#but it irks me so fucking much that we move away from natural materials in favor of plastic

[ricoka]

an article was suggested to me a few days ago about a fashion company that has decided to move away from leather and some types of wool, obviously in exchange for even more polyester and other plastic materials because of the horrible standards animals are held and killed in that are the source for those. instead of trying to work on the problems, we'll just add even more plastic to this planet. that will surely solve it

[adeelusionaldiary]

One Shot: The Publicity Stunt

Her green eyes glanced down at the current source of her frustration, her iPhone. It was like staring down at the device would will him to respond to her plea of desperation. Instead it just said delivered. Maybe this was a sign that she should let go. After all, it’d been too many missed opportunities to talk. The constant games of phone tag. It was wearing on her because she missed the fuck outta him, plain and simple. All she wanted to do was bask in his presence but she couldn’t. Instead she caught glimpses of the happening of his life through the KINGdom Come hashtag on Instagram.

The tour looked amazing and she could tell a lot of thought went into it with all the small details. She wished she could have been present night after night to see what was happening, but after the whole fiasco of thinking they were pregnant and then it turned out to be negative Ryan thought it’d be best for them to have some space. Clearly Vander was doing it right, throwing himself into work along with the newest flavor of the month, Camilla DiBello better known as his opening act. It irked Ryan to no end because while everyone else was praising the girl for her sound and dance moves Ryan could only see the fact that she seemed like the ultimate groupie. There was no doubt in her mind that little girl would use this tour to develop a relationship with Vander, and it wouldn’t be the professional kind.

A huff escaped her lips as she threw her phone down. Fuck this sitting around being miserable shit. She was going to go out and have good time because damnit she deserved it. Walking over to the closet her eyes scoured the small space until she found exactly what she was looking for. She smiled as she held the see through dress up to her body. The same dress Evander had gifted her with that she swore she would wear just so he could take it off. Maybe another lucky guy would get the opportunity tonight and with that idea in mind, Ryan made sure to put her best effort into getting ready.

Heads turned as she made her way through the throng of bodies in the club. The DJ was playing the perfect music for her to find someone to grind up on. All she needed was a drink. Finding the bar, she ordered her signature cocktail, a Manhattan. While waiting she scoured her Instagram. The mini photoshoot she posted with the help of her Apple Watch -a birthday gift courtesy of Raven- was gaining traction, but the man of the hour still hadn’t liked it, not that necessarily expected him to. It was more likely he’d fly and snatch her ass up letting her know she was playing a very dangerous game. She locked the device as her drink was placed in front of her.

She took a much-needed sip of her Manhattan as she posted up at the bar. Eyes ran over her body from jealous women, and lustful men but she ignored it all as she finished one drink and downed another. With her third drink in hand, she made her way to the dance floor. Her hips moved in rhythm with the music before someone joined her. They may as well been fucking the way his hands roamed her bare body considering her bare breast and underwear were visible form the see through material of the dress. Several songs later she removed herself from the stranger or at least she tried to. He pulled her body into his whispering sweet nothings as he caressed her side. She giggled as her eyes scanned the club. Her lips fell into a scowl as she spotted the familiar blonde with her entourage. Maybe her name did have some bearing if she managed to make it into VIP without Evander Lynch nearby.

Excusing herself from the gentleman, who thought he had a chance, she strutted across the room making her way to the VIP area that was sectioned off. The blonde noticed her, causing a smirk to cross her lips as she made her way to the bouncer, making sure to keep the separation between the two.

“Look what the cat dragged in?” The voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard and Ryan had to bite her tongue to not retort.

“Listen, we need to talk.”

“We,” the blonde said pointing her perfectly manicured finger between the duo “Don’t need to do shit.”

Ryan chuckled. “But I think we do. I promise I’ll even share some tips so you can keep our man next time.”

A smirk sat on her face as Vanessa glared at her.

“You come over here dressed like the whore you are trying to be cute. Bitch get lost.” Vanessa said, eyeing Ryan’s body with disgust.

