#if it works I’m going to go with an EVEN FUSSIER fabric

[tj-crochets]

Things I should be doing: finishing detective-izing the monkey or doing the ironing for the second quilt for the twins

What I’m doing instead: impulse making a purple bunny

[slinkinginshadows]

Mine

Okay, this is gonna make very little sense if you haven’t read IZ issue 49, but I’m throwing it over here because I’m not putting it on main. I think Zi//b’s growth was seriously stunted by the Pak and he’s actually 17 or 18 now, not just for porn purposes but because it honestly makes everything about him more tragic. 

Very quick rundown: Zim and Dib are rivals. Zim’s an alien whose brain is stored in a computer on his back. This version of Dib killed Zim and put that computer on his own head. It made him... not quite right, and after conquering and accidentally wiping his own Earth from existence he’s currently fooling a bunch of other Zims from alternate dimensions that he lured there in part of a plan to purge every universe in them multiverse of his species. (The Elites are 100 of his best fighters, they think he’s the ‘ultimate Zim’.) ‘Smeet’ is the alien word for baby.

Warnings: Mating heat, size difference, very brief mention of considered abortion, technically underage pregnancy, birth kink.

Wordcount: 2665

It was hot in here.

It was never hot in here. It was always perfectly regulated because he'd set up the system like that. It was hot in the Zim suit sometimes, but he only put that on when he needed to, and it was currently set up in the corner, standing in a salute with boots clicked together and synthetic flesh just a shade too shiny. (Not like any of the Zims would notice. Although they might, they could be smart. Or not. He'd see.)

He shrugged off his coat, hanging it up on the throne. Then hanging it on the arm of the throne. Then wondering when he'd started sitting in a puddle of sweat, and why it smelled like syrup. (Why was it faintly pink? It shouldn't be pink. Sweat wasn't pink. It was definitely the lighting.) 

He pressed his legs together- he hadn't had to go to the bathroom in ages, the Pak regulating all his bodily functions to get maximum use from any food he consumed. (Whenever he did eat, which wasn't as often anymore. Irken tech was fascinating, he couldn't wait until the next Zim kicked the bucket and they handed the corpse off to dissect. Tearing apart each newly dead Zim's Pak helped him to tweak his own.)

"What is that?" Hopping off the throne, he began to pace, feeling the front of his pants before realizing it was absolutely soaked. "Fuck." He yanked his pants down, almost getting them tangled on his boots as they revealed his underwear was more pink than white, taffy-colored-and-scented ooze spreading from his... his... every time he looked at it, his brain nearly tore in half, screaming about the alien junk that had split his old genitals. It was more flexible and self-lubricating as well as just as sensitive, but it was also very, very not human. 

Okay, he could handle this. Of course he could handle this, he'd conquered an entire planet, had squished his Zim like the bug he was. He could deal with the entrance below his new cock secreting sweet-smelling lubricant. He leaned against the wall, pulling back into the Pak for some kind of answer.

The one he got was.... not ideal.

"Are you kidding me?" He yanked at his hair spikes, dozens of tiny painful pinpricks washed out by the horrific realization that his body was about to become his worst enemy. 

Heat. A rare condition, but one that apparently his Zim had suffered from. Luckily Dib had never been a mature irken when they were fighting, but the Pak considered his body one now, and... his eyes slowly dragged down to the slick between his legs.

___________

He had, at best, a day before he lost his mind entirely. Already, his brain's higher functions were beginning to shut down, considering he was even... well, considering this.

It had to be one of the Elites. The idea of having one of his army scoop up a rebel to be discarded after was tempting, but they needed to be perfect. If he had to do this, he would do it right, with the best Zim of the lot. Number Two was an obvious choice, but he was too perfect for the Virus plan. He could brainwash him afterwards, easy enough, but... he wasn't forceful enough. Something ached inside of him, and he just knew Number Two wouldn't fill it properly.

Cat Zim? Tempting, but be could be fussier than the others. Skater Zim? He hated his voice. Shark Zim had some bite to him, but he'd like to keep his head- if his Pak was destroyed, he'd lose his connection to his machines and to the plan. None of them were right, none of them were as good as his Zim.

Down the list, down the list, until- yes, that would do nicely.

___________

Number 100 had to bend as he practically crawled into the room, and Dib smirked from where he peeked out from behind the throne, saliva beginning to well up in his mouth at every over-toned muscle. 

He might not be able to walk for a few days, but it would be worth it. Already, his mind was chewing itself up, burning and biting to be taken.

