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The Dib finds him in the middle of resolving the issue.
That is to say, his stupid nemesis breaks into Zim’s base by unlocking the front door (with his own copy of the key, which Zim definitely did not give him), and trips over Zim's prone form sprawled on the carpeting.
"Ssssshhhhit," the dumb human yelps, stumbling, sideways in Zim's vision. "What the hell?"
Zim crooks his neck to sneer up at Dib. His body shakes. "Didn't I give you very clear instructions?"
Dib crouches down, tilting his head sideways. His hair falls down over his glasses. "Clear instructions? Did you even listen to what you sent me?"
"I did not need to." Zim waves his hand. "I am sure the message was conveyed perfectly."
Dib clicks his tongue—wait, do NOT think about—and pulls out his primitive communications device. "Hold on. I still have it."
He holds out his phone, and Zim squints at it. From the speakers comes a crackle, then Zim's own tinned voice, screeching, "Do not come over, do not come over, do not come over."
Zim shuts his eyes. "As I said."
"You gotta know that's not super convincing," Dib says, and he is being so annoying by just sitting there, talking softly to Zim, smelling like blood and laundry detergent…
Zim wails into the carpet. Very intimidatingly.
His nemesis coughs. "Oooookay. Um."
"You shouldn't be here, human," Zim tells him. "Why wouldn't you listen to me."
Dib inhales sharply. Weird. "Okay," he says again, louder, "can I ask what happened?"
"No, you may not."
"Zim."
Zim grunts into the scratchy carpet. It stings his skin, oversensitive. "Nothing happened," he lies. "I am feeling normal."
A cold press where Dib's placed his huge hand against Zim's temple. He struggles to keep his antennae from snaking up his arm. "Jesus, you're burning. You have a fever. The flu?"
"I do not," Zim insists. "This is a completely unrelated illness."
"So you admit you're sick." Dib sounds so horribly smug.
"I mean—!" Zim filters his scream through his teeth. "Ugh. Go away, Dib. I am not talking about it."
Then Dib just sits down, knees barely a skidgen away from Zim's face. The stupid, good-smelling human, all black jeans and eye-linings and big dumb glasses. Just looking at him twists the fizzy knot in Zim's chest, makes his body flush with heat.
Whatever. It's not like Dib doesn't know that Zim is broken. He's the one who let Zim hide strategically regroup under his bed for a week after… eh. It doesn't matter. Telling him could do very little harm at this point.
"It's not an Earth illness," Zim says. Every word is like chewing sandpaper. "My horrible meat vessel is undergoing, eh… a vestigial process." He shifts on the scratchy carpet, cheek smushed. "My brood-parts have gone rogue. They are sick."
Dib props his chin by his elbow, staring down at Zim. The gears in his jelly-head turn, very slowly. "You're going to have to use normal words. Your what?"
Zim glares at him. Why is his human like this.
Dib sighs. Zim feels it on his antennae. "Okay, wait. Vestigial… oh! Some kind of mating instinct?" When Zim hums, he brightens, the way he does when he's collected another piece of silly evidence for his parasocial-whatever hobby. "Huh. Well, then it doesn't sound like you're sick. Sounds natural."
"It is not natural. There's a reason we had these disgusting cycles deleted from our genetic pools. Mating is not irkenlike."
"Disgusting, huh." And Dib sounds a little… hurt?
His tone gives Zim pause, retracing what he's said. Hm. No, it's all accurate.
Still, he picks words carefully, his instinct begging him not to upset his human. Er, Dib. Ugh. "… Yes. It's shameful. My body having its beastly urges against my will…" He shivers, a curl of revulsion flickering through the warmth. "Ew."
Dib is silent for a pause, then his demeanor changes. His face smooths back into his usual neutrality, tension melting. Zim is not looking. "Oh, okay. Okay. I think I get it. I mean, I don't know a whole lot about how, well, gender works on Irk—"
"That is a silly human concept."
"—but for me, I kinda get it." Dib rubs at his arms, bare in just his black T-shirt. The name of a human music group is scribbled illegibly across the chest. "At least, I know what it's like to be pissed at the parts you have. And feeling gross when… you know."
Zim wishes Dib would put his hands on him again. His body's too-cold and too-hot, and the weight and scruff of Dib's skin sounds infinitely preferable to the carpet. Zim's head throbs, bruised.
Unaware, Dib's continuing, "But you're not bad for, what, being horny? I think most people are, sometimes."
"Excuse you. I am very bad."
"Well, obviously the evil is a given. But that's separate." And Dib smiles at him, if only a little bit. Warmth buds in Zim's face. "Have you eaten yet today?"
Zim scoffs. "Don't need to." Then, "I'm not hungry."
"You're always hungry," Dib says, but it's not mean. At least, it doesn't sound mean. "Hold on, I'm gonna raid your fridge."
Zim watches Dib get up, long legs unfolding and ambling to the kitchen. He disappears around the corner, and Zim's horrible flesh misses him. There's a very loud bang as Dib likely trips over the flashbomb by the trash can. Zim snickers.
"Fuck." A clatter, like Dib's kicked something. "Hey, where's GIR?"
Zim hums. "On a business trip."
"… Huh. I just thought… But the house is a mess?"
"Aaaaaaalllllllll me."