“Aww.” Ryan cooed. “Admit that it bothers the fuck outta you no matter how many times you hop on and off the surgery table you can never look like this! Titties that actually stand up and not because they’re filled with implants. Can’t forget the natural ass that I can move and our man loves. I mean Vander picked this one out himself.” Ryan spoke rubbing her hands down her sides for emphasis. “Oh, and do me a favor please remember where those bitches got you last time.” Ryan warned. 
“Yeah, he loves you so much that’s why your ass is standing here, outside my VIP section seeking attention. I already told you, you’re a nobody.”

“And somehow I’ve still managed to get your attention.”

“Keep her away from me.” Vanessa spoke to the bouncer, ready to dismiss Ryan and enjoy the rest of her night.

“I just wanna talk.” Ryan spazzed, making Vanessa raise her arched brows, before shaking her head and walking off.

Ryan huffed, turning around storming off to the bar where she finished her last Manhattan. There was no doubt about it she was buzzed and even though Vanessa hadn’t originally been a part of the plan she was mad the girl was icing her because the blonde was probably the only person who could relate to her at the moment.

Just as she got ready to close her tab at the bar a body pressed behind her but there was no hint of familiarity, causing her to whip her head around to find the man from earlier.

“So you just left me back there earlier.”

“Yeah, I’m ready to go home.”

“Without me?” He asked and Ryan fought the urge to roll her eyes. Tired ass line from the the guy who couldn’t take the hint. Placing her hands on his chest she tried to create some space between their bodies but he wouldn’t let up. Instead he placed his lips by her ears.

“You know ma, those titties look amazing I’d love to show you what I can do with them.”

She got ready to tell him off, where exactly he could fuck off at but another voice chimed in.

“Hey. back off perv.” There was blondie scooping in and saving the day. She pushed her way through forcing him to back up from Ryan’s personal space.

“I’ve been looking for you. Let’s go.” She took Ryan’s hand and brought her back to VIP this time granting her access as the bouncer let them through.

Ryan took a seat and looked to Vanessa. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The blonde said flipping her tresses and Ryan wasn’t able to decipher if she really meant it.

“I miss him.” Ryan blurted.

Vanessa look at Ryan before her phone made its way in front of them with the flash as Vanessa guided the device showing off their outfits.

“Two bad bitches.” Vanessa screamed into the phone as Ryan began dancing to the music causing Vanessa to let out an ‘ayeee’ as she tapped Ryan’s ass. She posted the video to her Instagram before turning to Ryan.

“You’re a bad bitch you better not be worried about Vander’s ass.”

“No ones worried about him.” Ryan slurred. “I could have any guy in here but my stupid ass want him.”

Vanessa laughed loudly causing Ryan’s to screw up her face in confusion.

“It’s not funny. We almost had a baby and now look at us.” Vanessa expression grew stoic before she straightened up.  She turned to one of her minions and whispered something before turning back to Ryan.

“You didn’t come here to be a sad betty. I’ll send your ass back to the bar.”

“No!” Ryan spoke. “I need your help. Didn’t you miss him? How do I get over him? I just wanna get him off my mind.”

In her drunken state Ryan didn’t even realize one of Vanessa’s minions recording in the background. Instead she running her mouth to the enemy in hope of finding common ground.

“You know how Vander is. All he does is play with people emotions. Your time is done. Time to build a bridge and get over it.”

“Why are you lying on him? He cares about me.” The sentence probably didn’t even sound coherent in her drunken and now angered state. “You play with peoples emotions, that’s why you won’t help me. You want me to be sad when all I wanna do is be happy. I just wanna be his friend.”

“Get up.” Vanessa spoke as she pulled Ryan from her seat. She squeezed Ryans face. “Get your shit together. No more Vander talk. When I’m done with you, you won’t even remember his name. We get over him, by drinking so throw this shit back. She said handing her a shot.

