#I dot think ill ever make anything else for this fandom but at the same time I think this is enough

[ntntpad-art]

Just something I needed to get off my chest.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 2

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village

Rating: T for language and mild medical drama

Warnings: Typical Vampire shenanigans

Genre: Hurt + comfort

Summary: Bela is somewhat unprepared to deal with a soulmate who has no clue about her condition, her family, or any of the village's secrets. Thankfully, her sister Cassandra is more than willing to be a bad example. Also there's some fluff.

Notes: For reference, each of my soulmate stories take place in their own contained timeline, since they each involve different types of soulmates. So in this one, Cass doesn't currently have a soulmate.

Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow

2: Tangled Strands

A gentle humming fills the space around you, as fingers slowly run through your hair. As far as you can tell you had fallen back asleep, for several hours, and you were just now waking back up. No longer holding you down, your soulmate is curled up next to you. There’s still a needle in your arm, much to your irritation, but now you can finally see what it’s connected to: An IV for a transfusion. Explains why I’m feeling so much better than before, you think. Then you’re turning your head to the other side, eager to finally get a good look at your soulmate. Instantly you’re blushing, tongue tying itself into a knot, because wow are you lucky.

“Feeling any better?” She asked, as soon as your gaze met hers. You try to stutter out a confirmation, but you’re too distracted by the soft curve of her smile to speak, and barely even manage a nod. That beautiful smile grows wider in response. “Good. I couldn’t stand the thought of you suffering more, after what you’ve already been through.” Now her smile fades, and she looks away for a few moments. Watching it makes your heart ache. So you swallow the lump in your throat, willing yourself to relax, before trying a little comforting of your own.

“I am safe now, am I not? Moreso, we have too much to talk about for us to dwell on the ill circumstances of our introduction. Let us cherish this time, in respite, with our hearts open wide to one another,” you said, donning your softest smile. Somehow your words fulfill their purpose, and your soulmate is once again grinning. Slowly she leans forward to rest her forehead against yours. Then she’s speaking, voice as smooth as the sheets you lay on.

“You are right, of course. I simply wish I could have saved you sooner,” she replied, tone betraying the sadness that her expression otherwise hid. Before you can protest, she continues talking, and you soon forget all about your qualms. “To think I don’t even know your name yet… nor you mine, I suppose. Let’s remedy that, yes? I am Bela Dimitrescu.” Something about her last name feels familiar to you, but not to the point of clear recognition. Instead of inquiring, you return her favor, giving her your own name. She repeats it back a few times, letting the syllables roll off her tongue, and you feel your heart skip a few beats. “A lovely name for a lovely soul, perfectly paired.”

A pause, followed by Bela reaching out to examine your IV. Following her gaze, you turn to the metal hook adjacent to the bed, where a blood bag hangs. Only a few drops remain inside. Just as when you first awoke, Bela gives a soft hum, then rises into a sitting position. Your first instinct is to copy the motion, and you’re relieved when (this time) she doesn’t push you back down. Both of you quietly inch your hands closer until they’re laid on top of each other.

“I wish I knew more about medicine, but unfortunately my family is more experienced in the creation of wounds than the treatment of them,” Bela said, scowling. Confused, you tilt your head at a slight angle, watching her with interest. Am I supposed to know who she’s referring to? My memories of the past couple days are still hazy, you think. “Do… do you remember how you ended up in the dungeon? I know you wanted to speak of happier things, and we can, soon. It’s just… Knowing how you arrived here may help me deal with the consequences of freeing you. Mother will be dreadfully upset that I’ve interrupted a draining, even if we are soulmates.”

“Wait, are you saying…? The intimidating giantess who strung me up and attempted to bleed me dry… is your mother?” You asked, jaw nearly dropping to the floor. This was an unexpected development, for sure.

“You didn’t know?” Bela replied, eyes going wide for a moment. Clearly she wouldn’t have said anything if she realized you weren’t already aware. Suddenly the tension in the room is palpable, with an uncomfortable silence overtaking the two of you. In the moment, you cannot even bring yourself to look at Bela, too stunned by this new knowledge. Eventually she breaks the silence, voice sounding unsure for once. “I realize that this is a lot to take in, if you need time to process it, I… I can go. But you need to understand that our situation is far more complicated than it might appear. We cannot survive without the blood of others- it is what sustains us when nothing else can.”

Now you’re staring at her like she’s crazy, and she’s standing up, moving to the other side of the room. She draws back a curtain, gazing out into the snow covered hills. Every muscle in your body is urging you to run while she’s distracted. Thread of fate be damned, this went far beyond anything you had ever imagined having to deal with. You come so close to ripping the IV right out of your arm. But a gentle tug on your soul string makes you pause, remembering all the times this bond gave you hope in dark times. Had she felt the same way, all these years? What had she gone through, in this absurd castle, on the very edges of civilization? You pull on the red thread, feeling a wave of composure wash over you.

“It appears there is much I need to learn. But is that not the very nature of our connection? We know, simply, that we are bound to each other, though we know not what shapes our souls take so that we might put them together, nor even what roles we must play. I cannot say that I understand your plight, my dear, but I will try, as is my obligation, and my honor,” you said, wishing you could hold her, and cursing your IV. As soon as the first word leaves your mouth, Bela is turning around, watching you with a bittersweet expression. Once you’re done she’s moving closer, as if reading your mind, extending a hand to cup your cheek. Then she leans forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. “Oh, how I have longed for this- to be with you, to get to know you.”

“As did I,” she murmured. You can’t help but lean into her touch, closing your eyes and enjoying the moment. “Perhaps I should introduce you to my family? I imagine you’ll be needing breakfast anyway, and bringing human food back to my quarters would raise more suspicion than I’d like.” Well, the moment couldn’t last forever, could it?

“Only if you promise that your mother won’t suspend me by my wrists again. Or by any other part of me. Shall we simply put suspension off the table altogether?” You asked, half teasing. To be entirely honest, you were equally worried about Bela’s sisters. Well, the people you had heard other prisoners whispering about, who were the daughters of the giantess, and by connecting a few dots were also, presumably, Bela’s sisters. Apparently they preferred to play with their food. Unless, of course, Bela was one of the daughters you had heard about, and would have easily torn into you if not for your connection. Let’s not dwell on that concept, you think, glad to be distracted by your soulmate.

“I will not let anyone harm you anymore, my beloved. My mother would not stand so firmly in the way of my happiness,” Bela reassured, though you detected a hint of uncertainty in her tone. Still, there wasn’t much you could do other than trust her. “Now, let me take care of your bandages, then we’ll head downstairs…”

---------------------------------

“Who the fuck is this?” An unfamiliar voice asked, as you meandered down the corridor, arm around Bela for support. As soon as she hears the person speak, your soulmate is freezing in place, casting a worried glance over her shoulder. When you turn as well, you spot someone dressed almost identically to Bela. However, the woman wears a yellow pendant, as opposed to a red one, and her hair is a dark brown. It feels safe to assume that she’s one of the sisters you’ve heard about. Which understandably makes you nervous, to the point where you almost want to hide behind Bela. Instead, you stand tall, attempting to seem unfazed by either her presence or her vulgarity.

“Mind your manners, Cassandra,” Bela hissed, taking more of an aggressive stance than you had anticipated. “This, dear sister, is my soulmate. And if you even think about harming them, or getting in our way, I will tear you apart.” While you’re downright shocked at the intensity of Bela’s statement, her sister doesn’t look at all impressed, and eyes you with minimal interest. Better than looking at you with hatred, right? Apparently not, as Bela moves to stand between the two of you, eyes narrowed. There’s a clear stiffness in her posture that leaves you anxious. Cassandra seems to notice it as well, and laughs, before taking a few steps in your direction. Then your soulmate mimics the movement, forcing you to do so as well.

“They’re human,” Cassandra snapped, pausing to sniff the air and scowl. “Here I thought your soulmate would have to be special, if they’re to compare to your ego. You’re disappointed, aren’t you? Having to settle for this.” With that she shifts, flesh writhing, making your stomach churn as you watch her disintegrate into a cloud of… flies? What the hell is wrong with this family? Can Bela do that too? I hope not, you think. Soon you’re pulled from your thoughts, however, as the swarm circles around you, single insects occasionally surging forward to cut at your skin. But Bela is grabbing you by the sleeve and tugging you to her chest, moving against a wall so that her body shielded your own. Your eyes clamp shut as you shake in her arms. When the buzzing stops, it is quickly replaced with cruel laughter. “That fragile, hmm? I can’t wait to see what mother thinks. See you at breakfast, sister!”

Then the two of you are alone, still pressed against the wall, staying still until the sound of footsteps fade. You’re stunned, unsure of how to react. The fact that a few drops of blood roll down your cheek only makes things worse. Still, Bela managed to prevent you from getting too hurt, and the few wounds on your body are negligible. Ever filled with gratitude, you hold her close as you try to stutter out a few sentences.

“Is she always this hostile, or am I truly not what you had expected? No, pay me no mind, it hardly matters. Thank you for protecting me,” you whispered. In response, Bela gives you a little squeeze, then pulls back enough to wipe the blood from your face. There’s a hint of something odd in her expression, which you interpret to be related to her apparent ‘need for blood’. Thankfully, she is in perfect control, and does not frenzy the same way you had read about fictional vampires doing. But she does hesitate, words dying on her tongue, like there are a thousand things she wants to say, and no words to say them with. “It’s alright, my dear. Let’s just go to breakfast, like we planned, and hope your sister behaves better when supervised.”

Bela nods, quickly, before taking your hand in her own. Whatever awaited you in the dining room, the two of you would be ready. Hopefully.

[meetthetank]

Beast Code Chapter 1: The Twilit City

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Category: F/M Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationship: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), Original YoRHa Characters (NieR: Automata) Additional Tags: Transformation, gothic horror, Android Lycanthropy...sort of, Inspired by Bloodborne (Video Game), Everyday i get closer to just writing a Bloodborne AU

Summary:  Break the vicious cycle with tooth and claw. Unleash the beast within and destroy your chains. But the strength to defy fate comes at a grave cost. Will it be enough, little doll? Or will you succumb to despair once more?

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31546982

The assignment to the Twilight Belt comes as a shock to 2B and 9S. Rarely, if ever, are YorHa units sent to this border of perpetual daylight and eternal night. Conditions are always reported as unstable by the infrequent scans by one of the other satellite bases that orbit earth, too dangerous to deploy scanners by themselves, and too depleted of resources for the Council to care about. The mystery surrounding the strip of permanent twilight goads curious operators and scanners alike to comb through files searching for nuggets of data, image or video files, anything they can get their hands on. All but a few pieces of data reveal tantalizing scraps and clues to the puzzle of the Sunset Belt. Photographs of dead machines with toothy, gaping maws that split their spherical heads in two and minerals warped in peculiar shapes. According to one of the situation reports from a scanner that had been sent there, there was an eerie, foreboding feeling about the place; that strange and frightening sounds would echo across the landscape and that he felt close to a forbidden barrier that separated this world from another. Though the file and its contents are now treated as a human “ghost story”, many androids, including 2B and 9S, believe at least some portion of the tale.

9S relays this story to 2B as they descend to Earth’s surface, his chattering easing some of 2B’s trepidation. The pair had fallen into an easy rhythm over the course of several assignments to Earth, most of which involved retrieving data from lost servers buried in rubble or clearing out an area of machine lifeforms. Despite her outwardly cold demeanor, 9S wormed his way past all of her defenses, forming a strong, solid relationship with the battler android. His voice is a centering point for her and assists in ignoring the gut churning possibilities of what could be waiting for them below.

“...What do you think, 2B?” his voice crackles from the comms system inside her flight unit.

“Hm?” she shifts her head to the side, glancing at his jet black flight unit cruising beside hers.

“What do you think made the target go rogue?”

She bites her lower lip. There are a thousand possible answers as to why a normally punctual, efficient YorHa Battle unit would suddenly stop responding to command and not checking in at required times. Only a few of those options were machine lifeform related complications.

“We’ll find out when we arrive, 9S.” she says curtly, eager to shut down the conversation, “Focus on landing protocol.”

He sighs, a sound of annoyance and frustration, “Yeah, yeah.”

“One affirmation will-”

“Fiiiiiiiine.”

The final phase of their descent is spent in silence. They pass through the Earth’s atmosphere in streaks of fire and light towards the border of day and night, and a continent that humans called Europe. Even as they descend, the outlines of ancient, massive structures come into view. Both androids are used to the thick vegetation eating away at the remains of human structures, but here the trees are gnarled, twisted, and void of leaves or blossoms. Their branches reach to the crimson sky and permanently setting sun like bony hands in prayer or a stag’s antlers. As 2B and 9S set their flight units down a few miles away from the outskirts of a sprawling, ancient city. It amazes 9S, as he exits his own unit, that the buildings are in such good condition considering the millenia that have passed it by. Great spires of countless cathedrals pierce the heavens, casting an ominous, looming shadow over the otherwise barren landscape. A well worn cobblestone road, lined with rusted iron lighting fixtures long since burnt out, leads into the city proper. 

2B and 9S stand at the precipice of this ancient beast of stone and metal in awe of its size, and terrified of what might lurk within. A hoarse bird’s caw, jolts the androids back into awareness, 2B drawing her katana and prepares for battle.

“Heh,” 9S laughs, trying to calm them both down, “Just a raven, 2B.”

“What?”

“A large black bird. Harmless to us.” He doesn’t tell her about the chill he gets down his spine as he watches the corvid gaze down at them with beady black eyes, or how humans saw these birds as ill omens or prophets of death.

They begin the trek into the forgotten city. 2B doesn’t put Virtuous Contract away.

Pod 042 alerts 2B to the presence of an unidentifiable android signal, marking the location on both hers and 9S’ map. Since the area has yet to be properly mapped out by satellite imagery (as inaccurate as that process is) only a vague street layout is available through a very low power scan. They have no way of judging what might block their path to the target beyond featureless grey masses depicting buildings, rubble, large trees, or whatever else may lie in wait. Their target, represented by a small orange dot on the map, appears to be near the city’s main gate and inside one of the larger buildings. 2B refuses to admit it to herself, but she’s relieved to not have to delve too far into this labyrinthine city.

“I’ve never seen the sky this color…” 9S muses as he stares up, transfixed by the blood red sky and orange sun hanging low.

Though hauntingly beautiful, she won’t deny, 2B keeps her gaze fixed on the wrought iron gate ahead of them. The heavens disturb her; they are the color of death. Of war. And the sun is… wrong. 

She snaps at 9S to keep focused as they approach the gate to the city. Though scans indicate there are no machine lifeforms, or any lifeforms beyond their target, she’s learned from countless combat assignments to not rely totally on what the support unit reports. She’s encountered and seen machines that mask themselves from scans or camouflage themselves in the environment, and in a place like this anything could be hiding in the shadows just outside of view. 

The iron gate lies ajar, worn from millennia of neglect. Clouds of rust particles burst from the hinges as 2B shoves it open further, the metal grinding against itself with a horrible grating shriek. The sound makes them both wince, and they slip through the partially opened gate as soon as they can.

Standing inside the city gates, 9S can’t shake the uneasy feeling that claws at the back of his mind. The great ancient human structures loom above them, and though he knows that the buildings themselves aren’t alive, he can’t shake the notion that he’s being watched by them. The windows are dark, but when he passes by the light of the setting sun reflects off of them, giving them the illusion of intelligence. Suddenly, 9S feels as if he’s inside a cave, or locked in a room with no exit. Suddenly… He finds it hard to breathe. 9S tugs at the collar of his jacket as if it's tightening around his throat. His synthetic lungs fill with air as much as he can take, then he releases it moments later. It calms him, if only a little.

2B’s gaze is fixed ahead on the building Pod 042 marked as the rogue android’s hiding place. It’s a much smaller structure than the others that choke the sky, but its reach stretches across the streets like a tree’s roots. Judging by the well preserved signs that hang from crumbled doors it looked to have multiple uses. 9S commands his own Pod to run scans on the words and symbols for later analysis. 

“The target’s in here…” 2B murmurs, holding her free hand up in a tight fist, signaling 9S to stop behind her.

This portion of the sprawling building is similar in structure to the massive spires above. It has the same pointed section on the roof, but much smaller in scale, and similar symbols decorate the exterior. A cross, winged humans, various flowering plants, and a number of human figures bowing their heads or supplicating themselves to the winged humans.

“This must have been a place of worship,” 9S muses aloud.

“Focus.”

He nods. Typically 9S argues with his partner about the necessity for recording data like this, or excuse his wandering attention to his designation as a scanner, but he knows the danger within the house of worship, or rather, he doesn’t know. Neither one of them knows what this rouge android is capable of. 

2B presses her hand against the wooden doors to the chapel and pushes it open as slowly as possible. It groans in protest, dust falls from its hinges and frame, but it swings inward. A rush of warm air washes over them carrying the scent of stale incense and dead machines. Clouds of smoke billow out of the doorway, rising into the red sky like twisted fingers. 2B enters first, sliding in sword arm first. She motions for 9S to wait for a moment, then commands Pod 042 to switch on its flashlight. 