A quick snort of laughter (though Zim didn't make a joke? But he supposes he is quite funny), followed by the sticky woosh of the fridge opening. Zim's antennae twitch towards the noise. "I mean, my room's worse. So, not judging."
Hm. Not a great train of thought to follow. Zim's blood thrums hot with the memory of the last time he was in Dib's room. He hadn't paid much attention to the mess, then.
Dib's noisy rummaging. The fridge shutting. "At least you have food. Where do you even get all the money for it, anyway? Far as I know, you don't have a job."
Then he reappears, plastic bag swinging from one arm and the other cradling the box of mini-cakes that Dib had opened last time he was here.
"I make it," Zim says.
"Really?"
Zim blinks up at him. He's stupidly tall.
"You mean your synthesizer can print money?" Dib's tone is unreadable. "That's fucking genius. God, I should have thought of that as a kid. I would have broken in more often."
Zim barely registers Dib setting the snacks on the couch behind him. The compliment's made Zim's guts go all warm and soupy. Even if he didn't mean it, even if it was thoughtless. It's an inextinguishable reaction to Dib's approval. Zim squeezes his legs together.
With great effort, he manages to peel himself up from the carpet, wincing as the scabbing on his forehead sticks to the fibers. Perhaps face-slamming into the wall didn't accomplish as much as he'd have liked. He rests his chin on his knees.
Dib crouches. "Shit. How long have you been bleeding?"
Zim grunts and bats away his hands. "Stop worrying your enormous head. My PAK will…"
Except… it won't, will it? Not for the next week, at least. Through the stew of his brain, Zim recalls lines from the diagnostic report he'd pulled this morning—hormone disruption, healing suspended. This horrible disease. No wonder cycles are obsolete.
Dib is still looking at him. Zim gestures for a snack.
Sighing, Dib obeys, tossing a FunkDip packet directly at Zim's head. Rude. "Whatever. Eat that. I'm gonna ask some questions."
Zim shreds open the packet. "If you have that stupid notes-book—"
"Notebook's comin' out," Dib sing-songs, and produces his favored wad of paper from his back pocket. He sits on Zim's couch, flipping through the pages with a satisfying shuffle. His obsession with physical notetaking has never ceased to puzzle Zim. But he supposes it can't be helped.
So Zim graciously enables him and lets it go. Just this once. He winds his tongue around the candy stick, relishing the dissolve of sugar, before jabbing it viciously into the packet of powder. "Zim has already answered enough of your questions."
"I haven't even asked any," Dib says. "Okay, off the top of my head, I guess—this has happened before, right? Is it like a period?"
Zim twitches, a waking hypnic spasm. His spooch cramps all at once, and he nearly gags at the sugar in his mouth. He sneers, swallows, and shudders. "This is nothing like your primitive mammalian processes," he says, because it's true. "… Yes, it has happened before."
Honestly, when Zim had first learned that nearly half of humanity purges their body of blood on a monthly basis, he had been a very small smidgen of impressed. Not that he would ever admit it, especially not after he'd learned that it happens to Dib, too.
But he supposes he can see a bit of similarity. His first cycle, he was barely out of smeethood, and in the middle of an exam, no less. And it—well, it had been terrifying. After nineteen hours of formulas and holographic energy conversion simulations, brain-jellies exhausted, some uncertainty could be excused, obviously. One second there's nothingness, the next, he's wracked by sudden tremors and flashes of burning cold flickering painfully through his wetware.
Which—it's not as if he could have known. No one could have warned him. Why should he have been warned, anyway? He dealt with it wonderfully.
… And sprinted from the exam hall, hid in some honeycomb pocket in the far reaches of a ship hangar. Alone, shivering, body hot and cold and PAK slamming his brain with error message after error message. And worst of all was the aching thing, down in his core, a hot bubble of wantwantwant that he couldn't for the life of him decipher.
It passed within the week, and left him weak and pathetic and confused. A skillful infiltration of the scoring system within the exam hall's database ensured Zim miraculously passed the test he had missed, and the episode had been pushed to the back of his mind.
The second time is… less clear. If Zim tries to recall it with any clarity, it slips from his mind's grasp like a slippy… little… Earth-fish. He does know that it had been right around the end of Invader training. He remembers the weapons room, and there were others in there, and when his body seized they laughed, but then…
Feh. What does it matter. The malfunction passed much faster, that time, a small mercy.
Once it left him, he'd visited a medic. The medic then died, because their assessment was so obviously incorrect. Mating cycles and evolutionary vestiges. Utter nonsense. Nobody cared about that medic, anyway.
The third time, he'd had the name for it, and refused to acknowledge it.
Every tremor of his horrible meat-vessel may well have been screaming defect. It drowned out any urge he may have had to—to what? To discard his leggings and shiver around his fingers, hiding inside the Voot?
The thought was disgusting. Actually doing it, even more so. That had been an extremely unsatisfying weekend.
No, he refused to allow his brood-parts to dictate his behavior. To give in entirely would be… unthinkable. Defective. He would resume his work and ignore this—this evolutionary vestige. He was Zim, and he had much more important things to do than to mess around with his errant flesh.
A few Earth years came and went, and he'd suspected that was the end of it. A PAK update must have fixed the bug. A welcome relief.
But then—the mission had been discarded, and there had been the truce, and then Dib had pressed onto his PAK those weeks ago and something vicious reignited in Zim's gut. And yesterday he'd felt the flicker of a new cycle. It was horrifying. But it was simple cause and effect.
