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Zim is currently chewing on Dib’s shoulder.
Not hard. It's toothy enough to be distracting, but gummy enough to not fully draw Dib’s attention away from where he’s speaking. “—which actually makes sense, now that I think about it. That's a neat structure.”
“Yes, yes, irkens are superior,” Zim says nearly immediately, without once withdrawing his blunt teeth from Dib’s bare shoulder. “Our language contains intricacies that your feeble mind couldn’t begin to comprehend.”
“So how would you be addressed?” Dib continues, undeterred. “Do all irken name qualifiers have to do with smell?”
Zim does pull away then, if only to give Dib a dubious look, one glossy eye half-squinted. “Why shouldn’t they?”
“So smell’s important to irkens.”
“Ugh. You are infuriatingly stupid.” Air rushes to fill the vacuum of Zim’s space when he flops back over Dib’s legs, and the wetness on Dib’s shoulder chills. Dib adjusts the crook of his leg to accommodate Zim’s PAK. “And Zim is simply addressed as Zim. There is no need for a qualifier.”
“Really?” Dib toys with the string of Zim’s ridiculously pink hoodie. “Not ‘Zim-Invader?’ or ‘Zim-destroyer?’”
“Qualifiers related to rank and occupation go before the name, idiot.” Zim closes his berry eyes and scrunches one of them. “So no. When I was an Invader, I was simply Invader Zim. Now I am Zim.”
“What am I?”
Zim cracks an eye at him. “Disgusting.”
“No, I mean—what’s my qualifier? Student-Dib? Or, like… enemy-Dib?”
“You were Dib-enemy,” Zim corrects.
“But that’s—“
“Your status, not rank. Irk, you’re slow.”
“Stop insulting me, I had to teach you what an adverb was last month.”
“Human language is ridiculous.”
“Answer my question.”
“Eh?”
Dib snaps a string back at Zim’s face and he shrieks in indignation. “What’s my qualifier?”
Zim pauses mid-shout, and there’s a nigh-imperceptible whirr as he probably digs around in his PAK for the information. It’s a while before he answers.
An uncomfortably long while.
“…Dib-acquaintance,” Zim finally says.
“Liar?” Dib says, half a question from how confusing it is. Why would he—
“Zim is not lying!” Zim flies up out of Dib’s lap and stands with his hands on his hips, upright and sharp in all his imposing four-foot presence. “You know nothing, stupid human. Don’t accuse me of lying when you’re stupid.”
“I know what you look like when you lie, Zim,” Dib points out. “You do it all the damn time.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeah-huh!”
“You lie!”
Dib sticks out his tongue. Zim scowls, but there’s little heat behind it.
A moment passes like that, and Dib leans back on his hands. The bed creaks. “… Why can’t you tell me?” he says, slowly, head tilting.
Zim sniffs and crosses his arms. His antennae are pressed flat against his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s something embarrassing,” Dib guesses, and laughs when one antenna twitches. “It is! Oh, you have to tell me—“
“Zim owes you nothing,” Zim says, darkly, “and if you keep flapping your noise hole about it, you will no longer have any vocal cords to annoy me with.”
A tiny thrill of fear shivers against Dib’s spine. Zim’s using his old Invader-voice, which never bodes well. It’s been a while since he’s used it.
Dib weighs his options, and eventually sighs. “Fine. I won’t push it.”
Shockingly, Zim says, “Thank you,” and climbs back up onto the bed. He settles across from Dib this time, proximity stretched like an ocean between them. Dib eyes him, then gives up on pretending not to stare.
Zim’s PAK is glowing. It usually does when it’s dark, but it’s not that dim in here. It's a faint thing through the hoodie layered atop it, but still casts a rosy blush on Dib’s dark pillows and wall behind the bed.
He juts his chin at the light. “What’s that about?” he asks. “Unless that’s embarrassing too.”
Zim flips his antennae up. “Huh?” He twists, claws going to snag in Dib’s black sheets, and fully shrieks at the sight of his own glow.
Dib slaps both hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter at the way Zim's scrabbling at his PAK. He wriggles, smacks it for good measure, but to no avail. If anything, it's gotten even brighter, fuzzy blobs of color washing the two of them in pink light.
"Aren't you in charge of that thing?" Dib snickers over Zim's grunts of displeasure. "Tell it to shut off or something."
"Don't tell me what to do," Zim hisses. The PAK flickers, briefly. There's a rrrrip of fabric, and Zim contorts himself with the support of a half-extended leg to try to see his own bug-shell.
Dib rolls his eyes and shuffles his knees underneath himself. "God—hold still, I'll look at it."