[peacefulwriter88]

Disarm

Lance Tucker x Curvy WoC

Warnings: Fluff, language like subtle hints of SMUT but nothing to crazy kids

A/N: I’m just trying to clean my system of this asshole, don’t mind me…

The room reverberates as the crack of thunder hits above the hotel. You’re frozen in your bed, comforter pulled to your chin as lightning flashes against your pulled curtains, the stiff material doing nothing to dispel the chaos that is happening between the thin layer of glass. Can’t help dispel the anxious way your chest heaves up and down, the way your tank top sticks to your sweat drenched skin and you try to close your eyes, willing the scenario away from your mind. But another clap of thunder has you snapping your eyes open and you whimper lower into your bed.

You hated thunderstorms like this.

Your grandparents who had a home in North Carolina loved storms like this. Wasn’t bothered by it. So, that night when a hurricane had blown in, it had taken them off guard. It was a wonder that your grandfather was able to get you and your grandmother to safety, but he had lost his life in the process. Nights like this drew you back to your six year old self and you jump at another flash of thunder, before you’re giving into your anxiety and pull your phone from the nightstand.

You knew he’d be up. It was only 11 – he was always up this late.

Are you up?

You knew it’d throw him off. You never texted him outside the context of work. When you were hired to help coach the girl’s Olympic team, you and Lance had naturally butt heads. He thought he knew what was best for his winning team and you assured him that he didn’t, that there was more that could be learned. You would know, you were a former gold and silver winner like him and that was probably what irked him as much.

You were on his level.

Over time though, annoyance became respect. Lance realized that you did a lot more with the girls than he was capable of, connecting with them on different levels that translated in the gym. Though you barely were in the gym as much as your former self was, it helped when you were able to jump on a beam or the bars to show a technique. You’re muscles had memorized techniques, form, even if the weight of your body’s curve betrayed you and made you regret the suppleness of your ass and breast as a 29 year old. Barely 30 and anytime you were done after a day’s technique,  you felt like you body was going on 50 after you finished a demonstration, needing to ice and soak every part of you.

Lance respected that you still got up there and could do it with ease though. Was impressed on the way you were still able to call control to your body and show the mental and physical discipline that is gained if your mind is in the right place. Lecturing them that boys were nice, sure, but the wrong boy could have you in the wrong state of mind when you were twisting your body off a vault. That going to ballet was a bummer after spending hours in the gym but it strengthened your calves, helped you meditate in a different way. He would also echo his agreement, his eyes lingering a little too long on your ass or chest when you finished a move. You ignored the way that made you feel, you had no room for a Lance Tucker.

Except tonight, as you look down at your cell phone. Two minutes had gone by and he hadn’t responded which mean he hadn’t taken Kyle’s offer to go out for a drink. That he was in bed – hopefully his own. Another boom of thunder and you throw the covers off of you. Fuck this. You weren’t going to be stuck in this room all night, unable to sleep when you both had a long day ahead of you. You find your room key, take a deep breath and lunge out of your bed after a rumble of thunder, counting slowly down to yourself as you scamper out into the hallway. If he wasn’t going to wake up and give you the comfort you needed you were going to force it on him.

There’s something loud banging on his door, drawing him out of his subconscious. He’s suddenly aware of the coolness in his room, the way something bright flashes occasionally throughout the small space and the buzzing of his phone. He groans, blindly looking for the metal contraption that’s annoying him first, rubbing his eyes as he croaks out an answer,

“Hello?”

“Open your goddamn door!”

Your voice is different. It’s not commanding, confident or elegant. It’s the opposite – needy on the verge of fear and it’s enough that has him stumbling out of his bed, clicking on a light as he makes his way to the door.

The pounding has stopped now and by the time he cracks open the heavy wood, you’re pushing past him with lightning speed. You’re just wearing a tank top that pushes up your ample bosom and shorts that might as well be illegal as they grip your ass in the best kind of way, causing him to bite his lip as he tries to look away. You throw your phone and room key on his night stand, push your phone into his charger, before your wrapping yourself in his comforter. He furrows his eyebrows together as he closes the door, looking at you with skeptically curiosity as another boom of lightening hits and you jump nearly off the bed, fear laced in your eyes.

“…you’re afraid of thunderstorms?” he doesn’t mean for his voice to be cynical, he’s genuinely curious and you snap a look at him, one he’s seen enough times. The one that makes him want to go hide in a corner while simultaneously bending you over his knee in punishment.  