"Number One wanted Big Zim?" 

A new recruit, he'd only crashed a week or two ago but had risen in the ranks like a shot. He was all brawn and no brains, and the way his shirt rippled with every breath... "Yes, he does." It was simple enough to lock down the chamber with a single button, a wall slamming down in front of the door and shields soundproofing the rest. 

"Voice... different. Voice Dib!" 100 moved to smash down on the floor until his antennae perked up. "Hmm... Big Zim smells a nice thing..." 

"That's me." He swayed his hips as he walked around the throne, and 100's eyes widened.

"Dib... Zim?" He scratched his head. "Big Zim doesn't understand."

"You don't need to. Pants off."

"Big Zim wears tight-"

"Now!" Dib barked out, and Big Zim ripped his pants off in a single motion, dropping the fabric to the side. Stars, he couldn't take much more of this. He'd balled up his coat to use as a pillow and spread his legs.

"You want Big Zim to- ooooh." A big grin crossed 100's face. The ground shook when he dropped to his knees, grabbing Dib and holding him like a human-sized stress ball.

Somehow, it was way hotter than it had any right to be. Still, he needed to be the one in control. "Fuck me. That's an order."

"Fuck?"

"Gah- like this!" Dib slid from 100's hands, sweet slick already dragged across his palm, before maneuvering himself over the tentacle. As he balanced on the beefy irken's thighs, the interlocking worm-like tendrils that covered his entrance slowly began to open up. "O-oh..." His skin was on fire, but his thighs were dunked in lava, every inch of him burning as he clung to 100's forearms. 100 thrust up, shoving the tendrils all the way out of the way and nearly impaling Dib on his cock.

Dib saw stars. His vision went white, and the back of his head started frantically buzzing as the Pak dealt with the sensory overload when 100 pulled back and thrust again. By the third one, Dib's knees were jelly and he was panting like a marathon runner, held up only by 100's arm that he'd wrapped around his waist.

Mate mate fuck reproduce breeding breed get bred he is Taller take it take it breed 

His toes curled in his boots, and he gasped out "Harder!" 100 complied, and how. He certainly knew how to do what he was told, a good trait in someone Dib needed to use. Maybe he'd even keep this one as a toy, maybe maybe maybe-

Dib's shirt was soaked in pink before he even realized he'd come, overstimulated and blissed out on 100's pounding as he was. He had only seconds for his mind to begin to clear of heat before 100 came himself, filling the entrance with thick, sticky cum. Dib couldn't move, pinned between 100's arm and his chest, and he came for so long, he must be spilling back out because there was no way there was enough room inside of him. He squirmed, but 100 nuzzled against the top of his head.

"Good Dib-Zim, smelled nice, felt nice..."

Maybe it was the lingering heat. Maybe it was because he hadn't had contact with anyone since months before this place had turned into a void. 

He curled against 100 and ordered him to serve as a bed for the next few hours, even as sticky as they both were. He was warm, especially in his middle, but the teeth gnawing his brain were gone, so he simply shed his shirt and tugged his coat back on. This was fine, humans needed a bit of physical contact now and then, and this would be wiped from 100's mind before he left. He'd dealt with the heat. Everything was under control. 

_____________

This was impossible.

This was impossible.

He clutched at his shirt. "Run the scan again!"

"Scanning, Number One." The computer beamed a light over him again. It was just a glitch with it. It had to be. There was no way- "There is a zygote inside of you, Number One."

Dib slumped back on the throne. He could- he could just get rid of it. That would be the easiest course- his body wasn't meant for this. Some of the parts were, clearly, but not all of them. He was human, human and still short because of the stupid Pak stunting his growth but capable of holding this new life because he was made more perfect from it.

But...

A hand rose to rub the side of his Pak.

He could make a new Zim. One as good as his old one, one that lit that spark. He'd be part Dib, and worthy enough, but he could use the brainwashing tech to mold him exactly how he wanted if he didn't fall in line. A perfect Zim, a perfect second in command.

His fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt and he pulled it upwards, staring at his stomach. Still flat. Still looking human.

Not for long.

He needed to start giving his announcements over the intercom.

______________

It grew like a weed. Stifling his insides, smothering his organs as it shoved everything out of the way to have space. Surely a Zim, through and through. He ordered that seats be torn out of the crashed Voots and piled at the door. He paced. Shoving the seats together, he curled up on them, fingers digging into the soft material as his body worked with and without him to build up the hybrid.

