Note: This is my first fic, hope you enjoy, and constructive reviews are always appreciated. Hm, I probably use too many quotes in this, oh well.

Disclaimer: I don't own "Fight Club."

Pairing: Narrator/Tyler, slash, so don't read if you're not into this sort of thing.

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That's right Tyler. I am not a beautiful or unique snowflake. I am the same decaying organic matter as everyone else.

My fingers twist around in the back of my mouth, trying to pry out the molar that's decided its time is up. Or maybe it's the guy who pounded my face in tonight who made that decision. Either way, it keeps leaking whatever fluids come after the blood has stopped, that weird, salty stuff that you just know is going to turn into an infection if you leave the tooth alone. Or maybe it's because you won't. It comes out with a sick, suctioning sound, with that alliteration and everything. I drop it into the sink, watch it circle the drain. It's like Tyler said the first time I played dentist on my own mouth; "Hey, even the Mona Lisa's falling apart." It disappears over the lip of the drain.

I am Jack's missing pieces. How much of me have I lost since joining Fight Club? The blood all over the basement of Lou's Bar, the drops that must've gotten spattered onto other guy's clothes, the splotches on all the shreds of tissue paper I've used to tamp the bleeding. And the sweat, the gobs of spit. I bet I could fill pools with it. But it's the teeth I miss. Either those or the piece of me Tyler took.

Does he even know he has it? This unnamed chunk of my psyche that must've been the thing saying, "Go ahead, be content. Conform and consume." But now that complacence is gone, and instead, there's always a desperate, driving need to do exactly as Tyler says.

I'm still standing at the sink, eyes staring into the scummy black drain hole when I hear Tyler coming up the stairs. I listen for a second pair of footsteps. God, I hope Marla's not with him.

Tyler passes me on the way to the toilet. No Marla. "Don't talk about her," Tyler warns over his shoulder, he's got his pants down, taking a piss. "What? I—" There's no point in arguing, I shut my mouth, decide to stay facing the mirror, hands on the edge of the sink.

"No, but you were thinking about saying something," Tyler turns to face me, zipping up his fly, "You made a promise. You were about to break it."

I let out an exasperated noise, "Whatever, Tyler." I start to work on getting the blood out of the bristles of my toothbrush, anything to keep me from looking at him, and letting him know that I'm afraid of what he might say or do next. Then he'd just ask me what the fifth rule of Fight Club is. As if I need a reminder.

Tyler's hands suddenly appear on the rim of the sink, trapping me between it and his body. I try to turn around, get out, get away, but he's got me pinned. My voice comes out higher than I'd like it to, there's a squeak of panic in it, "Tyler! What the fuck are you doing?!"

His eyes lock on mine in the mirror, his gaze is steady, controlled… predatory. "What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Think?" His mouth forms each word carefully, like he doesn't think I'll understand him.

He holds my gaze pointedly, even as he tilts his head towards the left side of my neck and slowly licks up until his tongue is inside my ear. Then he pulls back a little, he's got that same look on his face, the one he had before he dumped lye on the back of my hand. I can't help it, I'm shaking a little, there's no escape. All I can do is watch. Tyler's lips are against my ear, his voice is soft, "I know you're glad she's not here. And. I know you're jealous of her."

This gets a rise out of me—that's Tyler's intention. My arms are still free, so I try to elbow Tyler in the ribs, a hand goes up to grab at his neck, anything to make him let me go. He just smiles patiently before restraining my flailing arms; his reaction timing has always been better than mine. I stop struggling because he's got my arms pinned to my sides in something that might've resembled an embrace, but isn't. My ribs are screaming, I can barely breathe. Tyler backs up a step, dragging me with him. Now the sink isn't digging into my waist, I catch my expression in the mirror: confusion. I'd have thought that Tyler would want me as incapacitated as possible, but then again, it's obvious he knows I'm not putting up much of fight.

His right hand begins to move down my torso while he starts talking again, "Don't worry," his lips quirk a bit, then he intones, like he's quoting something, "She's not a threat to you." I'm distracted from what he says next—Tyler's warm hand is palming my cock through my worn-out boxers. My breath hitches and I can feel heat rushing down, somehow his other hand has found its way up my undershirt and is making slow, circular motions over my chest. I am Jack's aching need.

My head falls back against Tyler's shoulder, his nails make claw marks down my torso, causing my hips to jerk up involuntarily into his other hand. I hear a chuckle, which draws my attention to the mirror. Tyler laps at my jaw-line as my half-lidded reflection stares back at the two of us. Then he looks up into the mirror too, and licks his lips before planting a kiss on my temple, "This," he whispers, "is real fucking." He pulls my boxers down abruptly, "Hands against the wall."

I obey, placing my hands on either side of the mirror, bits of stucco flake under my fingers. I hear Tyler yank his pants down—I don't think he even owns underwear—then he spits into his palm, groaning as he wipes it over his cock. This is going to hurt. He grabs hold of my hips and that's the only warning I have before he shoves it into me. Pain. Blackness ignites in my optic nerves and explodes before my vision. I don't even have the capacity to scream. Tyler thrusts in and out, again and again, blood slicks his hard-on.

Suddenly Tyler stops. "Open your eyes," his voice is rough. It takes a second for my sight to return, and when it does, I see my own flushed face, Tyler's wild eyes, wet lips. "Remember this," it's a command. His calloused hand wraps around my burning member as he slams into me again, but this time he hits something in me that destroys every thought, and all I am is sensation. I moan, maybe, probably, I don't know, it doesn't matter. All I'm aware of is Tyler's hand pumping my cock in sync with the movement of his hips. Our breath comes in unsteady pants, the sound of the two of us fucking sends a flash of recognition—the wet packing noises of beating another man into a bloody pulp. But this, this is better.

The wall creaks under the strain, more chunks of stucco drop. Movements get faster, jerkier, my hips move of their own accord, desperate for more friction. Sweat drips from Tyler's forehead onto my back and a strangled groan escapes his mouth. The sound of him enjoying this is too much. I can't stop myself from releasing into Tyler's hand, back arching, muscles spasming "Oh fuck!" my scream cuts through the house. Time is suspended and Tyler lets out a yell as he cums deep inside me. I'm drowning in pleasure. He wraps his arms around my stomach, leaning heavily against me for a few seconds before pulling out, wiping semen from his hand, then pulling my boxers back up and then his pants. He grins at our reflections, "Next time, I want you to fuck me as hard as you can." A slap on the ass is the last thing I get as he walks out of the room.

Now I've got another bodily fluid to dump into a pool.

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