“Maybe.”

“You? Really?”

You give a deep sigh, pinching your nose as he walks over to the window, taking a peek outside and whistling under his breath.

“It’s coming down. But makes sense for Florida – it’s trying to wash away all the crazy shit that happens in this state away.”

He looks back at you as you watch him with wide eyes.

“Don’t be so close to the window. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Your voice is meek but genuine and he gives a deep sigh, shaking his head as he closes the curtain, turning to walk toward you.

“You know I was charging my phone. Now it’s going to die.”

“I’ll make sure to keep it at full charge tomorrow. Besides anyone important who needs to talk to you can also connect with you through me. The skanks in your life are just going to have wait a day.”

Despite the sassiness in the comment you’re frozen, he can see the way your body shakes while you hold yourself. He places his phone next to yours before he grabs the sides of your body, pushing you over a bit. You’re soft and hard in the way he’s always imagined and he prays the small erection that always makes an appearance whenever he’s this close to you isn’t apparent as he gets into bed. He pulls the comforter a bit, enough so you have to share and another bout of thunder hits that has you practically jumping into his arms. He chuckles as he wraps them around you, drawing you close as you rest your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry this is unprofessional. But I was stuck for two days in a hurricane that started like this and…..it brings out the worse fear in me. I know it’s unfounded and unrealistic but I can’t afford not to sleep. And Kyle’s a fucking pervert, no way I’m trying to bunk with him. Tracey would keep me up all night talking my ear off about that one time you banged her in her office and the girls would wake me up constantly, asking if you and I were a thing. I just wanted to be with someone who I felt safe with and that I trust….”

You’re shaking and he nods, placing his head on top of yours. He knew your story – it had ben plastered all over the news the years you had gone to the Olympics. Your grandfather had gotten killed in that hurricane that ripped through the east coast. A few years later, your grandmother had passed away and the orphan in you had found a way to overcome, to practice and train and work and go to school to be an American Olympian. He had respected it, respected it more than Hope.

What surprised him was that you trusted him. You talked to him the least, kept him at an arms distance. The fact that you thought to come to him made him feel proud and something else he can’t put his finger on. Tries to push it into the back of his mind even though he knows it’ll linger there for weeks as he rubs your arms up and down as he whispers,

“You don’t have to explain, its ok. I get it. You can stay here as long as you want….”

You fall into his embrace, a sigh of relief hitting his exposed chest.

“Thanks Lance,” another bout of lightening that has you jumping into his lap, arms wrapped reverently around him. When it passes you look at him, large doe eyes that make his cock twitch before you give a sheepish smile. “Probably the night.” You admit and he chuckles as he falls back into his headboard.

“That’s fine with me,” another smile as he grips your hips. “I’d be more than happy to find a way to distract you.”

His moves his hips into your own, his erection moving against your center and you let out a small moan, before you narrow your eyes and shake your head.

“Are you trying to use my fear to seduce me?”

He gives a lazy smile.

“You want to tell me you’ve never thought about you and me? I’ve seen the way you’ve checked me out in the gym….”

You roll your eyes as you shake your head.

“Yea Lance you’re hot. And sure, I’d love to ride you like no tomorrow,” the honesty of the words take him off guards as his eyebrows raise. “But we work together and honestly, I’m not just trying to find some guy to fuck me. I’m past all of that. If I’m riding you like the stallion you are, it’s because you’re more than a good lay.”

Even though you say the words, he sees the way you bite your lip, the way your eyes scan down his chest before your pushing off of him.

“I’m going to bed. We have a long day tomorrow.”

“Fine. But just for the record, I wouldn’t just consider you a good lay. I actually like you. You think I’d let Tracey in my room if she was pounding at my door this late at night. I’d send her over to pervy Kyle.”

You giggle as you lay on your side, shaking your head and he takes the opportunity to wrap himself behind you, drawing your backside to his erection that causes you both to groan.

“Let’s at least cuddle. My fee for disrupting my good sleep. Although, you’re going to have to deal with the consequence of my erection from coming in looking as hot as you do...”

