The Taste of Perfection
By Dani Cregan (the Hyperintelligent Shade of Blue)
Rating: Uh… PG-13 for implied sex? *shruggle*
Pairing: Zim/Dib (naturally… ~.n)
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I wouldn't be writing flufffic on a secondhand laptop in my grandmother's house. And I am. o.o; All hail to the great Jhonen Vasquez, I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!
Warnings: Um… Possible confusion… high fluff… implied sex… m/m content (but if you take the names out, you'd never know O.o;)… blatant disregard of unrevealed canon… futurefic…I think that's it…^^; First fic in this fandom for me. That's a biggie.
It's nights like this when he startles me, not of any forethought or planning but just by being himself. Nights like this- when he comes out of the bathroom shyly, looking around self-consciously before stepping around the door, hands tugging his bedtime t-shirt down to cover his slim straight hips. Nights when he comes into our bedroom cautiously, like a wounded deer, like someone else would be in the room that only we two ever enter, the room where the entire universe is four walls, two doors, a bed, a closet, Dib and Zim, nothing more exists. These are the nights he shocks me speechless, not with fright, but with the fleeting complete knowledge that the most beautiful, perfect being in the universe is the one I love, the one I have pledged my heart and soul and life to.
Then he shakes me out of my startled thoughts, his dark eyes sparkling and calm, and he sits on the bed between my legs and offers me a silver-backed hairbrush and asks me to please brush out his hair for him, and be careful, it's still a little wet. I can deny him nothing, and I would never wish to deny him this. I run the brush slowly through his thick, jet-black hair, each strand soft and damp, and smile to myself as he squirms slightly. I think he enjoys having his hair brushed even more than I enjoy brushing it for him- although that could be debated. He lets out a soft sigh as I smooth the short hair at the back of his neck with my fingertips, and what can I do but press my lips to the same spot? He turns and I pull back slightly, only to have him pull me forward again in a brief kiss of thanks. A chuckle, and I ask what he finds so amusing, and he answers me plainly, that my mouth tastes of cinnamon and have I been hitting his stash of cinnamon hearts again? I haven't, and I tell him so, even though I know he's joking. It's a ritual, by now, he accuses me of tasting like cinnamon and I tell him he has the flavor of perfection, but before I can play our game of words he tugs me closer, nuzzles his head into the curve of my neck.
I fear there's something wrong with him, he's usually less cuddly and more verbal, but again, before I voice my thoughts he looks up at me, dark eyes and dark hair and such pale, pale skin… and he kisses me again, sweet and lingering, and asks me when I'm going to die.
He sounds so much like a child.
I don't ask him what he means. I know, all too well. I'd been worrying about this, too- about the typical longevity of my species, about how I'd lived three times his current age before I even met him…. About the long, lonely span of years I would face, barring some disaster or miracle, without him by my side. He asks again, voice quiet and thin with the kind of fear that you put off and put off until the whole horrible weight of it strikes you at once…
I can deny him nothing, not even the answer to a question he wished he hadn't asked.
He watches me carefully, eyes never leaving my face as I set aside the brush, sit back, gather his lean frame into my arms, and tell him the truth. His face, so beautiful, glossed over with sorrow and determination as he considers my words.
He tells me in a voice breathy with intensity that he will find a way for him to live as long, that he never wants me to be alone when I want to be with him. Then he kisses me again, deep and teasing and long, until we both break off with the need for oxygen. I tell him I love him, and he smiles with a sad contentment and reminds me that that's the only reason he's alive, silly, or had I forgotten? I hadn't.
And then his fingers frame my face, long and pale against the green of my skin, and I give him cinnamon kisses and he murmurs how cool I seem under his hands… And I stand up, push him gently down on the bed, tracing my hands down his face, neck, arms, sides, legs, human-hot skin partially covered with thin soft cotton. I murmur his name, quietly, and he laces the fingers of his left hand with those of my right, and I fall into the darkness of him and taste perfection on his skin.
