1000 Themes - #778 - Homestuck/Invader Zim - Eridan & Dib
Title: Special
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, horror themes, sexual themes
Words: 1587
Series: Homestuck/Invader Zim
Pairings/Characters: Eridan, Dib, Torque, and Zita. Established Eridan♠Vriska.
"Okay, I'm going to say it once, and I swear I'm done!"
Dib pulled at the chains binding his wrists to the wall when he leaned forward to peek around the pile of Keef that separated him from Torque. At this point, he hardly noticed how the iron-like materal rubbed against his raw flesh, how it was supposed to sting and make him howl in pain. Instead, it had become a comfort, as if the cuffs had been there all his life and he had never known a day without them.
Torque sighed, resting his head back on the wall he was already slumped against. "Fine...just say it, fag."
He flinched; everyone had still had the energy left to taunt him, no matter the circumstances. But Dib continued anyway, just as he always did. "Alright--I told you so. Didn't I? I told everyone that aliens were coming and what did you do? Nothi--!"
"Dib...shut up."
"But--"
With a furious spasm of fury, Zita, seated on the other side and visibly frazzled to the point of no return, suddenly shrieked, "No really! Can't you see we're all dying? The last thing any of want to hear is your stupid, dumb voice."
For the first time since he last slept, which may have been a few days ago, Dib took a look around the cargo hold. All but the three of them--and, to be honest, he'd forgotten that Zita was alive--had succumbed to death, slumped over one another, soaking in their own expelled-upon-death urine and feces. They had all died from hunger, mostly, but some had managed to find ways to kill themselves through a creative innovation that only prevailed in such circumstances. By now the smell had accumulated into high-pressured normalcy, as had the sight of seeing the light of life fade from his classmates' eyes, one by one. It had taken more than half of the deaths for him to stop reacting in hysteric dramatics and wishful, unobtainable heroics, and apparently not long after them to cease taking note.
Their captors hadn't checked in on them since they threw them in the hold, and Dib had the vague feeling they'd forgotten about them. Dib was used to not eating for long periods of time, and he had to assume that Torque was running on the energy all the muscle he had built up since they were ten allotted him. Zita, however...he could tell she was on her last thread, now that he looked at her. She was shaking, shivering, her heart must have been straining on its last few hundred pumps. He took his lower lip between his teeth and brought his legs up to his chest, feet sliding in the bowels of Keef that had pooled around him. It was insensitive, wasn't it, to yell victoriously when they all had clearly lost everything?
"Sorry..."
Excluding spontaneous shouts of profanities from Zita, now that she had been ripped from her vegetable-like state, all was silent in the cargo hold of decay following that. Dib hadn't the peace of mind to sleep, and Torque's body had gone into stand-by mode, it seemed. Sometimes it felt like he ceased to breathe, only to begin once the thought had flitted through his mind.
---
Captain Eridan "Dualscar" Ampora slammed the door to his comrade's quarters with hate burning in his eyes and arousal pooling in his abdomen. He could hear her shrill of victorious laughter even after he'd crossed the ship in a series of long-legged strides. Of all the fucking nerve, to fill a pail with a slave! And, worse, they didn't even share a quadrant. He would forever deny the jealous flare over the fact that she held out on the same action with him, her fated, long-term kismesis, but he would always recognize the move as a strategic play in their game of hate. Initiating the bucket-filling process while he was in the room, watching with narrowed, wrathful eyes added insult to ego-injury. He stayed for as long as he could, as he'd nearly lost it when the slave girl choked noisily on what he correctly assumed to be the Marquise's bulge.
His escape led him down to the further belly of their ship where they stored things they didn't need right away, mainly less valuable treasures and extra sopor slime. The cold breath of the lower area nipped at his skin, tickled his facial fins with indignant persistence, and he pawed angrily at his writing bulge through his pants, trying to will it back into its sheath. Usually he would relieve himself in such instances, but he needed to think more than he needed release from his blackest of rage. He had to one-up her somehow. He had to invoke her black feelings just as she so effortlessly did his. If she wanted to play this round of the game with aching bulges and sexual frustration, he would have to find something better. Or worse, given the situation.