"You will do no such thing—" A wayward swipe from a flailing PAK leg nearly lobs Dib's head off. "Do not even think about—"
"Relax, I'm not gonna hurt you." Dib stretches his hand out. "Zim. Zim. Just let me see!"
Dib's quicker when the PAK leg comes back, and he manages to grasp the spindly limb in one hand and land his other palm onto the crest of the PAK without getting killed. Even through a layer of fabric, the metal's hot, glowing pink-ish red, and Zim—
All at once, Zim just sort of… melts. Like goo. He slumps forward, shoulders sagging and antennae falling back towards Dib. The PAK leg even goes slack in Dib's fist, immediately sapped of energy.
Dib blinks once, twice. Before he can fully process the irken puddle in front of him, Zim gasps sharply and nearly throws himself away from Dib's touch. His other legs deploy and he scrambles up the side of Dib's wall (poking holes in the drywall in the process) to perch in the high corner of the ceiling, just above the bed.
"What did you do," Zim says, less of a question and more of a trembling accusation.
"Nothing, you moron." Dib glares up at the tiny alien a foot above him. "And get off my wall!"
"You're lying, you did something to me." Zim jabs a little claw right at Dib's forehead. "Just wait until I tear you apart like little wet… things!"
"I was just trying to fix your stupid night-light backpack—"
"My PAK needs no fixing! I am Zim, and Zim—"
"—Is still glowing, so…"
Zim screeches, strangled and muffled through his teeth. Then he launches himself at Dib like a missile.
All the wind wheezes out of Dib's chest. It's a familiar motion, after that—six or seven years of mapping out the other's body just to jab claws and thumbs into weak spots. Zim swipes Dib's bare shoulder, Dib smacks him upside the head. It's less vicious than Dib had expected from Zim's shuddering rage, but it's still enough to sting at every bony point of contact.
Except—there's one more weak spot, now, isn't there. Could get his fingers bitten off, but a win is a win.
Zim tugs at Dib's tank top, yanking him up in preparation for another punch, and Dib takes the breath-span pause to loop his arm under Zim's hoodie and press his fingers against the heated surface of his PAK again.
As expected, Zim's body snaps free of its invisible strings, barely kept from collapsing onto Dib's stomach by the support of his PAK legs. Dib can almost feel the limbs brush against the joints of his wrist, nestled between points of entry.
Zim stares at him, face half-bewildered and hilariously stuffed with betrayal. The other half is inscrutable. His hands hover, loose, just over Dib's heart and throat.
Weirdly, Dib feels struck with the urge to apologize. It sits on his tongue.
After a measure of rigid silence, Dib slides his hand free from Zim's sweatshirt, slipping it from between the base of the legs and holding it aloft in surrender.
Zim continues watching him, expression unreadable, huge eyes unwavering while Dib scoots out from where he's pinned and into a somewhat-sit at the foot of the bed. The sheets are rumpled, and starting to tear from the sharp points of Zim's stabbiness.
Funnily enough, his antennae are quivering, but not quite pointed at the murderous angle that Dib's grown familiar with. Now they're stretched out forward, like they're reaching for something invisible.
Dib clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but Zim beats him to the punch.
"You're… certain you're not doing that on purpose," he says, voice scarily soft.
Dib coughs. "Yeah. Well—the second time, yeah, but I… the first time wasn't. Um." When Zim doesn't answer (or move…) Dib tilts his head a little. "Are you… okay?"
"Am I okay," Zim repeats flatly.
"Yeah?"
The PAK legs retract, and Zim deposits himself slowly back onto the mattress like it's a live bomb. He's still eyeing Dib warily, that note of something pulling up the corners of his eyes. The glow in the room has reduced considerably, but still pulses, threatens to resurface through the holes in Zim's hoodie.
Finally, Zim looks away, but only just. "I… believe my PAK was preparing for a data transfer," he says, uncertain and slow. Then, more confident, "Yes, that must be it. Your disgusting magnetic field must have triggered encoding procedure."
A little hot bubble of excitement pops in Dib's gut at the prospect of new intel. "Encoding procedure… Wait, you can sense electromagnetism?"
Zim gives him a look that says of course I can, pig-smelly. "Of course I can, pig-smelly. An irken PAK is the finest piece of biomachinery ever constructed."
"But only through your PAK," Dib muses. "So if I were to—"
Zim smacks his reaching hand away. "Stop."
Dib sighs through his nose. Twists his mouth. "What's it feel like?"
"Hm? Electromagnetic fields are hardly anything special, they—"
"No, I mean—the procedure you mentioned. You went all… soft."
"I am not soft." Zim turns up his nonexistent nose. "And that's none of your business."