9S peeks his head around the door, keeping a few paces behind his partner. He switches on his own Pod’s flashlight to illuminate more of the pitch black interior. Long wooden benches are pushed up against the walls, opening up the center space. Ornate candle holders, rotting books, charred incense burners, and pieces of artwork among other things 9S has no name for are scattered across the ground, each one a priceless human artifact that could fuel hours of study. Yet it’s not these that hold 9S’ attention, but the statue at the far back of the chapel, and the figure kneeling in front of it.

It looks to be made of some kind of marble, a pristine white stone that has been sheltered from time and the elements. The subject is another winged human, this one wearing splendid armor and wielding a great spear. Beneath them, a grotesque, writhing beast bares its teeth and claws at the warrior as the blade pierces its throat. 9S has never seen anything like it in person, and very few records of these kinds of sculptures remain at all. It’s both horrific and beautiful at once. He wonders what the human who made this saw that inspired it. Did creatures like these roam the world during their time?

2B steps in front of him, Virtuous Contract at the ready. The figure in front of the statue rises to their feet as the Pod’s flashlights center on them. A cloak made of feathers conceals most of their form but they appear to be a female android, perhaps a YorHa model. Though, if that were the case it would have been in the mission briefing. That is, unless... 

The android turns her head to the side, glaring at the pair over her shoulder.

“So, Command sent the wolves, did they?” She asks, a distinct rumble in her voice.

2B raises her blade and keeps her gaze steady. She hears 9S also ready his weapon, the golden katana Cruel Oath. 

Lazily, the android turns her body to face them. Her clothes confirm her origins; there’s no mistaking the sharp white embellishments and black velvet of a YorHa uniform; however each piece is ripped, tattered, and stitched together with other scraps of clothing or… animal hide. 

The rouge android drags the blade of a bloodied top heavy sword between her fingers, cleaning the gore from it. “It doesn’t matter, dog.” Her eyes shine with a strange, purplish light that refracts around her collapsed, twisted pupils. “You will fall like the rest.”

It isn’t until the rogue android rushes forward, sword raised, that 2B sees the corpses of YorHa units piled in front of the statue, and the blood that soaks it.

She dashes backward and shoves the bewildered 9S out of harm's way. The android’s bloodied sword crashes into the stonework floor, sending thousands of years of dust into the air. 2B lunges, her katana poised to take advantage of the enemy’s opening, but she sidesteps much quicker than anticipated. The rogue’s fist slams into 2B’s chest, distorting her internal sensors and throwing her off balance. 2B watches in horror as the rogue drives her sword towards her, but a golden flash knocks the blade away. 

“2B!” 9S shouts, brandishing Cruel Oath. “Are you okay?!”

She shakes her head as if it would clear the internal errors from her vision, but she assumes her battle stance next to her partner. “Fine.”

Both androids launch into an assault on the rogue, attacking in tandem. Despite 2B’s scrambled sensors, she and 9S have an undeniable synergy that comes with countless missions. 2B forces the rogue back with singular, powerful blows, while 9S jabs at any opening he can reach from the sides. However, even with their combined might the rogue deflects and maneuvers out of the way of each attack as casually as one would flick away an insect or step around a puddle. She looks to be expending no effort at all as she dances around the two YorHa. Anger and frustration rises in 2B, culminating in a harsh growl. She mimics the rogue’s tactic from earlier, rushing forward and feinting with a crushing overhead strike that is easily dodged but allows no time for recovery. She slams her fist into the rogue android’s face, sending her stumbling backwards. Before 9S can dive in with a horizontal slash the rogue dashes backward, putting crucial distance between her and her hunters.

The rogue android lowers her gaze at the pair, sizing them up, taking stock of their abilities and assessing their weaknesses. 2B watches her eyes dart back and forth between her and 9S, then linger on 9S. Sensing the rogue’s motive and deciding at that moment that the outcome is unacceptable, 2B dives in front of the strike meant for 9S. The rogue’s sword slices cleanly through her chest, coating the rogue’s clothes in splatters of fresh blood. The battler falls to her knees, clutching the wound with one hand while supporting herself on her sword. 

“No!!” 9S screams and lunges at their target. “2B!!”

“Hm. Interesting.” The rogue murmurs, easily deflecting the scanner’s wild strikes.

2B watches through blurred, error obscured vision as 9S drives the rogue back. If she didn’t know any better it’d seem that he has the upper hand, but the rogue’s eyes glint in a way 2B recognizes all too well. She’s baiting him. 

9S slams his blade against the rogue’s, pressing all of his power and weight into the strike. It’s the moment she had been waiting for. Suddenly she pulls back, letting 9S’ weight fall forward and forcing him off balance. She kicks his legs out from under him then shoves him into the floor. 9S lets out a startled, choked gasp as his weight and the force of the rogue’s attack cracks the stone floor, sending up more clouds of dust into the air. 

Clutching her chest, 2B roars and charges at the target with blinding speed. When she sees the smirk twisting the rogue’s lips and the pointed iron rod in her grip, it’s too late. With a flash of her crowfeather cape, the android meets 2B’s charge with her own, the skewer aimed at her wounded chest. 2B tries to divert her body away, but the momentum is too strong. It’s just enough to roll her body to the side so that the spike pierces clean through her shoulder, clear of critical systems. 

The pain, however, is agonizing. 

It’s different from the injuries 2B has suffered in the past. Countless machine swords, spears, and axes have torn through her body and of course all of those injuries hurt, but they were manageable. When the iron bar rips through layers of cloth, skin, carbon plating and frame, and synthetic muscle fibers it's as if her shoulder has been set on fire. She clenches her teeth, muffling a scream to a low growl. Her hand wraps around the skewer, close to the wound itself. Instinct tells her to tear it out immediately, but she knows that without treatment doing so would only worsen her condition. 2B doesn’t get to make that decision, unfortunately. The rogue grabs hold of the end of the iron rod and twists it side to side, driving it further into 2B’s shoulder. 

2B sinks to her knees and tries to hold back the cries of agony. Her injured arm stops responding to commands and lies limp and useless against her side. She swats at the rogue android with her weakening other arm, desperate to escape from this torment. Her strength fades along with her vision; it becomes impossible to even hold herself upright.

She must not fall, she must not… she must stay strong, she must stay alive.

She will not allow him to die… 

Not for the sake of a monster like her….

9S leaps into the fight as the rogue android prepares a killing blow. A flurry of Pod fire, sword strikes, and furious movement all blur together into a white, gold, and black haze. She fights to stay awake, she fights to stand, but her body begins to shut down non-vital systems and conserve as much energy as she can. First her tactile sensors switch off, leaving her in a numbing cold. Then her hearing, quickly followed by sight. A warning flashes across the last vestiges of her vision that she is entering a forced shutdown state, and despite her audio sensors being deactivated, she swears she hears 9S cry out for her.

….

….

…….

………

……….

……..

….

2B opens her eyes to the blinding, sterile white of hacking space. This itself is not shocking. Oftentimes she would run diagnostics on her critical systems when in a forced shutdown, both to manage critical systems and to keep herself busy. 

But now, in the distance, there is an anomaly.

A single figure, black as night, approaches her. It’s shape is human up till its head, which sports pointed ears and a long snout like that of a dog or wolf. It looms over her and leaves a black, fragmented mist in its wake. But most troubling of all in this world of stark monochrome is its eye…. or what 2B believes is an eye. In the center of its lupine face is a strange geometric sigil that emits a highly saturated purple light. It feels… malicious. The thought itself is insane to 2B. Light cannot possess intent or emotions, and yet… 

“This is an unacceptable outcome.” A voice booms in her head. Somehow she knows it is the entity speaking. 

2B opens her mouth to respond, but instead of words, thick crimson fluid leaks from her throat.

“You will die. He will die. You cannot abide by this.”

She shakes her head. Droplets of blood fall to the pristine floor. The entity is right. If she has any strength left, 9S will live.

“Stand, little doll,” the entity commands, “Stand and unleash y-...Be——…..d.”

The entity’s voice becomes warped and distorted with audio glitches, yet 2B understands its words with frightening clarity.

“Take-......l-...s within.” 

It holds a hand out to her, offering her something she can’t quite make out. The shape in its palm is amorphous, colorless, and flickers with lines of jumbled code. Somehow, she knows this piece of herself in intimate detail, yet cannot remember what this does or what its relation to the entity is. 

But it promises strength enough to save 9S.

2B reaches out and takes the code in her hand… 

….

………….

…………………………

………………………………………………………..

Her eyes snap open. A current of raw energy runs through her body, electrifying every nerve and sensor within her. She shakes with each pulse of her circulatory apparatus as a new, terrifying strength takes hold. 2B rises to her feet, flexing her hands, legs, arms. One arm’s movement is restricted by the iron bar still stuck in her shoulder. She tears it out with little effort, casting it to the floor. The rattling, hollow sound echoes against the stone chapel. 

The rogue’s head snaps up from her combat with 9S, who is barely able to hold his sword. Something in her expression changes. She kicks 9S and points her sword at 2B, her arms shaking in a way they had not before. 

2B lunges forward, her sword raised high. The rogue raises her own sword to deflect, but 2B’s newfound strength breaks her guard with one mighty strike. With blinding speed 2B slices through the rogue android’s body. Her crowfeather cape flutters to the floor, soon followed by her arm. The rouge android staggers back, an expression of shock and horror twisting her face. 2B drives her sword through the rogue’s chest, forcing her back further. Instead of drawing her sword back for another strike, a terrifying feeling takes over 2B. She leaves the sword inside the rogue’s chest and tackles her to the ground. With her bare hands and horrible strength, 2B delivers blow after blow to the android’s chest, shoulder, arms, head, and abdomen. Each piece is reduced to a pulp of flesh and metal one after the next until nothing remains but scrap. 

2B throws her head back as she straddles her victim, a horrible, twisted grin plastered across her face and arms outstretched. Her body feels wrong… horribly wrong, yet for the first time since she can remember, her chest is light. She gazes up at the morbid sculpture with an emotion she can’t quite describe. It isn’t the same as a combat high, she is intimately familiar with that heady rush. This is something akin to… euphoria. A laugh begins to bubble up in her throat-

“2B?”

She’s forced back to reality by the 9S’ voice, right beside her ear. Suddenly, the terrible strength from moments before fades from her body. Her arms go limp by her sides, and it becomes hard to sit upright. Even breathing is laborious. 9S wraps his arms around her shoulders and tugs her gently, laying her head and shoulders against his chest.

“I’ve got you. We… I think we’re safe.” His breathing is uneven and ragged, much like 2B’s. He swivels his head back and forth, searching for any lingering threats as quickly as possible. “Pod, run a scan for machine lifeform or android signals in the immediate area,” he commands.

Pod 153 is silent for a moment, then emits a grating, hideous garbled noise. Words try to break through the audio distortions but neither 2B or 9S is confident it isn’t simply what they wish to hear. 

“Alert:” Pod 042 begins, “Interference from unknown source is preventing accurate scans of the surrounding area. Proposal: Relocate to an elevated aaaaaaa…..a-r-....rrr……”

The same audio distortions come from 042, mingling with 153’s until they both cut off, leaving the androids in silence. “Pod?” 9S calls to the floating support unit. “Pod, respond. ... Pod?”

2B mutters weakly to her own Pod, but it's the same as 9S’. No response at all.

9S pulls up a small data screen, map data, from what 2B can tell. Or… where map data would be. Instead, there’s a blank, grey screen and a little message box that reads No Data. 

“What the-...” 9S whispers, flipping through different screens at a frantic pace. “Where-... There’s… all the data is gone!” he shouts, “No map, no signal scans… I can’t even connect to the Bunker…”

“We’re stranded…” 2B muses aloud.

Silence passes between them. Only the ominous wind passing through ancient wood and stone reminds them that the world hasn’t stopped moving around them. 

“We should move to a higher area, like your Pod said.” 9S suggests, rising to his feet. “Can you stand?”

When 9S offers a hand out to her, 2B takes it without thinking. His touch, even through his thick gloves, calms the beast pacing inside her. 

Beast? 

…..What does that mean?

2B rises to her feet, her hands lingering in 9S’ for a moment longer than she normally would. There’s a fog in her head that distorts her equilibrium. She leans on 9S for support, to which he wraps his arm around her waist and positions himself under her shoulder.

“I got you.” He says with a small smile.

2B feels just a bit lighter.

They exit the chapel and make for higher ground. 9S rationalizes that if they simply continue up stairs or inclines they would find a space clear of whatever is interfering with the Pod’s satellite connections. Perhaps it’s the fog that creeps across the cobblestone streets or the odd angle of the sun (not that it makes sense to 9S or 2B but they have to consider all possibilities), or perhaps it’s something beyond that. There’s a strange, eerie feeling about this city that neither can explain, and neither want to talk about. As if there’s a presence constantly watching over them.

They climb the stairs of one of the massive sprawling religious buildings. From what 9S assesses, it seems to have one of the tallest spires in the city. Only a larger time-keeping building looming in the distance is larger. If he could reach the top he should be far enough above whatever is interfering with the Pods. When he relays his plan to 2B who only nods, her eyes unfocused and breathing shallow, worry starts to lace its icy fingers through his chest. Something is wrong with her. 

9S’ first instinct is to prepare a data backup with the bunker, but the Pods are both out of commission for the time being. His next is to contact command and ask how they should proceed, to the same conclusion. Climbing the spire is the only course of action he can take, but first, he has to make sure 2B is safe.

He leads her through the castle of worship, now supporting most of her weight. That… frightening show of strength must have exhausted her power supply. There are plenty of well preserved wooden benches that stretch across half of the main worship chambers, at least it would be more comfortable than the stone floors. Under watch by the countless grotesque statues that sit in the rafters, 9S helps 2B onto a long bench, laying her on her back. She hisses and grinds her teeth as she moves. She must have sustained internal damage from that fight… 

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, “I’m going to go to the roof to get a clear signal.”

All 2B gives in response is a slow nod. He lingers by her side before leaving, a moment longer than needed.

Now alone in this spacious, hollow, human structure, 2B takes stock of her condition. There’s pain in her shoulders, particularly her right arm. Her legs are tight, most locking up from the strain of the previous battle and trekking up to her current location. Her back, as well, is tense beyond discomfort. It spasms and jolts if she breathes too hard. At least these are injury related, explainable. The black wolfman with purple eyes lingering in the corners of her vision, is not. 

She sees the entity in the shadows, lurking just out of view. 9S walks right past it, not even sparing a glance at the tall, gangly creature. It doesn’t respond to 9S either, instead focusing on 2B and only 2B. 

The sight of it makes her stomach turn. She tries to close her eyes, but the glowing, purple sigil is burned into her vision. With a groan she digs her knuckles into her eyelids as if she could carve the hallucination out of the air. Defeated, 2B lets her arms down once more. One hand touches the cool stone floor, decorated with elegant mosaics, and she suddenly realizes how warm she is. According to the warning messages displayed in her vision her body temperature is ten degrees above normal levels. 

“Pod,” she groans, forcing herself to sit up, “retrieve water from storage-”

“Report: Mail notification received from Command.”

The monotone voice of her support unit shocks her. Pod 042 had been silent up until now due to whatever interference was in the area, and now it’s getting messages from Command? 9S must have established a connection from the roof.

Her heart sinks. If that’s the case he would contact her. The first thing she’d hear would be his voice.

She opens the message, dreading its contents.

Subject has accessed confidential records. Eliminate the Target.

At the top of the spire 9S takes in the view of the entire city, the wind rushing through his hair. It’s breathtaking. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. The sky dyes the entire urban sprawl red, as well as the mountains on the horizon. His pulse races as he drinks in the terrifying awe of what the ancient humans were capable of, hoping to remember every last detail of the buildings, the streets, and the magnificent sculptures that litter the city. It’s all so well preserved that he feels as though a human might appear, walking down the cobblestone streets as if nothing were wrong. As if they didn’t go extinct. 

Reluctantly he draws his attention away from the splendor of humanity’s ruins, and shakes away the creeping emptiness that comes with that line of thought. He can’t think about that now. He and 2B are stranded. 9S produces a holographic terminal that mirrors Pod 153’s settings menu. Pod’s diagnostics on his end show buildup of foreign material in and around certain receivers, something that 9S expects, but that is only part of the problem. It seems that the atmosphere in this place is clogged with various chemicals and particles that make satellite transmissions more difficult. Considering all of the decaying metal and stone it’s no wonder that there’s so much particulate in the air. Once Pod’s receivers are clear 9S has Pod 153 hover just above the spire’s tip. It stays suspended in the air, the small light on the top of its body turning on and off at regular intervals.

“Connection established.” Pod 153 announces moments later. “Proposal: Contact the Bunker for support.”

“Great! Set up a relay connection for Pod 042 as well.”

“Affirmative.”

9S opens a data screen laden with information and begins composing his message to Operator 21O. With an unreliable connection a live call would be too risky, a simple text based message won’t be distorted or cut out. He records a brief message, attaches a transcription of his words, and sends it to the Bunker. Hopefully 21O would send something quickly-

A flash of movement in the streets below catches his eye. Something running on all fours... “Pod… run a scan for machine lifeforms…” He says, a chill creeping up his spine.

Pod 153 floats down to his side. “Alert: Multiple machine lifeforms detected. Proposal: Regroup with Unit 2B.”

