the city streets below from the small window before him. There was a crowd of people smoking by the Hostel across the street, laughing and exchanging glances at the passerby. One of the women had a sketchpad that she was drawing with, and Will could almost smell the graphite of the pencils from where he stood if he only imagined hard enough. He missed drawing. He missed fishing. He missed the smells of the woods and the barking of his dogs. He missed Alana and Jack and going into work in the cool mornings. He missed his old job and his coffee maker at home that tasted much better than what they had in Bucharest.

He missed Hannibal.

Will finished his drink and then sauntered over to his loft, where he would spend the night tossing and turning with nightmares he'd grown used to.

We hope you enjoyed! This is a working fic in progress, but we both decided to release the first chapter early so you guys could get a feel for what's in store. Let us know your thoughts! 💛🦐

I think that what makes Steve and Eddie’s dynamic so immediately iconic and delightful, is that they have nothing in common except Dustin.

Like, we see them trying to bond a few times, and they are STRUGGLING because they have absolutely no common interest. Whenever they talk, we get gems like Eddie quoting the lord of the rings or mentioning Ozzy to a very confused Steve. They both think that the other is cool but they can’t SAY IT because they basically speak two different languages. It’s a nerd/goth and jock/prep desperately attempting communication, it’s awkwardly wholesome in the best way.

But THEN as soon as it’s about DUSTIN, these two just fucking click and shift full soulmates mode. Dustin does something a little weird or vaguely annoying, and suddenly Steve and Eddie get possessed by an old married couple that has been together for 35 years but also divorced 7 times and keep getting back together to raise their son. Dustin will just breathe, and suddenly Steve "the king" Harrington and Eddie "the freak" Munson are fucking drift compatible out nowhere like "this kid needs to keep his ego in check" "IT’S HIS TONE RIGHT???" or "Henderson you are a butthead" "oh I conclure" or even "Henderson is not possessed is he?" "Oh no he is just deranged"

Whether it’s platonic or romantic, otp or brotp, it’s just think that it’s objectively the most hilarious concept of all time and I want to see more of it in Volume 2 and season 5.

Nightly Encounter

Carl Grimes x Reader

Characters mentioned: Carl, Daryl, Michonne, Rick, Judith, Eugene, Carol, and Rosita

⚠️SPOILERS FOR SEASON 8-9⚠️

Warnings: Extreme angst, mentions of suicide, depressed reader, eating disorder

"(Y/N), turn around."

You were fidgety. This was a new territory, a new level of trust that Carl was putting in you. You knew you couldn't say no the minute he'd asked. He felt comfortable enough to show you the thing he hated most about himself. All in hopes that you would love that part of him too.

And of course you would, it wasn't even a question. But what if you said the wrong thing? What if you stared for too long, what if you looked away too fast? All these 'what ifs' ran through your head, making it impossible to think clearly. 'Calm down,' you told yourself, 'you're turning this into a bigger deal than it is.'

You heard the sound of his bandages being removed and the bed shifting under his weight. You waited for him to give you the sign that he was ready. When he did, you turned around slowly to make sure not to scare him. His head was looking downwards, his hair was in his face. You couldn't see anything but by the slump of his shoulders you knew he was terrified. You could practically hear his heart beating a mile a minute from where you were standing on the opposite side of the room.

You went to sit down on the bed and you grasped Carl's hands, inviting him to look at you. Once he put his head level with yours, you slowly reached out for the long hair that framed his face and you moved it away from his face.

What lie under it was the scar that had hurt him more emotionally than physically. It was large and took up most of the right side of his face, but you couldn't help but feeling as though it was beautiful. It was beautiful because it was a part of him.

"I'm sorry."

Those words shattered your heart when he said them aloud. Sorry for what? He had nothing to be sorry for. He had lost his eye courageously. He had lost his eye but not his smile. He had lost his eye, but not himself.

"Carl. You have nothing to apologise for. I think you're beautiful."

He looked up in pure shock and furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?! I have a hole in my head!" He angrily pushed his bangs back into his face and sprang up from the bed.

"Carl!" You called out after him, grabbing his wrist. He stopped and turned to look at you. He was fuming now, you could practically see the steam coming out of his ears. "Carl," you repeated, much kinder this time, "sit down. Please."

He sat down on the bed and folded his arms.

"Carl. Thank you so much for trusting me with this. I understand it's such a hard burden to carry but you don't have to carry it by yourself anymore. I think you're just as handsome as you were before. Maybe even more handsome. I love you and I wouldn't care if you shot out your other eye, I would love you just the same." You pushed the bangs back away from his gaping wound and you kissed his forehead, holding his head in your hands. "Please, never forget that."

He stopped being so tense and nuzzled into your touch. This was a lot of trauma to relive at once and you understood it was going to take more time for him to open up. But you were ready to be there for him when he did.

"I love you, (Y/N). Sorry for keeping my emotions from you for so long."

"Again, you have nothing to apologise for, Grimes. I love you and that won't change."

...

You played back the memory in your head. It seemed like a millennia ago that you were holding him in your arms like that. When the worst thing you guys had to worry about was a scar.

You tugged on the grass a little as you laid down on your chest. Your face was pressed against the grave of Carl, to your heart aching to hold him in the way you did before. To tell him that that stupid scar wasn't going to change anything because it didn't. It made you love him even more. Crazy how losing things like that makes your love stronger. Only this time, you'd lost him.

Your tear stained cheeks were starting to get itchy as you prepared yourself to stay another night with Carl. Everyone else was busy, even Rick who had somehow gotten over Carl's death so quickly. It felt shameful to you that he could lose someone so important and then continue as though there were more important matters.

You were ready. Ready to die. Carl was the last thing you'd had in this world and now that he was gone, you and wanted to have no part in it. This cruel world that was based on survival. This cruel world that killed the last beacon of hope. This cruel world that killed Carl Grimes.

Again, more tears came. It had to be almost a week now. You've refused to eat, drink, socialize, or even leave Carl alone. You couldn't. He was right there yet so far away. You could feel yourself slipping sometimes, fading in and out of sleep that was haunted with nightmares of your long-gone lover.

