Disclaimer: You know, if I ever have the pleasure of meeting Jhonen Vasquez, he will probably kill me. And for writing stuff like this, I really can't blame him. XD

Author's Note: This one was inspired by two quotes. The first: "The Dib; the Dib! I don't care how delicious he is, he's evil!" from "Girl Who Cried Gnome". And, as I originally heard it out of context, I'll never be able to listen to it now without some very dirty thoughts running through my head. XD The second quote is the one used below; it's so ZADR, it's brilliant. Heehee!


Warnings: Slash, implied light S&M/sex, mostly somewhat fluffy.

Dedication: For Andalitebandit-6, because she's amazing and I love her. ;) Keep up the awesome work on the ZADR site!




"There's nothing in this world so sweet as love; and next to love, the sweetest thing is hate."

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Nothing Sweeter




Zim was an Irken. An Irken through and through. And he knew, from birth until death, that was what he'd be. Forever. He'd have it no other way; every last cell, every last muscle, every last thought belonged to the empire of his people, his home planet, his mission. Zim was a pureblooded, hyperactive, maniacal Irken. And he was proud of his superior lineage.

Irkens loved snacks. Sugary things, salty things, spicy things—anything that could be nibbled, chewed, snarfed, enjoyed. Each street corner on Irk was equipped with high-tech vending machines that contained dozens of refreshments on which the Irkens could munch; the Massive was outfitted with gigantic pods for candies; Foodcortia was a favorite vacation spot. Yes, Irkens lived to eat.

And Zim, being Irken, had a soft spot for sweets.

However, Irkens, in addition to being somewhat gluttonous, were also very proud creatures. They didn't succumb to the temptations of every foodstuff. Oh no, they were very picky eaters. Some preferred nachos, others french fries; the Tallest adored their doughnuts, and as a smeet, Zim would have killed for a candy stick.

But not anymore.

No, the small invader had developed a taste for something much more bitter; something he never would have expected to enjoy. After all, as a general rule he hated Earth and all of its accessories. Its swine made decent waffles and occasionally he had been known to down a pixie stick, true, but generally he despised and detested every disgusting treat the planet had to offer.

And, ironically, it was the one thing he hated most of all that had become his new favorite dessert.

The Dib.

By Irk, how he abhorred that human pig-smelly! He hated his stupid glasses, his stupid hair, his stupid voice, his stupid intestines! Everything about him was so horrible that the alien was utterly entranced. Fascinated, even, by the depths of his dislike. He wanted nothing more than to see this lowly worm beg for mercy; to see him break like a little china doll. And nothing was more greatly rewarding than to watch the pitiful child's pitiful face when Zim's AMAZING plans succeeded, or when the other earthenoids called the Dib crazy.


. . . Nothing, except, perhaps, those rare moments when Dib ruled supreme; when his hazel eyes sparkled with determination or glee—when he was glaring down at Zim with so much detestation in his gaze that he seemed about to pounce and . . . and. . .

And do SOMETHING. Something so horrible, so vile, so EVIL that they both would have been screaming with delight.

Ah, how delicious, how satisfying it would be. . . Zim licked his lips, hungering for his favorite treat; for the thrill of the chase and the ecstasy of the hunt. He wanted to see the Dib right now—squirming beneath him as he fought for breath, begging for release. How much sweeter his victories were when so well earned!

His revulsion grew just thinking about it, lust multiplying exponentially. A growl, his squeedlyspooch rumbled with want; how did he taste again? The tang of the Dib was so strong, so tart, so disgusting, so addicting. . . it grew faint in memory so quickly.

Zim needed the flavor fresh on his tongue.


Ergo, with a growing smirk, the Irken unbolted a window. There was no way the Dib would be able to resist the allure of an opening. . . he would be around shortly. And Zim, ever so patiently, would sit in the shadows and wait.

Watch and wait.

But he didn't mind.

After all, nothing makes a favorite dish taste as good as the build up of longing; a mad desire for the seldom obtained. It invokes a yearning desire within the recipient, it keeps them wanting more. Always wanting more. . .

And there is nothing sweeter than getting what you want.

Absolutely nothing.