“But-” 

That thing didn’t look like a machine…

“Alert: Anomalous signal detect-”

Pod 153’s words are drowned by a horrific, mournful howl that reverberates through the entire building. 9S clings to the ornate decorations on the spire and covers his ears with his free hand. His body runs cold. He’s never heard a sound like that before. Nothing the machines make comes close to that. The pain and sorrow in that noise is something that no animal could produce either. That left only one possibility…

Another roar wracks the building from within… 

2B clutches the sides of her head, the data screen long dismissed.

No…

Her chest strains under her panicked breaths. 

No.

She hadn’t been watching him. She hadn’t been keeping track of his questions and behavior…

No… No.

And now she…

No no no no no .

She has to…

no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.

NO.

She will not do this. Not again. 

Her skin feels… tight. 

She will fight off every single goddamn android Command sends until there are none left but her and him. She will not be a part of this cycle again. Her hands curl into fists as a surge rushes through her body, alighting her nerves with energy. With power.

A shadow moves across the stone floor of the castle of worship. The entity, its form inky black, its sigil emitting a baleful purple light, glides towards her. It bathes her in the highly saturated light, a light not even shielding her eyes can diffuse. It bores into her core, it peers into her mind. It speaks into her mind.

“You will not allow this to happen.” Its voice echoes off the hollow shell of where humans once sought God. “But strength comes at a price, little doll.”

The entity plunges its claws into her chest. Heat explodes throughout her body to the point where she fears she might self-destruct. The boiling tendrils of this ethereal monster sink into her artificial heart and her Black Box. Something activates, or… unlocks, and suddenly she feels… confined. Her body… it’s too small….

“Time to pay the toll…”

It rips its claws, now writhing shadow-like whips, out of her chest, then vanishes. 2B’s vision is obscured, but not by warnings and error messages, by blood. Red veins pulse on the edges of her sight in time with her heart. Each beat sends waves of heat, electricity, and agony through her body.

“Stand, little doll. Stand, and unleash your beasthood.”

A scream forms in 2B’s throat, but it cannot break through her swelling throat and gritted teeth. She takes frantic, shallow breaths. Her limbs shake, her fingernails dig into the stonework floor. It’s so hot… 

2B rolls onto the floor and rips away her tight uniform. Far too tight. Parts of her dress were already beginning to tear as her muscles swell. Blood trickles from various wounds where her skin has split, revealing the thick, synthetic muscle cords that lie beneath. Her blindfold is next, but removing it does not help her vision. One eye is unfocused, blurring all of her vision.

She drags her fingernails across her body and lets out a deep, animal snarl when she tears into her own flesh. Looking down at her hands, she recoils at the sight of long, black claws that split her fingers down the center. Skin falls from them in long strips to the point where the mechanical joints of her hands are exposed.

Something snaps inside her, somewhere in her upper back. She howls in agony, in sorrow, as her spine lengthens, twists, and grows too fast for her body to maintain. Her insides are compacted and grind against each other, sending sickening vibrations throughout her. Her throat finally opens up, allowing her to breathe. She watches as puffs of steam escape her mouth into the warm twilight air. 

Another crack and something explodes out of her lower back. Her balance is thrown off and she falls forward, smashing her face into stone. Another snarl, this one combined with the gnashing of fangs. Her mouth warps, splitting out of her face into a muzzle. Eyes follow, one swelling to fit its now spacious socket while the other stunts and refuses to change. She claws at the peeling skin of whatever she can reach, spilling more of her blood in the process. Everything hurts, everything itches, but oh god the power feels so good.

A growth springs from above her unchanged eye, weighing her head down and hunching her body over. She supports herself with one enormous hand, the other scooping the wires and tubing that spills out of her torn stomach and forcing them back inside her abdominal cavity. The twisting extension of her spine, a tail, thuds against the floor and counters the weight of her head. 

2B shakes the mane of bloodied, white hair from her functioning eye, turns her head to the sky, and roars.

[syilcawrites]

a/n: hello earth and fe3h fandom, I wrote something for sylvgridbigbang (twitter) and had the pleasure to collab with artist Bringmemisery (twitter), so make sure to go check out their wonderful art!! It’s my first time writing this ship but I hope you enjoy it hoho!!

summary: Sylvain is reckless, and Ingrid isn’t okay with that

tags: hurt/comfort, post-timeskip, post war, angst with a happy ending

ao3

daffodils

Ingrid had never been outside by the pond at night. Despite the lack of presence at the Monastery for the past five years, she could still spot some fishes swimming about, gathering around her as if they were waiting for her to drop food.

She hummed as she eyed a dead daffodil floating across the surface of the pond water toward her, and as it grew closer, the little fishes tried to nip at it.

"Hm, did a bandit actually feed you this entire time or something?" she murmured curiously as she dropped bits and pieces of bread into the water. Her lips tilted up into a lopsided smile as she watched them greedily snap up at the surface to get the crumbs.

Ingrid chewed absentmindedly at the rest of her meal, as she let out a small sigh. It was the last night before they left the Monastery to march toward Enbarr, to end the war once and for all.

Once and for all…

She stared down at her plate of food, stopping mid-chew. It was one of her favorites—pheasant roast with berry sauce—and even though she had it several times over the past five years, she missed eating it here, at the Monastery.

Five years.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she inhaled and exhaled slowly—the crisp night air cooled down the panic that had sprung in her chest.

Five years since she died and was reborn anew—if she could meet herself from five years ago, what would she tell herself?

Her eyes flit over to the window, where she could see the shadows of her laughing friends inside the Mess Hall—she caught a glimpse of the Professor passing by the door, whispering to someone that Ingrid couldn't see.

Among the chaos and dissent in Faerghus, she had only seen her classmates in whispers: in glimpses of broken windows, in the imprint of footsteps against the soft snow, in the memories of flickering candlelights.

Her eyes misted over, but she blinked it away as she stared back down at the fishes.

"We'll be fine," she whispered to herself, grabbing a pheasant leg. She ripped a hefty piece out of it with her teeth. She needed to eat, she needed energy, if she was going to protect them. She'll make up for all those lost lives, and this time… this time no one else will die.

"If you eat that fast you're gonna choke, you know."

Ingrid jumped at his voice, almost dropping the leg into the pond water.

She glared at him.

"Sylvain," she grumbled, promptly dropping it back onto the plate as she reached for her napkin. "You know you shouldn't sneak up on me while I'm eating."

He laughed heartily as he took a seat next to her, his smile reaching from ear to ear. "I forgot how engrossed you get when you're eating."

She clicked her tongue in feigned annoyance as she wiped her hands. "Why are you out here?"

"Why arent you inside with everyone else?" He replied back without missing a beat. Typical—answering her question with another question. "The Professor has been shooting worried glances at you ever since the start of dinner." He pat his stomach in satisfaction with such a comfortable, content smile that Ingrid wanted to siphon some of his relaxed, carefree aura to herself too.

Because with each passing second the knot in her gut had been tightening, ever since this morning.

"I just needed some fresh air," Ingrid said simply. She leaned back on her hands and looked up at the stars. It would've been comfortable, if she didn't feel his undivided attention on her. He made no effort to hide that he was actively staring at her.

"What is it?" Ingrid glanced at him. He's been like this a lot, ever since they reunited. He just… stared at her for minutes without saying anything sometimes. And when she would point it out, he would blink and that weird, far-off gaze of his would disappear. She always wondered how the inner cogs in his head worked, and at some point, she thought she had figured it out. And then her effort went down the drain along with those five years apart.

"It's just nice that we can talk like this again," he said with a shrug.

Their last moments together were still fresh in her mind—being torn apart from one another by the onslaught of Imperial troops. She had never seen his brown eyes, usually filled with laughter, look so dark and desperate as his hand lost grip on her arm. She knew he had always held his grief in a locked box, but in that moment, it had spilled out for her to see in full view, and she could do nothing.

After the Battle of Garreg Mach, she came back to the Monastery at night, and cried in relief when she couldn't find his body—and none of her other classmate's bodies—amongst the corpses that lay rotting.

"If you look at me with such wistful eyes I might bite you."

Ingrid blinked, unfazed. "Are you really trying to practice your flirting techniques on me right now? Don't tell me you're going to try to flirt your way through Enbarr?" she scoffed, punching his arm. "You really have gotten weirder over the past five years."

"Hm," he said, tilting his head at her as if he was in deep thought. "Really?"

"I would've thought your flirting skills would've improved after all this time, but when you asked me about my make-up—"

"Okay, okay, I've heard enough!" Sylvain chanted as he placed a hand over her mouth. "It's been a long time since I last saw you!"

Ingrid laughed as she pulled his hand away. "That explains nothing—"

"I just wanted to know if the guy you liked deserved your—"

"You're deluding yourself if you think I'm wearing make-up for some man," Ingrid scoffed, looking at his hand. The closest thing she had to a romantic partner was her lance, which was dutifully by her side every day for as long as she could remember.

Since Glenn.

Ingrid tightened her hold on Sylvain's hand.

"Don't be careless tomorrow," Ingrid demanded quietly, her eyebrows knitting together as she brushed her thumbs over the callouses dotting his skin. There were a lot more than she remembered.

"You should worry about yourself."

"I appreciate the concern," she said, raising her eyes to meet his gaze. "But you and I both know that I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

He frowned at her.

"I don't intend to drop dead tomorrow," she said with an easy smile, releasing a hand to reach for her cup of wine. When she raised it to offer some to him, he was still frowning. "I can protect myself, and I will protect you too." She thought her words would've reassured him, but instead, it seemed to… do the exact opposite. He looked away from her.

"You've always been like that Ingrid," he muttered with a twinge of annoyance. "Always thinking about others. Haven't you learned to take care of yourself these past five years?" His words were sharp—she knew him well enough that his words bore no ill intention toward her, but it bothered her all the same.

"Of course I have." Ingrid dropped his hand and pressed her palm against her chest. "I always have. Why do you think I've always trained relentlessly for?" She always put herself first so that… so that she could protect everyone. Protect him.

He didn't look at her, and simply glared at the fishes swimming around them as if it was their fault.

She didn't want to see another familiar face in the aftermath of destruction—no, she couldn't. She would never let that happen, never let that future ever come into the light.

"Then for my sake, stay where I can see you tomorrow." His hand hovered over her cheek, but instead, he placed it on her shoulder instead, squeezing. "When we reach Enbarr, stick by me. Please."

The light from the Mess Hall flickered against the side of his face as he stared at her.

"Okay," she whispered, nodding. "I will."

——————————————————————

The tip of the lance hissed passed her head, grazing her ear, as she ducked just mere seconds before it swiped the spot where she had just been. She swung the butt of her own lance toward the solider, causing him to rear back just enough for Sylvain to swoop in. He knocked the mounted soldier off his horse with the Lance of Ruin, the blade piercing through the cavalier as he fell. Sylvain's shoulders heaved up and down, with blood dripping down his armor, splattering the silver a dull red.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his breath coming out short and fast.

Ingrid gave a stiff nod, exhaling as she regained her position. "Thanks," she said breathily, shaking her head. She had to focus.

She knew it would be bad in Enbarr, especially breaking into the heart of it, but the amount of enemies spilling toward them seemed endless.

The Professor stood close by them, swinging her sword smoothly, as if it were an extension of her own arm. But despite her natural talent, Ingrid could spot beads of sweat rolling down her skin—a sight she had never witnessed before, not until now. The Imperial Army had begun slowly closing in on them, spilling from an entrance across the throne, advancing at a pace that was hard to keep up with.

"Everyone, stay close!" The Professor's strong voice cut clear through the cries and shouts of the battle. A surge of energy bloomed inside Ingrid—she would fight until the very end, alongside everyone.

"They keep coming from underground—someone needs to hold off the area or else well be pinned over here until they finally wipe us out," Dimitri grunted, sending another ten soldiers flying through the air with the might of his lance.

They needed to be quick, concise. Ingrid knew they wouldn't hold out for long, not like this.

"Watch my back!" Ingrid launched toward the opening on her wyvern without a moment's hesitation. It was a simple solution—she could get there quicker than the others, and could dodge the fastest among them.

"Ingrid!"

Before she could fly away though, a hand roughly grabbed her shoulder, whipping her back. The wyvern halted as Ingrid tightened her grip on the strap of the harness before she could fall off the sadle.

"You can't just charge in there!" Sylvain said, his voice hoarse and dry. "We stick together."

Ingrid tensed, guilt bloomed inside her like an ugly disease.

"There's too many in the path, you'll be—"

"If there's one thing I'm confident in, it's protecting you." Despite the blood running down his cheek, the fatigue that ran through his veins, he still offered her that familiar sweet, reassuring smile of his.

"Do not act rashly! Felix and I will take the rear—Dedue, lead the front. Sylvain and Ingrid, make sure you defend the blindsides!" the Professor shouted, slicing her way toward them. "The rest of you must try to take out the black mage to the right, and stay close to one another!"

The Blue Lions shouted in unison, a battle cry loud enough to shake the roots of Enbarr itself, as they spilled into position.

Ingrid had stopped keeping track of how many men and women had fallen from them—one thought surged her forward and kept the bloodlust boiling within her from running thin: to keep the ones dear to her safe. She would not let any one of their blood run dry, no matter what.

The one to break her from her fervent stupor were the cries from Edelgard—the closer they got to her, the more Ingrid could make out the anguished desperation of her large, mishappen figure. Pain tinged at her heart to see one of her former peers turn into something so grotesque.

Edelgard's black eyes pierced straight at them, cracking the courage that Ingrid had felt was indomitable mere seconds ago.

"Something is coming toward us!" Dedue bellowed, straining his shield up from the onslaught of enemies.

The Professor slew down the last enemy who had lingered behind them and flitted her head toward the direction Dedue was pointed at—her normally blank eyes steeled at the sight of Edelgard extending her elongated arm hurling forward.

Ingrid grit her teeth as she halted her wyvern—

Before any of them had time to register what Edelgard was doing, she had swung her dark arm forward—it sped toward them faster than they could blink.

Unable to track its path, Dedue braced himself, but it whizzed past the top of his head, in direct line of—

Ingrid's breath hitched in her throat as she leaned back instinctively, seeing the dark, condensed orb aimed directly at her.

The air around her sparked, as if electricity had filled the air, and the ends of her hair stood as a shout of despair bubbled from her throat. She lifted her hand to her face in a vain attempt to block it, biting down hard enough for her lips to bleed as her body tensed.

In a flash, the darkness was replaced by a fiery orange all too familiar, Sylvain—

The orb collided with him, flinging him off his horse. He barreled straight into Ingrid as she tumbled off her wyvern from the impact. She instinctively wrapped her arms around him, breaking his fall as they plummeted toward the ground.

Her breath knocked out of her as her back slammed against the marble floor, her mind swimming, unable to register what had just happened. Her blood rushed toward her ears—roaring, muting whatever the Professor was shouting about.

She gasped as she realized her arms were still tightly wrapped around Sylvain's' limp body, heavy against her own. She was half expecting him to suddenly sit up, to smile at her as he made some ludicrous joke about being on top of her, but he didn't.

Ingrid grunted as she rolled over, switching positions. Her hand was placed on either side of his face as she stared down at him, fear running through her veins as she helplessly watched the blood drip down his face.

Her mouth moved, but she couldn't hear her voice. Dark spots swam in her vision as she shook him again and again, screaming until her voice bled his name.

——————————————————————

Daffodils remind Ingrid of the sun—bright and hard to stare at for too long. It was perfect for Sylvain. She grabbed a handful that was scattered around the field, dutifully blowing away the dirt from the bright yellow petals.

"Need help?"

Ingrid turned around to see the Professor holding out her hand, staring at Ingrid with those bright green eyes. Ever since the Professor came back, she was different in various ways that Ingrid couldn't put into words, but her attentiveness to her student's well-being hadn't changed.

"Ah, Professor…" Ingrid shuffled nervously on her feet. "Um—" Before Ingrid could finish, she took the flowers out of her hand.

"You should be resting," she said, her voice almost chiding. She flicked away the specks of dirt with focused precision. "You're not fully healed yet either."

"This is nothing." Ingrid raised her cast up briefly, sighing as she glanced down at it. It was more bothersome than anything. A broken arm shouldn't be something she should take lightly, but... staying outside proved better for her mental state.

"Ingrid," the Professor said softly, catching her attention. Ingrid looked up at her, startled by how focused the Professor was on her. "You shouldn't hold it in."

"I'm not holding anything in," Ingrid said with a stiff smile, keeping her voice light. "I'm just… I think he'll like these flowers." Maybe it'll wake him up. He hates the color yellow, so he'll wake up and tell her how awful she was at choosing which flowers to give to him.

"Come on." The Professor handed the daffodils back to her. "He'll want to see you when he wakes up."

Ingrid cracked a smile.

As they trailed down the hill, she stared down at the face of the daffodils—they seemed to be smiling back at her, swaying softly in the light breeze. Ingrid lifted her gaze to the far-off castle. Even from the distance, it stood proud and tall. It was weird, setting foot in the same space where the four of them—Ingrid, Sylvain, Dimitri, Felix—once chased one another. She always wondered if those days would come back; carefree and content.

She tightened her grip on the stem of the daffodils, clutching on to it as if it were her own lifeline.

"Will you eat with us for dinner tonight?" the Professor asked hopefully as they neared the entrance to the castle.