"Hey. I can't let ya stay out here any- jesus (Y/N)! When was the last time you've eaten?!" Daryl came up from behind, sitting down on the grass-Carl's grass- beside you.

...

The moon shone over the trees and cast a pale glow over the gazebo Carl led you to. His hand was in yours as he dragged you to his favorite spot in Alexandria. The place where he could see the stars the easiest.

"Just a little further..." Once you reached the small structure, he offered you his knee so you could climb up on the roof. It wasn't all that tricky, considering the gazebo was only a few feet up. You climbed up to the top and offered your hand to Carl but he denied it as he tried to climb up himself. 'Show-off' you thought as you smirked and laid on the patchy wooden roof.

You heard a grunt as Carl laid next to you, brushing the bangs out of his good eye. He grabbed your hand and looked at you before looking up above. You had to admit, the stars were beautiful and since light pollution was no longer a problem, there was more that you guys could see. But your focus wasn't on the stars, no. It was on Carl. The way that he looked at the world not knowing that your world was him. You could see the reflection of the stars in his eye, but they were there all the time. The boy really held the universe in him and he would change this cruel world one day. He had to.

When he noticed you staring, he scooted in closer.

"Whatcha thinking about?" He asked, a knowing look on his face. He knew that whenever you were lost in thought he'd be the one to bring you back down to earth.

"You. As usual," you smiled and pushed his hat over his eyes,

"All I ever think about is you."

...

"(Y/N)? Are ya listening?"

You forgot Daryl was sitting beside you and not Carl. You grunted as you tried to sit up but found that you didn't have the energy. It must've been days since you've gotten any food or sleep.

"Yeah. I'm listening." You replied but you knew you couldn't. No one could ever pierce your thoughts and knock the sense in you that you needed to hear. You were a thousand miles away.

"Look," Daryl sighed and played with the denim of his vest, "I know things are hard. But I also know this isn't what he woulda wanted. Carl was brave. He worked to keep this place safe....to keep you safe. He wouldn't want to see ya like this." Daryl leaned in and placed a hand on your shoulder. "I don' like seeing ya like this."

You could barely hear him over the rushing of your thoughts. Carl wouldn't have wanted you to live without him, right? You started this world together and you were supposed to end it that way. He got the chance to leave it first, but that shouldn't mean you should go about your days pretending that everything is fine. Nothing could be fine without him. He was your world and it didn't matter what Daryl would say, or Rick, or Michonne, or anyone else for that matter. Because your world had been taken from you twice. All because of those stupid flesh-eating bastards.

...

"(Y/N)!"

You woke up with a start. The grass you were laying on was covered in dew, meaning that it must've rained while you fell asleep after your talk with Daryl.

You reached for your knife, only to find that it wasn't there. Your eyes searched the area looking for it when you saw him.

His boots were all scuffed and muddy, his jeans were ripped and his gun holster was at his side, also empty. His long brown hair was bushy and his hat sat atop his head, exactly in the position you remembered it. Because right before you was Carl Grimes. The love of your life.

"(Y/N), can you hear me?"

Your whole body went into shock and before you knew it you started crying. Tears streamed down your face like never before as you watched him sit down next to you, reaching out to hold you. You sat in his arms for a few minutes as you let it all out, finally conveying the depression you had felt for days.

"Shhhh it's alright."

You suddenly stopped and got a grip on what was happening. Was this real? Carl had gotten bit by a walker. Surely there was no way he has suddenly come back to life to give your pathetic body a hug.

"What happened?? How are you here?" You uttered in disbelief.

He smiled. "(Y/N). I wanted you to find a home here. I don't want you to keep grieving my death. Alexandria is safe now and you're free to live again. Please don't give up because of me." He rubbed your back and pushed his hat up. "You would say the same if our positions were switched."

At this, you fell limp. Of course. What have you been doing all this time? You'd been so wrapped up in the death of your lover you forgot there were other people you had to care for. Rosita, Michonne, Eugene, Carol, Daryl, and even Judith. This was your home. This was a place where you didn't have to suffer from the harshness of the outside world. You could've been helping with the runs and cleaning but instead you were here and as much as you loved him, you knew Carl was right.

"I'm sorry, I- I just-" you held back your tears "living in this world without you- it's hard. I promised myself that there wouldn't be a day where I wouldn't wake up next to you. I love you so much. I- I'm sorry I couldn't save you." The last part came out in a rush. The words hurt you to say as much as they hurt Carl to hear.

"Hey. Listen to me." He titled your chin upwards so that you were looking at him. "What happened was not your fault, okay? It was mine and mine alone. I'm so sorry that I left you here. I should've been more careful. But I promise you're not alone. I'll be here with you everywhere you go. And I'll still be here when I'm just a memory. When you find someone else I'll be here cheering you on. When you have children I'll watch over them too. When you get old, I'll be waiting for you on the other side so that you have nothing to fear. I promise." He slid his hand into yours and wiped away your tears. You smiled- actually smiled as you caught a glimpse of his face for the last time.

"There's no way you'll ever be just a memory, Carl Grimes."

And then he faded away.

...

The lights in the infirmary stung your eyes as you opened them. You weren't lying outside anymore, and instead you found yourself in a bed wrapped in one of Carl's flannels.

You caught a glimpse of someone standing outside your doorway. "Hey- what happened?" You asked to no one in particular. You just wanted to know why you'd been moved.

The man standing in the doorway was none other than Daryl who had visited you that night. He was looking more healthy than usual, although he could use a good night's sleep. His bags were becoming more and more prominent.

He made his way over to your bed and sat down at the end of it, careful to leave you enough space. "Could've died last night. Your heart almost stopped."

This stopped you from asking anymore questions. So what happened last night wasn't a dream? Carl was really there? You had come face to face with death without even realizing it.

"(Y/N)-" Daryl began but you stopped him.

"I saw him."

Daryl's eyes grew wide. "Ya did?" He turned around so that he was looking directly into your eyes. "What'd he say?"

You smiled.

"I have a reason to keep living, Dixon."