Of course, to verbally blame Dib would be silly, however accurate. The human may take it as a compliment instead of the shameful accusation it rightfully is.
The wet noise of Dib chewing on his pencil pulls Zim's thoughts back to the soupy present. "Zim?" he says.
"What." His human tongue is so alien. Flat, wet…
"I just asked—are you even listening?"
Zim wants him to shut up so badly. "No," he says. "What could you possibly still be curious about? I've told you I am—" He won't say it. "—Eh. You know. You know what is happening. You can leave now, human."
Dib blinks, like he's genuinely surprised. "Leave?"
"I'm done being interrogated." Zim tosses his unfinished FunkDip aside. "You have no reason to stay."
"But it's Friday. I even brought a DVD."
Hm. So Dib had remembered Zim's distaste for streaming services. Wait! It doesn't matter! "Have you not been hearing me?" Zim hisses. "I'm—"
And he groans, punched through with the force of another tremor. His sheath pulses.
"Look," Dib says, "if you're seriously not up for it, then sure, raincheck. But, you know. You're not getting out of Human Movie Night that easily. If I had to sit through all four hours of 'The Desecration of the Ugly Space Lizards of Zebtabulon-V' last month, then you get to watch 'Alien' with me."
"You want to sit with Zim and watch a human movie." Zim shoves down the hot bubbles in his chest at that. He blinks. "While my brood-parts are misbehaving."
"Is that actually what you call—yeah, whatever. I don't really mind. You just don't seem like you'd be safe on your own right now, so here I am."
And isn't that wonderful. The absolute last person Zim should be with, locked in his house while Zim's body is soft and pliable and shivering. And Zim can't even smell any of Dib's mate-hormones, which would have betrayed an ulterior motive. No, he is spending time with Zim in spite of his instincts, completely unphased by what should be revolting. What a baffling creature.
But, well. Dib is far from the latest addition to the list of things that baffle Zim, though he certainly ranks higher than coleslaw and paper books and cats with spots. At least, in terms of intrigue.
It's a non-decision. Obviously, Zim is going to usher his silly nemesis out of his base with his lasers, and they will go back to never acknowledging anything about Zim's body ever again.
"Fine," Zim hears himself saying. "Just… pull the—"
"—intestines out of the couch, yeah." Dib digs through the cushions, notebook abandoned. "Way ahead of you."
With the uncomfortable squelching taken care of, Zim pushes himself up onto his wobbly legs, and settles beside Dib on his couch.
Dib makes his gross tongue-clicking noise. "That looks kinda bad," he says, gesturing to his forehead.
Zim taps his bare fingers to his bloodied face. "I said—"
"Blah, blah." Dib's getting up, shuffling off to the kitchen again. When he returns, he has a little bag of blue ice. "You're lucky you didn't give yourself a concussion."
"How do you know this was my fault?" Zim sniffs, taking the ice. It's a balm against his fevered face, and he smushes his cheek against it before pressing it to his temple.
"I'm not answering that," Dib says. "Anyway, drink that when it melts."
"What is it?"
"No clue. It was in your freezer."
"You are trying to kill Zim."
Dib fights with the DVD player for a few seconds before the disc finally ejects. He swaps it with his surely-pitiful selection. "I'm joking. It's just a frozen Suck Munkey. I tasted it already."
Zim wonders if he'd stuck his tongue in the bag. Or his wet fingers into his mouth. He shakes his head vigorously to clear it, regretting when the room spins a little.
Dib returns, his body heat radiating in waves over Zim as he sits. He's so tall, tucking his knee up and stretching his arm over the cushions. Zim dusts at his own sweater and ignores the human, hand trembling shamefully.
He stiffens, feeling Dib's hand at his shoulder. "C'mon. You're gonna fall over."
"I am fine," Zim hisses, but then Dib's pulling him sideways, and then Zim finds his face half-smushed into the warmth of Dib's thighs. And to add insult to injury, Dib's hand creeps back to his PAK, and all of Zim's nerves go tingly.
While the human movie plays its opening, boasting pitiful lens quality and generative lettering, Zim lets himself relax. Just a little. Not like he's letting his guard down or anything.
But, well. Dib is very warm, and whenever Zim's horrible cycle sends a tremor through his wetware, Dib's hand is on his PAK and his electromagnetic field pulls his limbs back into taffy. Squishy taffy. Wet taffy. Ugh.
He rubs his thighs together. All the pleasant tingling has done very little to fix the root of the problem. The baggie of slush is melting over his forehead, and his spooch is all twisted, and all Zim can really focus on is the warm weight of Dib's hand and the heat of his legs on Zim's face.
Zim does not whimper. His noises are quite refined. Still, he presses his face into the crease of Dib's thighs, feeling the denim on his eyelids and mouth, and hopefully Dib cannot hear him.
A brush at an antenna sends a hot zip of pleasure down Zim's spine. He freezes, and Dib touches his antenna again, and—
"Zim," Dib's saying. It's distant, like he's floating far away. "Zim, hey. Talk to me."
Zim buzzes in his throat. He does not want to talk to the Dib right now. He doesn't want Dib to talk to him either. Dib should be miles away. Dib should be buried deep inside him. Dib—
"Come on, bug. You sound like you're in pain."
"You need to go," Zim croaks.