A foul smell leaked into his nose, breaking his contemplation and forcing his bulge into retreat. Without hesitation he extracted Ahab's Crosshairs from his sylladex, holding it tightly in his grasp. It was coming from the cargo hold they purposely never visited on account that it had the poorest ventilation system, thus posed as an entire enclosed area of painful discomfort. As he ventured down the hall toward the door of the hold in cautious steps, he was struck with a realization. Oh...oh fuck, he had thrown the grubby human creatures in there during the most recent conquest. How long had it been? Weeks? Of course it smelled putrid! If any of them were alive, he'd be whelmingly surprised and disgusted with their sense of insectoid survival.
But...but, he had an idea, now.
---
When the heavy door slammed open, Dib yelped from the sudden burst of artificial light burning his eyes. He pushed his face into his knees, dislodging his glasses while the animalistic cries of Torque and Zita rang through his ears, like how he imagined vampires would react to being held down in the sunlight. A voice, strong and stern, shouted over their whimpers and proceeded to mutter a throng of what sounded to be explicits. Dib looked up, glasses dropping back into place on the bridge of his nose, and he gasped openly. He recognized this one, the one in violet armor with the bright blue gun. He couldn't recall the name, but he knew it was him, the one in charge of the invasion.
The lightning-horned alien spoke in a string of angry hisses and wavy tones as he looked around the hold, blatantly disgusted with what he saw. He stepped inside, snarling as he walked up and down the way, crushing skulls and arms and spines that lay in his path beneath his boots. Dib watched the smooth flow of movement with perverse fascination; Torque and Zita stared on with awakened horror. When the alien stopped back in the doorway, he barked out an order, a command, some combination of words that sounded harsh and demanding.
None of them answered immediately, either too frightened or too shocked.
But the way the blue gun raised threateningly in addition to the harsh repetition of his words had Zita frantically pulling at her chains and kicking her legs, sending feces and urine flying around her. She pointed as best she could to Dib, possibly dislocating her shoulder in the process; the crack sounded horrific, but Zita's mental state gave her no sign of noticing or even acknowledging it.
"Him! Take him!" she screamed. What little remaining color that sat in Dib's face drained. He tried to mouth "no" to her, to save her, but his jaw wouldn't move, nor would she have understood. "Don't kill us, spare us, fucking feed us, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!"
Dib never wanted his last image of Zita to be the way her head combusted into a firework of brains and skull fragments. Granted, he wasn't as shocked as he guessed he should have been, but still. It wasn't the best parting, and he found room to blame himself for it. Maybe if he hadn't instilled the idea that aliens wanted humans to pick them apart, she wouldn't have shouted like that in a fit of greedy self-preservation. When the alien turned to him and Torque, he hoped and hoped that Torque would keep his mouth shut, would learn from Zita's obvious mistake--
"Fuck, man."
Dib threw up, and the alien shot off his cuffs. He wasn't sure what he threw up, considering nothing had been in his stomach for weeks, but he was now sitting in a mess of bodily waste, puke, and the exploded innards of Torque Smacky. He coughed violently, and hastily wiped his mouth when the alien squatted down in front of him, muttering words in a language Dib wasn't supposed to understand. He had had it deciphered for months, close to a year prior to the invasion. The same machine he used to predict Zim's arrival had picked up on Alternian transmissions, and with the unauthorized use of Zim's lab, he had been able to translate the recordings and study from them with the impressive Irken database of intergalactic languages. Granted, over that time span Zim had caught on and even tried to help, but all-in-all when it came to much more powerful, ruthless aliens, it became a one-for-one situation.
This alien was an Alternian troll from the sea, and he spoke with a cruel grin. "So you're the last one left," he mused, grabbing Dib's chin in one strong, calloused hand. "I ha'we a special task for you."