"Come oooooon. I wanna know more about the 'best biomachinery' around."
Zim, who can never resist the perfect opportunity to brag, is visibly caught between his weird secrecy and his planet-sized ego. The latter wins out, and he crosses his arms. "… Fine. The procedure is simply a command line that triggers the opening of the soft data ports within the PAK's systems. It's reserved for interfacing with computers and the Control Brains. And you triggering it was not relaxing and did not feel good."
Dib's halfway through formulating his next eight questions before that last addendum throws his train of thought completely. Something about the tone. Like Zim's informing someone else rather than Dib.
"Hm." Dib chews on the soft tissue of his cheek. "So it didn't feel like anything."
"Yes, nothing. Nothing at all."
"Then it wouldn't matter if I did it again?"
Zim's antennae flatten. "Why would I let you do that?"
Dib shrugs. "So you can troubleshoot. Fix the code so it's not triggered by a human."
"The code doesn't need to be fixed. It is perfect." Still, Zim hesitates. "But it may… be beneficial to adjust its parameters. Hm."
"Gets rid of a potential weakness," Dib suggests, and it's the nail in the coffin.
Zim glowers. "You will not mention this to anyone."
Dib nods eagerly.
Funny. For someone who was just gnawing on Dib's shoulder like a bone, Zim's become almost skittish at the idea of contact. The glow of his PAK has started up again. Dib nearly mentions it.
With great visible effort, Zim slowly twists around in his spot so his blushing PAK is pointed at Dib. His spine's stick-straight. Dib scoots closer, scrubs his palms dry on the bedspread.
The new gashes in the fabric lend space to brush his fingers over the metal directly. This time, Zim's slackening is slower, more gradual. He huffs the quietest of sighs, slouches nigh-imperceptibly. He mutters something to himself.
Dib wiggles his fingers up into the tears, pressing his hand into the heated PAK. It's a comfort to his frigid joints.
"You're still glowing," he mumbles. Scrunches up the hoodie to smooth his hand over the pink light. "It tell you what that's from, too?"
"Nnnnnno," Zim says. There's a little warble in the consonant that Dib's never heard from him before.
Slightly emboldened, Dib applies a touch of force through his palm, and Zim sways forward a little. He doesn't even protest, limbs like jelly as Dib presses him the rest of the way down, so he's folded over Dib's pillows on his stomach.
It sends a thrill through him, how easily Zim responds. Like a rush of caffeine.
Zim, on the other hand, appears nothing short of sleepy. He smushes his whole face against the mattress. There's a faint vibration through the PAK. Another.
"Not relaxing, huh."
"Shut up," Zim says into the bed. The effect is somewhat dampened by the muffled churring threatening to drown him out. His PAK shivers with the sound.
Dib rubs a hard circle over the pink fabric and the sound clicks up in volume. His brain buzzes with it.
“Oh my god,” Dib says. His voice threatens to break. “That’s not your PAK, that’s you.”
“My PAK is me, idiot. 'N you're imagining things.” But yes, there’s a gravelly skipping in his tone, albeit smothered by the bed, that suggests the churr is bubbling from his throat.
Dib stifles a smile. "Whatever you say, bug."
Zim shifts, hums, claws snagging in Dib's sheets. His hands come up to his neck and tug at the collar of his hoodie. Dib yanks his own fingers back, and Zim pulls his hoodie up and over his head. As best he can while still lying prone, anyway. It leaves his PAK bare, the rest of his chest and hips covered by his black bodysuit.
And Dib—well. He's doing his best to ignore the blood hot-blossoming through his body, one heady rush from face to gut. He swallows, and it clicks in his throat.
Zim grunts a displeased noise, lifts his head and his limp antennae to peer over his shoulder. "I didn't tell you to stop?" he slurs.
"You just, um." Dib's feverish. "… Yeah, okay."
Zim relaxes when Dib resumes his slow circles. The churring clicks up again. Zim squeezes his eyes shut, tucks his face into the lump of discarded hoodie around his shoulders.
He's so small. Dib's practically looming over him.
Dib bites his lip. He adjusts his free hand, bracing his weight on his fist. The mattress divots beside Zim's hips, a punch through space-time and warping gravity.
The PAK's like caressing a hot pan. It's sleek against Zim's body, the only contrast being the horizon between bright metal and black fabric. Dib brushes his fingers along that seam—
And Zim makes this sound. Soft and drawn, messy from the buzzing in his throat.
A heart-stop freeze. The pink glow surges bright like a flare.
"Um…" Dib says, eloquently. "…Did that hurt?"
And he doesn't know why he cares, why his heartbeat's throttling his throat. Hurting each other is what they do, it's routine, it makes sense. This? This doesn't, and it's…
Another breath before the answer. "No."