Then somehow it's over, the white of his skin fragmenting in my vision into blossoms of light behind my eyes, and I hear his voice, dark and smoky with passion, whispering my name… But the fear strikes me, and I gather him again in my arms, but now he's brilliantly flushed and slightly sweaty and perfectly nude, and I hold him close as he strokes my back softly, one hand gentle along my antennae, and he tells me in a childishly solemn tone that he'll not leave my side unless I want him to- when would I ever want him to?- and the soft black cowlick of hair over his forehead brushes my skin as he kisses me.
Perfection, like brown sugar and hot chocolate and the feeling of security and the assurance of love.
I could kiss him forever. Outside the doors of our bedroom, the whole messed-up universe is free to interrupt and distract us… But in here, everything else drops away. Species, class, all the divisions made such a fuss of out there are gone.
Like I said, it's just Dib and Zim, Zim and Dib, and for me nothing needs to exist but him.
Whoa. Where that came from, I haven't a clue… ^^; My muse works like that, in fits and starts and heaven help you if you try to stop him. I just hope he's got enough in him to let me develop a background for this piece…. From what I can tell, it's after the Earth's takeover (::hides under her laptop as people chorus "Duh"::) and Dib's probably something like mid-twenties in this. It's prolly horribly OOC, and I apologize sincerely to anyone who's bothered to read this far. ^^; Oh did I mention I have severe low writing self esteem problems? Hee hee. And yeah, I basically told canon to take a flying leap (cause what is the canon, anyway? It's never been said how old Zim is/ how long Irkens live and stuff like that…) and fudged the details… If that bugged you, please tell me! I'm desperate for feedback (preferably nice, my muse uses flames to set off bottle rockets in my head and that *hurts*) and oh yeah, one last thing… sorry that I skipped that could-have-been-lemon completely… It was late at night and I was going for short, if I diverted it into lemon territory I never would have finished it! ^^;; And the style is a little odd for me, usually I do have direct dialog and I write from third person… I think this is my first finished fic completely in first-person POV… ^__^ I think I'm proud of it… Well! Review, please, je vous en prie, onegai!
By Dani Cregan (the Hyperintelligent Shade of Blue)
Rating: Uh… PG-13 for implied sex? *shruggle*
Pairing: Zim/Dib (naturally…
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I wouldn't be writing flufffic on a secondhand laptop in my grandmother's house. And I am. o.o; All hail to the great Jhonen Vasquez, I'm not worthy! I'm not worthy!
Warnings: Um… Possible confusion… high fluff… implied sex… m/m content (but if you take the names out, you'd never know O.o;)… blatant disregard of unrevealed canon… futurefic…I think that's it…^^; First fic in this fandom for me. That's a biggie.
It's nights like this when he startles me, not of any forethought or planning but just by being himself. Nights like this- when he comes out of the bathroom shyly, looking around self-consciously before stepping around the door, hands tugging his bedtime t-shirt down to cover his slim straight hips. Nights when he comes into our bedroom cautiously, like a wounded deer, like someone else would be in the room that only we two ever enter, the room where the entire universe is four walls, two doors, a bed, a closet, Dib and Zim, nothing more exists. These are the nights he shocks me speechless, not with fright, but with the fleeting complete knowledge that the most beautiful, perfect being in the universe is the one I love, the one I have pledged my heart and soul and life to.
Then he shakes me out of my startled thoughts, his dark eyes sparkling and calm, and he sits on the bed between my legs and offers me a silver-backed hairbrush and asks me to please brush out his hair for him, and be careful, it's still a little wet. I can deny him nothing, and I would never wish to deny him this. I run the brush slowly through his thick, jet-black hair, each strand soft and damp, and smile to myself as he squirms slightly. I think he enjoys having his hair brushed even more than I enjoy brushing it for him- although that could be debated. He lets out a soft sigh as I smooth the short hair at the back of his neck with my fingertips, and what can I do but press my lips to the same spot? He turns and I pull back slightly, only to have him pull me forward again in a brief kiss of thanks. A chuckle, and I ask what he finds so amusing, and he answers me plainly, that my mouth tastes of cinnamon and have I been hitting his stash of cinnamon hearts again? I haven't, and I tell him so, even though I know he's joking. It's a ritual, by now, he accuses me of tasting like cinnamon and I tell him he has the flavor of perfection, but before I can play our game of words he tugs me closer, nuzzles his head into the curve of my neck.