Ingrid nodded, already heading for the direction to Sylvain's room. "It's been a while, hasn't it?" Ever since Sylvain had fallen into a coma, she spent most of her time next to him. "I'll come this time, after I give him the flowers." Ingrid cast one last smile over to her before she disappeared, taking long strides to the infirmary room.

She opened the door.

Dark and silent.

Quiet.

His soft breathing was almost inaudible, even when she stood still and tried to concentrate on it.

Before Ingrid sat on the chair next to his bed—which was practically her own bed at that point—she lit the candle on the table and grabbed the ribbon that she had left lying on the table next to her. She pursed her lips as she tried to wrap it around the stem of the daffodils—it wasn't the first time she'd done this, but for some reason, her fingers kept fumbling.

"Twist… one loop… flip…" Ingrid murmured to herself, recounting what Annette had told her. "Hm." She lifted the bundle of flowers up, frowning at how deformed the bow looked.

"It looks awful," a hoarse voice next to her whispered.

"As if you can do any better," Ingrid muttered back, glancing at the bed with a glare. She placed it back down on her lap and began undoing the ribbon.

"Give it to me." A hand weakly tapped on her arm, prompting her.

"I—" Ingrid paused, staring down at his hands.

She blinked once, twice, before locking eyes with him.

He looked terrible—as pale as snow, lips chapped, purple under his eyes—and his full concentration was trained on the daffodils in her hands.

"You're awake—" Ingrid swallowed, her voice shaking. "You're awake?" She stood up so fast the chair clattered to the ground, along with the daffodils.

"Hey—those are my favorite flowers!" He attempted to sit up, but groaned instead.

"Sylvain!" Ingrid scolded, helping him sit up. He smiled cheekily at her, and it was so full of fatigue that she almost burst into tears.

"I thought you hated yellow," Ingrid choked out, her hands trembling as she brushed his disheveled bangs from his eyes.

He hummed as he thought—he reached out to her, brushing the ends of her hair with the tip of his fingers. "No, it's been my favorite color for a while now."

[starlightinhumanform]

The Art of Love: Chapter 13

Fandom: She Ra (2018)

Ship: Glimadora 

Summary: Glimmer finally answers Adora’s text and gets to spend some quality Mom-Daughter time with Angella because they deserve it 😤

Warnings (for this chapter): Some descriptions of anxious thoughts (please tell me if anything needs to be added)

Genre: High School AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Rivals/Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff

A/N: Updates have really slowed down on this fic simply due to the current conditions of the world but I’m very excited for the future of this fic and I appreciate your continued support through all the ups and downs 🖤🖤 Love you all 🖤✨

Ao3    The Art of Love Masterpost    Fic Masterpost    Fic Request Info

Hey I was wondering how you were? Lmao I sound like a grandma but really. You seemed kinda out of it today and I wanted to make sure you were doing alright (it’s probably cuz I kept you up working on the dumb project all night lol) so yeah just wanted to check in cuz we didn’t really get to talk today :)

The first thing that struck Glimmer about the text was the fact that Adora had written her an entire paragraph. The second thing that hit her was that the entire said paragraph was all basically to ask how she was. It was silly and overly concerned and so very Adora. Nobody else would do something so sweet and manage to make it so ridiculous at that same time.

A wave of relief washed over Glimmer. So Adora wasn’t asking about Elizabeth and hadn’t mentioned anything about Glimmer’s crush. Glimmer could remain safe in her little bubble as long as Adora stayed within her own lines of ignorance. That would only last so long, however. For all she knew, that bubble had already popped.

Glimmer realized with a start that it was quite possible that Adora was simply leading up to that point, too polite to confront her right off the bat. Just wanted to check in... we didn’t really get to talk today.

Either Adora actually was just asking her what was up, or she wanted to “talk” to her. Glimmer wasn’t sure which option was more terrifying. Given how their past conversations had gone, Glimmer had absolutely no confidence in her ability to talk to anyone, let alone to someone she was crushing on- let alone to Adora.

She chewed her lip for a second, unsure of what to do. If Adora was still clueless and she started confessing to something Adora was completely unaware of, it would be worse than Elizabeth confessing it for her.

She thought of Adora, chilling at home, probably working away on some assignment like the nerd that she was. Glimmer started giggling at the idea of Adora pausing for a moment because she got a text and it was just Glimmer screaming: YES I HAVE A MAJOR CRUSH ON YOU EVERYTHING ELIZABETH SAID WAS TRUE ALSO WOULD YOU LIKE TO RUN AWAY WITH ME AND START A SHEEP FARM IN THE NETHERLANDS???

Yeah, ok so that option was not going to happen. She should probably just play it cool, like a normal person texting their normal friend. Her brain felt the need to interject: Yeah right- “normal person,“ that’s you. The little voice continued: “Normal friend”- that’s a funny way to put it.

Suddenly another wave hit Glimmer, and this one felt like an entire brick wall crumbing on top of her. Except it was good. It felt soft and warm and made Glimmer feel like maybe, just maybe, things would be ok. The sensation spread up from her toes and erupted in her chest until it reached the very tips of her fingers. It made her stretch her legs out and reach backwards with her arms until they were fully extended because it filled her heart up so much, she couldn’t contain it all in her small form.

Because even if Glimmer wasn’t as close to Adora as she wanted, they were friends. At least, that’s where things were hopefully pointing to. Was it perfect? No. Was it everything Glimmer wanted and more? Obviously not. But was it good? God, yes. It was something Glimmer had never thought was possible; it was something she had been actively trying not to pursue out of the conviction that it would all go wrong and she would get hurt. But this didn’t hurt. Not in the slightest.

Riding on the euphoria, she typed out a quick response:

I’m good. And yeah sorry I was pretty tired today lol Weaver has destroyed my sleep schedule. Also you sound like you ACTUALLY want me to talk to you?? How absolutely scandalous???

Glimmer let her feet swing back and forth, heels kicking against the side of her mattress. Tiny little bubbles of hope kept rising up towards her head because this was almost- very, nearly maybe- a step forward. A step towards being a little more than friends with Adora. Ha, this isn’t a step towards anything. You’re not going to get anywhere with her. Getting this high off the ground just means it’ll hurt more when this cloud dissolves under your feet. Because that’s exactly what this is- you’re letting yourself rely on cotton candy daydreams and sooner or later they’re going to dissolve beneath you.

Glimmer shook the negative thoughts off and switched conversations to scroll through the memes Bow had sent her. They were undoubtedly funny but she hardly registered the images; she had other things to be happy about.

Bow was probably going to annoy her about this later but Glimmer couldn’t resist the urge to gush:

BOW BOW BOW

SHE’S TEXTING ME

LIKE A FRIEND

ASKING ME HOW I AM

OOO???

Glimmer grinned at Bow’s quick response but she knew the real reason she was smiling.

I knoooooooow. I so happy

So you still think she hates you?

Her grin faltered for a moment before returning, slightly weaker than it had been before.

BLEH why’d you have to bring that upppppp

And I don’t know? Maybe she doesn’t hate me but she doesn’t have any reason NOT to

Glimmer i love you but you can be SO DENSE sometimes

She DOES have a reason not to hate you?? Maybe it’s possible that she thinks you’re smart and funny and talented? I don’t know tho- I’m just throwing stuff out here. Also she might actually LIKE you maybe as a friend,,, maybe more ;)

Glimmer snorted at Bow’s ranting. He was sweet and a far better friend than she could ever rationalize deserving. But he was high off his own optimistic ideals.

There is definitely nothing “more” I don’t even think we’re officially friends yet. More like uuuuhh acquaintances with benefits

OHOHO???

Glimmer immediately regretted her word choice, laughing as she buried her face in her hands.

NOT LIKE THAT. PERVERT.

She waited for Bow’s answer, laughing quietly at their ridiculous conversation. As the little dots marched to indicate Bow’s typing, a buzz and flag altered Glimmer that Adora had responded.

She texted back gotta go

Switching once more to her and Adora’s conversation, the first thing Glimmer found herself marveling at was her own stupidity. The giddy feeling that had been all-consuming now faded away as she reread her message. It sounded clingy and overly confident. It definitely felt worthy of the cringe the shuddered through her body and made her want to curl up in a ball. What had her euphoric-high brain been trying to do? Flirt? If so, she had desperately failed.

Still in embarrassed pain, she moved on to Adora’s message:

How many times do I have to tell you YES I want to talk to you.

But there was something in particular I wanted to talk to you about

The second part made Glimmer’s blood run cold. Adora continued typing but she didn’t dare respond, too frozen to type. All the stars that had been floating in her eyes crashed around her. So she did know. So Glimmer’s worst fears were reality. And there was nothing she could do about it now. After an eternity, Adora’s message finally jumped onto Glimmer’s screen.

It’s about this morning. Well and today. And last night. Kinda. I just feel like I might have made you uncomfortable last night, like I was being really clingy so then this morning I felt really awkward and I’m sorry if I came off as cold or anything. And then in class you seemed all tense and I was just wondering if I had crossed some lines or anything?

Glimmer could have sworn she heard a record scratch in her head, nearly getting whiplash from reading Adora’s message. The situation kept switching so quickly; as soon as she got one foot on the rug, it would be pulled out from under her and she would look down and it turn out she had been standing on raft in the middle of the ocean the entire time.

She squinted to reread the message one more time and gave a breathy laugh when she had determined she had read it correctly the first time. Adora was the one that thought she had crossed lines? It was ridiculous. It seemed so unrealistic, Glimmer nearly slipped into her original thinking of Adora. If only she hadn’t been forced to see that nuclear core that made up that crazy blonde. That would have made everything so much easier. She could just brush the whole message as a ploy to gain sympathy. But know she had to know better. Now, she had to acknowledge that Adora was being completely sincere.

Glimmer had no idea how to respond. Adora was being completely open, completely vulnerable; and it was terrifying. It was almost worse than when she was wrapped up in doubt. It was the difference between not knowing why someone was ill and knowing exactly what was wrong- all while being expected to find the solution. Except Glimmer wasn’t a doctor. She had no cure for the situation.

She forced confidence, pushing away all her question just long enough to respond.

Are you going to make a habit of sending me essays?

She immediately regretted how cold she sounded and hurriedly began trying to remedy the conversation.

I’m sorry but really you’re fine. I didn’t mind you... if I came across as stiff or weird about anything it’s just because I’m not really used to people getting that close that quickly

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the complete truth either, but it was close enough for now.

oh god I’m really sorry

What no?? I just said it was fine??

Still... that really sounds like I made you uncomfortable

Glimmer let out a sigh. She never thought she’d find herself trying to convince someone she was becoming increasingly infatuated with that it was ok to be close with her. It sounded strange when she thought about, but there was something endearing about how Adora barreled her way into Glimmer’s life and was now trying tiptoe out of the china shop.

I was a little surprised that’s all. You’re all good

Really? Even after I said I would kill weaver in class today?? You didn’t think that was weird??!

No lmao again I was a bit surprised but I mostly thought it was funny

You sure about that

Yep 100%

If you were in person right now you would hear me go hmmmmmmm

Glimmer snorted quietly out of her nose; Adora made her laugh at the stupidest things. She was entirely convinced that she would never be as funny as Adora, but she hoped she could bring her at least just a little bit of happiness.

Yeah well if you were in person right now you would see me roll my eyes and yell at you to stop being dumb

A shallow pain spread across Glimmer’s chest, a coat of lead paint over her heart; milky indigo weighing her down. If only Adora’s casual jokes were a reality. If only she were face to face with Adora. If only Adora’s face was inches from her own and quickly coming closer. Glimmer’s hands ached to run through Adora’s hair and her ears cried to hear Adora’s voice. She didn’t want to look anywhere if it wasn’t into the storm of Adora’s eyes. Her throat was hoarse from emotion but she would sing if it meant she could bear witness once more to the way Adora wove melodies out of the air.

Glimmer sat up as if startled from a dream. This- this, oh no. Oh shit. This has gone much too far. You should have stopped this before it even started. How did you even let this happen?

Glimmer had know Adora was beautiful since she saw her on the first day of school. Ignoring her and twisting her into some villain had made it a simple thing to deal with, but she couldn’t ignore the iceberg once her Titanic had begun sinking. And now she was officially sunk, water far above her head and no hope of survival to be seen.

There was a sliver of Glimmer- some crazy little fraction of her mind that had to scream to be heard- that just wanted to rip the band aid off. She wanted to stop giving all the power to other people. If someone was going to tell Adora that Glimmer had hopelessly fallen for her, it might as well come from the source.

She looked down at her phone, suddenly aware that Adora had responded.

Hey I gotta go I just wanted to check that we were ok! I’m glad you don’t mind me lmao

Glimmer took a deep breath, making an attempt to gather her thoughts. It was a hopeless effort, her mind fragmented across the room. Did Adora really worry that Glimmer “minded” her? Was there in way to describe the burning that struck in her chest whenever Adora gave her one of those soft grins- that dull ache that constricted her heart and seeped through her ribs. How could she ever reassure Adora she could never be bothersome when every one of her actions struck Glimmer with wonder? How could she even attempt to say such a thing with revealing everything, admitting her mind’s greatest fear? How could she try to convince Adora of something that she couldn’t even admit to herself.

Because the answer was quite simple. She loved Adora. Deeply and painfully. But no matter how perfect Adora was, it still felt dangerous to love her. To Glimmer, it was just as good as putting a target on her back. It was like saying HEY EVERYONE!! I’M ALREADY WEIRD AND SO SO DIFFERENT FROM YOU AND NOW I’M PUTTING THAT ON DISPLAY!

Glimmer was being pulled apart. She knew she shouldn’t show her affection to Adora. But she knew just as deeply and far more truly that she loved Adora- and keeping that inside of her would break her heart.

She threw or phone and thoughts (momentarily) aside, flopping backwards on her bed. Her body bounced slightly from the force of throwing herself down and it only added to the sensation that her head was floating away. There was just too much to tackle right now. Glimmer could tell from the growing pressure on her head that if she kept picking it all apart, the pressure would quickly shift; it would tighten around her lungs, making it hard to breathe and squeezing what she couldn’t force down to pour down her face.

Glimmer took a deep breath, through her nose and out her mouth- once, twice, three times, she lost count as she focused solely on the rhythm she was creating. These past few days had been chaotic and exhausting and good part of that had been created by her. She was tired. Her brain felt heavy as gravity retook control over her head. In fact, her whole body felt heavy; she was sinking deeper into her mattress with every exhale.

——————————————————————

When Glimmer woke up, the last hues of dusk just barely reached her window. It was obvious that the night had happily creeped onwards while she had slept. She must have been out for at least an hour.

Down the hall, she could hear voices of some TV show her mom was watching as they flickered out of the speakers.

Glimmer opened her door, peaking around the frame and looking down the hall. She could just see the top of her mother’s pastel hair above the top of the couch. In front of her, what looked like Hell’s Kitchen was playing. Glimmer was somewhat amazed that she had been able to sleep through Gordon Ramsey’s yelling.

She walked towards the living room and sat down next to Angella on the couch. She was asleep, hair mussed up in the back as she leaned up against the cushions. Glimmer felt a wave of affection wash over her. Whatever happened at school, whatever happened with Adora- hell, whatever happened within herself- she would always love her mother. Sometimes things got in the way of her remembering that.

Glimmer nudged her mom gently in the side, “Hey, wake up.”

Angella stirred, smiling as her gaze fell upon Glimmer, “Hey, dear.”

Glimmer squirmed under her mother’s softness, guilt over how she had acted earlier hitting her, “I’m really sorry. About how I treated you at dinner. I was really rude and nights like this are basically the only time we have together; I shouldn’t waste them being a brat to you.”

“You’re a teenager and we don’t exactly see eye to eye on everything- I expect this sort of thing to happen occasionally.”

“But I-“ Glimmer tried to argue but was cut off.

“But I appreciate you apologizing.”

“Mom!!” Glimmer felt like her mother should have been angrier, should have at least told her off for stomping down to her room as rudely as she had. And she had done it in response to her mom just trying her best to help. That must have hurt.

“Glimmer!!” Angella mirrored her daughter’s exasperation, “You really think I didn’t slam doors and yell and act out when I was your age? I don’t necessarily like it, but a little angsty rebellion is normal. Like I said, I expect some of this.”

“If you say so… just don’t expect to see it often,” Glimmer felt a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. Her mom wasn’t exactly the most relaxed person but she understood Glimmer better than probably anybody else on the planet.

“Good,” Angella reached out and tucked one of Glimmer’s fluffy locks behind her ear, “I prefer when you talk to me instead of just hiding away in your room.”

“Yeah,” Glimmer laughed somewhat nervously because she totally didn’t do exactly that most of the time instead of talking to people.

“So… you want to tell me about that girl now?”

Glimmer tucked herself next to Angella’s side and turned to face the TV where Gordon Ramsey was berating a man for having rats in his kitchen, “No, not yet.”

She felt her mother shrug and smiled as Angella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Drama could wait. And if she loved Adora? Well, she would deal with that later too.

Quick announcement that I am (FINALLY) starting a taglist for this fic, so if you are interested, please just send an ask or reply to this post <3

[sun-kissed-star]

i wrote this for @dying-poet because i Love Her

trigger warning: hunger, small mentions of death

Race poked his head out the window, breathing in the air of the early morning. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling it would be a good day. Maybe it was because he hadn’t woken up to the sound of Jack clanging around the roof or a pair of suspenders being thrown at his face.