Gifs aren't mine, thank you for reading <3

Fight Club

Johnny X Y/N X Yuta Nakamoto

Just a piece of advice!!! This fanfiction probably won't make any sense unless you've seen the 1999 movie Fight Club written by David Fincher. This revolves around the storyline for said movie and previous knowledge of it needs to be present for it to make sense! In that case, read on! :) 💜💜

⚠️ Warnings: swearing, mentions of gore, mentions of nsfw, talk of weapons and violence as well as drugs⚠️

"You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking Khakis. You are the all-singing all-dancing crap of the world."

...

Part Two:

Flashback:

Going on business trips was Yuta's least favorite part about his shitty existence. Having to travel from flight to flight for his business sucked, as he would say, ass.

So another plane ticket for him would mean another night of no sleep, zoning out while someone talked about a car line they needed to recall because of safety hazards, and then back onto his flight with people he had no interest in. That's the thing about self-serving "friends." They're just people who you have the displeasure of meeting because you're both going to the same place. After you're done trying to pass the time, you never see each other again and that's that. Well, Yuta thought of it that way.

Trying to get some sleep, he rested against the very uncomfortable plane seat and closed his eyes.

He didn't know when he passed out, just that it wasn't for long. The flight attendant had already gone through with the snack tray, he figured from the pretzels other people had on their laps that it wasn't too long ago. Sighing, he shuffled around his seat so he was in view of the window. However, someone was now sitting there fiddling with the window cover. He had longer black hair and red tinted glasses taking up most of his face. A cigarette was dangling between his teeth- unlit -and he had on a pair of very tight and very leather jeans. He also had an old pair of dress shoes with a hole in the top and scuff marks along the side. This man must've gotten dressed in the dark, Yuta decided.

"If you feel that you would be unable or unwilling to perform the duties on the safety card, please ask a flight attendant to reseat you."

The Elton John impersonator finally spoke to Yuta, a cocky grin on his face and glasses slowly sliding down his nose. In his hand was the manual for a plane crash which he must've taken out of the seat pocket in front of him. Yuta didn't think that anyone actually read those.

"That's a lot of responsibility."

"Wanna switch seats?"

"No, no I don't think I'm the man for that particular job."

What was with this guy? Yuta's first thought was drugs, but then he mentally slapped himself for thinking that. 'This guy's probably just as sane as I am', he thought.

The man sighed and looked around at the rest of the passengers before staring back out the window. "An exit door procedure thirty thousand feet. Mhm. The illusion of safety." He smiled again, except this time Yuta could feel himself glued to his chair, as if his movements would lead to the plane crash Red Glasses was talking about.

"Yeah, I guess so." Yuta let out with a sigh.

Just then the man said, "You know why they put oxygen masks on planes?"

'Oh joy', "So you can breathe."

Red Glasses sighed and rolled his eyes. It's clear that he's making Yuta out to be an idiot. "Oxygen gets you high. In a catastrophic emergency, you're taking giant brain-panicked breaths. So you become euphoric, docile, you accept your fate. It's all right here." He grabs the pamphlet and opens to the page he was reading. Then, shoving it in Yuta's face, he continues his rant.

"Emergency water landing 600 mph. Blank faces, calm as Hindu cows."

The horribly computer generated pictures of people following safety protocol showed them all- as Red Glasses stated - unusually calm. At this, Yuta laughs. The man did have a point.

"That's uhm, that's an interesting theory."

After a pause in conversation, Yuta tries to talk to the man again as he realizes that this is the most interesting conversation he's had throughout his whole trip. He actually didn't expect someone with so much exuberance to be seated on his opposite side.

"What do you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what do you do for a living?"

The man's face turned into another one of those cocky smiles as he pushed a couple strands of hair away from his eyes.

"Why? So you can pretend like you're interested?"

Yuta laughed again, not sure how to respond. His textbook conversations that he had thought up earlier while sitting on his prized IKEA couch wasn't working. The conversations he saved for when he didn't know what to say. They were usually foolproof, but not with this guy. For once in his life, Yuta felt dumb.

"You have a kinda sick desperation in your laugh," The man stated as he reached for something from below the seat in front of him. Realizing what it was, Yuta exclaimed that they had the same briefcase. Odd stranger and similar taste. Interesting.

"Soap."

"Sorry?"

"I make and I sell soap." He opened the briefcase and saw the bars of soap Red Glasses was talking about. For the neat way they were packaged, Yuta could tell this guy was serious. Indeed, he made soap. They were a little deformed, but Yuta guessed the sold well. Their appearance was high quality.

"The art sticks of civilization." Yuta took the business card held out in front of him.

'And this is how I met....' "Johnny Seo."

"Did you know if you mixed equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange juice concentrate you can make nepalm?" Johnny said, looking directly at Yuta now.

"No I did not know that, is that true?"

"That's right. One can make all kinds of explosives using simple household items."

"Really?"

"If one were so inclined." Johnny smirked again and shut the briefcase in his lap closed. The smell of the fruity soap washed over Yuta's nose as it did, and he started to understand why people bought them. There's a sense of familiarity to the smell, Yuta couldn't tell if it reminded him of old lady perfume or bacon.

"Johnny, you are by far the most interesting single-serving friend I have ever met. See, I have this thing that everyone on a plane is single-serving-"

"-Oh I get it. That's very clever." Johnny interrupted Yuta as he was about to explain his odd correlation with people and planes. Usually, the person Yuta talked to when he boarded was someone who was desperate to get him to shut up, so they let him talk about God knows what for however long he wanted. Not Johnny, though.

For lack of something better to say, Yuta replied with "Thank you."

"How's that working out for you?"

"What?"

"Being clever."

'Who is this guy?' "Great."

"Hmn. Keep it up then." Johnny patted Yuta's shoulder and smiled again. It was 100% a half smile and Yuta could tell that his small talk was boring Johnny to no end. His observations were proved true when Johnny readied to get up to leave his seat.

"Right-O. Now, a question of etiquette as I pass- do I give you the ass or the crotch?"

...

Yuta aggressively typed on his work computer while his thoughts mercilessly tugged at his brain. Y/N was mad again, Yuta could tell. It wasn't just about the dress thing, no it was also because of the sex. She'd been pestering him about it all week, trying to lure him upstairs. Yuta wasn't sure why she was trying to play with both him and Johnny but he knew that there was something wrong.

