Work Text:
Describing Dib’s current living situation as a little complicated is like saying that Bigfoot’s existence is a little contested.
It’s been three months since a hauntingly familiar face showed up at his door. His own face, transformed by the addition of an Irken PAK and almost a decade of isolation. Furious and full of accusations, demanding answers Dib didn’t have and probably wouldn’t have been satisfactory even if he tried.
The surge of conflicting emotions - from shock to relief that he was alive and fear for not only his own safety but his entire universe - almost hit harder than the fist that collided with his nose when the name ‘Zib’ fell from his lips.
Somehow, Dib managed to talk Zib out of killing him - at least long enough for them to actually talk. He apologises for betraying his alternate self’s trust and leaving him to rot in the deserted Zimvoid - although what was he supposed to do, just let him keep destroying universes? But the hurt in Zib’s eyes when he says “I really thought you’d understand” still cuts deep.
Still, that was then, and this is now. Dib would like to think he’s matured, learned, changed for the better from all the shit he’s been through - and he believes Zib can too. He can start over, make better choices, maybe starting with not killing Dib in an attempt to take his place in this universe.
Zib never actually asks if he can stay, but what’s Dib gonna do, throw him out on the streets? He might be half-alien, unhinged, intermittently homicidal, but he’s still a Dib.
They’re connected, inextricably, and things are so much more complicated than when he could convince himself Zib was beyond saving, his humanity warped beyond recognition or repair. When they were twelve and stupid enough to be sure of themselves, and he didn’t feel this twisted guilt when he looks at Zib, a mirror of all his worst traits. The darkest, ugliest parts of himself left to fester and grow unchecked, time and trauma taking over him every bit as much as his former Zim’s PAK. Transforming him into something new and unsettling, yet uncomfortably recognisable.
But he’s still determined to believe it’s not too late. They can find a way to coexist, give Zib new opportunities to learn and grow the way Dib did. After all, there’s still plenty of space for him in the Membrane household - literally if not metaphorically.
“I’m not taking your stupid spare room! ” Zib snaps, pulling a face as if Dib’s suggested he sleep in the dumpster. “I want my room!”
“But that’s my room - ”
“Well, I guess it’s our room now! Thanks, Dib - that’s so generous and mature of you! ”
(The sneering sarcasm is absent, though, the first time Zib enters Dib’s room - their room, then and now. His face crumples. He throws himself down on the bed, buries his face in Dib’s pillow, shaking with silent sobs, and it’s more painful than any revenge he could enact)
So now they’re - for lack of a better term - roommates , which sure is an experience.
The Zim situation hangs heavy between them like the proverbial elephant dangling from the lampshade. Dib eventually has to admit they have a kind-of truce, never exactly agreed upon but more settled into as Zim’s schemes quietly fizzled out over the years.
It’s hard to pinpoint the expression on Zib’s face - he cycles from disbelief to disgust to something almost like jealousy? - but he just scoffs and mutters something like whatever, Dib’s Zim is so pathetic it’s not like he was ever a credible threat anyway.
He does that a lot: scoffs, snorts, rolls his eyes, makes pointed little comments about how nice it is for Dib that he’s managed to progress his life to not being quite as much of a shitshow. Dib really tries not to rise to the bait and be the bigger person (literally, though he’s not dumb enough to draw attention to their newfound height difference), but it’s near impossible when his aggressor knows exactly how to poke at every single one of his sore spots with painful precision.
Speaking of sore spots: turns out Zib still really doesn’t like being called Zib, as evidenced by that first reunion. After bickering over who should be ‘Dib One’ and ‘Dib Two’, Dib just tries to avoid referring to Zib by name altogether, sticking to an awkward “hey, man” when he needs to get his attention. Zib, on the other hand, seems to relish drawing his name out with a mocking lilt and a curled lip (“did you have waffles for breakfast, Diiib?”) that can only be described as Zim-esque.
But then there are times when it’s…not so bad? Sometimes Zib gets tired of picking fights and they end up huddled over Dib’s laptop, watching vintage Mysterious Mysteries and the latest PoopTube updates. Zib’s got a lot to catch up on after all, and Dib feels it’s his duty to inform him that yes, the Agent Batflaps of this universe is still the absolute worst.