"Okay. Okay, uhm. How's the, uh. The code coming."
"The what?" Zim's voice is thick.
God, what's wrong with Dib. He can see the bad decision rushing full-force at his face, a freight train of nerves and the sickly hot fizzing deep in his gut.
But, well. Dib's never really been known for his stellar self-restraint.
He breathes out, shaky. "You wanna, um… And never speak of this again?"
Zim's dead-still and silent, before all at once his taut muscles go slack, and, "Yes. Never."
It's a hazed blur. Dib's core clenches, and he digs his fingers back into the heated divide of machine and flesh. Zim squirms, buries his face back into his own arms, chirp-clicks into the pillow.
Dib pulls his legs in, jeans twisting around his hips, trying to get a better angle. The heat from Zim's PAK washes up, blooming over Dib's face and neck. Blood screams in his ears. He feels dizzy.
Zim's chest rises, breathing hard. His PAK's flashing like a slow strobe.
"So cool," Dib mumbles at the light display.
Zim moans at the words. It's a head-rush. He's always been privy to compliments, Dib knows, and it's been fun to watch his brain short-circuit in the past, but now—
Dib tries and fails to not sound so fucking reverent. "Can I—touch you?"
Zim whines, honest to god, and Dib's muscles jump. "You are."
Not enough. Dib's hands ache with the urge to scrape his nails down Zim's sides. Draw blood from the ridges of his thin alien ribs. Vertigo pulls at Dib and his wandering fingers, slipping from the warmth of the PAK to press at Zim's waist and the small of his back. There has to be some seam to his ridiculous, stupid—
The black stretch of Zim's base layer parts like a zipper. Dib wiggles his hand into the seam, the whorls of his fingers catching on the fabric. Then he's pulling Zim's leggings from his hips, dragging him closer with the motion. The tights end up tangled under Dib's knee.
And Zim just lets himself be handled, muscles shivering under the paleness of his green skin. Dib gathers the courage to glance up at his face, and it's half-concealed by his still-sleeved arms, thrown over his temples and grasping at the base of his antennae. His teeth are gritted, breaths hissing. Chest heaving, sleeveless top riding up around his stomach and ribs.
"Shit." Dib squeezes his eyes shut behind his fogging glasses. His gut clenches again, pulse heavy against the bulky seam of his jeans. Probably soaked through, by now. He can't care. "Zim, if—if you want to stop—"
A wet click from Zim's throat. He presses his face back into Dib's pillow, and his legs slide apart. His knees brush against Dib's own.
The softness of the exposed V is slicked over, his inner thighs shiny in the pink glow in Dib's room. Like the incision stage of a vivisection. Embarrassingly, reflexively, Dib's mouth floods.
He's also talking, something he realizes as he swallows. "Christ, Zim, this is… you're so. Wow."
Zim squeaks through his teeth, yanking at his antennae. His PAK stutters in brightness before blazing a fiery blush over Dib. "Be quiet," he rasps. "I'll kill you."
Dib digs his thumb into the soft divot of Zim's alien hip bone in retaliation. Zim jerks, jolting up into the touch, and Dib's hand travels down to drag through the wetness between his thighs.
"I want to see," he breathes. "Please, open, open."
Zim does, knee pulling back and knocking against Dib's. Dib pays it zero mind, focusing on mapping out the alien anatomy under his touch.
The skin's like hot velvet. Sensitive, too, if Zim's shivering leg is anything to go by. Flushed with blood, darker in the dim light, a fold like a curled leaf and drooling with slick.
Dib is absolutely sticking his fingers in him.
"Fuck, I thought…" he starts, the pad of his thumb dipping into the searing fold. "You told me irkens don't even have these. You don't have… sex organs."
A cord in Zim's knee jumps. "We—ah—we don't. R-removed thousands of years ago."
Dib's thumb sinks in down to the knuckle. The same softness as the skin surrounding it. Feels like hot gel. "Then how…"
"Stop talking," Zim wheezes out. His leg kicks, knocks against Dib, startling him. Dib shifts so his shin bears down on the crook of Zim's wayward knee, pinning it in place against the bed. "There's nnnnnothing wrong with Zim, I'm perfect—"
Through the warping of pleasure, something about his words seems rehearsed. Of course, Zim's like a broken record when it comes to the concept of normality. Dib understands now that it's probably from some Invader-training he went through before Earth. But this, the almost painful edge in his voice, it's familiar. An assertion of not being broken despite obvious, dripping differences.
Dib rubs the pad of his thumb inside Zim, hard, earning a clench in response. He pulls free and pets the gloss of Zim's folds.