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, horror themes, sexual themes
Words: 1587
Series: Homestuck/Invader Zim
Pairings/Characters: Eridan, Dib, Torque, and Zita. Established Eridan♠Vriska.
"Okay, I'm going to say it once, and I swear I'm done!"
Dib pulled at the chains binding his wrists to the wall when he leaned forward to peek around the pile of Keef that separated him from Torque. At this point, he hardly noticed how the iron-like materal rubbed against his raw flesh, how it was supposed to sting and make him howl in pain. Instead, it had become a comfort, as if the cuffs had been there all his life and he had never known a day without them.
Torque sighed, resting his head back on the wall he was already slumped against. "Fine...just say it, fag."
He flinched; everyone had still had the energy left to taunt him, no matter the circumstances. But Dib continued anyway, just as he always did. "Alright--I told you so. Didn't I? I told everyone that aliens were coming and what did you do? Nothi--!"
"Dib...shut up."
"But--"
With a furious spasm of fury, Zita, seated on the other side and visibly frazzled to the point of no return, suddenly shrieked, "No really! Can't you see we're all dying? The last thing any of want to hear is your stupid, dumb voice."
For the first time since he last slept, which may have been a few days ago, Dib took a look around the cargo hold. All but the three of them--and, to be honest, he'd forgotten that Zita was alive--had succumbed to death, slumped over one another, soaking in their own expelled-upon-death urine and feces. They had all died from hunger, mostly, but some had managed to find ways to kill themselves through a creative innovation that only prevailed in such circumstances. By now the smell had accumulated into high-pressured normalcy, as had the sight of seeing the light of life fade from his classmates' eyes, one by one. It had taken more than half of the deaths for him to stop reacting in hysteric dramatics and wishful, unobtainable heroics, and apparently not long after them to cease taking note.
Their captors hadn't checked in on them since they threw them in the hold, and Dib had the vague feeling they'd forgotten about them. Dib was used to not eating for long periods of time, and he had to assume that Torque was running on the energy all the muscle he had built up since they were ten allotted him. Zita, however...he could tell she was on her last thread, now that he looked at her. She was shaking, shivering, her heart must have been straining on its last few hundred pumps. He took his lower lip between his teeth and brought his legs up to his chest, feet sliding in the bowels of Keef that had pooled around him. It was insensitive, wasn't it, to yell victoriously when they all had clearly lost everything?
"Sorry..."
Excluding spontaneous shouts of profanities from Zita, now that she had been ripped from her vegetable-like state, all was silent in the cargo hold of decay following that. Dib hadn't the peace of mind to sleep, and Torque's body had gone into stand-by mode, it seemed. Sometimes it felt like he ceased to breathe, only to begin once the thought had flitted through his mind.
---
Captain Eridan "Dualscar" Ampora slammed the door to his comrade's quarters with hate burning in his eyes and arousal pooling in his abdomen. He could hear her shrill of victorious laughter even after he'd crossed the ship in a series of long-legged strides. Of all the fucking nerve, to fill a pail with a slave! And, worse, they didn't even share a quadrant. He would forever deny the jealous flare over the fact that she held out on the same action with him, her fated, long-term kismesis, but he would always recognize the move as a strategic play in their game of hate. Initiating the bucket-filling process while he was in the room, watching with narrowed, wrathful eyes added insult to ego-injury. He stayed for as long as he could, as he'd nearly lost it when the slave girl choked noisily on what he correctly assumed to be the Marquise's bulge.
His escape led him down to the further belly of their ship where they stored things they didn't need right away, mainly less valuable treasures and extra sopor slime. The cold breath of the lower area nipped at his skin, tickled his facial fins with indignant persistence, and he pawed angrily at his writing bulge through his pants, trying to will it back into its sheath. Usually he would relieve himself in such instances, but he needed to think more than he needed release from his blackest of rage. He had to one-up her somehow. He had to invoke her black feelings just as she so effortlessly did his. If she wanted to play this round of the game with aching bulges and sexual frustration, he would have to find something better. Or worse, given the situation.