“….unbelievable….” you mutter, but your hand already falls over his arms, snuggling back into him.

Neither admit that it’s the best sleep you’ve gotten in months, even if you both wake up with the worst case of blue balls. Even if you can’t help the lingering way Lance pulls away when you hug him thanks in the morning, or the way his eyes fall on you even more openly throughout the rest of the meet.

Even if you do give in a little bit when he asks you out to dinner, the moment you both land back in California. Even if you say yes with a big grin on your face.

[the-ash0]

chapter 25 chill

Saiyan physiology, I have been assured by many doctors and questionable scientists, is the best there is. The way we bounce back from near-fatal injury is unique and I won't say it has not always been a source of pride and consolation.

And yet here I am, lamenting the fact that two weeks after waking up from my GR accident —with the most questionable scientist yet at my side— I am all but healed. Why? Well, first of all, sitting still is a lot easier when it hurts to move. Because apparently, that’s part of what relaxing is. Not moving.

We’re in a new room again. Capsule Corp is full of them. I think this one is specifically meant for this thing I’ve promised to try: a relaxing room. Or something. Recreation? Whatever.

There are two couches, another low table between us, and one of those big viewing slates fixed to the wall surrounded by pieces of canvas she calls art. The woman has taken one couch, stretched her legs out to the side and is leaning on her elbow as she flips through a remote’s menu. I concede to sitting down on the vacant couch. It’s a little low so I’m stuck with my feet planted apart as I stare at her with my arms crossed.

The second reason my recovery irks me: I can’t blame this lapse of judgement on an addled brain. What in fuck’s name made me to agree to this? Maybe I have suffered permanent brain-damage. I mean, that happens. Look at Nappa. It's kind of a nice thought. I could just, you know, go about and do whatever I want. ‘Oh, don't mind him. He got knocked in the head too much.’ Conduct unbefitting a prince? Can I eat that? No more responsibility for my actions… but then I’d just be a second Kakarot. And that’s just sad…

She looks up at me from her side of the low table and sighs, the lowers the remote. “Sit back, will you? Relax.”

I have to repress a snarl, because she was going to show me how. Because apparently I don't, so... I mean what the fuck? Also, what the fuck, brain? I know I’m naturally distrustful. It’s served me well in the past, but ever since I’ve decided I can trust the woman... I’m going into hyper alert every time I’m around her. It’s so stupid, but it only appears to be getting worse.

“I am relaxed,” I grind, and instinctively dig my nails into my biceps before shoving my back into the backrest. It’s not helping; now I have to tilt my head to my chest to keep looking at her. And I’m not about to look away from her, because that thing in the back of my head is screaming: danger, danger. Space-reality continuum anomaly.

Oh yes; it is very hard to argue with that voice. This whole stay on Earth has been a trip to lala-land. And she’s right at the center of it all. That doesn't mean she forms, in any way, a danger to me. She’s weak; she’s harmless. Worry about the anomalies that are a danger, will you brain? Kakarot. The half-breed mystery-brat from the future. Cramps induced by late-night snack splurges. You know, real and actual dangers.

“Ok,” she gives me a weird look, “so when I need to relax, I hang loose and go out with my friends.” She drops the control on the table between us and stands to stretch. “But I'm not sure you’re that comfortable with yours yet, so…”

Ok, let’s try and make things clear to the woman. “I don't have any friends.”

She smiles and saunters off to a corner, leaving with that throbbing tinge from behind as I follow her with my eyes. Why does she sway her hips like that? She’s not wearing those ridiculous high shoes this time. Maybe it's the dress. “And I’m not really sure they’re up for it either right now. You did beat the snot out of them, and they’re all out training hard.”

It is half-way relieving she was not talking about herself, but still,  “what friends are we talking about exactly?”

She is bent down over what turns out to be a mini-fridge, and I have to look away or I’m stuck scowling at her ass. The dress is not short by her definition, but definitely too short for these kinds of antics. She stands, then tosses me a can, which I catch on intuition, and I turn back to give her my best death glare. She seems set on disturbing me further, because I just get a smile. “Anyway, I’ve got some basics right here. Dim the lights, light some incense, play  some relaxing music.”