Inevitably, they remember and reminisce, many memories shared, some different. It’s nostalgic and bittersweet and just plain weird, but also weirdly comfortable? Because Dib doesn’t have to filter himself to be accepted (not that he’s ever been great at that, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil) like he might with quote-unquote normal people. He doesn’t have to restrain himself from going on breathless rambles about deep Loch Ness Monster lore, because he already knows Zib gets it, gets him . He’s right there with Dib, listening attentively, chiming in with his own comments and theories. Is this what having a friend is supposed to feel like, he wonders? Whatever it is, it’s…nice. In a weird way.
It only gets weirder when they have to navigate the sleeping arrangements. They’re supposed to be alternating between Dib’s bed and a futon on the floor, but in reality Zib claims the bed most nights (and Dib lets him purely out of the goodness of his heart and not at all because Zib has enhanced strength, a deadly weapon in his head and zero qualms about fighting dirty).
He ends up claiming a lot of Dib’s wardrobe, too, after arriving in a tattered coat and what’s presumably the same shirt Dib first encountered him in. Zib didn’t get his adolescent growth spurt so it still just about fits, but rides up when he moves, exposing a sliver of way-too-thin green-tinged belly and clinging to the outline of his ribs. When he borrows (steals) one of Dib’s shirts to sleep in, it’s comically huge on him, hanging down to his thighs. (Dib might fail to stifle a snicker and promptly gets a pillow launched at him from across the room, but he thankfully doesn’t sustain any more serious injuries)
Obviously, they turn their backs to each other when they change - Dib’s not some kind of creep, not like that . He’s curious, but who wouldn’t be, sharing a space with what should be a mirror image of your own body, but twisted by alien artifacts, warping not only their body but their brain at its very core?
Zib is Dib, but also partly Zim, but he’s also unique, a hybrid that may very well be the only one of his kind in the universe . So can you really blame Dib, if his eyes linger a fraction longer than strictly necessary on the bulging veins where Zib’s PAK meets his head, or the sickly white-green of his skin when he pulls off his shirt, the scars on his back and thighs - some all too familiar, others posing yet more uncomfortable questions he doubts he’ll get the answers to - or…
Okay, this time is really not Dib’s fault - he’s about to turn around, give his new roommate the privacy he deserves. But how is he supposed to know that at some point Zib apparently stopped wearing underwear underneath his Irken-grade leggings (presumably the only clothing he could salvage from the void)?
He only glimpses it for a second, but - yeah, wow , Zib sure does have a…he doesn’t know if you’d call it a dick, really, it’s almost like a tentacle? Like his tongue, but thicker and longer. This new information sits in Dib’s mind for far too long after he hurriedly turns away, hoping that Zib doesn’t notice the sudden flush in his cheeks.
Because why should he care? It’s none of his business what’s in Zib’s pants, even if they are kind of the same person. But this - it stirs up a bunch of complicated, conflicting feelings, as if there weren’t enough of those already.
Dib knows he shouldn’t be jealous, that it’s stupid, irrational, a useless emotion. It’s frustrating because he’s worked so hard on himself, trying to unlearn all the destructive coping mechanisms and thought patterns so deeply ingrained over the years. He’s lucky that he can afford the therapy and treatment he’s so desperately needed for so long - and he wouldn’t give that up for anything, not when he’s more comfortable with himself, both physically and mentally, than he ever imagined he could be.
But none of that takes away the twisted longing, suddenly once again painfully aware of what isn’t between his legs, the dull ache of being somehow…empty. Wrong . Sure, there’s surgery - he’s researched all his options extensively - but it wouldn’t be the same.
Nothing he can do (short of maybe killing his Zim and fusing with his PAK) will give him what Zib now has, and the stupid, irrational, selfish part of him keeps whining that it’s not fair .
He tries to shove that part to the back of his mind, locking it up and throwing away the proverbial key somewhere no one could ever find it, unless…
“You know, if you really wanna see it, you could just ask.”
Unless they knew exactly where to look.