It can't be the first time Zim's done this. Maybe not with someone else—fuck, Dib hopes not, stomach clenching possessively at the idea—but even through the PAK-induced haze, he's got some visible familiarity with… whatever they're doing. Unbidden, Dib pictures Zim alone, confused, finding this part of himself he thought to be nonexistent, working himself to unknowable orgasm for the first time and wow okay all the blood just rushed from his head.
Dib swallows. He tries wrestling his voice under control. "You're—yeah, you are."
Zim clicks a confused noise. "Shush?"
"Zim, this is—" Dib chokes on his tongue when Zim's slit blossoms open, unfurling, dark and glistening in the PAK light. "Amazing, I mean."
Zim reaches down to swat at Dib's arms. His claws scratch over the scars on his wrists. "Shut—shut up and just—"
Dib pushes two fingers inside him, sliding home with ease, hand already half-drenched. Zim cries out like he's been stabbed. He kind of has been, Dib supposes. He squeezes his own thighs together, rolls himself closer so he's bent over Zim. The leg under Dib's own shakes.
Admittedly, Dib's only ever done this to himself—half-hearted measures, aborted quickly due to embarrassment or pain or the sound of his surveillence system on Zim's house pinging with a notification. Less often since upping his antidepressant dosage. Still, he clenches around nothing, watching his hand slide out and back into Zim's body, slow and noisy.
Zim writhes, curling his stomach back into Dib's pillows. He's panting, PAK pulsing like a heartbeat.
"Quit moving," Dib mumbles. He scissors his fingers apart, like a speculum, and the thought really shouldn't make him as hard as it does. "It's fine. It's okay."
Dib's finger nudges against something, a solid node in Zim's soft muscle, and Zim cries out.
Struggling to take deep breaths, Dib presses into the node, rubs hard, and it shifts. Grows, sliding a small, hard line alongside his knuckles and slipping out against the base of Dib's fingers.
Must be… his dick. Or the irken equivalent, anyway. Segmented, barely longer than Dib's thumb and about as thick. Flushed dark and heavy with blood. It curls up, almost hooked. It's sort of pretty, in a fucked-up way.
"Dib, be quiet," Zim whimpers. Not Dib-beast, no epithets, just—
"No thanks." Dib flips his wrist to cup Zim's dick in his palm, thrusts his fingers back into his body. "This is… you're incredible, let me—"
"Dib."
"It's okay," Dib says. He's not entirely sure what he's saying, voice cracking. Dimly, he's aware that he's leaning his weight onto Zim's hips, folding him back over into the bed. "Hold still, I just want to look."
Zim moans a series of sounds into his hoodie, hiding his face in the fabric. He wiggles, rocking back and down. Dib's hand vanishes between his thighs, and Dib can't have that, not good for observation—
Dib releases Zim's hip and presses against his PAK instead. The response is immediate, Zim jerking, straining against the limpness of his muscles. He's buzzing again, vibrating the searing metal.
"You're okay, you're okay," Dib's rambling, if only because Zim's muffled hhngs are making him slightly nervous. Still, it's a hot thrill, having him pliant and sedated under Dib, pulling him apart slowly, hands wet and warm with his body. "You're good, Zim, nothing's wrong w—"
All at once, Zim flinches hard, seizing in on himself. The clench around Dib's knuckles is almost painful, burning. Fluid gushes between Zim's thighs, on Dib's hand, spills over into the ripped sheets. Something flickers in Dib's chest.
Then, with a frantic strobe of his PAK lights, Zim goes slack again, the only evidence of him still clinging to life being the rhythmic swell of his ribs and the throbbing in Dib's palm. His PAK's pink flush fades into a steady glow, not quite so intense, but still haloing onto Dib's arms.
His own arousal temporarily forgotten, Dib hums and withdraws his hands. "You okay, space boy?"
"Hm." Slowly, Zim lifts his face from its nest. Little lines from the hoodie mar his forehead. His eyes are huge, blinking sleepily at nothing in particular. One limp antenna flicks up, aimless. "Yes."
Dib clenches his teeth at the sudden urge to kiss him. It's an overwhelming wave, slamming his body with its force. But that's—super unwise. Incredibly stupid. This whole… mess could be explained away, he reasons, but kissing is a bridge too far. Never mind that Zim's laid his cheek back down, his PAK is pink and soft, his ribs are exposed…
Dib picks at his jeans, leaving shiny webs of wet behind on the black denim. He's acutely aware of the stickiness seeping into the creases of his thighs and briefs.
He attempts to distract himself, keep from grinding his hips into his mattress. "PAK's still glowing. It's neat."