“Music?”

“Like, relaxing sounds?” She shrugs, opens her own can and, right on cue, we are surrounded by ambient sound. “Here, and try a beer.”

Damnit. Now she thinks I don't know what music is... Though how it’s supposed to relax anyone is beyond me. Beer is what I tried at the bar, though it was not put in a can like this.  When I open the lid, foam surprises me, and I sit up in an attempt to minimize the damage, cursing under my breath.

The woman flutters around me, placing an assortment of cans and bottles and packages on the table, closing the blinds. As she plays around with her controller, the music swells, some flute in tones so low and slow I doubt the musician himself will be awake at the end of the song.

As I look through the assortment on the table for something serviceable as a towel to get the sticky beer off my hands she dives behind me, takes the opportunity to grab and fluff a pillow and places it against the side-rest. Then she motions me to lean into it. The alarm bells in my head are still ringing, and it takes me a while to figure out what she is doing, because her acts are so alien to me. It finally clicks when I think of the blond ditz she is related to. Oh, this will not do. “Stop mothering me. Saiyans don't do family. I told you this.”

“You’ve told me a lot of things. I’m not convinced ofn most of them.” She walks to my side, picks up a bag, offering me “chips?”, and smiles that sickly smile at me. I can't help but think that’s unfair of her to say, because I have been nothing but honest with the woman from the start. I tell her soas such.

She laughs at me outright. “You misunderstand. I don't think you’re lying. I just don't think any of it is true.” Then she plops down next to me, and I find I do want to lean on that side-rest, just to get some distance. Rethinking the no-threat-to-me thing, seriously.

“How are you feeling now?”

That’s it. I am not cut out for this. I should give it a fair chance, true. I do want to be a Super Saiyan. Yes, that badly. But I think a time-limit is in order. Ten minutes. And if I’m not convinced, I am never, ever trying this again. All and everything we’re doing right now is going on my shit-list forever. Including the beer, just because of association. I blink at her. “Seriously freaked out.”

“Ahh.” At least she shifts away from me, rummaging through her wares. “Want to try a cigarette?”

It is probably the single most disgusting habit these earthlings have displayed to me yet. Both her father and she indulge in it, and I cannot imagine why. The trail of smoke, the ash and odor clinging to them all day. I curl my upper lip at her, and she gets the message. A weak laugh as she leans to the side. “Mind if I do?”

I should, but I can't be arsed to tell her. Nine minutes… nine more left. She lights up, then lowers herself down with a content sigh, crossing her legs and leaning on the back rest. “How d’you like the music?”

She seems to think me a liar, but I hardly ever do, unless I need to: “Sounds like a pair of geriatrics trying to fuck on top of a broken flute.”

She barks a laugh. “Not your tastes.” She picks up her remote and taps away on it. “How’s this?”

The beat changes, picks up, and instruments are now accompanied by the screeching of a young female. “Now it sounds like the flute itself is fucking some bitch.”

She laughs, sits up with me as I discard the now-empty can to the side of the table. Goes about sorting her bottles with her cigarette perched on her lips. “How about wine. Do you know wine?”

“Oh yes.” If I was uncomfortable before, now I’m fuming. “I know. Pinon blue, Merlot’s pink. Frieza loved the stuff, went through three bottles in one sitting.” Then pretended to be completely smashed. Bastard. “They say the Cold Empire originally started because the Ice Planet only sustained the grapes for it around the equator and they needed more planting space. Oh, you can also cook with it.”

She gives me a perplexed look, so I elaborate. “Drown a fowl in it, then cook it? Of course, that takes away the alcohol, so you need to replace that before serving. Oh, and there’s wine veggies, wine pudding, wine ice cream.”

Her expression turns cynical. “Seriously, wine ice -cream?”

I cannot help my delight. “What? You humans don't have wine ice cream? Haute cuisine on Frieza’s ship.” And eating it felt as good as waterboarding. “Brain-freeze and killing your taste-buds in one go. Two for the price of one.”