“I don’t - huh?” Dib almost splutters, whirling around to face Zib too quickly to be in any way convincing. “See what…?”
“ See what? ” The note-perfect imitation - does it even count as an imitation? - of Dib’s voice just rubs salt in the wound. “C’mon - you might be one of the stupider Dibs in the multiverse, but even you’re not dumb enough to think I wouldn’t notice you staring at it. Might as well rip that band-aid off now.”
“I…” He’s right, and Dib is hopelessly exposed, his face burning as his eyes dart around the room, anywhere but at Zib. Trying to pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about at this point would be an insult to both of them, really.
“I wasn’t staring ,” he mutters, opting to take an intense interest in his own UFO-printed socks. He might spontaneously combust if he meets Zib’s eyes as he lounges on the bed, legs stretched out and slightly, yet conspicuously open. “Can we just - not have this conversation now? Or ever?”
“Oh, sorry , Dib - am I making you uncomfortable? You’d rather keep pretending you’re not dying of jealousy? That you’re not desperate to know what it feels like?” Zib is enjoying this way too much, every word oozing sadistic satisfaction. “Like we don’t both know how much of a freak you are?”
There’s too many layers of irony to decipher in the way he emphasises the last insult, the one that’s been hurled at them too many times to count - but it’s never hit like this before, literally and metaphorically below the belt, prodding at desires Dib refuses to acknowledge, even to himself.
“Don’t freak out - I’m probably literally the only person on the planet that won’t judge you. Actually, I’ve kinda wanted to show someone. Like, what’s the point in getting the thing you’ve always wanted if you don’t get to show it off, you know?”
Zib shifts position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to clear a space. Dib - not for the first time and they both know it sure as hell won’t be the last - lets curiosity win out over common sense, and sits next to him, neither saying a word. They don’t need to. They just know .
Zib lifts his hips to pull down his leggings, and there it is, unfurling like a snake, long and smooth and slightly shiny, the pink a stark contrast against his pale thighs.
“…Huh,” Dib says, because what else can he say, staring down at his half-Irken alternate self’s very alien genitalia with a confusing combination of unease, fascination and envy. “So, when - I mean, how - did you just wake up with it one day? Or was it more of a gradual change?”
“Kind of both, I guess?” Zib’s reply is almost comically casual, just holding his tentacle like he’s showing Dib a neat new invention. “Didn’t happen right away, but I could feel myself changing as my - Zim’s PAK took effect. First my ears just kinda smoothed out, then my nose, and then…this happened.” He chuckles, simultaneously smug and self-conscious. “Not exactly how we imagined it’d be, but it’s an upgrade, for sure.”
“Y-yeah…?” Something that may not be strictly envy tugs at Dib’s stomach as Zib lazily toys with himself; his tentacle twitches when he strokes it, moving to curl around his fingers like it has a mind of its own. That should be enough - it should be more than enough to satisfy Dib’s curiosity. He should tell Zib to put it away, he should at the very least attempt to avert his eyes…but he can’t.
Zib snickers again, bumping Dib’s shoulder. “C’mon, man, don’t be such a sore loser. You got to keep your universe, everyone you care about and your humanity; I got the dick. There’s gotta be some perks to turning yourself into a half-alien freakshow, right?”
“Shut up ,” Dib huffs, trying and failing to will away the heat in his cheeks. “I’m not - it’s surprising, that’s all. I didn’t know Irkens had - ‘cause they reproduce asexually, right? So what’s the purpose of…?”
“You can touch it, if you want. See how it feels. It’s the closest you’ll get to having one after all.”
Dib opens his mouth to object, but he makes the fatal mistake of catching Zib’s eye. That smirk, that arched eyebrow, that gleam of challenge - he knows that look all too well. And seeing it on almost-but-not his own face is…it’s a lot , more than he can process right now.
This is when he should tell Zib to cut it out, put his pants back on, this is weird and gross and wrong and he shouldn’t - doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t need to look, he definitely doesn’t need to touch , feed that near-insatiable curiosity…
He slips his hand between Zib’s legs and gently grasps the base, just feeling the weight of him, the sensation, the surreality of seeing this appendage that he’s fantasised about having so many times, attached to himself-but-not. He doesn’t really have anything to compare it to; he’s never handled (so to speak) a human penis, but even if he had nothing could prepare him for this.