Fight Club was also very quickly taking over Yuta's life. He dressed sloppily to work every day, not even bothering to put on a tie or button up the rest of his shirt, with blood stains from a fight the night before. He was even smoking in the office, something he wasn't used to doing but now couldn't care less about.

Throughout all of the activities taking hold of him, Yuta couldn't sleep again. His insomnia was the worst he can remember it ever being. With that thought still on his mind, he grabbed his laptop bag and walked out of the office, on his way to Joon's once again.

...

"Alright boys. It's time for another fight. This week we have Yuta and one of the newcomers."

Johnny was getting used to his position as a spectator. He'd only fought a couple of times, but he seemed to get a pass from the other members because of the position of leader he'd taken over. His poise and demeanor had changed since Yuta's first encounter with him; that cocky, arrogant smirk still resided on his face but that was all that was left of the Johnny Yuta once knew. Or so he thought. He'd only known Johnny for a few months after all.

Yuta prepared himself for his next fight. He was angry. And his insomnia was getting worse by the second- he needed someone to take his aggression out on. Pain seemed to be the only cure to his sleep deprivation.

"Alright Yuta. You're up against Ten."

Yuta stared at the tall and muscular man at the other end of the "ring". He wasn't jacked but he definitely worked out. He was fit, covered in tattoos, and was littered with piercings along the sides of his ears. This man had so many pictures etched onto his skin that Yuta doubted he could even count them all. And, he was bleached blonde. Like- really bleached blonde. Draco Malfoy would've been jealous.

Yuta planted his feet firmly to the ground, watching the strange man named Ten do the same thing. This was his first night, so Yuta would be sure to make it memorable for him. At least, from the ground.

"How much do you bet?" Yuta heard from someone in the crowd. Since when was Fight Club about bets?

"I'll give you a twenty for tattoos."

That was all Yuta needed to hear before he was filled with rage. Johnny was in on this too? This was just supposed to be the two of them. Since when was it about an underground cult? Yuta felt sick to his stomach as he dealt the first blow.

And then another. And then another. And then another.

Why wasn't Ten fighting back? Well you see, Yuta had struck him completely by surprise, rendering him defeated from the minute his ass hit the cement ground of Joon's sacred basement. Ten couldn't even stand to try again before this kid was on top of him hitting him everywhere: the jaw, the nose, the eyes, even his motherfucking ear.

Yuta was ruthless.

For once, Fight Club was silent. The only thing that could be heard was Yuta's punches and the snapping of bones and moaning of Ten from beneath him as his body contorted into uncomfortable positions. He was bleeding from his nose and mouth and his beautiful face was now going to have an incredibly large scar across the side.

Amidst all of this commotion, Johnny lit a cigarette.

"Get him off."

Yuta was pulled away from Ten who was now knocked out cold.

"Why'd you beat up Ten that badly?" Johnny asked, looking directly at Yuta with an undecipherable look. He had a beer in one hand and hair frizzled everywhere. Over the past couple of months it had grown to an extraordinary length of an inch and a half. This meant flyaway strands everywhere. Yuta was mainly just looking for anything to focus on instead of his friend's face. The humiliation of what he had done to Ten's face was enough for him. Yuta held his wrist to his chest and assessed any leftover damage.

"I felt like destroying something beautiful."

...

The streetlights were dim as Johnny and Yuta ran through the dark. The sidewalk was uneven so they'd taken to the side of the road instead, making their way to the back of a large building with scuffed up shoes and bloodied noses. Yuta had no idea why he was here other than the fact that Johnny had dragged his ass out into the cold to "make soap" or whatever the fuck that meant. Yuta knew he'd figure it out though, Johnny always had a way with turning anything into a philosophical speech.

The chain-link fence was nearing Yuta's vision as he and Johnny ran on. The lights were brighter up there, and for a second Yuta wondered if they would get caught trying to break into the place. Johnny had said it was abandoned, but that obviously wasn't true seeing as he was shimmying his way over the fence after throwing his coat up over the barbed wire. He was making fast hurried movements and Yuta followed suit, grabbing the red leather jacket and hoisting it over his shoulder once he was on the other side. An alarm rang out and they both ducked for cover behind a large dumpster.

"I thought your dumbass said this place was abandoned?"

"It is at night. Usually."

"Who's out here?!?" They heard a policeman yell, the sound of a dog nearby made them stop in their tracks.

"Shit. Guess we'll have to wait him out." Johnny said between drawls of his cigarette.

"Wait him out?! It's 26 degrees outside are you crazy?!?"

At this, Johnny smiled. "Very."

The next twenty minutes were grueling as they waited for the guard to leave. Once security was taken care of, Johnny led Yuta to another dumpster on the other side of the building. Upon opening it, he climbed inside and started rumaging through it.

"Johnny, where are we?"

"Can't you fucking read?"

Yuta looked above Johnny's head to where he was pointing. There was a giant sign that proved they were in a medical facility. Liposuction.

At Yuta's realization, a bag of said material was thrown at him and he barely caught it in his arms before it fell to the ground. The red and flesh colored goop slid around in the bag reminding Yuta of throw up.

"Here, there's a few more."

Going back over the fence, Johnny threw Yuta more bags from the dumpster as he caught them from the other side. However, one of these were a failed attempt because the Yuta had found himself lost in thought. You, in particular.

He remembered how excited you were to show him the dress you'd bought. Your happy little giggles as you paraded around in it when you had found it made his heart swell.

Wait why does he remember that? Wasn't the first time he'd seen you wear it was in the kitchen?

"Hey shit face! The lard!"

Snapping back into reality, Yuta watched the bag catch on the barbed wire and split open, releasing a flood of human fat and blood all over his head.

"Aw fuck."

...

Yuta had taken a very thorough shower. He had been washing for hours it felt like, just to try and remove that god-awful smell from his hair and his clothes. Not that the water on Paper Street was very clean, but it was better than nothing.

Once he was finished he got dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. It was already past 3:00am and he doubted he would be getting much sleep anyways, so he just got ready for work. Walking down the rickety stairs from his bedroom and into the kitchen, he was met with that horrible smell once again.

"Ugh, what is that?" Yuta asked, looking for Johnny to answer. He held his nose and made his way to the fridge where he was stopped by Johnny who brought out some of his experiment stuff.