She gives me another one of those sick smiles. “Wine’s off the list then. And I guess no smokables? Can I at least burn some incense? Or maybe inject you with some mild sedatives?”

“Never letting you close enough for that again.” Eight minutes left and counting.

“Hmm. Guess we’ll have to do this naturally. Might even be better. Hey, you into movies?” She takes the stinking stick from her mouth, gives it a long look and puts it out. Looks up expectantly, like I should be happy about it. Like it matters now. The whole room reeks of the stuff.

On the plus side, now I can at least cut her off before she decides I don't know what movies are. I’ve seen both instructional and promotional material. I’m not sure why they would relax anyone either. “Only when I want to get inspired to kill the creators.”

“Right, putting them on the back burner for now. So... you are into reading?”

She hands me a tablet slate with an expression like she’s being really clever. Doubt resurfaces, suggesting I do have something to worry about, but I quench it. Take the slate from her, and give it a look over.

“I have books on here. Fiction, history, science. There’s an internet browser. I have several interesting sites linked...” She tries to scoot closer and look at the slate with me, but I pull it close and turn it so only I can see. This is gold, and its setup is similar to a scouter. Easy enough to master. There is a lot more info here than accessible on the basic scourter database, though. I’m scrolling and searching and I find real and useful intel right away.

This internet is a truly beautiful thing. But, truly human as well. Information sharing? Nothing like the way the PTO hoarded its iInformation, accessible only from different databases close to Frieza himself. Needed data for your mission or task? Gather it up from the twelve different libraries and log rooms across the ship, and manually type in any data you need to take on the voyage.

I grunt, lost in the appliance while the woman loses interest and starts messing with her mobile phone. Suits me well enough. Oh, the stuff up for grabs in this place! Knowledge is power, don't the earthlings know this? And besides, why give anything away when you can charge for it or dole it out as if a favour? She’s managed a look at my screen though, and takes in a breath. “What are you doing?”

“Research. Getting to know people? Piccolo is the devil,” I deadpan, showing her the article. It seems a bit of an overstatement, but humans do like their dramas. Still useful. Piccolo: father, deceased. Strong points: can grow limbs back. Weaknesses: strong attacks take time and leave him stationary. But, even better: the brat. One of the articles suggest him training out in the desert with a child, and that could only be one. Though the article suggests it’s actually a mythical spirit-being. The sources on the article are shabby, flagged as nonsense sites. But I know better. This is such a good handle on him… I quickly move onto Kakarot next. There’s less on him for some reason, though. Perhaps spotting a flying monkey doesn't stand out here as much as a green lizard-thing in a turban.

Bulma sighs, laying down her phone and stretching her back as she sits up. “That is not what I meant aboutwith getting to know people.” Then she sits back, breathing out long. “I know. Tell me a story,” and then she puts her hand right on my leg.

I freeze, because the prickling is back, and perhaps I misunderstood my brain’s anomaly warning. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” She has the audacity to pat my leg, then finally pulls her hand away to lean it against the backrest.

“This is stupid,” I realise, and besides I’ve already spent over my allotted ten minutes, right? I can leave now. But it’s worse; far worse. Because the smoke has cleared and I can smell her, and she’s so close it’s disgusting.

“Stupidest thing you’ve ever done?” She turns to me with a wicked twinkle in her eye. That near-black dress hugs the curves of her chest as she twists.

“No.” Although it’s close. Because she’s right here, and she’s an alien. A disgusting, inferior monster I should have purged a long time ago. Would have purged, if not for the daily meals and the perks of a warm place to sleep and training equipment.

She leans her head on her hand, the one on the backrest. Pulls up a leg, focuses on me intently, still with that mischievoues tone. “What was the stupidest then?”

I bail, get up; move straight for the door. “Coming to this fucking planet.” And it’s true, because it gets worse every day. Worse in every way. There’s an alien bitch I just let within three feet of me. And I’m not disgusted with her.  

I’m not disgusted.

read the rest on https://archiveofourown.org/works/15338988/chapters/35590152 or ff.net

[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