In fact, he hadn’t heard a word from Jack since the morning bell rang. Crutchie had come down a while ago, leaning on his crutch with his usual grin, but with no Jack in sight.

“Hey, Jackie!” Race shouted, climbing out on the fire escape. He rattled the metal ladder as hard as he could. “Up and at ‘em!”

Race waited a few seconds, then when he didn’t hear Jack whining from the roof, he grabbed the ladder again and started climbing. “Jack!”

When he reached the edge of the roof, he found Jack sitting up on his bedroll. His eyes were drooping and his hat was pulled over his face. Race hoisted himself up, walked over, and shook his shoulder. Jack’s head snapped up.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” he grumbled, adjusting his hat. “Quit whinin’. I’ve been up for,” he interrupted himself with a yawn, “hours.”

Race rolled his eyes. “Well, ya sure don’t look the part. You doin’ okay, Jackie? You’re usually the first one up.”

“I’m fine, kid. Don’t think on it.” Jack yawned again and stumbled to his feet. It was almost as if he was using Race’s shoulder to stay upright. “Let’s get to sellin’, yeah?”

Race nodded slowly. “Yeah. Let’s get to it.”

—

At the selling gate, Race didn’t say anything about letting Jack lean into his side. When the nuns finally showed up with stale rolls and coffee, Race separated from him to grab rations for the little kids.

“Here ya go, guys,” he said, ruffling a kid’s hair as he passed the bread around. He’d discreetly handed his own roll off to Elmer. He could go without breakfast for another day, it wouldn’t kill him.

Then, as he stood up and stretched his arms above his head, Jack materialized at his side. He shoved a bread roll and a cup of coffee into Race’s hands.

“The nuns had some extra this mornin’,” he said. “Eat up, kid.”

“Didn’t they have extra yesterday, too?” Race said, glancing around for a second before biting into the roll.

“Yeah, guess so,” Jack said. The nuns came around to collect their empty cups just as Morris and Oscar opened the gates. Race wolfed down the rest of the roll and licked his fingers, smiling at Jack before turning to the Delanceys to do his usual griping. Jack had an arm around his shoulders, gripping at the fabric of his vest. He was a tactile guy, and Race wasn’t worried. He was fine. Jack was fine.

—

Jack wasn’t fine.

For once, Race had decided to stay in Manhattan to sell. Whether that was because he was worried about Jack or because he had a couple guys in Brooklyn that wanted to punch him in the face, he couldn’t say, but either way it kept him on the same street as Jack for most of the day.

Around noon, Jack wandered over to Race’s spot. He looked half-dazed, like his eyes were focusing on a spot in the distance.

“Wanna go get some lunch?” he said, snatching the coins from Race’s hands to count them.

“Oh, uh, no, I’ll pass,” Race said. “You goin’ down to Jacobi’s?”

Jack frowned, grabbing Race’s paper bag to drag him forward. “Not if you’re not comin’ with,” he whined. “C’mon, you’ve got half a dozen papes left. You’ll be fine.”

Race rolled his eyes, grabbing his coins back. “I don’t got the money. I gotta pay lodgin’ fees for the last couple days -”

“I’ll cover ya,” Jack said automatically. “I got some to spare.”

Race wouldn’t say he agreed to get lunch, but somehow he found himself standing outside Jacobi’s, waiting for Jack to come out with a couple sandwiches. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but his stomach was growling a little. He could pay Jack back later.

The bell above the door chimed, and Jack stepped out with some food wrapped in paper. “Voila,” he said, presenting it with a low bow. “Anything else I can do for you, your Highness?”

“Shuddup,” Race said. Unwrapping the paper, he pulled out half a sandwich on stale bread. He started breaking it in half when Jack shook his head and swatted his hand.

“Hey, none’a that,” he said. “You take it. I had my half while I was waitin’ for Jacobi to wrap it up.”

Race peered at him, taking note of the bags under Jack’s eyes. They were darker than they usually were in contrast to Jack’s pale, sunken face. “...You sure?”

Jack closed his eyes when he nodded, like he just needed a few seconds of rest he hadn’t gotten the night before. Except Crutchie had said he was still out like a light when the morning bell rang, so that didn’t make sense. “Yeah.”

Race kept looking at him, the sandwich still in his hands. He couldn’t shake a certain thought out of his head, and as much as he hated it, it was the only thing other than pure illness he could think of.

He knew what it was like to be hungry. He knew what it was like to try and sell with an empty stomach, and he knew what it was like to be living off the energy of an apple from three days ago. The longest he’d ever gone without eating was four days. Looking at the way Jack’s clothes were hanging off his frame more than normal, Race started wondering how long he’d ever gone.

He looked down at the sandwich, turning it over in his hands. “...The nuns didn’t have extra bread this mornin’, did they?”

He could hear Jack go still. “What’re you on about? ‘Course they did. I think a kid didn’t show up or somethin’. Eat the damn sandwich an-”

Race shook his head, taking a step back and slowly letting his face morph into a glare. “Don’t lie to me, Jackie. I ain’t a little kid. Just… you ain’t been eating, have you?”

Jack was shaking his head, but the dots were connecting in Race’s head and it felt so obvious that he felt like hitting himself. Jack had handed him a sausage and a loaf of bread last night when Race had already given his rations to Romeo. He’d found an apple and some cheese sitting under his bed two days ago. The bread roll and the cup of coffee, the sandwich... he was such an idiot. Jack was an idiot.

“You’ve been givin’ up your food for me.”

Jack sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Racer -”

“Kelly, that ain’t fair! You’re always on my ass about not eatin’, then you turn around and do the same thing! I know you think you’ve gotta save all the damn strays, but starvin’ yourself ain’t gonna fuckin’ help anything!”

“I don’t know what else I can do!” Jack shouted, throwing his hands out. He was breathing heavily, either from adrenaline or lack of energy. “Race, I can only help one kid at a time. And if that means makin’ sure you ain’t gonna die this winter, it’s gotta be like that. When was the last time you took food without handin’ some of it out to the kids?” Race stayed silent. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Well,” Race sputtered, “it ain’t gettin’ us nowhere else when you’re the one missin’ meals. They need you more than me, Jack.”

“That’s so far from the damn truth, I’m gonna -”

“You’re gonna what?” Race said vigorously, stepping forward until their faces were six inches apart. “You’re killin’ yourself, Kelly. There ain’t much you can do to me when you can’t stand on two feet.”

“Race, I-!” Jack suddenly stopped, taking a deep breath as if he needed a minute to collect the thoughts tripping over themselves to get out of his head. “I know. I damn well know that. I know what it’s like to be hungry. The Refuge knocked it in my head pretty good. But you just look so much… happier. You’re actually smiling when your face ain’t pale and lookin’ like you escaped death’s door. If it can’t be me buggin’ the shit out of everyone at sunrise, I want it to be you.”

Race half-smiled. “As much as I appreciate you thinkin’ my mug ain’t half bad,” he said, “the guys need your obnoxious shit almost as much as they need mine. Crutchie’s gonna beat the shit out of me if he finds out I’m the reason you look like you crawled your way up from hell every day.”

“‘Obnoxious’, really? Spendin’ too much time with Davey, huh?”

Race snorted. “Yeah, I’m the one spendin’ quality time with him, sure.” Jack went a little red in the face, and Race spared him some embarrassment by looking down at the sandwich balled up in his hands. It was a little squished, but still good. He broke it in half and waved it in Jack’s face. “Start eatin’, Cowboy,” he said. “They don’t take kids lookin’ as sick as you in the wild west.”

TAG LIST

@booksbroadwayandbagels @tis-my-cigar  @harrynerd  @crutchieee-morris  @seizetheimagines @juliet-the-smol @got-the-east-side  @i-got-personality ��@internalscreaming012  @voice-foundshoe-lost   @capncrutch @thatfancyclam  @not-your-cigar  @jjjudeshitposts  @orphan-with-a-stutter @disney-princess-sized  @perpetualbedheadspier @bexlynne  @we-dont-sell-papes @the-woild-is-my-what-now  @you-thinks-wrong-romeo  @pitiful-ambitions  @purplelittlepup @imjusttheoutgoingsidekick @damn-too-many-fandoms  @cattt420  @ben-cook-can-cook @thedolanspineapple @racescoronas@awwwwwwdang @bencookisagod @carryingthedaveyjacobs @disasterbisexualhere @maiawakening @hopeful-broadwaybaby  @racetrackcook  @aw-jus-let-em-try @suddenly-im-respecsable @the-dance-boi  @jessmuell25 @intoomanyfandomstopickaname @be-more-chill-evan-hansen  @marcusisaprettygay  @insane-tomato @tomscaprisun @seasickdolphin @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @have-we-got-news-for-you @papesdontsellthemselves

[flyswhumpcenter]

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Green crosses are finished prompts, lime green crosses the one completed in this fic, and colored lambda-ish signs are prompts I’ve gotten requests for already).

I'm fresh out writing a novel-thick Arc-V fanfic and man I've been in such a great fandom mood! I thought my first entry for my 2nd BTHB would be for Pokemon or Trauma Center as those are the video games I've played recently (I'm beating Platinum as I'm writing this for the first time and I played some Second Opinion at midnight because I had no parents and an empty house for a while), but no, as always, I'm unpredictable haha It does help that I've been a great fan of Orion, especially compared to the original series' third season who's always been my sore spot, but I now realize that Tachimukai walked so Nishikage could fly. (which means my cinnamon roll son needs justice, and if I have to make that myself, I will use my craftmanship to do so)

yeah I also didn't expect to write a Nishikage-centric fic but who ever knows with me, I don't even know myself that much. You know the drill, though: first time writing the character, so expect it to be at least a bit OOC until I either delve too deep and don't care or somehow catch myself before I fall. This is so "wow characters sure exist" central. In terms of the timeline, I'd say this story is set after the Asia preliminaries and most likely after the match against Perfect Spark. It's not supposed to be *that* accurate because it's a tiny oneshot, but y'know, gotta try and place your fanfic on what already exists sometimes.

Honestly, it's kind of lame, but I still like most of it?

--------------

Stay Still, Look Strong

Summary: He’s never been the kind to complain.

Fandom: Inazuma Eleven (Orion no Kokuin timeline, contains spoilers) Relationship: Platonic Nishikage & Nosaka (can be read as pre-slash if you want)

Wordcount: 1.8K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

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He’s never been the kind to complain.

How could he? Anyone bathing so intensely in the light of Nosaka Yuuma has no right to complain: he’s lucky as it is to be his right-hand, to be involved in his plans, to have witnessed how much of a hero Nosaka is. He’ll never forget their first meeting, the evening where he saw a boy his age save a little child from a housefire he’d have never jumped in himself, mesmerized and terrified at the same time of the flames and for the boy who wasn’t scared of them.

Truly, how could he complain, when everyone around him has always been this luminous, even when put through the worse?

 It’s not like the current context is going to help either. The world championship is as harsh as he expected it to be, if not worse: Orion disciples are out for the team’s throats, there’s a bunch of business he’s only partially aware of (but he doesn’t mind that Nosaka would rather discuss it with other people, Hiura is a much better strategist than he could ever be) floating over their heads like a threatening nebula, the team can be agitated by personal conflict and incompatible relationships. So, in this context, how could he complain? He’s not the one who’s had suffered from a split identity, from nourishing disappointed hopes to one day reunite with his long-lost parent, from insecurities, from injuries. He’s been fine, he’d always be fine.

Well, scratch that last statement, he supposes.

 There are a number of things that quietly tell him that he’s not doing so good as soon as he wakes up. Just the fact that he’s had troubles getting out of bed says a lot about that, but he chooses to ignore it and brush it off as yesterday’s training having dragged on and on to perfect techniques and tactics. His teammates seem vastly unaffected by the fatigue plaguing him, so he assumes it’s just a bad day and also brushes aside the lethargy sticking to his bones.

But the thing is that, when he’d have taken it easy otherwise (but would have still trained: they have no time to lose and too much to do), he’s made the promise to Nosaka to help him with a plan, whether it be an investigation or to help with his genius brainstorming. He can’t go back on this promise because “he feels weird”. That’s just not something he can do because that’d be doing Nosaka disservice, and he doesn’t want to ever do that. That’s just dirty.

 It starts softly enough. They’re doing a bit of physical training to gain endurance, strength and speed. He doesn’t let his shortness of breath spill through his well-adjusted façade, or so he thinks at least, because he’s sure at least Nosaka or Ichihoshi has noticed. Nobody says anything, though, so he’s content staying silent and continue on. It helps him hide the scratch in his throat and how weird his voice sounded when he said hello to everyone in the cafeteria this morning.

He’s sure someone has to have also noticed his change of habits, especially when he’s surrounded by geniuses with sharp eyes. Still, just like him, nobody says anything; and it’s better that way, he supposes. It helps him in his mission not to bother anyone about minor issues, at least.

 “Minor issues” is a term he regrets having used to describe to his current predicament during the afternoon. If the morning was already somewhat tough to follow, mostly because his teammates are quick and will never slow down as long as the wind of hope blows through their sails, and whomever doesn’t follow with this wind is bound to crash and burn. That’s just how the FFI is, nothing to complain about when everyone participating in it is in similar conditions, tied to pressure from the countries they represent and the teams they play against.

He knows nobody has tricked him into drinking something weird, as it wouldn’t make sense for a teammate to poison him when their only mole, Ichihoshi, has long absolved for his former crimes against them; but he’d have liked to have had an alternative to knowing it may have been a bad idea for him to even get out of his room to begin with. Who’s he kidding, though? It’s never been about him, it’s always been about the team and about helping Nosaka as best as he can, no complaint to be had when he chose this life for himself. No complaint… to be had. Absolutely.

 He feels stiff and more than lethargic by this point of the day. The afternoon sun of Russia, shining in the artic summer sky, thumps again his head and he gets dizzier by the step, following diligently after his best friend he’s sworn to serve and help no matter what because Nosaka deserves to shine while he stays in the shadow, pulling some strings on demand. He doesn’t believe himself as someone who should be in the spotlight, not when he’s always been around people who deserve attention more than he does to show their talent and sparkles. He’s destinated to help, that’s it, and there’s nothing else he needs or even should add against or for it.

Still, that doesn’t help him hide everything in anymore. His head is pounding for whatever reason, heat and icy coldness alternate with each other every minute or so (he’s not counted, to be fair), walking takes an amount of effort it should have never siphoned away from his energy. He’s running low on batteries, but he tries his best not to show he has black dots appearing all over his sight as not to bother his friend, not to hinder his plans to bust more of Orion’s shady parts, not to make him think he may not have listened even for a millisecond to his ideas. He’s never sure what to reply back, but he tries his best, because it’s the least he can do. Well, he can usually do, as it’s getting difficult. Retaining a cough in is taking more and more of his focus and he hates that, he should be putting that focus towards more useful things rather than just being efficient on a basic level.

 He’s swaying on his feet when Nosaka stops in his tracks. He doesn’t really know in which direction they’re heading anymore, he’s not paid enough attention (staying up takes too much effort), and he almost crashes into him. He starts an apology as quickly as possible, which means when the black dots start vanishing from his sight and when the world stops spinning, but he gets interrupted.

“Let’s go back home, Nishikage,” he tells him with a smirk. “I’m sure the others are waiting for us”.

He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods and follows through, trachea set on fire and moves sluggish. But he cannot complain, he’s gone through with it willingly. He can just pick up after himself, words from his dry throat won’t change much of anything.

 They enter their training centre and, right as he can finally theorize on a destination, Nosaka turns around and leads them in the part of the building where they all sleep (its name is escaping his mind, right now), where nobody is around and where his footsteps echo against the pounding of his temples. His breathing is feeble, his skin is clammy against his layers, the chills aren’t subsiding. This is bad, very bad, and he’s not sure if the façade is going to last for long.

Which is why he’s not surprised when he watches Nosaka put his back against the wall near their rooms, arms crossed, and the smirk not leaving. At least, he thinks it’s a smirk? It’s hard to tell.

 “That’s an impressive effort you’ve made there, Nishikage,” Nosaka eventually tells him.

“What do you mean…?” His voice is much lower than usual, that’s a giveaway already.

“You know, for someone who wasn’t happy that I hadn’t told him about my illness, you sure didn’t want me to know about yours.”

Ah, he’s busted. He’s always been, to be honest. It still somewhat hurts, though, so he looks aside.

“Don’t make such a face, it’s not a big deal. Just get some rest, next time, instead of pretending like everything’s alright, okay? We wouldn’t want you collapsing on us now, would we?”

Nosaka laughs it off, so he tries to do so too, but he ends up coughing instead.

“I think you’ve gotten the lesson, so,” he gently pushes him towards his room, “you do what you’ve got to do. I only want to see you out for dinner!”

 His feet are heavy and his balance still hasn’t come back, but he still has questions burning the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to…”

“To do what?”

“…help you in what you wanted us to do.”

“I’d rather have you rest when sick than letting you get that worse for a brainstorming session”, Nosaka’s grin and tone drop at the same time. “I appreciate the concern, but this is going a bit too far.”

“…”

The smile comes back.