"Ay watch it this shit burns." He said, going back to stirring whatever pot he had been fussing over previously. Johnny was wearing nothing but his pants from earlier, his shirt was lying on the other side of the counter and his jacket had been abandoned to the bedroom upstairs. Because of this, Yuta was able to see Johnny's exposed muscles as well as the scars from previous fights and other miscellaneous events in his life. Yuta couldn't help but stare. Johnny really was pretty.

"Okay." He motioned for Yuta to stand at the table that was covered with experiments and the lard from their previous adventure. Once Yuta was situated at the table with a confused expression dawning his face, Johnny smiled. This was one of those malicious ones that he put on before he fucked something up for Yuta again. Last time he'd given him this look, it was when he threw Yuta's work computer out the window of their dingy old house blabbering on about corporate businesses and the corruption of everyday society.

Johnny then grabbed Yuta's hand and kissed it.

"What is this?"

Johnny picked up a lenticular container from his left hand side and started to pour the powdery contents onto Yuta's hand.

"This," he said, "is chemical burn."

Yuta was confused as to why his wrist was being held down to the spot but then the chemical kicked in. Yuta's first reaction was to scream.

The pain was unbearable. It was the worst pain Yuta had ever felt and he was starting to wish he could die just to get it to stop. Anything to put out the flames on his hand, eating his flesh and leaving a crater in its wake. His breathing quickened as his body went into fight or flight mode, his hand shaking around in Johnny's grasp and his legs wobbling.

"It'll hurt more than you've ever been burned and it'll leave a scar." Johnny stated in a nonchalant tone.

'If guided meditation could work for cancer it could work for this.' Yuta thought as he closed his eyes and tried to envision a nice forest somewhere. His daydreaming, however, was cut short by Johnny's voice.

"Stay with the pain. Don't shut this out."

"No!" Yuta drew back from Johnny's hand and his head hit the shelf containing their unused pots and pans. He held his burning hand to his side as he waited for the pain to stop or even just dwindle a little. Yuta felt his adrenaline levels skyrocket as tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

Johnny took hold of Yuta's wrist with his burning hand once again and slammed it down on the table. Due to his thrashing, Yuta knocked a lot of Johnny's materials onto the ground of the kitchen, not caring about destroying anything and only thinking of the excruciating pain before his eyes.

"Look. At. Your. Hand! The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes, like the first monkey shot into space! Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing!" Johnny stared at his friend dead in the eyes and tried to illicit a sense of fear into him.

Yuta screamed again as he tried not to think of the words sear or flesh. Nothing was working to try and calm the pins and needles attacking his body. He tried to break away from Johnny but to no avail. The man was prepared for this, it seemed.

"STOP IT. This is your burning hand! It's right here!" With that statement, Johnny slammed Yuta's hand against the counter again to try and focus his friend on his philosophical assignment. He was getting pissed now.

"I'm going to my cave. I'm going to go to my cave and I'm going to find my power animal!" Yuta exclaimed, trying to remember his sessions from support group and their ways of coping with difficult tasks. He remembered in a Leukemia group that someone had mentioned a "safe space" where you could form whatever it is your heart desires to try and make yourself feel safe in an unsafe situation. Yuta found his to be a cave with a penguin, however, that penguin has changed into his daydream of you.

"No!" Johny rolled his eyes and slammed his fist on the table to accentuate his point. "Don't deal with it the way those dead people do! Come on!"

"I get the point you're making please! Please make it stop!" Yuta managed to get out in between heavy breaths and the knot in his throat.

Johnny pursed his lips. "No! What you're feeling is premature enlightenment!"

Yuta imagined his cave once again in an effort to escape his reality. Instead of your calming face, he was met with the image of you naked while he was atop you, both of you within the icy confines of his arctic imagination. He coughed as he went in and out of his vision.

Johnny must've sensed what his friend was up to, because not seconds later Yuta was getting slapped across the face. "It's the greatest moment of your life, man! And you're off somewhere missing it!"

"No I am not!" Yuta screamed through gritted teeth.

"Shut up! Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, then what does that tell you about God?!"

"No, no I don't-" Another forceful slap from Johnny resonated throughout the room.

"Listen to me!" Johnny threw his goggles off his head and onto the floor with the other cups of mysterious substances that Yuta had dropped.

Johnny got closer to his face to the point where if he leaned any further over the table, he'd be nose to nose with Yuta.

"You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. But, that's not the worst thing that can happen."

"It's not?!"

"We don't need him!" Johnny spat, and Yuta could tell that his pleading was getting him nowhere. For now, all he could do would be to endure the pain until Johnny felt sorry enough to tell him how to stop the burning. He had to know, right? He was the one who was working with the fucking chemical.

"We don't! We don't need him, I agree!!"

Johnny smiled at him from the other side of the table. "Fuck damnation man, fuck redemption! We are God's unwanted children?! Then so be it!"

Yuta flung his hand to the side with Johnny still attached, knocking over more things in their kitchen and watching as his supposed to be single-serving friend laughed through his pain.

"Listen! You can run water over your hand to make it worse, or you can- look at me! -or you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn."

Bingo. That was Yuta's ticket out of this hell. His eyes met Johnny's and he could feel his hatred for him bubbling up from his chest and into his eyes where he put everything he felt into his look. He wanted Johnny to know how he was feeling.

"There you go."

"Please let me have it! Please!"

"First, you have to give up. First you have to know, know, not fear, that one day you're going to die."

"You don't know how this feels!" Yuta screamed again in agony, watching the bubbling of his flesh on what was left of the top of his hand. Of course Johnny could sit all high and mighty on his side of the table, he had no idea how much Yuta was suffering. Was this some sort of sick joke?

Johnny's malicious smile returned once again as he raised his other hand from under the table and into Yuta's line of vision. There, on the spot Yuta felt the most pain at the moment, was a scar similar to that of a chemical burn on Johnny's hand. Ugly, big, and worn with pride.

"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything."

Yuta's eyes met his as he started to calm down and his body adjusted to the fire on his right hand. "Okay." He said as a tear rolled down his cheek.