I fear there's something wrong with him, he's usually less cuddly and more verbal, but again, before I voice my thoughts he looks up at me, dark eyes and dark hair and such pale, pale skin… and he kisses me again, sweet and lingering, and asks me when I'm going to die.
He sounds so much like a child.
I don't ask him what he means. I know, all too well. I'd been worrying about this, too- about the typical longevity of my species, about how I'd lived three times his current age before I even met him…. About the long, lonely span of years I would face, barring some disaster or miracle, without him by my side. He asks again, voice quiet and thin with the kind of fear that you put off and put off until the whole horrible weight of it strikes you at once…
I can deny him nothing, not even the answer to a question he wished he hadn't asked.
He watches me carefully, eyes never leaving my face as I set aside the brush, sit back, gather his lean frame into my arms, and tell him the truth. His face, so beautiful, glossed over with sorrow and determination as he considers my words.
He tells me in a voice breathy with intensity that he will find a way for him to live as long, that he never wants me to be alone when I want to be with him. Then he kisses me again, deep and teasing and long, until we both break off with the need for oxygen. I tell him I love him, and he smiles with a sad contentment and reminds me that that's the only reason he's alive, silly, or had I forgotten? I hadn't.
And then his fingers frame my face, long and pale against the green of my skin, and I give him cinnamon kisses and he murmurs how cool I seem under his hands… And I stand up, push him gently down on the bed, tracing my hands down his face, neck, arms, sides, legs, human-hot skin partially covered with thin soft cotton. I murmur his name, quietly, and he laces the fingers of his left hand with those of my right, and I fall into the darkness of him and taste perfection on his skin.
Then somehow it's over, the white of his skin fragmenting in my vision into blossoms of light behind my eyes, and I hear his voice, dark and smoky with passion, whispering my name… But the fear strikes me, and I gather him again in my arms, but now he's brilliantly flushed and slightly sweaty and perfectly nude, and I hold him close as he strokes my back softly, one hand gentle along my antennae, and he tells me in a childishly solemn tone that he'll not leave my side unless I want him to- when would I ever want him to?- and the soft black cowlick of hair over his forehead brushes my skin as he kisses me.
Perfection, like brown sugar and hot chocolate and the feeling of security and the assurance of love.
I could kiss him forever. Outside the doors of our bedroom, the whole messed-up universe is free to interrupt and distract us… But in here, everything else drops away. Species, class, all the divisions made such a fuss of out there are gone.
Like I said, it's just Dib and Zim, Zim and Dib, and for me nothing needs to exist but him.
Whoa. Where that came from, I haven't a clue… ^^; My muse works like that, in fits and starts and heaven help you if you try to stop him. I just hope he's got enough in him to let me develop a background for this piece…. From what I can tell, it's after the Earth's takeover (::hides under her laptop as people chorus "Duh"::) and Dib's probably something like mid-twenties in this. It's prolly horribly OOC, and I apologize sincerely to anyone who's bothered to read this far. ^^; Oh did I mention I have severe low writing self esteem problems? Hee hee. And yeah, I basically told canon to take a flying leap (cause what is the canon, anyway? It's never been said how old Zim is/ how long Irkens live and stuff like that…) and fudged the details… If that bugged you, please tell me! I'm desperate for feedback (preferably nice, my muse uses flames to set off bottle rockets in my head and that *hurts*) and oh yeah, one last thing… sorry that I skipped that could-have-been-lemon completely… It was late at night and I was going for short, if I diverted it into lemon territory I never would have finished it! ^^;; And the style is a little odd for me, usually I do have direct dialog and I write from third person… I think this is my first finished fic completely in first-person POV… ^__^ I think I'm proud of it… Well! Review, please, je vous en prie, onegai!