A foul smell leaked into his nose, breaking his contemplation and forcing his bulge into retreat. Without hesitation he extracted Ahab's Crosshairs from his sylladex, holding it tightly in his grasp. It was coming from the cargo hold they purposely never visited on account that it had the poorest ventilation system, thus posed as an entire enclosed area of painful discomfort. As he ventured down the hall toward the door of the hold in cautious steps, he was struck with a realization. Oh...oh fuck, he had thrown the grubby human creatures in there during the most recent conquest. How long had it been? Weeks? Of course it smelled putrid! If any of them were alive, he'd be whelmingly surprised and disgusted with their sense of insectoid survival.
But...but, he had an idea, now.
---
When the heavy door slammed open, Dib yelped from the sudden burst of artificial light burning his eyes. He pushed his face into his knees, dislodging his glasses while the animalistic cries of Torque and Zita rang through his ears, like how he imagined vampires would react to being held down in the sunlight. A voice, strong and stern, shouted over their whimpers and proceeded to mutter a throng of what sounded to be explicits. Dib looked up, glasses dropping back into place on the bridge of his nose, and he gasped openly. He recognized this one, the one in violet armor with the bright blue gun. He couldn't recall the name, but he knew it was him, the one in charge of the invasion.
The lightning-horned alien spoke in a string of angry hisses and wavy tones as he looked around the hold, blatantly disgusted with what he saw. He stepped inside, snarling as he walked up and down the way, crushing skulls and arms and spines that lay in his path beneath his boots. Dib watched the smooth flow of movement with perverse fascination; Torque and Zita stared on with awakened horror. When the alien stopped back in the doorway, he barked out an order, a command, some combination of words that sounded harsh and demanding.
None of them answered immediately, either too frightened or too shocked.
But the way the blue gun raised threateningly in addition to the harsh repetition of his words had Zita frantically pulling at her chains and kicking her legs, sending feces and urine flying around her. She pointed as best she could to Dib, possibly dislocating her shoulder in the process; the crack sounded horrific, but Zita's mental state gave her no sign of noticing or even acknowledging it.
"Him! Take him!" she screamed. What little remaining color that sat in Dib's face drained. He tried to mouth "no" to her, to save her, but his jaw wouldn't move, nor would she have understood. "Don't kill us, spare us, fucking feed us, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!"
Dib never wanted his last image of Zita to be the way her head combusted into a firework of brains and skull fragments. Granted, he wasn't as shocked as he guessed he should have been, but still. It wasn't the best parting, and he found room to blame himself for it. Maybe if he hadn't instilled the idea that aliens wanted humans to pick them apart, she wouldn't have shouted like that in a fit of greedy self-preservation. When the alien turned to him and Torque, he hoped and hoped that Torque would keep his mouth shut, would learn from Zita's obvious mistake--
"Fuck, man."
Dib threw up, and the alien shot off his cuffs. He wasn't sure what he threw up, considering nothing had been in his stomach for weeks, but he was now sitting in a mess of bodily waste, puke, and the exploded innards of Torque Smacky. He coughed violently, and hastily wiped his mouth when the alien squatted down in front of him, muttering words in a language Dib wasn't supposed to understand. He had had it deciphered for months, close to a year prior to the invasion. The same machine he used to predict Zim's arrival had picked up on Alternian transmissions, and with the unauthorized use of Zim's lab, he had been able to translate the recordings and study from them with the impressive Irken database of intergalactic languages. Granted, over that time span Zim had caught on and even tried to help, but all-in-all when it came to much more powerful, ruthless aliens, it became a one-for-one situation.
This alien was an Alternian troll from the sea, and he spoke with a cruel grin. "So you're the last one left," he mused, grabbing Dib's chin in one strong, calloused hand. "I ha'we a special task for you."