Johnny slowly removed the boy's hand from his grasp and watched as Yuta held his same position with his hand over the table. He was shaking, but he was determined to see this through now, knowing that it was one of Johnny's more difficult lessons. If he could get through Fight Club on the daily, he could get through this, easy. Even though the burn hurt more than any missing tooth or broken nose.

Johnny grabbed the giant jug off the counter behind him and flipped the cap off, throwing it's contents onto Yuta's hand and drenching him in vinegar. The pain instantly stopped and Yuta clutched his hand to his chest and fell to the floor, calming himself down after all of this. He looked up towards the table and saw Johnny staring down at him with that shit-eating grin of his.

"Congratulations. You're one step closer to hitting the bottom."

Amongst the spinning of the ceiling and the labored breathing, Yuta found beauty in the events of that night on Paper Street. They might not have made soap, but they made a man. And Yuta found out he was more capable of anything than ever before.

...

(Part three coming soon!)

[AN:] Thank you for reading! Please interact with your thoughts! This is somewhat new writing material for me and I would love to know if you liked it or not! Thank you! :)

Blueberries and Cigarettes

Cliff Booth X Reader

Request by @multifandomfanfic : "Maybe something along the lines of you're a hitchhiker and you meet him after he picks you up from a hitchhiking experience and then you guys like make out in his car."

⚠️ Warnings: Language, drug use ⚠️

The sun was unnecessarily hot today as you dragged your feet along the sidewalk; you were quite a ways away from home. The heat blaring down on your bare shoulders signified you that you were going to be burnt by the end of the day. The sidewalk hurt your feet and your shorts felt especially sticky as you continued towards the open road; your cherry lollipop that you picked up at the convenience store on your little adventure stuck to the roof of your mouth. This summer was brutal.

You passed a couple of signs along the way that were covered with graffiti and dirt. This was Hollywood- home of the stars. Maybe you'd have appreciated it more if it wasn't so grimy. The spots that were uninhabited by celebrities and were filled with the normal working citizens of America were less scenic.

"Hey!" A voice could be heard from behind you and instantly you identified it to be one of the girls from Spahn Ranch. A brunette with large eyes and a tooth gap started making her way towards you with a large jar of pickles under her right arm. Eating one of them herself, she practically throws herself onto you with a smile and a shirt stained with pickle juice.

"Hi." You said, only because you didn't want to be rude. You weren't really a fan of Pussy (the girl, not the thing itself) since she was always a bit more spontaneous and over-the-top than you preferred in a person. She was sweet, just a bit too...

You would've finished that thought, but a pickle was suddenly stuffed into your mouth.

"You like? Stole em' from that place up in town." She said, crunching on another one.

You coughed and took it out of your mouth. "Pussy, I have a sucker."

She laughed with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth and made a similar noise to a hissing cat. Her hair was frizzy now that she had been under the sun and her rainbow top was tied incorrectly behind her neck. These small little things about her made her redeemable in a way.

You smiled. "It's okay, you wacko. Yes, the pickles are good, you should try them with a cherry sucker in the back of your throat too."

She giggled and ran towards the bench just a little ways away from where you were walking. You ditched the candy on the ground and continued to eat the cucumber that was forced into your face. The colorful billboards around you were blinding but extravagant, and you didn't know what sight was more interesting; the colors of the advertisements or Pussy sticking her thumb out at the speeding cars nearby as she drank from the jar. "Asshole!" She screamed at the car that threatened to stop, but made a quick turn and drove off in the other direction.

After what seemed like twenty minutes of sitting with Pussy, a yellow car drove up by the sidewalk and stopped in its tracks. You couldn't really see whoever was behind the wheel, but Pussy looked ecstatic.

"It's Mr. Hawaii!!" She said, and pulled your arm up to the vehicle, forcing you and the stranger to come face to face. He was quite a bit older and very handsome, and he had a nice tan that followed all the way down to the hem of his shirt. Meaning: he was tanned everywhere. And boy, did that leave a nice first impression. Longer hair and sunglasses framed his face as he lifted the lenses above his eyes and rested them on his head. A bright yellow Hawaiian shirt adorned his figure and a cigarette was stuck between his teeth, unlit. To say this guy wasn't the most handsome man you've seen would be a complete and total lie.

"Uh, hey." You said, giving a curt wave. You took notice of how he smiled at you; it was full of warmth and invitation. You blushed, feeling your entire body go hot the moment he flashed his brilliant teeth in your direction.

"Well, hello there," He nodded and then looked at Pussy, "You need a ride?"

Pussy must've noticed how enthralled you were by Mr. Hawaii already, so she nudged you in the direction of the passenger side window and grinned as she saw your cheeks flush once more. "Nope, but they do!"

You mentally cursed the girl but also thanked her because goddamn you really wanted to get in the car with this guy.

"Well alrighty then. Hop in?" He finally lit the cigarette and rested his elbow out the window, looking completely and utterly relaxed. He was so laid back that it almost scared you, wondering if he had any ulterior motives for his car ride. But then again, Pussy wouldn't have introduced you with such excitement if she didn't trust the guy.

You nodded in response and opened the car door, giving Pussy a look saying 'Thank you,' as you sat down. The car radio was playing "Bring A Little Lovin'" by Los Bravos and the familiarity of the popular song put any nerves you had to ease. She shut the door behind you from the outside and grinned, picking up another pickle out of the jar and popping it into her mouth. You were about to say something to her through the open window, but Mr. Hawaii was already speeding away and Pussy had busied herself in flipping someone off from the other side of the street.

It had only been two minutes before the man tried to start a conversation, looking back and forth from you to the mirror. "So, how you know Pussy?" He said with a slight southern accent, something you didn't pick up the first time you'd heard him.

"She's just another hippie from Spahn." You said, looking out at the buildings you passed by. Mr. Hawaii drove pretty carelessly.

"Ah." He said, turning his eyes back to the road. Your eyes caught his hand on the stick shift and a bunch of interesting thoughts ran through your head. You knew you probably shouldn't be fancying him in the way you were, but you couldn't help yourself. "Somethin the matter?"

Oh shit. He had caught you staring.