“Don’t worry about it, just go rest for a bit. You’ve deserved that. It’s not like you’ll be able to stay on your feet for very long, am I wrong?”

He’s not. He knows that. There’s no way to go against him.

 Even so, he still hesitates opening the door in front of Nosaka. It’s most likely stupid, but his consciousness is dimming down and he should just get on with it… He shouldn’t be making a fuss about it, so he quickly opens it anyway and disappears without a word.

Maybe, sometimes, he should speak up, because he was about to cause more trouble than anything. That, in itself, is dirtier than what he was trying to prevent. Talk about a mission failed.

 Still, he falls onto the bed in the room, barely bothering taking off his shoes, and hopes he can do something better tomorrow. Today was harsh on him for sure; so there may be room to complain here, even if it’s just to himself because being in this kind of state has never been fun for anyone who’s ever breathed.

That’s when he notices, right before finally passing out, the box and glass put on his bedside table. There’s some amusement to be found to having been found out by more than one person, he realizes. Teammates care out for each other, he should have remembered that; and they’re supposed to trust one another, so next time, he should try being honest about this.

[janiedean]

Why do you think the SW fandom is so knee-deep in SJ Calvinism? Because I understand wanting representation or being upset because a movie didn’t fulfill your expectations, but the “if you don’t ship X you’re racist” “if you don’t stan Y you’re bigoted” and the harassment over a disappointing movie is surprising just because of how pervasive it is. I was trying to find some St*rmpilot blogs to follow and the amount of hate is Yikes, especially the hate for Rose and the stans of a Certain Ship

eeeeeeh I think it’s because ep. 7 came out at the height of the... well, reaping the seeds the social justice calvinism had sown since 2014 so to speak? I mean, SW is hardly the one fandom where it happened (*cough* voltron and SU *cough*) but as SW is way broader in audience than those other shows that certainly didn’t help, but like, if you think on it, since 2013-ish (but I think before as well, I mean, I’ve been here since 2011 and already when I got here I felt like something was going very wrong when it came to politics-in-fandom-attitude), basically people on tumblr have progressively, when it came to fandoms:

pushed the idea that you have to over-analyze everything you consume through political lens;

pushed the idea that what you like and how you like it also has to be pushed through political lens and what you like says things about who you are as a person or your political leanings;

pushed the idea that if you care for something *problematic* just because you like it you’re excusing it;

pushed the idea that if you were problematic once you can’t ever not be problematic, you can’t change your mind and you can’t learn also because ‘it’s not my job to educate you’ so people either learn themselves or idek what but again, calvinism.

now obviously those politics are tumblr-politics which are also US centric like woah and are also high-school petty like woah, and since more or less then people have:

continuously other-ed lgbt people from *straight*/heterosexual people pushing a narrative where straight = bad and therefore putting it before anything automatically makes it a valid insult which added to the above means that if you ship het you’re already problematic regardless of whether you’re straight or not (and if you are.. lol);

pushed the performative feminism of Doom TM that says men and women should be equal but is like, an excuse to shit on men and on women who like men (see the rampant biphobia around and the whole ‘straight girls are so stupid if they’re into men they should try women’ discourse);

pushed the US terminology when it comes to the POC discourse, in the sense that everything works on the US-centered context where white people = white anglosaxon protestant, poc = everything else without realizing that in the rest of the world white does not equal wasp, that poc = black people only in most of europe (and no one who’s actually black or not white who lives in africa or asia and so on would describe themselves as poc because why the hell would you when your skin color/ethinicity is the norm where you live?), which also goes with the whole white passing debate which where I live would not exist but in that context is a mess because again, oscar i*saac is schroedinger’s poc (as in, he’s poc automatically for american standards because he’s latin-american but like he has the same skin tone as my mother and my mother in italy is white same as 90% of us, which means endless confusion) and assumed that all of us have to accept that terminology/context regardless of whether it’s valid in our countries;

kept on progressively putting minorities against each other in an endless loop of WHO HAS IT WORST/oppression olympics;

kept on progressively split hairs on issues that aren’t exactly, like, that important if there’s more urgent stuff to deal with because 90% of the activism here is performative;

made the 180° turn for which headcanons and shit are seen as, like, doing representation instead of, you know, supporting what rep is there never mind when people decide *one* ship is the right one and if another is canonized and it’s rep it gets thoroughly ignored;

pushed on a mindset for which if something isn’t perfect at the get-go then it’s canceled.

and so on.

like, all of that shit has been continuously not criticized because criticizing it especially if you don’t belong to a minority means that you’re out of line/discussing things that don’t concern you, but if you’re a minority and you criticize it then it’s suddenly YOU BETRAYED OUR CAUSE *INSERT SLUR HERE ABOUT PANDERING TO THE MAJORITY*, and the result exploded in toxic af fandoms, but like... if you look at the issues of the SW sequel trilogy fandom it’s all of that in a nutshell because:

k/ylo ren is automatically the worst because he’s white (horrible), a man (even worse), not canonically attractive (I didn’t touch on that topic bc I’m honestly not up for it mentally but lmao that counts too) and presumably heterosexual (or well, no one said he’s not but you know, since he’s a white dude on the bad side [supposedly] then we don’t give him the benefit of the doubt that he might be bi), so if you like ky/lo ren or relate to him you’re automatically problematic;

shipping re/ylo because automatically problematic because it’s a *straight* (evil) ship made of two white people (when there’s options to ship them both with people that aren’t white, so IT’S RACIST), they have an age gap (BAD BECAUSE POWER IMBALANCE) and it’s enemies to lovers, so it’s a context where people who don’t conceive redemption or that people can become better are basically crying problematic all the time, and the fact that people decided it’s *abusive* when it has like nothing that can equate it to a really abusive relationship says all;

ky/lux being the most popular slash ship immediately means that it’s the fault of the horrible straight (white) women fetishizing the (white) men on the dark side (when it’s most likely because for a while ky/lux was literally the only side of that fandom where people were chill/there wasn’t wank every other moment);

st/ormpilot has been declared The Right Ship because it’s two non-white men and it’s not straight which automatically turns into what I said before about hating other ships that would be rep anyway and feeds into the lowkey oppression olympics racism, because like if finn/rose becomes canon it’s still a mixed/biracial ship because he’s black and she’s asian....... except that it’s not the right ship for people who decided that finn has to be either with rey or poe (and guess what rey is white and poe is... schroedinger’s poc��because oscar isaac in europe wouldn’t pass for *poc*), which to me has stank of lowkey racism since tlj came out because sorry but if ‘finn deserves better than rose’ or ‘finn should be with rey because if he doesn’t get rey then it’s unfair’ and the various other bullshit I read on the topic basically says that the white woman is *worthier* than the asian woman or that rose is a downgrade from rey which is fucking bullshit, rose isn’t even a bad character all the contrary. and that’s for the het side of it, but like then it’s not as good as stormpilot because it’s a straight ship (NOOOO THEY MADE FINN STRAIGHT/THEY’RE NOT MAKING THEM GAY THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT = stuff I legit saw on the tag) and ngl I’m 100% sure that the fact that daisy is Standard Attractive and kelly marie t/ran is lovely but doesn't conform to the usual beauty standard western-viewers apply on asian women did play a role in there, but: what did I say before? the slash ship is automatically better than the het ship never mind that they’re both biracial and rose is actually a rep (asian girls who don’t adhere to stereotypical body shapes - and like, the rep for all body types and shapes should be valid for all women, not just white) that isn’t exactly popular especially in mainstream cinema, so people should be happy.... but since rose is Not A Dude and Not Rey and Not The Right Kind Of Representation For That Crowd, automatically rose is a shit character and deserves to be viciously hated on. and this is a thing done by people who most likely then turn on the other side and talk shit about horrible straight women who hate the only female character for getting in the way of their slash ship without realizing that their rose hate is exactly that. and of course since sto/rmpilot is the two good guys, if you ship that then you also have to hate re/ylo because how can you, a person who ships The Good Ship On The Light Side, support such a problematic enemies to lovers thing? yeah, right, hahaha.

this also tbqh also pairs up with how on tumblr people only recognize mental health issues/abuse victims when the narrative suits them - like, being a bad victim automatically means you lose sympathy and mental health issues are only valid if you aren’t ***privileged*** otherwise why would you have them, which shows transparently in how a lot of people absolutely deny that ky/lo ren is a) an abuse victim, b) obviously mentally ill however it is that he deals with it, but no, he has to be The Most Horrible In Existence Because Otherwise We Should Have Empathy For A Bad Guy Who Also Might Get Redeemed And Redemption Is Not Happening Ever Because Bad People Don’t Deserve it.

like, all of the issues sw sequel trilogy has when it comes to the fandom are direct consequences of the nonsensical social justice calvinism climate on tumblr dot com that no one took care to put a stop to since 2013 and of its ridiculous oppression olympics and pitting people against each other and that was my take. cheers.

(ps: I also ship sto/rmpilot like woah and it’s my otp but there’s a reason why I unfollowed most SP blogs I followed and why I don’t go into the tag anymore - I’m not here for the anti-rose racism dressed up as performative wokeness, I’m not here to get lectured about as a white person I fetishize poc gay men if I ship it - yes I read that too - and I’m not here to read a bunch of meta about how re/ylo is a bad ship and blah blah blah, so yeah. I feel you.) (pps: ky/lo ren isn’t even my favorite character and I care relatively but gdi the way the fandom approaches him is honestly mindboggling in that sense, and I don’t mean people who actually dislike him because fair reasons, I mean people who can’t recognize his abuse victim status and the precarious status of his mental health. like, not all abuse victims and mentally ill people are the right victim or come from the right background and you can be cool motive still murder and still recognize that he’s like that because he has issues, not because he was drawn that way. /bye)

[iheartdirt]

Dig Your Own Grave and Then Bury the Hatchet [4/5]

Fandom: Invader Zim

Pairing/Characters: ZaDr

Rating: M

Word Count: ~8,500

Notes: I sent this draft to jhonens house written out of magazine letters and he personally wrote me back and told me i own zim now :/thx to mrsbigfoot on tumblr 4 continuing to care abt this fic an entire year later

Summary:  Alternatively Titled: In Which Zim and Dib Makeout and it Upsets the Balance of the Entire Universe

Read it at AO3 or under the cut

There’s something to be said for Zim’s tenacity, at least. Even in the face of concrete evidence that he’s a large-scale fuck-up moron he’s still maintaining that this is exactly what he was going for, really. This is just step one in his convoluted master plan of idiocy. In this case, the concrete evidence happens to be the giant concrete cell that he and Dib are encased in, supposedly for the rest of time and space until they rot, so, Dib isn’t exactly ready to just let this one go.

“Does a truthful word ever come out of your mouth, Zim? Just wondering.”

Zim stomps his foot and hisses.

“Liars! Liars and rats and fleas with diseases! Do you really think you can trust Tak over me?” Unsurprisingly, Dib does think this. Since Zim is a large-scale fuck-up moron. And has tried to blow him up on multiple occasions.

“Why would I trust you? You’ve done nothing but lie this entire trip. You could’ve gotten me killed- you have a death warrant sitting on your head!” He gestures to the whole room, because, like, honestly. “And I like Tak. She hates you.”

A strangled noise is torn from Zim and he yanks one antennae over the side of his head, weaving it between his fingers to get a better grip. “It was a misunderstanding, you insolent foolboy! I was on my way to correct it, and then neither of us would be in trouble.”

Dib starts, chest heaving and eyes wide. Then he barks a hard choked up laugh of disbelief that hurts his throat. “I wasn’t in any trouble at all! Not from the empire, and not from you or your stupid fake mission that Tak told me about.”

Zim screams and launches himself at him. Dib, surprised, stumbles under the weight and falls hard on the floor. Air rushes out of him in a whoosh. Bright little dots erupt across his vision and he tries furiously to blink them away. A hot liquid that has to be blood has started to pool around his neck and Zim is still trying to scratch his fucking guts out. Regaining his breath, he uses all his strength to buck Zim off of him and rolls away as far as he can before he hits another wall, trying to be careful not to bump his head on anything else and worsen what could already be a bad concussion. He thinks that The Resisty probably won’t spare medical supplies to two rowdy prisoners.

And even though it feels like his brain might be leaking out the back of his skull, this feels easy. Dib’s muscles practically fall into sense memory fighting Zim. He knows that Zim always feints left, but almost never feints to the right. He knows there’s a place under Zim’s sternum that almost always makes him vomit if he can hit it at the right angle. This feels natural. Like they were back on Earth and Dib had the fire in his belly of the sole protector of his race.

Except, he remembers as Zim swipes at his face, Earth doesn’t need a protector. Earth never really needed a protector. The only fire in his belly right now is because Zim deserves a swift kick in the jaw.

The next swipe Zim makes for his face, Dib feints up rather than down, swinging his leg up to deliver a satisfying thump against Zim’s midsection. Something cracks and Dib feels a heady rush of adrenaline. Zim kneels, and Dib takes the opportunity to use the momentum to backhand him around the temple, sending him sprawling against the floor.

It feels more than a little badass.

Shrieking, Zim rolls onto all fours and crawls towards Dib with alarming speed. This surprises Dib so much he allows himself to be knocked to the floor where Zim grabs around his kneecap and pulls.

“You would be nothing without me.” He hisses, scrambling away from Dib. “You would mean nothing to your boring underdeveloped planet if I hadn’t accidentally landed in your front yard.”

Blood starts to rush back into his brain and cools Dib’s nerve. He hasn’t fought with this stupid lizard this hard since he was like, sixteen maybe. Suddenly exhausted and dizzy, Dib tries for a weak kick in Zim’s direction from the floor and laughs hollowly. “And what did you have without me, huh, Zim? Not your mission, apparently.” Probably worth it to milk this fake mission thing as far as he can take it.

Laying on the floor, breathing heavily, making no move to come for Dib again, Zim looks up at him and says: “I hate you” and Dib knows it’s true and hates him back.

Dib takes several long breaths, but says nothing. He thinks he might say something witty or clever or hilarious, but then a voice sounds in the room that belongs to neither of them that’s starts Dib for a second.

“Can you guys please shut up? It’s the late shift and I just-I don’t care.”

There’s a hard, tense second where Zim and Dib are still looking at each other before they both realize, seemingly at the same time, that it came from an intercom system.

Dib looks up at the ceiling and laughs humorlessly.

“Just a general question, Zim,” Dib says, ignoring the intercom. “Do you absolutely have to ruin everything in my entire life? Does it bring you that much joy?”

“I mean,” Zim touches the bottom of his collarbone in fake contemplation. “Yes.”

Dib tries to be angry but is empty instead. He used up all of his anger with that sweet backhand and now all he feels raw and tired. Spending several moments contemplating the actual unlikeliness of how exhaustingly difficult his life is all of the time, he’s drained. Mathematically, it cannot be possible for his life to be this difficult. They spend several minutes in a heavy, stuffy silence.

“We have to talk about this deal they’re giving us,” He says, finally.

“I’m sure” Zim says “that I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, if I did know what you were talking about, which I don’t” he adds, “Zim would be reporting you to the proper authorities so they could pop your overgrown revolutionist head like a greasy pimple.”

More taken back by the comparison of his head to a zit of all things than the actual insult, Dib almost doesn’t catch onto what Zim is trying to say.

“And what about you, Zim? Huh? You think they’re just gonna let you off with a warning because you made your own arrest a little easier?”

Zim snorts. Dib has no idea how he accomplishes this without a nose and is minorly irritated about it. “I have friends in higher circles that your stupid Earth-rotted brain could never comprehend.”

Ignoring the irony of “higher circles,” Dib chooses to become extremely exasperated. “You don’t have any friends, Zim! All you have is me, and I’d hardly call myself your friend. If it weren’t for me we’d both be incinerated by now!”

The intercom system decides to speak up again just as Zim opens his stupid mouth. Not all heroes wear capes.

“They would definitely incinerate you,” it says.  

Zim stumbles to his feet and points at the ceiling, waving and jabbing his finger at the air as if it could kill the sound waves for defying him. “Did the mighty Zim ask for your opinion, insignificant voice drone? I do not think so!”

The voice apologizes, not sounding sorry at all.

Dib sighs, resting his head in the crook of his knee, the soft material of his pants weirdly comforting. Everything was weird right now, but at least his pants were weirdly comforting. It’s obvious he’s going to have to tackle this from a different angle. Zim is never going to accept that anybody could hold ill will towards him, especially the race he came from. They were going to rot here until they died with Zim’s last wheezy, nasally breath decreeing his greatness.

Because the only thing Zim cares about more than anything else is himself.

Dib starts. The only thing Zim cares more than anything else is himself.

“Zim,” Dib says, raising his head to meet Zim’s eyes. He tries to hold them, conveying desperation with his eyes as much with his voice. “We are being offered two front row seats to making galactic history. If you can pull this off, we would be leading an entire army. An entire revolution- an entire generation of people all following your orders.” Zim’s eyes widen at that, and Dib has to push down his internal celebration and keep his face a mask of innocence and honesty.

“You can be bigger than Irk. You can be bigger than the empire, even. You can be ‘The Resisty.” Dib makes sure to take in a shaky breath, filing the name with a sort of awe. Is Drama Club a useless extracurricular for his resume now, Dad?