Zim rolls onto his side and strips his hoodie from his arms. When he speaks, it’s startlingly quiet. "Mean it."
Dib blinks. "What?"
"Those… things you said about Zim." Zim won't look at him, eyes studying the far wall of Dib's room. "Did you mean them?"
Yes jumps to Dib's throat immediately. Obviously, he can't say so—Zim's aforementioned ego might never recover. But it still squeezes his lungs.
Dib shifts to sit on his legs, weight on his fist. "What, you liked it?"
"Ye—no! No, of course not," Zim scoffs. But the syrup in his voice betrays him. "I'm just asking."
"Riiiiiiiight," Dib says. He plants his other hand below Zim's elbows, leaning over him. "I guess it's all stuff you already know?"
Zim is very pointedly not meeting Dib's eye. His antennae are twitching. "Yes, it is."
"Kinda pointless for me to be telling you, then."
Zim huffs a soft tone, pinching his eyes shut. "Earth creatures are fond of repeating useless information. I've come to expect it."
Fondness and annoyance alike prickle at Dib. That's basically the Zim-equivalent of begging for more. Dib also needs to put his mouth on him right now, so.
If anyone asks—not that they would—he could say it's payback for Zim using him like a chew toy earlier. Before he can think twice, Dib drops to his elbow and presses open-mouthed to Zim's shoulder.
He jumps under Dib, throat clicking. "What…"
Zim's cooler to the touch than Dib thought he'd be. Softer, too, blemished with dark spots along his joints. Flashes of questions, dermal density and capillaries, zip through Dib's brain. He settles on an easier one. "Why can't I know?"
"Know wh—hah."
Dib bites, smooth skin and meeting resistance in lean muscle. Zim groans, deep in his chest.
"What name you call me." There's no mark left, just saliva and the pink wash of light. Dib feels the thin grasp he still has on his sanity slipping away. "Thought you trusted me."
"Trust you," Zim chokes out, and it's almost a laugh. Giddiness bubbles hot in Dib's chest. "Why should I trust you?"
"I trust you," Dib says, earnest, and mouths at the ridge of Zim's little alien ribs. They rise in a sharp inhale.
Zim pants for a second. "Why?"
Dib scrapes his teeth over a rib, a faint threat. He feels himself trembling with the strain to stay slow. It's working, he knows—beneath him, Zim's nearing the edge of incoherency he reached a few minutes ago, like the fuzziness of a sedative. The thought curls hot between Dib's legs.
Still, he pulls back to fix his glasses and look at Zim's face. "Figure it out," he says. Zim's glowering back at him, mouth open. "You're smart."
Zim winces like he's been wounded. "Enough, Dib-thing."
Dib rolls his eyes and bites him again. This one leaves a ring, an indent of Dib's own teeth just under Zim's ribcage. Hysterically, Dib wants to make it scar. It's impossible, he knows, the reason casting light over Dib's wall.
It's easier to plant his teeth in the soft crook of Zim's shoulder. The tendons are different from a human's collar. They roll under his tongue, the skin tasteless. Maybe disinfectant biting at the edges. About the same way Zim smells.
Zim sighs out a moan at the dig of Dib's canines. A split moment of resistance, and then the skin breaks, tart blood beading out.
Dib yanks back in alarm, wipes his mouth. "Fuck, sorry."
His gaze flick to Zim's. His stomach drops. Zim's got both eyes shut, face twisted to the ceiling. Tears stream down his skin, wet tracks highlighted by his PAK.
"Zim." Dib hurriedly wipes at the pink welling up from Zim's muscle, smearing stripes with his thumb. It’s already begun to heal. "Uh, I didn't mean to…"
Something soft brushes over Dib's forehead and he flinches. Zim's squinting at him, antennae quivering forward and tapping into Dib's hairline. He doesn't look particularly pained. Maybe a little overwhelmed.
"I can smell you, you know," Zim says, thick.
Dib snorts, swallowing his bewildered laughter. "You always smell me?"
Zim sneers at him, propping himself up with a pointy elbow. "I mean your blood-smell, human. And your juices." He gestures down between their bodies.
Dib flushes, pulsing in his jeans. "Don't ever call it—whatever. So what? If you don't like it—"
"I didn't say that," Zim interrupts. "I thought mammals were obsessed with completion. But you're still..."
"Oh, um." Well, yeah. His briefs are soaked through and his pelvis has been aching for the past half hour. But it's not like Dib was expecting to come today. Even during the whole… just now. "It's fine, I don't really…"
Zim's squint shifts into something… scared? "You don't want to," he says. "Not with Zim."