"Oh nothing! Just looking around your nice car." You said, trying to cover up the fact that you were checking him out. He seemed to accept your answer, but you knew deep down that he was aware of your antics. With that sky smile of his and the cigarette between his lips, you knew you were done for the minute you set foot in the vehicle.

Another moment of silence passes as he continues to drive every which way, effortlessly rounding corners and driving through red lights earning a couple of honks and beeps from other cars. Ironically, you felt totally safe.

"So where'ya heading?" He shook his head, letting the glasses fall down into his face and moving his hair in every which way.

"I'm not really in a rush to get anywhere," you said, now anxious that because you didn't have a set destination that you were wasting his time, "You can drop me off here if you have somewhere to be."

He looked at the watch on his wrist and grinned. "Nah, we can keep goin'," he replied.

You played with the hem of your shirt as you stared awkwardly at your outfit. What to do now? It was probably your turn to start the conversation since he had broken the silence the past two times, yet you didn't know what to say. Luckily for you, he speaks again.

"So," he begins, his little western accent kicking in slightly as he speaks. His mouth was drawn into a smile and he leaned over in the seat, staring at you once the two of you reached a red light. "I know a really great ice cream shop a little ways down from here. We could go if you wanted."

"Sure!" You said, hoping it didn't sound too enthusiastic.

...

The car ride wasn't as silent anymore once you had made it to the shoppe. Picking out a strawberry ice cream while your driver licked away at a blueberry one, you held in your astonishment with the beautiful man before you. Sure, Pussy had forced pickles into your mouth and had annoyed you before but goddamn you were thankful that she introduced you to a specimen as fine as Mr. Hawaii.

"That reminds me," you begin, taking another lick of the sweet goodness, "What's your name?"

"Well, what's yours?" He flashes you that brilliant smile once more.

"(Y/N)." You say while watching his body language. Leaning into the table, he gets slightly closer to you and before you know it, he has a hand by your mouth wiping away the straw strawberry.

"I like (Y/N)." He says, laughing as you get all hot and flustered. "My name's Cliff. Cliff Booth."

You realize that you vaguely remember that name from somewhere, although you can't place a finger on it. Mentally shrugging, you see Cliff go for another bite of his ice cream but fail as he ends up with a glob of it on his nose. Just as he's about to wipe it off, you reach out your hand and do it for him. "Allow me, you helped me out the last time." Grinning, you see his cheeks turn a slight red.

"(Y/N), I'm not usually this blunt but uh...you said you weren't in a rush to get anywhere right?"

Wondering where he was possibly going with this, you nod your head in agreement and give him a quizzical expression.

"Well do you want to make out in my car?"

Nearly choking, you stare at him with wide eyes. There's no way someone as handsome and charismatic as him wanted to make out with you. Especially when you first met via hitchhiking. But something told you this was too good of an opportunity to pass up seeing how eager the two of you seemed. You weren't going to let the insecurities get in the way of this one.

"Uh... Yes?" You said with as much enthusiasm as you could muster in the moment, still being somewhat disconnected that this was the reality that you were living in. He takes your hand and leads you back to the vehicle you would always associate with him after this moment and you both ditch what was left of your ice creams in the nearest trash can. Time seemed to slow as you opened up the door on the passenger side and close it, watching as Cliff gets in the driver's seat. He puts a hand along your jaw, leaning you closer to him as he moves his hand to rest along your thigh.

"Are you sure this is okay?" He asks you, noting not only your physical and emotional well-being but also remembering the slightly less average than normal age gap between you.

"Yes, absolutely."

That was all he needed before he leaned in, placing his lips on yours and holding you pressed against his face. He was soft and kind and added very little pressure as he started to loosen up around you and the tight space the car had to offer. It filled you with claustrophobia but the good kind as it felt there was a closeness you wouldn't have been able to reach anywhere else.

"You taste like strawberries and pickles." He says, pulling away from you just to rest his forehead against yours after a while. Sharp deep breaths were heard all throughout the space as you tried to catch your breath, your face a giant smile and your heart a billion butterflies trying to escape your chest all at once. This was where you felt the most at home.

"Well you taste like blueberries and cigarettes, which happens to be my new favorite taste in the world." You say, leaning in for more affection from the stranger but not stranger before you.

...

(A/N): I hope this is okay! Again, I'm so so sorry that it took me this long to finish your beautiful fanfiction request but I honestly loved writing every part of this short story.

With love, Panko Shrimp 💛 🦐

I can't risk it 😥

Bitch Onions is quite possibly the best fanfic I've ever written 🍾🦐

Y o u n g L o v e

Pairing: Tate Langdon X Reader

⚠️ Warnings: none ⚠️

Listen to this song while you read:

You slipped into the cold black sheets that adorned your mattress as you prepared yourself for sleep. It was an autumn night and you were ready to fall asleep listening to the rain patter against the glass of your bedroom window. The red panes cast an eerie glow over everything and made your room illuminated in the color. There was something soft and beautiful about it; something you couldn't put your finger on that made you feel as though you were safe and comfortable. Ironically, you were living in a house full of ghosts.

But they were not bad.

Your head hit the pillow and your eyes met the ceiling. It had only been a month since you've moved into the infamous Murder House, yet you were content. The house may have been old and the people may have been rude, but you found yourself here. And you were grateful.

"Hey."

You felt the bed dip next to you and you moved over to the left side to make room for Tate as you participated in your nightly routine. His hand met your back as your face met his chest, your hands reaching up to play with his hair. This is where you felt the safest. Surrounded by the smell of cigarettes and the cashmere of your boyfriend's sweater. The feeling of a now warm bed and the arms resting delicately over your frame. You wouldn't trade this for the world.

Tate kissed you softly on the head; the rain crashing against your window as the storm's intensity increased. Thunder rolled in and made the quiet house alive with the noise of the sky and the universe above. And amongst it all; you were holding your favorite part of the universe in your arms. His short breaths hitting the top of your head and the sound of his heartbeat resonating through his chest signifying that he was both comfortable and in love.

"Hey. Enjoying the rain?" You softly asked him.

He smiled and let out a short laugh. "Of course I am."