“The Resisty is a stupid name,” Zim says, but Dib notices how he’s still frozen still, eyes wide.

“Okay, that’s fair.” Don’t make any sudden movements, Dib. “But that’s not the point. The point is you could be so powerful, you could change the name to whatever you want.”

Thankfully, the intercom decided not to speak up, which Dib was internally grateful for since he wasn’t so sure about the validity of his last statement.

Still maintaining eye contact, Zim slides along the floor. He nervously runs his hands up and down the sides of his legs, making little skittering motions with his fingers.

“I suppose it is possible that Zim may make,” he stops and steadies his hands on his knees “a good, or perhaps better leader for the universe than most.”

Dib remains silent, not daring to move a muscle and break Zim out of the fragile state of mind he shuffled him into.

Zim finally breaks the eye contact by squaring his shoulders and looking superciliously at the far wall.

“I will consider it.”

Dib lets out a breath through clenched teeth, nods tightly, and doesn’t speak anymore.  

When Dib wakes up to a kick in the ribs the next morning he is wholly unsurprised. How did Zim know he’s always wanted to wake up to a fractured rib? What a kind friend.

“Bow down before your new ruler, fiend.”

“What?” Dib wheezes.

He feels Zim’s weight shift backwards, presumably for another kick to the guts, and Dib punches out blindly with one arm. His elbow hits Zim in the shin mid strike, and he hears the unmistakable sound of Zim crashing to the floor. Bullseye.

Clutching his ribs with his other arm, Dib rolls onto his back to get a look at Zim. “You will pay for that when I am given my position, monkey-stench.”

And then it all clicks together and Dib gets it.

“You’re teaming up with the Resisty?” Dib asks.

Zim scoffs. “I am not,” he brings his hands up into air quotes “teaming up with The Resisty. I am staging a clever coup d’état.”

For a moment, Dib just blinks. “Where did you learn that phrase?”

“It does not matter!” Zim flaps his hand back and forth dismissively. “What matters is that I am in charge of you and the rest of the galaxy and I demand as ruler to be let out of this tiny grey box immediately.”

They do get shown out of their tiny grey box, after Dib translates Zim’s posturing to the intercom to mean “yes, we will accept the terms of our confinement, please do not starve us to death.” The alien that comes to pick them up looks insect-like and carries some large-looking plasma thing, which Dib finds a little excessive but has far more sense than to say so. Without speaking, he approaches Dib and touches something on his head. Dib has no idea what to do. Is this a greeting? Is this some form of communication to mean “I will not kill you”? He looks over at Zim. Why isn’t Zim doing anything? After a couple tense moments, Dib awkwardly touches his head in the same place and the alien gives him a strange look. It gestures with one of its appendages to follow it, and Dib falls in line behind it, feeling oddly like he’s failed some test.

“Don’t know how you put up with it, myself,” the thing garbles eventually, rolling one giant eye over to survey Zim. “Irken’s ain’t exactly my cup of jing if you know what I mean.” It rolls his other big eye over to eye Dib skeptically.

Dib has no idea what he means, but he’s eager to make up for his earlier mistake and, honestly, he’s totally right. How does he put up with it? He’s a saint.

“Eh?” Zim says, “I’ll have you know-”

“It’s an incredible burden that I alone must bear. It takes years off my life, honestly.” Dib interrupts.

The alien nods it’s large head sagely. “Small, too,” it comments.

Zim scoffs with such vigor his voice breaks like a teenager’s. Dib is delighted. He loves Escort Alien and his excessive large plasma thing, he decides, even if he does weird things with the side of his head.

Throughout the tour, Dib notices that most of the ship is a glowing, gleaming white. He had thought, from Zim’s ship, that ships were sort of a pale yellow color by default, accented with smudges of pale brown. They’re white by default. Zim is just a horrible tiny goblin. He takes a moment to hate Zim. Each hallway leads to a different hallway in an endless repeating motion that seems incredibly easy to get lost in. Circular, handle-less doors line the hallways in a perfect symmetrical cavern, like rows of teeth in a giant mouth. They open swiftly every couple of seconds to allow different modge-podged groups of creatures in one door or out another, chattering away in some unidentifiable speak. It reminds Dib of an ant colony. A weird, multicultural ant colony.

“How come I can understand you, but not anyone else?” Dib asks Escort-Alien.

“Downloaded your language into my system,” it says, tapping a claw against what Dib can now see looks like a small Bluetooth on the side of its head. That must have been what he was doing earlier on. Dib feels even more like an idiot, but the pleasantness of his escort is dulling it significantly. “Can understand and project Earth.”

“It’s called ‘hyoo-man’ language,” Zim says, folding his arms and looking a little bit put out that no one was recognizing his genius on the subject.

“No one cares, Zim,” Dib says cheerfully.

With what are a relatively small amount of mutterings and outburst from Zim, they are shown the canteen, the showers and toilets, and led past a long hallway of private rooms. Meals are to be eaten thrice a day, at exact times to be announced by the meal bell. If you miss the bell, you miss the meal. Showers are open in ten shifts throughout the day depending on species. Since Dib is a special case, he may attend any of the carbon-based lifeform shower times. Dib should get a schedule some time in the next couple sols.

At the end of the long hallway of private rooms, is, Dib assumes, his own private room. He’s shown to a small door with a handle at the far wall that looks to have a sign taped over several other signs. The last sign is suspiciously yellowed. He doesn’t know what they say, but he’s assuming they all mean ‘shitty room.’

The room is shitty. Point one for Dib.

It looks like it could have once been a storage closet, but now has a small set of bunk beds pushed up into the corner. The realization dawns that of course the room is not for him, why would they board two supposed ancient married space husbands in separate rooms. It’s probably lucky they even get separate beds.

Despite trying to wedge the bed as far into the wall as possible, there’s still only enough room for one person to stand in front of the bed at a time comfortably. Between the beds, but halfway obscured by the top bunk, is a single, circular window, not more than a foot across.

Zim, of course, immediately claims the top bunk after a short lived argument about the room. Dib, out of the infinite kindness of his heart, allows him to have it. (Dib wants to watch out the window).

Glad to have a place to rest that isn’t concrete, Dib curls himself up on the bottom bunk. If he stretches his legs out, his feet hang off the bed a little bit, but he looks out the bottom half of his submarine window and sees endless, purple space and he feels, stupidly, more at home in this spare closet than he ever did at home. The realization makes him feel happier than he’s been in (honestly, weeks).

“Zim,” Dib asks the bottom of the mattress, feeling amiable “were you always a soldier?”

He hears a snort. “I am no soldier. I’m an invader, you lumpy sack of meat. And Zim is over four-hundred years old, he has had time for three, maybe four good careers beneficial to the Empire.”

“You’re not an invader anymore,” Dib points out uselessly.

Dib gets silence from the top bunk. He tries to imagine Zim as a doctor, or a cashier, and he finds he can’t picture Zim in anything but his military uniform, back straight on high alert.

“Did you just call me lumpy?” Dib asks.

“You are lumpy.” Zim shifts on the bed and the movement shakes the entire frame.

“Explain to me how I’m lumpy.”

“You have lumps,” Zim says defensively. “Your head is one giant lump.”

“Everybody has a head! You have a head,” Dib exclaims. There are definite lifeforms on this ship that Dib is pretty sure do not have a head, but he doesn’t bring that up.

“Yours is lumpier.” Zim shrugs. Dib can’t see him shrugging, physically, but he can feel it happening and it enrages him. His head isn’t lumpy.

His head probably isn’t lumpy.

“You lied to me.” Dib remembers suddenly.

“Eh? I am no liar. You lie.” The bedframe shakes with what must be Zim’s emphatic pointing.

“No, Zim, shut up. You told me this Umeb-”

Zim interrupts. “Umon’tebha’.”

“Right, okay, whatever. Umon’tebha’. You told me this Umon’tebha’ thing was one-sided. That when we, you know, it wasn’t something you were into. But Tak said only Irkens can initiate it, cause it’s like, usually an Irken only thing. So you were definitely, uh, into it.” Dib hopes very much that if he babbles enough no one will actually have to think about the awful (don’t say sex) they had and he can be right without reliving his worst moments.

Zim doesn’t say anything, but Dib can hear him shifting on the bunk above.

Dib listens to his shuffling until he passes out from exhaustion feeling, strangely, a knot of happiness in the center of his chest.

The morning buzzer, as it turns out, is a horrible hell-siren noise that one expects only from doomsday films involving tornados and avalanches. Dib is, expectedly, waken up into a complete and absolute panic. Therefore, he cannot be blamed for the bodily harm of any persons in his immediate radius, especially when said persons are supposed to be in their own god damn bunk.

“You have maliciously attacked me with your meaty man-hands and it is well within the terms of our temporary truce that I break both of your legs,” Zim says, still on his god damn bunk and adding to the early morning death alarm with his horrible nasally voice.

“Why are you even in my bed, Zim?” Dib slept with his glasses on, and the dig of metal into his forehead was not at all helping with his imminent headache. “You know what? Actually, I don’t care. Please don’t tell me. I want to live alone in whatever world there is where you aren’t trying to harvest my organs while I sleep or something.”

“Perhaps an arm, as well.” Zim gives an experimental poke to Dib’s arm, as if he’s testing the breakability of it. Dib irritably waves him off. The buzzer stops and Dib once more feels at peace with his existence. Maybe living is not so bad after all.

“Fuck off, spaceboy.” Dib sits up and rubs at his abused face. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

Dib is a bit worried about being able to find the canteen again. The ship is pretty vast and, to be honest, all of the glowing white hallways kind of look like the same glowing white hallways. It turns out all one has to do is follow the extremely thick crowd of alien revolutionists all marching in one single unified direction. Dib feels both a little sense of unity, and a little odd.

The canteen is a lot like a lunchroom, which Dib is blessedly used to. Zim complains the entire time about “quality” and “standards,” but Dib’s almost completely sure he’s once seen Zim eat a paper taco wrapper. Dib picks something that looks kind of like it might be a sandwich and hopes for the best. Zim grabs some horrifying green burrito.

And then, instantly, looking out over the tables, Dib is sickly reminded of highschool. Despite the biodiversity on ship, clumps of similar species sat together, laughing and talking at cafeteria tables. All the anxiety of school, having no friends, being the ‘weird’ one twists in his stomach. After all, he’s the ‘weird’ one again, right? He’s the only human on this ship. The only human anyone in his room, or anyone in the galaxy is likely to have seen. No one speaks his language- no one’s every even heard of his language.

Maybe he should just take a page out of his own book and eat in the bathroom.

But, wait, someone at one table is making a motion. Is it waving? Oh, it’s scary plasma gun alien from yesterday. Dib is now incredibly upset at himself for never learning his name. Ignoring Zim’s protests, he threads through the crowd over to Scary Plasma Gun Alien From Yesterday’s table and sit’s right across from him in the attached seat. Dib notices that Zim plops down next to him, looking harassed, and Dib represses a smile.

Zim buries a fork into his green burrito so that it stands straight up like a cell phone tower and turns to look at Dib imperiously.

“I understand you did not mean to leave your rightful slave master behind,” Zim says “But if you are not more careful in crowds you will.”

“Yeah, Zim.” Dib says with an, what he hopes is, obvious eye roll.

“Hello, Human Dib,” says Scary Plasma Gun “I see you are still with your nuisance.”

“Yes, his hair is a nuisance, isn’t it?” Zim looks sadly at his hair, and Dib feels the absurd need to pat it down.

Scary Plasma Gun ignores him. “I am 'EqHegh, or Hegh for your human tongue.” Dib is incredibly grateful for Hegh’s insight. Hegh is kind and good and Zim stinks.

Hegh gestures to the alien next to him. It looks humanoid, but it seems to be made entirely of diamonds. It’s weird, eyeless, shiny pupils unnerve Dib.

“This is Boch. Boch is a very good friend,” Hegh says.

Dib waves weakly at Boch and says hello. Boch stares deeply at Dib and provides no response that he understands. Dib is unnerved.

Hegh introduces them to a couple more friends as the same species as him, names Nehn and Jou, respectively. To Dib’s right sits a Plookesian named ‘Steven.’ Steven seems the friendliest of the bunch (Dib does remember Plookesians as friendly, if not also abandonment-prone), and offers to download English into his translation device immediately.

“So, you’re from like, Earth right? Way cool,” says Steven “I knew a couple buddies that went to Earth. Totally chill if you can get past the whole liquid hydrogen dioxide thing.”

“Earth has liquid hydrogen dioxide?” Hegh nods sagely. “Very cool.”

“It falls as acid from the sky and smells of dead fish breath,” Zim hisses. He has shoved several bitefulls of burrito into his mouth, and large goops of cheese and green shell have flown halfway across the table. Boch seems to eye the mess with disgust.

Steven flashes Dib a confused look. “Humans are carbon-based lifeforms though, right? That should only be a problem for silicone-based lifeforms, like yourself.”

“Yes well,” Zim picks up a glob of cheese with his hand and shoves it into his mouth. “I live there, don’t I, Plook-grub.”

“But you’re not the dominant lifeform, right?” Steven insists.

Zim opens his mouth, probably to argue that he is absolutely the dominant lifeform because he is, of course, dominant over all humans as their eternal ruler when Hegh interrupts.

“How do you put up with a Irken life-partner? Would squish their tiny, soft head. Make it stop chattering.” Hegh does not break eye contact with Zim, despite Zim shoveling cheese into his mouth in large forkfuls. Offended, Zim allows his jaw to drop, allowing for a sizable glob of cheese to fall back on top of the burrito. Everyone involved remains unfazed, especially Boch.

In the haze of the early morning, Dib comes extremely close to laughing and correcting Hegh. Zim is not his, like, his life partner or something. His top pick for someone he would shove out into the vacuum of space if given the opportunity, maybe. An absolute scourge upon his otherwise normally miserable life, yes.

Then he remembers the marks. And the lifebond. And what Tak said an Irken-Other relation would do for the resistance and how that’s his only ticket to not being sent out the airlock. He sits on his laugh and swallows it.

“It’s” Dib says uncertainly “It’s definitely something.”

Zim, to his credit, manages to ham it up a lot more than Dib could have ever.

“It is more than something! We are so much in love and, ah,” he looked over at Dib for a second before resolutely saying “we hold hands and cry.”

Steven gives them an odd look, but says politely “Well, you both make a cute couple.”

That single comment haunts Dib all the way through breakfast, until they’re both assigned to a meeting in a board room at the other side of the ship. And even a little after that. It will haunt him until his deathbed, he assumes.

—

The board room, in comparison to the rest of the ship, looks the most familiar. It houses a large desk of a similar material to the rest of the ship, decorated with eight or so office chairs around it like baubles on a Christmas tree. A markedly different creature sits at each seat, adding to the whole effect, and Dib finds, with pride, he can name a couple of species already. Sitting right hand to Tak at the lead of the table is a greying Vortian sporting a pair of lime-green goggles. A little to the Vortian’s left, it’s eyes hardly reaching over the table was probably a Narh-Gh’ok (Zim told him a story about them once). The other four species Dib can’t place, but he’s sure he’s seen them around the ship before. The last two chairs sit at the opposite of the table from Tak and the Vortian, presumably for Dib and Zim.

“Hello Tak,” Zim says menacingly, circling the office chair like he was planning on eating it. Dib didn’t doubt he would try for the sheer drama of it all.

“Yes,” she says calmly “Hello.”

“I’ve see you’ve agreed to my terms.” Zim runs one gloved finger along the top of the office chair. It swivels noncommittally.

“They were my terms,” Tak reminds him. “Because you are my prisoner.”

Zim flaps his hand around as if these are minor details.

Dib nervously hovers around near the seat next to the one Zim’s seducing. Is it polite to try to shake hands with everyone before he sits down? What if they don’t have hands. What if they have ten hands. Maybe he should bow? He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen anyone shake hands or bow. How was he supposed to learn space etiquette when his only go-to was Zim?

“Please, sit down.” Tak motions to Dib’s side of the table, and Dib is eternally grateful. Tak is a true leader of the common-folk, always looking out for each individual citizen.

Delicately clearing her throat, she addresses the room. “Our first meeting with the Umo’ntebha’ shall be introductory and explanatory in nature. Although,” she sides a look at Zim, who either doesn’t notice or care “some introductions may have already been made. Moving counter-clockwise from myself I would like to present my elder partner Lard Nar.”

The old Vortian tips his head respectfully. So it is a bow, then. Dib cranes his neck in response.

Next to Lard Nar is an excitable cone-shaped species that Dib has no intent to try to butcher the pronunciation of, and then a “Plookesian,” which Dib still feels kind of bitter towards despite good relations with Steven. (He’s also disappointed in himself for not recognizing the species). Down the line it goes from there, a bunch of species Dib doesn’t recognize or really catch the names of until Tak arrives at the Nhar-Gh’ok sitting to her left.

“And this,” she finishes “is Sergeant Shnooky, our operations of on-ground military action.”

“Hey,” Zim interrupts, and, God, they almost fucking made it. Dib wonders if anyone would really mind all that much if he strangled him. He hedges probably not. “I know you. You tried to steal my ship!”

Tak’s face betrays a single second of irritation before she smooths on her diplomatic mask. Dib is impressed, horrified, and jealous.