Despite his body screaming against it, he settles back on his heels, replacing the distance between them with cool air. "Fuck. No, it's not that." He swallows down just how much that is not true. His thighs pin together. "I just… I won't, um. Finish, anyway, and it—it might get weird, so."
Zim twitches an antenna. His face is still wet. "What do you mean, you won't?"
"Medication," Dib says by way of explanation, and his own voice sounds exhausted. "The one I'm on, it… kinda makes it impossible."
Zim mouths the word impossible, and waves his hand in Dib's face. "Feeble human. Oh, well." And Dib's a little hurt, but then Zim's digging his claws into his shoulder, tugging him down. "Come. Share your body temperature, worm."
So Dib obliges, nearly crushing Zim with his weight. Zim hums a pleased noise, hands coming up to scratch at Dib's neck. It sends little shocks of pleasure through his nerves. Dib curls his arm over Zim's bare hips (he's nearly naked, and he's in Dib's bed), tapping at the base of where his PAK meets his spine. Fuzzy antennae brush along Dib's cheek.
"Can I get a sample at some point?" Dib says. He creeps his fingers back to Zim's front, where his skin's mostly dried and tacky. Featureless, now that his dick's drawn back into his body. Still, Dib rubs the pads of his fingers against the sheath, and Zim clicks in surprise.
"That's disgusting," Zim says. His hips jerk, a furtive little move into Dib's hand. "Of course not."
Zim's bare skin's cool against the heat of Dib's own. Even through his tank and jeans, it's like cold water. Like drowning.
Awesome. There goes the last shred of Dib's rationality. It fizzles into nothingness, a fresh, hot wash of arousal rocking through him in its wake.
Dib shoves himself up sideways, teeth and nails returning to Zim's soft points. Nails dig into the crease of his hip, teeth suck a bite into the swell of his ribcage. In response, Zim's claws scratch harder into Dib's nape.
Flustered, Dib huffs before he makes a more embarrassing sound. "Do—do that again."
Shockingly, Zim listens. A bright sting of pain alights in stripes along Dib's hairline. His hips rock forward unbidden, belt catching on Zim's jutting bones. Zim hisses at the poke of the metal.
Dib slurs out what could be an apology, brain too soupy with desire to string out anything coherent. He fumbles for a second, tries shoving the latch down without undoing it, but it's easier to drag Zim up his body instead. Dib's tank top rides up, and the small head of Zim's cock has slipped back out to glisten against Dib's pelvis.
Zim hitches his knee up onto Dib's belt, grinds up into his stomach. They both gasp, more of a wheeze on Dib's part from the stick of Zim's fluids on his skin. Dib pulls his leg under himself, supporting his weight, ignoring the ache of his wrists. Zim shudders and pauses, and the hairs on Dib's stomach prickle when his dick fully unsheathes itself and brushes through them.
The two of them breathe for a pause, ragged, static and hot against the other. Zim's twisted his head back, eyes screwed shut like he's thinking, tear tracks dried. His mouth pants open, his antennae limp on the rumpled and forgotten pillows. Dib's probably not much better off—sweat beads on his brow, and his hair's falling over his dirty glasses. He can't take his hands off Zim's hips to clean them.
Zim rocks up into him again, twitching. His claws drag from Dib's shoulders to his sides, digging into his flesh through his binder and tank top. Then under the tank, and Zim glowers his berry eyes when his claws sink into the skin.
Dib bites his tongue, not so much a distraction from the pain as from the surge of want lancing through his gut. He squeezes his eyes. Every muscle's like syrup. Zim's alien dick is wet against him, and. And.
Fuck it. He's too hard to give a shit anymore.
Dib leans back on his knees and struggles with his buckle for all of two seconds, before shoving his jeans and briefs down his hips. The air's cold against his slicked thighs and folds. He swallows, ignoring the twinge of discomfort at his shape and scars being so exposed.
Even through his haze, Zim visibly alights with interest, antennae flicking forward and eyes narrowing. Raw nerves burn at the thought of Zim studying him, so Dib grabs at Zim's legs to pull him back in.
It's a bit of a tangle, arranging their limbs, but then Zim's dick is sliding against Dib's and it's a dizzying rush of relief. Friction, finally.
Dib grinds down, Zim responds, crushed up against him. Fluids mingling. A harsh drag catches the hook of Zim's cock at Dib's entrance, and they both moan. Dib's breath crackles out.
For a heartsick second, Dib wishes desperately he could do the reverse to Zim. He jerks back down, nudging against Zim's split sheath, whimpers at the sensation. Imagines he's fucking into him, just like this.
The angle sucks. Could be better. But it's Zim's too-fast pulse against his dick, and for the first time in months, Dib feels like he could actually come.