Dib, predictably, ignores him. "Is it getting worse?"
A spasm answers.
Dib's hand stops wandering, a warm weight at Zim's neck. His fingers dip into the collar of Zim's sweatshirt. "If you need to, I dunno. Take a break to go, um, fix it, I don't care. I can wait."
Curse his big, stupid head. Curse him. Zim clenches his fists, claws digging into his palms and the melted baggie on his face. "I will not be doing that."
"Why not?" Dib says, frustration edging into his voice. And isn't that funny, that he's the one who's upset, when it's rightfully Zim who should be angry. "You like the movie that much? Don't be stupid, Zim, just go take care of—"
"I can't." His voice is so loud, so scratchy, and Dib's legs twitch under Zim's face. His cheeks burn hot, eyes pinched shut. "I won't. I won't acknowledge this—this defect, and put my hands on my—no. Don't ask me to do it, Dib-thing, I can't."
Dib's quiet, finally, which should make Zim feel better. The horrible churning in his hot-cold gut only worsens in the silence.
A little scrape of Dib's blunt nails at Zim's neck. He shivers.
Then Dib inhales, and pokes at Zim's shoulder. "Alright. Sit up."
Confused, hazy, Zim does, pulling himself from the warmth of Dib's lap to glare at him. Dib ignores his murderous eye-daggers (to borrow a human phrase), and simply shifts his lanky form around on the couch. He folds his knee under him, and pats the space between his legs.
Zim stares.
Dib raises an eyebrow over his glasses. "This means come here."
"I know." Zim's brains are spinning. Dib wants him to—"Your silly movie is still playing."
Dib glances at the TV, where there are some chains and wetness happening (and Zim can't say he's been paying attention in the slightest, so he's lost on the context). Then he shrugs. "We're still watching it."
Are we? Heat flares through Zim's gut to his sheath. For all intents and purposes, Dib does seem as though he's still following the film, watching it from the corner of his vision while his brown eyes are trained on Zim.
He crawls over.
His PAK settles into the curve of Dib's stomach, his thin shirt the only barrier between warm skin and warmer metal. Dib allows Zim to rearrange his legs, then rests his chin between Zim's antennae, hands coming to sit on Zim's hips. Every point of contact is searing, buzzing from Dib's magnetic field. The open-close-open of Zim's soft data ports fogs over the rest of his processing power.
"You don't have to look, yeah?" Dib mumbles, voice rumbling in his throat and making Zim's antennae quiver from the proximity. "Just, you know. Let me know if something hurts. But otherwise, you can pretend it's not even happening."
It… does sound appealing. Zim can do that. He's excellent at ignoring unpleasant sensations. And if Dib wants to serve him, well, that's only suitable. Zim nods, and when Dib swallows he feels it against his skull.
Dib's palms smooth over his thighs. Unsure where to put his own hands, Zim mirrors Dib, and latches his claws into the black denim bracketing his sides. If it hurts, Dib doesn't react, just picks at the fabric of Zim's leggings.
"You're not even watching the movie," Dib says, breath hot against Zim's antennae. His chin shifts, and his mouth is so close to the base of one that Zim trembles.
Zim shudders. "It's boring."
"You haven't seen any of it. Name one thing that's happened, so far."
Zim inhales to do just that, but his breath catches. Dib's planted his mouth at the base of an antennae. His lips are strange, dry, then his tongue is wet against the tiny bristles there and he smells so good. Zim squirms, Dib's hands holding him in place.
Another breath on his antenna and his spike throbs in his sheath. His body's screaming, error pings in his PAK quickly dismissed then re-alerted. Every inch of his skin hurts, freezing.
Unaware of his torment, Dib keeps mouthing at Zim's antenna while his hands nudge Zim's legs apart. Zim squeezes his eyes shut, his own breathing heavy and wavering.
It's a small mercy when Dib ceases, chin dropping to Zim's shoulder, face tight against Zim's neck. The metal in his ears and of his glasses frame is pleasantly warm, hair soft. But of course, because the Dib is cruel and evil, his hand comes up to stroke at the other antenna, rolling it between his fingers, while the hand in Zim's lap slides up to press into his sheath through his leggings.
Zim's hips twitch, horrifyingly, seeking Dib's touch mindlessly. Dib rubs a hard circle with the pads of his fingers, tugs at Zim's antenna, and Zim fails to subdue a moan before it shivers out of him. It's molten and awful, and yet with Dib pressed against him, the revulsion isn't as strong. It's not his hands, he's not even unclothed. The movie plays on.
Dib's finger hooks around Zim's antenna and pulls, Zim's head following, leaving the length of his neck exposed. The rasp of skin sliding against skin, then Dib's mouth is wet under Zim's jaw, the blunt scrape of his teeth and the heat of his tongue. His hand slides into the band of Zim's leggings, cold fingers in the slick of his sheath.
Zim's clicking, a little uncontrollably. It rattles in his throat. He cracks an eye open, the room unfocused and bleary. Pleasure shocks up his spine at the rub of Dib's fingers.
Dib bites at his neck. Not hard. Just a promise. Zim gasps, embarrassingly. His head drops back, hits Dib's shoulder, whole body slumping down into Dib's hand between his legs.