He trails his thumb experimentally along Zib’s length, from base to tip, feeling the delicate ridges; Zib shudders at that, his hips jerking slightly, which is…huh. Interesting.
“That feel good?” Dib asks, only half rhetorically, a teasing grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. It sweetens the jealousy a little, getting to turn the tables. Having Zib be the one at his mercy for once after all those creative death threats.
“Fucking tease .” Zib glares at him, a purplish-pink flush spreading across his face as he kicks Dib in the shin - but the movement only stimulates him further, making him gasp. “If you’re gonna be a freak, do it properly.”
As if echoing this demand, his prehensile tentacle shifts to curl itself around Dib’s hand, effectively preventing him from moving away.
“Whoa,” Dib murmurs, fascinated as he twists his fingers around the appendage, coaxing a moan out of Zib. His dick has a surprisingly tight grip, despite becoming slippery with the pink fluid leaking from the tip. “So are you making it do that, or…”
“Don’t know. Just kinda - happens.” Zib’s breath hitches, a frustrated, almost pleading edge to his voice as he rocks against Dib’s hand. “Would you shut up and just - here…”
Growing impatient, he grabs Dib’s hand and guides him so they’re stroking him simultaneously, fast and rough. Zib leans against Dib’s shoulder, fuzzy hair-antennae tickling his neck as he lets out breathy, needy little gasps and moans, muffled by the fabric of Dib’s shirt.
“Wait, wait - stop,” he husks out after a few moments, releasing his cock and pushing Dib away. “Get on your knees.”
And Dib just obeys, without protest, which is all kinds of questionable that’ll probably come back to haunt him later. But now he just sinks to the floor between Zib’s parted legs, his mouth instinctively opening to receive his alternate self’s cock like a gift he’s always wanted.
Zib wastes no time pushing in, moaning as almost the entirety of his length is enveloped by Dib’s warm, wet mouth. His tentacle wriggles and squirms against Dib’s tongue, the roof of his mouth, alien and invasive yet inexplicably addictive.
“Mmmn, fuck - maybe you are good for something after all,” Zib pants, his claws tangling in Dib’s hair, holding him in place as he starts to move. “The worst Dib but the best cockslut - bet you’ve fantasised about this, haven’t you, you fucked up little freak? Getting stuffed full of alien dick - you’re probably thinking about your Zim right now, aren’t you?”
Dib can do nothing to deny it as Zib thrusts in impossibly further, the degrading words making his face burn and his pussy throb with simultaneous humiliation and arousal. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes as he struggles to gag around the tentacle forced down his throat, pink fluid trickling down his chin as he gazes helplessly up at Zib. Silently pleading for something he probably couldn’t articulate even if his mouth wasn’t stuffed full of (half) alien cock.
He fumbles with his own pants, moaning around Zib’s cock as he slides two fingers inside himself. It grants him some relief from the heat growing between his legs, fingering himself in time with Zib’s thrusts while he fucks Dib’s throat mercilessly.
Dib wants to be good for something, as Zib so witheringly put it - wants to feel his surprisingly syrupy sweet essence fill his throat, savouring the taste of what he’ll never experience for himself. He’s pretty sure Zib’s close from the way his hands tighten in Dib’s hair, more distinctly Irken chirps and clicks mixing with his moans and curses. A particularly rough tug on his hair scythe has Dib crying out in pleasure-pain, the noise muffled around Zib’s cock.
“Zhhhb - ”
It’s not a name, not even a word, but it changes everything in an instant. Zib jerks away, pulling his cock from Dib’s mouth with an obscene pop. Before Dib can even process what’s happening he’s being hauled upright, Zib shoving him back onto the bed and climbing on top of him, straddling his waist.
“Don’t you ever fucking call me that,” he snarls, face twisted, wounded hatred burning in his eyes and his claws biting into Dib’s wrists as he pins him to the bed.
Dib’s never been more turned on in his life.