His knees are aching. Zim's bent under him, flexing at an angle, PAK flashing rapidly. Claws scritch at Dib's stomach, pulling him closer to the edge. Dib's fingers tighten on Zim's sides.
He feels when Zim comes, a single spasm, cock curling in on itself and pulsing hotly. Zim gasps, shudders, legs clenching over Dib's. His eyes go big, glassy, then melt into red half-moons, looking up at Dib.
And Dib slows, legs trembling, but Zim shakes his head and rocks back up. He hooks his hand at Dib's neck, tugs him down by the healing scratches there, so their faces are nearly touching.
Zim's panting. "You're not done, Dib-mine," he rasps, pressed to Dib's cheek, "until Zim tells you."
Dib could sob, tears needling his eyes. It's too much, not enough. Zim's fingers in his hair, breath on his ear, and their faces are crushed together. Like lovers would. It's almost a kiss, Zim's mouth near his, not quite. Affectionate, it’s tender, it's terrifying, he's so close—
Orgasm rips through him, electric-hot. Dib cries out, unintelligible, relief shaking him as sweet as the razor's edge of pain pulsing through his nerves. His chest heaves against Zim's, face damp in the crook of his neck, glasses twisting.
Zim's churring, a steady rhythm in his chest. It's several breaths before either of them move.
Dib sniffs, draws back onto his elbow. Zim blinks lazily at him, watches him scrub his glasses and his eyes.
"Zim can always do the impossible," Zim says, smugness tugging at his mouth.
Takes him a second, then Dib lurches up onto both hands. "Oh, you motherfucker," he blurts. That manipulative, sneaky—
…Zim's snickering, the sound bubbly with the rumble in his chest. Dib's chest aches with it.
So he sighs, shifting to untangle himself from Zim's thin frame. He grimaces, sensitive. Threads of slick snap between their bodies as they separate.
Dib swallows, face hot. "I'm gonna, um. I'll be right back."
Zim hums, confused, but doesn't move. Dib pulls his wet briefs and jeans back over his hips (cold!) and slides from the bed. His legs wobble, weak.
The house feels colder outside his bedroom. Empty, but he knew that. Will be empty for a few more hours, at least. Dib rubs his shoulders on his way to the bathroom. His fingers creep over the back of his neck, the scabs still stinging there. He smiles.
Done. He avoids the mirror while washing his hands. He finds a clean washcloth in the cabinet—the last one, so looks like laundry's soon—and runs it under the warm tap.
He considers knocking on the door and decides that's stupid (since, well, Zim's dick was literally on his several minutes ago). Then he knocks, and slips back inside.
Zim's still on the bed, on his side with his back turned to the door. The glow of his PAK has faded. It's been replaced with the blue cast of Dib's phone, playing what looks like Sudoku.
Dib stands at the edge of the mattress, and very much does not notice that Zim hasn't even put his clothes back on. He fidgets with the wet cloth. "Um, here."
An antenna twitches at him before Zim looks. He glares over his shoulder. "Pitiful assassination attempt?" he says.
"No," Dib snorts. "It's filtered water. Here, asshole." And he chucks the washcloth, landing it squarely on Zim's face. The action earns him a shriek.
While Zim works on cleaning up, Dib hunts for some clean boxers to change into. Clean being the essential stipulation. He settles instead on a pair of pajama pants. Beggars can't be choosers.
When he turns back around, Zim's pulling his hoodie back over his tiny shoulders. His pants have evidently been discarded.
What do you even say to someone after fucking? Say thank you, come again? Act like it never happened? The thought makes him inexplicably tired. Dib's never gotten this far with a human, let alone an alien. He chews on his cheek.
Tentatively, he resettles on the bed, peering over Zim's shoulder. He's moved on from Sudoku and is now scrolling through Dib's search history. Dib feels the itch to move closer, rest his chin between Zim's antennae.
"You're breathing on me, Dib-beast," Zim says flatly. He doesn't move.
Something pricks at Dib's mind, and his face flushes with a sudden memory. "You said 'Dib-mine,' earlier."
Zim freezes, eyes going big. "Eh. No I didn't?"
Dib decides to just continue pressing his luck, and knocks his forehead against Zim's temple. "I'm not gonna tell anyone. I don't mind."
"I still have no clue what you're yammering about, Earth-monkey," Zim sniffs, but his antennae flutter over Dib's mussed hair. "Ugh. You smell."
"So?"
Zim elbows him in the stomach, and cackles when Dib doubles over, wheezing. Dib retaliates by yanking an antenna down with him. His ears will probably be ringing for the next week with how loud Zim screeches, but Dib's laughing too hard to really care.