It's so good. The ceiling's in and out of focus. His whole body's thrumming with the weight of his cycle and Dib's fingers. They dip shallowly into his sheath, hand curling, and Zim's spike aches to slip free. His claws tighten in Dib's thighs, puncturing the denim and pulling the muscle beneath.
Dib mumbles something into Zim's neck, but then his finger slides up into Zim's slicked fold, and whatever nonsense his human is rambling about is lost. It's never like this, cycle or otherwise. Only other time it's been this good was—was—
His finger stills, barely brushing against Zim's spike curled in his body, and Zim whimpers in protest.
"—didn't hear what I said, did you," Dib's saying, mouth moving against Zim's skin.
Zim pants at the ceiling. "I don't care."
A harsh tug at his antenna in response. Zim twitches. "I asked if you're still okay."
Zim is going to kill him once his cycle is over. "Stop talking to Zim, and just…"
"Can I get a yes or no?"
His finger rubs into Zim's spike, and he jolts. Stupid human. "… Yes," Zim manages. "Now shut up."
"Good job," Dib says. Zim does not shiver pleasantly at the words. He does shake when Dib slips a second finger inside him, a burning stretch, but that can be excused by his cycle. It's simply instinct. Just biology.
Zim's spike slides free, fluids spilling into his leggings and Dib's hand. Dib's palm pins his spike against his pelvis, a hot pressure that makes Zim cry out. Then his other fist comes down to wrap around him, tightening while his fingers thrust deeper inside, and Zim moans, limbs melting, clawing at Dib's thighs.
His hips rock up. Desperate. Humiliating, fucking Dib's hand, driven by the force of awful instinct and the wretched ache in him that's always secretly craving a release like this. Curled into Dib's body, against his ribs. And Dib is so—he's not gentle, Zim thinks, shutting his eyes around the prick of tears. Not gentle. He's so human, with Zim.
Zim will not cry. Not again. He chirps wetly, and all at once feels how small he is against Dib, and how his spike's a livewire and this cycle is never going to end, rendering him pathetic and needy forever—
His first release is nothing, faint and rolling through him, nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the pleasure raging in his veins. Zim's spike curls in Dib's hand, hard and painful. There's a brief flicker of clarity before the haze returns, oversensitive and even farther from relief than before.
Dib must sense the change, pulling his fingers free of Zim's clenched sheath and loosening his grip on his spike. Zim seizes at the loss, trying to drown whatever horrible noises his voice is making. One of Dib's wet hands pets at Zim's thigh. It's soothing, sort of.
Zim fights to subdue his breathing, PAK struggling to vent out heat against Dib's stomach. His brood-parts ache, thrumming with want, pleading for Dib's touch to return.
"You alright?" Dib murmurs. His hands curl over Zim's thighs, warmed from their frigid cold of before. "Your PAK's flashing."
Zim swallows, sheath pulsing. "This was a horrible idea."
Dib hums, and for a split second Zim is nearly afraid he's offended him—which is ridiculous, again, because why should he care. "Not feeling any better?"
His PAK is tingly against Dib's stomach. "Worse," is all he manages, before his voice fails him.
Quiet. The movie's reached its incomprehensible climax, everything on screen wet and screaming. The volume's low. Zim clenches his jaw to keep from crying.
Then Dib shifts behind him, hands leaving Zim's thighs to maneuver them both from their sticky spots. Dib untangles himself, pulls away on the couch, leaving Zim slumped back against the cushions and shaking with cold and heat.
Dib stands, wobbling on his feet. There's dark splotches on the front of his jeans, barely discernable from the black denim. Dib swipes at them, winces, and then he—
He drops to sit in front of Zim, on his knees. So that he's looking up at Zim.
Zim's whole body flushes, legs trembling at the sight. Dib's so tall, and yet he sank to the floor like it was nothing. Like Zim's worth kneeling for. It's a rush through his wetbrain and PAK, error notifications corrupting as soon as they're launched. It's unthinkable.
Dib pays his shaking no mind, pulling his unruly hair back from his face. There's a snap of the rubber band that always lives on his wrist, and then most of his mess is contained. Dib pokes at his glasses, pauses, and removes them entirely, pushing them up to rest above his forehead, pinning his cowlick in place. His face is strange, without them, soft and open.
Zim tucks his face against the cushion, unable to bear the sight any longer. Then Dib's hands are sliding back up the sides of his legs, pulling his damp leggings off, and he's so warm…
"Here, like this." Dib shifts Zim's knees, moves his legs to rest on his shoulders. His hands cup the small of Zim's back, holding him up even as Zim sinks down, melting towards him. "Don't kill me, okay?"
Zim huffs. It's more of a moan at Dib's breath ghosting over the wet between Zim's legs.
"You don't have to look," Dib reminds him, and then his mouth is on Zim's thigh.
It's as if he were speaking, whispering inaudible nothings into the cords and muscles. Zim winces at the near-sting of the contact, like electricity. When Dib bites down, his tongue swipes hot over Zim's glistening skin, and Zim has to tense his core to keep his hips from lurching forward.
Dib's fingers tighten at Zim's back, and Zim makes the brutal mistake of glancing down at his human. Dib's eyes are big, alien pupils blown wide. It makes Zim's chest ache and spike twitch. Dib huffs a breath through his nose, and it's cold over Zim's feverish slick.