“We realize some coworkers may have previous experiences they bring to the table.” She gives a very pointed look in Zim’s direction and Dib does not think Zim understands the breadth of Tak’s hatred. “But we ask each individual to leave those behind for the sake of the revolution.”

“Does that mean he’s going to give me a ship?”

“You may have the room on this ship where you are boarded,” Tak says blandly.

“Deal.” Zim slams his tiny fist on the table like a gavel hammer and beams at Dib. Dib resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

—

Throughout the days leading up to their “official assigned work,” Tak had taken Dib aside to confer with him. With exasperation at his asking about Zim, she said that she trusted Dib to fill him in on the happenings so there was no need for Zim to be physically present for the meetings. (Dib suspects she really really doesn’t want to have to talk to Zim for as long as she can get away with it).

"It became clear to us fast that we could not hope to topple the Irken forces on our own," Tak had said. "The only hope The Resisty has is to unite the Irken people in our favor. But despite efforts, Irken recruitment is still feeble.”

Dib could imagine why.

“We were hard pressed to find a reason for Irken soldiers and citizens to abandon their prestigious jobs and cushy positions just for the sake of, well, you know, justice.”

“Irkens don’t really jive with the idea of justice.” Dib had interrupted. She made am understanding face at him.

“What we needed was a good story. Irken invader, forced to halt his mission because he fell into forbidden love with the native species? Now that is a story. And it's a damn good one."

Tak had said that, at first, they would leak information of their relationship to rebel sources. A couple tips at first: Irken Invader missing from job, last seen with native species. Eventually drop the bomb of love-fueled revolutionaries. But this would only incite Resisty-allied or freed civilizations. What they (what we, she had added, smiling winningly) really need is to spread the story to Irkens, who’re on media blackout. The plan would be to intercept the screens for a couple minutes to air a series of "commercial like shorts" where he and Zim (with a script, of course) would address the Irken population to join The Resisty directly, in the name of love or whatever.

Dib had figured he would, you know, read a couple lines off a monitor all some sort of "seize the means of production" and "people's government" phrases within a foot of Zim and go back to sleep.

Apparently Tak was more attached to her "story" than she originally let on.

"If you could wrap your hand a little further around his waist? We wanna really make sure people can see that."

Zim is already flush against his chest but, sure, he'll pull him a little bit closer. That same alien tells him that it looks great and if he could maybe cheat out a little bit more for the audience? He tries to keep Zim in his place while also turning completely around towards them camera and not letting the headache blooming behind his right eye become a problem. The bright lights all over the room aren’t helping much. Zim grumbles at being pulled closer, and complains loudly of his smell while one of the cameras is still rolling, which doesn't help either. In his arms he feels stiff and uncomfortable, leaning as far as he can from Dib without being yelled at.

"Can we get a quick run through of the script really fast?" asks someone picking at the camera lens. A squat yellow guy with angry eyes and a giant screw sticking out the back of his head. (A species Dib hasn't seen before, actually. Is the screw inserted in some ritual, or are they born with it? Is it surface level? He reminds himself to focus).

There’s a teleprompter-like thing below the center camera, and it scrolls through a pre-written dialogue. (Zim’s lines are in pink, and Dib’s in blue, which he unwillingly thinks is kind of cute). Zim starts off. "It is me, Irken Invader Zim. Of course it’s me, who would not know the mighty ring of Irken Invader Zim? I am reading the lines; I am just fixing them because they smell like dookie. I'm here with my— oh, okay, I am not calling Dib-stench that no matter how many monies you pay me in."

A sigh from the yellow guy who fiddles again with the camera, stopping the script. "No one’s paying you, Zim." He addresses someone behind him. "Maybe we should give his lines to the other one?"

Zim pushes Dib away from him and he lets him go, instead standing with his arms crossed on the green screen, tapping his foot. "Eh? Not paid?"

The screw-head looks at Dib entreatingly. Dib puts his hands up, palms out. He picks his battles with Zim and this one is solidly under the column of “not his problem.” Sometimes Zim can be other people’s problem.

"Let's start from the top, yeah?" he says in response. "Camera’s rolling. We'll discuss your, ah, payment afterwards."

That seems to mollify Zim, and they run through the rest of the script with only one more major blowup (Zim seemed physically unable to call The Tallest ‘inadequate leaders.’ He got into a ten-minute argument over it with the cameraman, and then with Dib before they just let Dib read the line while Zim grimaced disagreeably at the screen).

The screw-head tells them good job, and before we leave we need to get a couple angles of the kiss in.

"The what?" Dib and Zim ask at about the same time, in varying levels of volume (Dib, loudly; Zim, very very loudly).

"Shouldn't be a problem, right? You two together and all."

It's not like Dib is really opposed to kissing. He and Zim have kissed before. Kind of. Except that he totally is opposed to kissing and he hates this. Everyone is looking at him and Zim and the whole room is so bright and hot and they're on camera and a million different aliens all across the universe are gonna watch them suck face. But he can't say anything because everyone else is under the horrible impression they've been exchanging fluids in private which is what their entire defense for not being blown off the ship into deep space in the first place was and oh, God he's gonna have to do it, he’s gonna have to kiss Zim.

He looks uneasily at Zim who seems to be having the same realization dawn across his face and Dib figures it's either now before he can think about it or never. He leans in and kisses him.

It's awful. Arguably, the worst kiss he’s had in his life. Zim’s lips are kind of cold and slimy like two small dead fish and he obviously feels awkward and Dib feels even more awkward. He’s stupidly aware at how chapped and wet his lips are simultaneously. And if Zim was complaining about his smell before, he for sure smells now.

He draws away after a brief, closed mouth peck and he knows the entire crew could tell how bad it was from the disappointed faces all around. They get thanked and dismissed anyways, but, God, they're so toast.

“I think that went well,” Zim says as soon as they’re in the hallway, inspecting his gloved hand.

Dib gives him a look. “We couldn’t have been less obviously attracted to each other if we were actually trying.”

“I was actually trying.” Zim shrugs. “You taste like stink.”

A headache starts to form behind Dib’s right eye, and he pinches the space between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

—

The next morning Dib is faced with a dilemma. He still has no idea if Irkens sleep, like, in the normal sense of sleeping. The personality and life of the Irken is stored in the domed metal backpack, so there should be no reason for them to sleep in the conventional way. Dib wonders if the Irken just enters a sleep mode, running on as little power as possible to keep the host body alive while the machine rests. (Up until recently, Don has harbored the idea that this maybe means Zim doesn't have a soul. After all, wouldn't that make him a parasite more than anything? A robotic program hijacking a cadaver to carry out its commands?) But Zims stomach rises and falls in a slow rhythmic pattern, and his face seems more at ease. Very small and thin boned, Zim looks almost vulnerable like this, with one tiny arm crossed over his chest like a child. His other arm rests close to Dib, claw outstretched like he was reaching for him in his sleep. Little puffs of air hit Dibs face as Zim forces it out through his mouth (nix the idea that Irkens breathe through their eye ducts) and Dibs eyes are drawn to his mouth. Zims lips are small, and only a slightly darker shade of green than his skin. Although that makes sense, biologically, it still gives Dib the odd impression that Zims wearing dark green lipstick. The lips look almost out of place on Zims large, flat, reptilian face. A familiar mammalian trait in the mix of otherworldliness. All of Zims features, a lack of nose, ears, nipples, would seem to point towards a lack of lips too, but there they are, and Dib knew from experience that they feel just as soft as normal human lips too. They're parted a little bit, moving gently with the movement of his breaths, and showing a hint of white, wavy teeth peeking behind them like a miniature mountain range. The inside of Zim's mouth is pink and wet with a liquid substance Dib has been unable to identify, but definitely isn’t water based and Zim brings his lower lip into that mouth for a second, wetting it with whatever coats the inside cavern.

Dib wants to kiss Zim.

He wants to kiss him so bad he draws back at first, ashamed. And then doesn't understand why. Zim is his legal soulmate in space or whatever, they're like, interstellar hate married, he should be able to kiss his nemesis husband whenever he wants. It's kissing that got them into this situation anyways, and besides they should get more comfortable with it after their spectacular failure on camera yesterday. But something feels wrong about kissing Zim when he looks so small like this. It's like he's invading some personal area of hard-winned trust that he's only gotten after years of being his only contact.

Finally waking up under his Dibs gaze burning a hole into his face, Zim blinks awake, his domed backpack making a noise that sounds like a computer starting up, some whirring and clicking. He looks blearily up at Dib, grumpy and tired, and aw hell, Dib kisses him.

The kiss lights up a feeling in his chest like a row of tiny firecrackers, the polar opposite of the awkward face smashing in the Television Room that left him embarrassed and red all afternoon. Zim inhales a shaky breath, but tentatively opens his mouth and grabs a handful of sheets on the bed between them. Very slowly, as if scared he'll spook him, he touches the very tip of his tongue between Zims parted lips. He alternates between tracing small circles on Zims bottom lip with his tongue and kissing him soundly until Zims mouth starts to smoke and he pulls away, panting. Dib notices he's been tracing meaningless comforting patterns on Zims arm and stops himself. He pulls his arm back to his side.

Dibs the first one to speak. "We don't want to miss breakfast."

"Eh?" Zim clears his throat. "Yes. Of course."

Flushed and uncomfortable, but determined to stay in charge of the situation, Dib plants him with a quick, parting kiss and rolls out of bed.

Every morning since then has passed the same. Dib wakes up and finds Zim (sleeping?) in his bed, and they kiss. Sometimes they kiss until Zims mouth starts to steam from the water in his saliva and he spends a couple minutes in the crook of Dibs neck panting and coughing, and sometimes he wakes up him with a peck. They never go farther than Dib running his hands along the bottom of Zim's tunic.

The kisses awaken something in Dib that he partly wants to blame on the bond and partly knows that wouldn't be completely true. He spends all night unable to sleep thinking about waking up in the morning. Zim's little moans haunt his dreams and more often than not he starts to wake up to sticky sheets (which he hopes to God Zim doesn't notice or understand). He finds himself wanting to kiss Zim throughout the day, especially when he's said something stupid, which doesn't make much sense.

He kisses Zim, once, at night. They were talking almost amicably, Dib sitting in his bunk and Zim standing. Zim was talking about something Dib was not paying attention to, instead watching Zim's arms flail and point emphatically. Already thinking about the morning, and his heart softening like it does when Zim rants about something that isn't about him, he half starts off the bed and kisses him, mid-sentence. After a brief second of surprise, Zim lets him push him back against the door and give him one of those long, deep kisses that ends in Zim struggling to breathe around his burned mouth. They both go to sleep and do not talk about it, but begin to kiss one another goodnight as well as good morning.

This is why Dib doesn't understand why they can’t kiss on camera.

But it's not just the camera. They can't kiss in front of anyone. Several times people have stopped them in hallways, excitedly asking for a kiss between the human and "the first Irken to kiss someone in, like, forever" only to get sad and disappointed looks when they exchange awkward, stilted pecks on the lips.

After the second disgusting terrible recorded failure, the team decided to approach the situation differently.

"Your relationship is still very new," Tak said. "Maybe what you need is some bonding time, to get over any initial awkwardness."

Which led to him locked back into the Team Headquarters with Zim asking him a stupid questionnaire of stupid questions that wasn't going to make rubbing his face on Zims for the whole universe any less uncomfortable and weird.

"This is dumb," Zim says, echoing Dibs thoughts. He began to make his questionnaire into a paper airplane. "What do they think me incapable of doing a cursory background check on my sworn enemy? And I've known you since you were practically a human larva."

"Yeah, isn't that kinda weird for you?" Dib asks.

"Eh. Irken lifespan is impressively long. It is typical for an Irken to be in maturation long before other species would be, and long after too. The years do not compute well, mathematically."

Dib twirls around in his chair for a moment, and contemplates folding his questionnaire into an airplane too. It's doubtful the team would actually care if they asked the exact questions they were given, as long as they produced results. He doesn't want Zim to think he's copying him though, so he doesn't.

"How old are you anyways, Zim?" Dib asks, and then curses himself because he thinks that was actually a question given them.

"In human years, I am," Zim waves his hand in front of his face "maybe in the three hundreds. Give or take."

Three hundred years. Zim was well aged before America was even a country yet. Dibs known Zim for a third of his life. What had to have been Zims entire life with Dib was just a tiny weekend off to Zim, while Zim was the focal point of his entire existence. Did Zim conquer other planets before Earth? Did he have other nemesis? Dib is, absurdly, jealous at the thought.

"Before I donated my talents to the military efforts, I had many jobs," Zim continued. "I was a bimolecular chemist who invented the neatest self-stable life form before it became not a self-stable life form and absorbed our Tallest, may her bones grow us taller. Zim served in Impending Doom One and helped with, eh, demolition of outdated technology on my home planet. After this, my Tallests’ realized my power was so mighty I had to be relocated into a sleeper cell agent hiding at a simple fast food restaurant until my raw power had to be harnessed again to turn the tide of the war."

Straight after their kidnapping, Tak had separated him and Zim into different rooms. Personally, she came in and explained to Dib how Zims mission was a fraud, a ploy to get him as far away from the Irken military as possible. (And that not only was Zims mission a lie, the reasoning for the trip to Irk was fabricated as well, Zim knowing full well their relationship was punishable by death). But how did he reconcile that knowledge with Zims story and find the real answer?

"How will they ever survive without you this time?" Dib asks dryly instead.

"They won't." Zim grins and Dibs heart does an involuntary fond jump that he hates himself for. “We will win.”

Quirking his lips to the side to keep from smiling (because god if he's gonna let Zim see him smiling at him) Dib approaches a different topic with hopes of throwing Zim off balance.

"I think they're really upset about, you know, the kiss."

The smile drops off Zims face and he looks to the side. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here we go. "Maybe we should-practice?" Dib says. It comes out more like a question. "Y'know, we could uh. Try to kiss in public a couple times. At breakfast or something." Dib's face is absolutely on fire. Last thing he wants is for Zim to think he wants to do couple things or whatever.

Which of course Zim immediately calls him out for. "What plan is this?" he asks. "Trying to rub your greasy face grease against me where everyone can see? Huh?"

Shame crawls hot up Dib's neck which is stupid because it's been Zim whose kissing him in the first place. "You didn't seem to mind my greasy face this morning, lizardboy," he hisses.

"Shut up!" Zim yells. "Be quiet!"

"God, I don't need this." Dib runs his hand through his hair. Gets up.

"Where do you think you're going, you- you cowardly child pig, augh, head?"

Over his shoulder, Dib throws "I'll see you at dinner" and feels immensely good at closing the door on Zim's scream. Walking quickly, Dib takes the first left. He gets down a different hallway that he doesn't recognize. He doesn't want to go back to his room where, no doubt, Zim will be there angry as hell and ready to try to throw something else in his face. His face heats up again as he remembers their kiss that morning, sidestepping someone in a white doctor's coat to pass them. Okay, it was him who initiated it technically, but what was Zim doing in his bed? Huh? Dib's ashamed at caring and angry that he's ashamed at caring and he wants to punch Zim in the god damn face but he doesn't even have that anymore. Cause he has to pretend to give a shit. Which he doesn't.

Hovering near a door far to Dib's right is, surprisingly, Steven, the plookesian at their eating table. Too many bad memories of plookesians from his childhood have kept Dib from getting particularly close to Steven, but Dib's happy to see a familiar face regardless. He makes a visual move to get Steven's attention, and Steven smiles brightly at Dib's recognition, cutting off the conversation with whomever he was talking to in the other room, out of Dib's field of vision.

"Hey, man!" Steven says, joining Dib fully in the hallway. "What're you doing up in my neighborhood?"

Dib gives him a tight smile. "Just got some free time on my hands, I guess." An obvious lie, but he's exciting to talk to anyone that isn't Zim.

"Hey, listen." Despite his head being almost a foot shorter than Dib, Steven manages to lean in conspiratorially. "I heard about your weird thing with the video. I wouldn't really worry about it, dude, everyone gets a bit camera shy their first time." He laughs and elbows Dib in the ribs good-naturally.

"Yeah..." Dib says, a bit embarrassed that that's a rumor now. Are Zim and he a gossip topic? God, he hopes not. "I just wish I could really help out. With the resistance, y'know? This commercial crap with Zim all seems so"don't say fake "scripted."

"Each part in a machine adds to the whole!" Steven's smile almost irritates Dib. Steven's probably doing something cool and badass like building laser guns or chopping aliens' heads off. Actually, wait, Dib has no idea what Steven does. Thinking back on it, he's been so up his own ass about how "important" his and Zim's job seemed before he actually saw what it was, he has no idea what anyone else does around here. Maybe that's the real reason he's not close with Steven. His cheeks flame again.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Dib offers him a halfhearted smile.

Steven cuffs him on the shoulder and says as a goodbye. "Chin up, man! You'll see the payout soon."

Dib isn't so sure.

Notes:

> I said I wasn't abandoning this fic and gdi im not abandoning this fic LMAO > I have v little excuse of why this took me a year other than that I'm really busy all of the time and would rather sleep than work. I still care about this fic a lot, just not like, more than a nice solid nap. Also writing is really difficult and I stopped talking to my beta for like three months. > easter eggs all the time for people nerdy enough to understand them >even if i don't reply to comments they make me cry each time thanks