“I - I wasn’t - didn’t mean to -”
“I am not Zim , this stupid PAK doesn’t change that. I’m still a Dib - still you , all the ugly, unwanted, fucked up parts. Maybe you thought you could get away from them, like you left me to die in that void, but you can’t. You need me. You want me.”
He grinds down against Dib’s crotch, forcing a needy whimper from his lips in place of any kind of protest.
“You wanna pretend like you’re the one that turned out right, but you’re nothing but a snivelling little hypocrite. You can’t stand that I got the one thing you didn’t. You want me to fuck you so bad, fill you up, complete you. Don’t you? Just admit it and maybe I’ll consider giving it to you.”
Dib squirms uselessly in his iron grip as Zib’s prehensile cock teases his positively soaked lips - he’s definitely doing that on purpose, feather-light touches specifically engineered to drive him crazy, taunting him with what he wants most while holding it just out of reach.
“Please -”
“Please what? ” Zib asks, smirking maddeningly. “Use your words, Dib.”
No matter how hard he tries to avoid Zib’s eyes, he can feel them on him, burning up from the inside out with shame and need. No matter what he says, how much he denies it, Zib knows . He’ll always know, and that’s simultaneously the most terrifying, freeing and arousing concept.
“ Please - fuck me…”
In a rare moment of mercy, Zib indulges him, near-identical gasps of ecstasy filling the room as his slick tentacle probes Dib’s entrance. The sensation, the sight of the alien appendage squirming and writhing inside him - it’s almost too much to take, every exquisitely torturous twist making him shudder and moan - and Zib isn’t even moving yet.
“Holy fucking shit , Dib - “ Zib’s eyes are dark as he finally starts to move, pupils blown wide with lust - but there’s something else in his gaze too, predatory and possessive. It keeps Dib transfixed every bit as much as the claws gripping his hips to keep him in place, sure to leave marks on his pale skin. “You feel - so good…”
The praise draws an embarrassingly needy whine from Dib, Zib’s cock rubbing against his enlarged clit as he fucks him into the mattress. He’s so close to coming undone, but he wants more , he wants Zib to tell him how good he’s doing, to feel his counterpart climax inside him.
He can’t touch much when Zib still has his wrists pinned, but he can clench around that torturously talented tentacle - and that does it. Zib heaves a shuddering gasp as he comes, marking Dib with his syrupy pink seed until it’s trickling down his thighs, soaking the sheets.
Zib collapses on top of Dib with a soft oof , panting hot against his neck. Dib pulls his arms free, reaching between his legs to finish himself off, but his wrist is seized again before he can get there.
“No. Mine,” Zib hisses into his ear, the possessive growl alone almost pushing Dib over the edge - and then sharp claws pinch at his raw, oversensitive clit, squeezing and twisting ruthlessly.
Dib actually squeals from the searing spike of pleasure-pain, his orgasm not so much hitting as crashing into him, more intense than anything he’s ever experienced before. His thighs shake and his toes curl as he rides out the waves of pleasure, gripping Zib’s arm and writhing against him until he becomes too sensitive to take any more.
They lie there in the daze of their respective orgasms. Zib stays curled into Dib’s side, their skin hot and sticky and sweaty but both too drained of energy and motivation to separate. The silence stretches long past being comfortable - but what can they say? Where can they possibly go from here?
“You’ve gotta change these sheets tonight.”
“ What.” Dib turns to his counterpart, both incredulous and indignant - but the moment his eyes meet Zib’s they dissolve into a fit of wildly inappropriate and even more infectious giggles.
“Why me - you started it!”
“I didn’t make you grab my dick. It’s not my fault you’re a xenophilic freak -”
“If I’m a freak, what does that make you?!”
At any other time, that comment might have blown up spectacularly in Dib’s face, but for now, the tension is defused. They wrestle half-heartedly, harmless pokes and elbows, still snickering until they collapse in each other’s arms.
If only for now, they’re united, in all the ways they shouldn’t be, bound by an understanding no one else could possibly give them. The darkness and fragility within them that they could never truly trust to another person, even if they wanted to.
They might be freaks, but together, they’re complete.