His teeth scrape over Zim's skin, then they're replaced with the soft press of his lips. Like the kisses Zim has seen on television. The action is so deeply human, and yet this one's wrong enough to be wholly Dib, too. A kiss in the incorrect place. Zim wonders for a flicker if he should be corrected. Wonders if he should feel disgusted at the thought.
Then Zim's spike vanishes into the wet part of Dib's mouth, and Zim forgets to feel much of anything.
This is so illegal, his mind whimpers, distant over the blitz of hot pleasure. So extremely awful of him. Of both of them. He should stop Dib now before… before…
Dib's tongue drags under Zim's spike. Zim feels the ridge of his hard palate grind against the tip, twisting his gut into a tight coil. The whole of Zim fits easily in Dib's mouth, slick and soft and oh, oh, Zim needs to ignore it. Like Dib told him. Like it's not even happening, don't look, don't watch him swallow—
Zim's claws fly to his own eyes, shielding himself from the sight of his hips rocking into Dib's face. He's shivering, hands shaking, feeling the prickling bruise on his forehead and smelling his own blood, mingling with that of Dib's blood and Zim's arousal. It's heady. His antennae quiver under the weight of it.
All at once, the heat of his cycle surges, and Zim gasps something strangled, hips jerking erratically. His spike seizes hard on Dib's tongue, slick spilling over his chin. Zim's processors crush under the pleasure, a buzzing nothing, before the need's roaring back in an instant. He flinches from Dib's mouth, trying to lock his hips in place to keep from seeking more.
A weight on his thigh, the soft brush of Dib's tied hair. Zim's thighs tense, squeezing at Dib's neck and skull, and there's a hard pull at his spike in response, sucking him deeper against Dib's tongue, before he's released with a wet slide.
Cool air meets his spike, and Zim chances a peek through his fingers. Dib's resting his temple against Zim's thigh, watching Zim with his soft eyes, breath on the blood-flush of his sheath. His mouth glistens, tugging into a faint smile.
"Hi," Dib says, voice hushed and crackling. He clears his throat. "I can't really see the screen from here."
Okay? Zim squints around his claws, flicking an antenna forward. His voice fails him.
"I mean, it's almost over, but, I dunno. The ending is good." Dib's finger traces a pattern in the dip of Zim's back, then his palm smooths over the skin. "What do you think?"
Zim buzzes a non-answer.
"Are you done?"
Is he? Should they be? Zim stares blankly down at Dib.
His human blinks, then hums. He shifts to sit back on his heels, head leaving the split of Zim's legs, his hand coming up to circle the back of Zim's neck.
Dib pulls him down, so they're sharing breath. Zim's knees slip from his shoulders. The hand on his neck is warm, heavy.
The slide of Dib's mouth is foreign, and Zim shudders at the feel of his own slick on his lips. His body pulses hot with the shame of it, Dib's mouth working the same way as before, the seam of his jaw parting and coaxing Zim's open. His tongue brushes over Zim's teeth, then there's a tart burst of metal, the bloodied taste of Dib's lips and Zim's own fluids. It's horrifying, tasting himself, and Zim whimpers. Dib's fingers tighten on his neck and his head rotates, sliding his tongue deeper.
Seems Dib does know how to properly give a human kiss. It's vile. Zim moans into his mouth.
If he still wants Zim to ignore it, it's nearly an impossible ask. The wet crush of their jaws, Zim's slick in their shared saliva, the taste and smell of Zim's humiliation and need. And fainter, Dib's blood-smell flickering, his pheromones of arousal beneath the warm scent of his hair and skin under Zim's antennae.
And that means Dib likes it. Likes tasting Zim between them, likes the evidence of Zim's shame. Likes having to tilt his chin up to kiss Zim, hard, like he's starving and doesn't care that he's not looming over Zim.
Zim's hands are weak, shaking. He digs his claws into Dib's neck to keep them from wandering. Dib hums a tone, draws back for a breath, licks back in. His hand dips back between Zim's legs, and Zim rolls his hips into the touch.
He knows. He knows the crying beg of Zim's body, by now, the tell-tale signs of its filthy want, and yet his fingers work back into his sheath anyway.
Zim's legs tremble, try to squeeze together, pinned at Dib's sides and tensing against his ribs. Dib's fingers curl, uncurl to press deep into Zim, thick and aching, and a third nudges against his slit—
Zim grinds down, spike throbbing in Dib's palm, sheath stretching around his fingers and forcing them deeper. He gasps for breath, struggling to pull air into his spasming lungs. Dib's still kissing his open mouth sweetly, huffing little moans of encouragement while Zim rides his hand.
Dib's fingers jerk, hot like lightning, and a sob scrapes its way out of Zim's throat. A thrust down, harsh while Dib drives upward. There's the threat of release, curling tight in his gut.
"Dib," he chokes out, and whether it's a warning or a request, he isn't sure. His throat crushes shut, eyes and face and legs burning.
Dib bites at Zim's lip. "Yeah?" His hand slips to rest his wrist on Zim's PAK, pulse fast at the point of contact. "You okay?"
Zim drops his head back, panting, but Dib just closes his teeth around his tightening throat.