He moved your hair out of your face so that he could look you in the eyes. Tate has done a lot of bad in this world. He wasn't always the sweet and loving person you knew him as today. There was a time when his name brought people fear and pain instead of admiration and peace. You were lucky to know him now; you had gone most of your life thinking that people could never change but here he was. Living proof that people aren't always what they seem.

"I love you so much." He said as his gaze met yours. "And I wouldn't trade you for the world." He planted another kiss to your forehead before smiling down at you once more in his arms. In his mind, that's exactly where you belonged, even though there were times where he didn't believe he deserved to have you there. Times when he was alone and found his thoughts drifting to you as they usually did. Times when he saw you leave the house and remembered that you were very much alive. That you still had things to do and people to meet and experiences to have. He felt so selfish for keeping you to himself sometimes knowing that the house was all he could offer you besides from himself. And it crushed him.

As guilty as he felt, having you here tonight made all of his negative thoughts disperse. What had he been so nervous of? Why had he originally fought against the idea of loving you when he first saw you move in? Why had he tried to avoid every attempt of contact you made? Why did he try to convince you that your feelings for him were invalid because you didn't know the truth? It was only when you did find out and you agreed to continue loving him that he let his walls come crashing down.

You still loved him despite his past and the people he's hurt. You still offered to be here and to hold him on nights like these where the loneliness oftentimes took over. You still wore his sweaters and snuggled with him when he felt anxious. You still danced to Nirvana even though it wasn't your taste in music. You still wanted him. And that was more than he could ever ask for.

"Are you okay?" You asked, reaching up to touch his face.

"I'm absolutely perfect."

Lying there, you both fell asleep holding each other and letting the rain drown out the sound of your hearts beating for young love.

Dating Tyler Durden Would Include...

As requested by: @hyuugasmary

Just some headcannons for dating the world's most chaotic character!

⚠️ Warnings: mentions of death, sexual innuendos⚠️

Tyler Durden is a man who is very in-tune with his feelings. He doesn't deny himself the simpler pleasures of existence and knows where his priorities lie. Therefore, when he figured out he had the hots for you and realized your intellect was something he clicked with, he made you his.

Part of me thinks he was slightly forceful about it. If you had denied his request when he first popped the question, he would've done everything in his power to show you that he could be the person you needed. For example, if you're someone who cares more for physicality in a relationship, he would allow you to watch him kick ass in Fight Club. If you're someone who cares more for personality and intuition, he would focus more on showing you just how intelligent he could be. Either way, he has both looks and smarts so you'd be getting both in the end.

If you had said yes without any hesitation, he would've admired your eagerness and would show it back to you in abundance.

So now, how would you fit into your boyfriend's overarching hatred of the patriarchy and his plans for mass destruction? Simple. You would just be there to offer him support through his ideology and provide him with affection while he makes nitroglycerin. He loves your imagination and your intensity when it comes to arson and sex.

Fight Club is no different; you appreciate the way Lou's Tavern quickly becomes a safe haven for you and the boys, all of whom treat you with utmost respect. I mean, they have to considering the fact that you're their leader's love interest. They allow you to watch from outside of the circle to engage you in the activity, but will never allow you to fight since they know Tyler wouldn't allow a single scratch on your body....unless it came from him.

Tyler wants someone to be on his level of bad-assery. Sure, he wants to protect you and keep you safe but he lets you start any fight or argument just as long as he was right by your side to finish it for you. He wants someone with an internal flame and a passion for watching the world burn.

While you're staying with him on Paper Street in the early days of Project Mayhem, the Space Monkeys instantly refer to you as Second in Command. If you identify as female, you're usually met with "Mrs. Durden" whereas if you identify as a male or somewhere in between, you're met with "Mr. Durden #2."

Tyler lets you harass the newcomers on the porch saying that "you'd teach them a better lesson than I could since they'd be staring at you anyways." But still offers to beat anyone up if they glance at you in a suggestive way.

Nights with Tyler are spent hunched over pots of the latest soap mix; gagging at the smell of the liposuction bags as you pull them out from the fridge. Tyler plays his music which is something with a sharper edge to it since he is very much into the punk genre, but I also have a feeling he would also play a lot of Depeche Mode.

On the nights where he didn't desire to blow things up in the morning, he would stay with you in his room, wrapping you up in his arms and playing with your hair while you fell asleep. He would never be cold to you but he would spend a lot of time on his "homework assignments" and phoning in on the other clubs set up in different states. He would tell you what was on his mind as he thought of it, but the nights where he felt really comfortable, he would let his anxieties and insecurities show just a little bit more than usual since he trusts you not to judge him. Which you don't.

During the day, you would usually watch him in the basement of Lou's Tavern as he prepared for another club session later that evening. You would also tag along with him when he worked in the theatre while he spliced single frames of pornography into family films. You usually picked out the lewd images since the two of you would crack up when kids started to cry.

Bonus!

Patching up Tyler's wounds after an intense session of Fight Club, scolding him for going too hard and overexerting himself.

Wearing Tyler's infamous coffee mug printed robe in the mornings.

Dancing with Tyler to no music in corridors of fully populated buildings for absolutely no reason other than self amusement.

Calling your boyfriend Mr. Durden once on accident since it's all you heard on a daily basis and him laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

Both of you hating pet names but you call each other "babe." He will occasionally call you "love" but only in the bedroom or times where there's no one else around. It's not that he's embarrassed, he just likes the exclusivity.

Having him tell you about his scars while you trace over them on his bare skin, admiring every inch of the beautiful man before you.

One time you got into a fight with Angel Face (Jared Leto's character) and he pushed you. Tyler beat his face in so hard that the blonde had to use his $300 of personal burial money a bit sooner than he anticipated.

Tyler will teach his "life lessons" when you're around but he would never dream of putting you in danger. His near-life experiences are only for the times he knows you're sound asleep safe at home in his bedroom.

Tyler is just a little bit more cautious about how much trouble he really gets into, knowing that he can't die when he has you to come back to every night.

And last but not least...

Tyler wears your clothes. You saw how he dressed in the movie with his Goodwill attire? Yeah. He doesn't care much for fashion or practicality so he will 100% walk to his job as a banquet waiter in your cutoff pink shirt with a shrimp on it.

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting! I had a lot of fun with this one! >:)

💛🦐