He craved foods that would definitely kill him and drooled over engine oil when he was fixing up one of the fleet's Voots. It was halfway to his lips before he chucked it away, spilling some of the precious material but not caring because why did he want to drink engine oil. Human and irken signals crossed, human body unsure how to handle the parasite while the irken running through his veins coaxed heat from elsewhere, leaving him shivering while his belly burned.

His head hurt. The wires of the Pak dug into his brain heated up at random times, and it felt like someone had jabbed a hot poker directly into his occipital lobe, and then another one right next to it. 

Pain was nothing. Pain was just his body trying to tell him he couldn't do this.

He couldn't do this.

Yes, he could.

His body was going to realize it wasn't meant for this and kill it.

His body was the perfect vessel, knowing exactly what it needed.

If he left his hand on his stomach for too long, his throat seized like he was going to throw up.

Thank every star in the multiversal sky that he'd installed that soundproofing, because if he had to hear the Elites training and their Zim-ish voices day in and day out he was going to strangle one of them.

Or kiss one of them, either-or, because listening for too long made his stomach twist with white-hot want and listening only to his own heartbeat was worse. 

It was probably just because the other father was a Zim too. Base instinct, to want the mate. They weren't his mate, but this smeet-child was his. His alone. Big Zim had been properly brainwashed and sent on his way. This was a wrench in the works but one Dib could work with, yes, a wrench he could twist to give him something he hadn't expected but that worked perfectly.

His stomach swelled, and he realized he couldn't fit in the Zim-suit anymore. He'd tailored it to himself before and... well, he wasn't the him he was before now. No matter, he didn't need it. They thought he was their god, the perfect Zim.

He'd had one, so he could play the part the same as always, just from behind a screen.

It started kicking after two months. The computer said gestation was halfway complete. He'd started having food delivered to his chambers because he was getting dizzy if he didn't eat.

It jutted from below his ribs, too round, like a curled dragon inside his belly ready to tear his skin on its way to freedom. It was strong. Good, good, it needed to be strong. It would be his to keep once he burned through Zims, helping to cleanse the universe.

A wall wasn't enough. He needed an entire planet between himself and the others, because every cell in his body screamed for closeness to the irkens in the other room. He slammed the fire buttons, but seeing them burnt through the cameras only made him nauseous instead of amused the way he'd always been before.

The brainwashing tech wasn't ready for a mass scale yet. He couldn't let them see. If he let one in to touch and hold and be with, that would be weak. He dug his nails into his palms and bit his lip and rocked himself on the Voot seats that still smelled of Zim.

He assembled a Pak from the extras, from the corpses of former Zims, life from death from life. He paced until pacing for more than a minute made his swelling ankles sore, and kicked his bare feet around instead once the boots felt too stifling and the socks were too sweaty. Lounging shirtless was nice for about five minutes until having to look at his own body was more of a punishment than a joy.

An irken hybrid. Creation from his own body, life from nothing. The night before it was born, sharp-tipped fingers ran up the squirming length of his cock as he rubbed it against his stomach, jutting out the way it was. He was something entirely new, and making something even newer than that. Too bad everyone who used to laugh at him was turned to atoms, they wouldn't be laughing now. No one would be laughing. He was doing something great.

The Pak pulsed him awake and he groaned, before his stomach flipped and he groaned for an entirely different reason.

Time was a lie, in the void. Even so, the cramps took hours upon hours to turn into anything, for liquid to gush as he desperately tried to coax the tendrils open and started making his legs twitchy and his cheeks hot in the process.

As the Pak's painkillers stalled, he began to squeeze his length, the entrance relaxing as more slick poured from it and movement inched downwards. His heels dug into the plush cushion of the nest, and his throat let out a whine as his palm slid up and down the cock. Every urge to push, he gave another stroke.

"Mine..." he choked out as it curled around his fingers, already dripping precum as the weight in his stomach dropped further.

It could have been days before the head reached his entrance for all he knew, edging himself by slowing down so he wouldn't lose control, but when it pressed against the lips, he dug his nail into one of the ridges and cried out, giving the hardest push yet.

His free hand dug into the cushion as he came, and the head popped through with a rush of pain and pleasure mixed into one. He peeled his shirt off, chucking it away to finish the job, and after another time that could have been ten minutes and could have been two hours, he was clicking the Pak into place on the smeet's back. 

It had chocolate-brown eyes and when it opened them and gave a gummy smile, he realized that he had absolutely no idea what to do now.