He can't say the words, lungs beating too hard, and even if he could it would kill him. But the mouth on Zim's throat feels them anyway, smiles at each breath, each silent beg of please, please. Please don't leave, don't go after this, don't think of me any differently, please—
The wave crests, so good it's painful, and Dib doesn't stop even as Zim's body draws itself tight and his claws gouge at Dib's neck. Dib just lips at his throat, still feeling Zim churr against his tongue. Twists his fingers cruelly. Then Zim's shuddering around another endless release, whole body squeezed into a single point of hot radiance, PAK processors stuttering…
Zim sucks in a breath, muscles gone syrupy-sticky. His lungs heave for a moment, blood coursing heavily through his PAK, struggling to filter the endorphins. His throat tightens painfully, and then—
"Okay, okay," he hears Dib saying, and the human shifts from between his legs. Zim squeezes his streaming eyes shut at the raw burn of Dib's fingers leaving his sheath. Then warmth wraps over his shaking frame, and Dib's pressed himself tightly into Zim, dipping the couch.
Zim buries his face in Dib's shirt, the fabric soft and worn and smelling of Dib. His bones are like jelly, and Dib pulls him onto his lap to allow him to melt without toppling off the couch.
His whole body's like a fresh bruise, brood-parts sore and face wet with tears. He's cold, but Dib's soft and warm. Dib's hands smooth over his PAK, fuzzing the data ports. Zim clicks, stifled.
Dib's throat hums when he speaks, mirroring the buzz in Zim's chest. "You're alright?"
"Bleugh," Zim says.
Dib pets at his antennae, and Zim's skin tingles. "You did good, you know. Is it over?"
Zim churrs into his skin, tentatively cataloguing the fog of his cycle. "Yes," he decides. "… Thank you."
Dib huffs a laugh. "Don't thank me. Feels weird. Just happy you're okay."
"It is weird," Zim agrees. "Very gross."
"I didn't mean it like that." Dib draws back a little, much to Zim's displeasure, and cups Zim's face in his hands. His glasses have returned to his nose, albeit a bit crooked. "I don't think it's gross. I actually thought it was pretty cool."
Zim's eye twitches at the soft brush of Dib's thumb over his tears. "You enjoy seeing Zim in pain."
"Kinda." Dib gives a wry smile. "I mean you, space bug. Next time, I'm gonna bring a microscope."
Zim does not acknowledge the way his spooch leaps at the words next time. He does do his best to sneer at Dib, who is still cradling a death machine between his palms. "You wish, filthy."
"Man, don't be embarrassed," Dib says, and kisses him.
This one's softer, less of a wet, desperate collision. Slower. Zim mimics the tilt to Dib's head, and the gentle brush of Dib's breath is his reward. Zim's gut erupts into violent little butterflies at the tenderness of it.
Zim breaks first. "Zim is not embarrassed."
"Liar. I can hear you thinking about killing yourself."
Zim sticks his tongue out at him. Dib just grins, hair falling loose and messy over his glasses.
Again, a very baffling creature. But right now, Zim's body feels like a little slice of buttered bread, so he supposes he can endure the human's presence a little longer.
A twinge of pain bleeds through Dib's scent, metallic and distressed. Used to be comforting, but now Zim's PAK pings in alarm. "Where are you dying?"
Dib blinks at him. "Huh?"
Zim shifts over Dib's thighs, and the scent of blood doubles. Grimacing, Zim peels his own sticky, bare legs off of Dib's wet jeans, and—wet jeans?
"You are bleeding, you lied to me." Zim picks at the denim, the splotches unevenly dried in some spots and spreading wider in others.
"I never said I wasn't?" Dib winces at Zim's prodding. "Okay, cut it out, you're literally not helping. It's probably your fault, anyway."
Zim flushes angrily. "Zim did not do this. If I did, it would be on purpose. What are you bleeding about this time?"
"Do we have to do this right now?"
"When else?" Zim leans back, sliding from Dib's knee to properly reach his belt buckle. Dib's hands hover, shock evident and funny in his face while Zim messes with his jeans. "You're getting your meat juice all over my couch, and—"
"Zim." Dib's hands wrap around Zim's little wrists, and he suddenly sounds so tired. "Please. Just… leave it."
Zim feels himself twitch, annoyance and frustration mixing grossly with the overwhelming, bubbly fondness in his gut. Maybe they're the same emotion, actually. There's the wounds they both know are there, not to mention the (fading) sweetness of Dib's mating pheromones still mingling in the air, yet he won't allow Zim to remove his pants.
Zim growls around the lump re-forming in his throat at the thought. After all—all that, Dib doesn't…
I trust you, he'd told Zim, last time. Zim had done his best to forget it, carried on pretending the words weren't ricocheting through his skull every second of the days that followed. He'd been—well, his mouth was on Zim's throat, not the other way around, so maybe he… did he…?
Dib's jaw tightens, face unreadable while his eyes flit over Zim's, before finally he's looking away. "Movie's over."
"You are changing the subject," Zim hisses.
"There's nothing to change, Zim." Dib's fingers tighten around his wrists. "Trust me, it's—"
"Trust you?" The words are eerily familiar in Zim's mouth. "How can I trust you when you won't trust me?"
Startled, Dib's gaze jerks back to Zim's. "I told you I did," he says, and there's a note in his voice that's inscrutable.
"But you didn't mean it." Zim scrunches his eyes shut. "And now you're leaving Zim to rot without pants."
"Of course I meant it, I just—" Dib huffs out a humorless laugh, and shockingly, his forehead bumps into Zim's. It's enough to startle Zim's eyes back open. "God, how are you more manipulative after coming three times?"
"It's your fault this even happened to me," he informs him, and it's taking every fiber of Zim's being not to lean in or pull away or shut his mouth. "You put this filthy disease back into my body by flapping your mouth so much, and by putting your hands on—"
Dib makes a strangled, suffering noise in his throat. "If you hated it that much, you can just say so, Zim."
Zim pauses. His PAK whirs slowly, unwinding that thread of conversation. It's been so long since hating Dib meant anything other than monthly Irken or Human Movie Nights and eating cake pops together that Zim—well, it almost feels unfamiliar, what Dib is fussing about. He just can't… put his finger on what it is.
"You are putting words into Zim's mouth," Zim says, slowly. "I didn't let you stay for nothing."
"How can you just…" Dib sighs through his nose, shutting his eyes. His forehead tilts over Zim's. "You actually liked it? What we…?"
Zim does not ask which time? despite how much he wants to goad Dib into breaking their promise of absolute silence. "Dense little Earth-monkey," he says, failing to mask the sickly affection that seeps through.
Another laugh, this one softer. "Ugly space roach."
"You may release Zim now."
Dib's eyes blink open, big and so close, but he doesn't let go of Zim's wrists like he should. His hold does soften, but then he's guiding Zim's claws back to the waistband of his jeans, until both their hands rest there.
Zim hooks his fingers back into the belt buckle. The metal's warm. Undoing it is hardly a challenge (Dib rudely takes over after the third attempt), but still, the zipper beneath is more reasonable. Dib's hands move back to Zim's sides, slipping up under his sweatshirt, and then he's pulling the two of them down to tangle sideways on the couch. The snacks, thoroughly forgotten, are kicked aside.
A little adjusting, then Zim's temple lays in the soft crook of Dib's elbow, propped so that Dib can fidget with an antenna. His hand searches under Zim's sweater, idle, mirroring the way Zim's wiggling his own hands into the front of Dib's jeans.
Dib makes a soft noise at the brush of Zim's claws on his skin. He's warm here, pleasantly so, and Zim buzzes. His thighs are tacky with blood, the familiar ridges of his wounds no longer oozing but still damp to the touch. Zim trails his fingers past them, higher, to the sticky fuzz between Dib's legs.
His hips twitch, and Dib mumbles into Zim's antennae. "Mmn. Not there. Your fingers are all bloody."
Zim grunts, about to protest, but Dib tucks his head down to kiss him again.
It's nice. Soothing. The rhythm's starting to grow familiar, the way Dib tugs at Zim's lip with his teeth and dips his tongue like an apology. Zim follows the strange motions as best he can. Then the push and pull grows heavier, Dib sighing at the slide of Zim's tongue over his. Warmth flares through Zim and his soreness, but without the ugly desperation of before—now it's just… warm syrup.
Dib's fingers tighten on Zim's ribs, his head turns to kiss him deeper. Zim enjoys the hot slip of his mouth and the thighs against his fingers. His churring rattles his chest pleasantly.
Annoyingly, it isn't long before Dib attempts to pull back again. "So—irkens don't really—Zim."
"Shush." Whatever his silly human wants to speak about can wait. Zim closes his mouth over Dib's again.
"I'm trying to talk to you, let me—" When Zim drags his claws into Dib's thighs, he laughs over a moan. "Zim."
Ugh. Zim unwinds his tongue from Dib's. "Whaaaat is so important?"
"Irkens don't kiss, do they? Just a human thing?"
"Hm." What prompted such a question, Zim wonders. He nips at Dib's mouth. "Yes. But I'm used to you inflicting your silly human things onto me."
Something shifts in Dib's demeanor. When he speaks, it's quieter, darker. "Sorry."
"Eh?"
"For, you know. Re-triggering your whole…" Dib hums. His mouth speaks into Zim's, almost whispering like he's scared of the words. Like he's giving them to Zim to take care of. "Yeah. I—I hate that it happened. Hate that I did that, that I just—dunno. Lost control. I guess that's why."
They both know he means the blood on Zim's fingers.
… It hadn't occured to Zim that maybe Dib has been feeling just as strange and soupy about their weird dynamic over the past month. That maybe Dib's way of replaying what they did has just been carving himself back open in the spots where they touched, blood and pain in place of fluids and pleasure.
The thought makes Zim ache, deep in his lungs, but also flutters through him—Dib was distressed enough over Zim's opinion to make himself bleed. Hm. It's enough to make Zim's fingers tense in the creases of Dib's hips, stifling the craving to wiggle them into Dib's folds.
Another little laugh pulls Zim's attention back. "What?" he demands.
"Nothing." Dib's smile's a little crooked against Zim's. "I just—you're glowing again. It's like you're blushing."
Zim squeaks an indignant sound. "I am not, you are imagining things. Close your eyes, stinky."
"You're so weird." Dib crinkles one eye. "… You can call me that other name, you know."
Zim blinks. "What? Stink-beast?"
"No, dumbass."
"Pig-smelly."
Dib bites him. "I mean the—qualifier."
Zim churrs, quelling the discomfort at dredging up the label he's kept buried for so long. "Dib-mine?"
Then Dib smiles, and it's warm and sweet and weird. "Yeah, that one."
"Dib-mine," Zim says again, allowing himself to really feel it on his tongue.
"Sure," Dib says. His eyes finally slip shut. "I am. Why not."