Author Notes: Response to a contrelamontre (LiveJournal community) challenge, in which one had to write a story involving "imperfect sex" in under 60 minutes. This was done in 58... Not a very long story, but still very, very stupid. Oh, and I hate to use the drunk theme so soon after writing Last Chance, but a drunk Zim and Dib are oh so very fun to play with. XD

Disclaimer: Don't own Invader Zim or any characters featured in said show, much to their relief. Poor dears.


No Banana

Pushing him against the wall, grinding and sweating and panting. Hands roaming freely, up and down and in and out and right there, under the shirt, RIGHT THERE, yes! Leather feels nice against a bare chest, but warm hands feel even better. Off with the gloves, please, off with them. Mmm…

This isn't what you're supposed to do with someone you allegedly hate, but crashing that party and all that drinking sure has an effect on one's hormones, and wow, I didn't think his fingers tweaking my nipple would send an electric jolt through my body, God damn!

It's too hot. Too, too hot. My coat falls to the floor in a rumpled mess and I kick it away, my mouth still plastered over his, tongues searching and probing and sucking. This is probably very, very wrong, but that hand sliding down the back of my pants is very, very persuasive. VERY.

Warning: mind like noodles, brain not functioning, wrong head in control. Goodbye rational thought, hello primal instinct.

Where's the bed?

Squeezing, oh that feels good, pulling me closer—didn't think I could get any closer, actually, but I'm not complaining. Should be, but that would stop the friction. Friction good. Need more. More grinding and pressing and ohgodyes.

Screw the bed, the wall suffices just fine. Dorm beds are too small, anyway; too small and too creaky.

Too creaky? Shuddering now. Do I really want to do this?

"Yes…" I whimper against his neck as his hand kneads my hip. Whimpering, God, what a pansy. What a pansy and what a freak, getting off on the idea that this is possibly the most unethical thing I've ever done in my entire life, but oh, that just makes it so much better and I'm such a fucking lunatic.

Nibbling the skin where his neck meets his shoulder—tastes sweeter than I imagined.

Not that I ever imagined.

My hands have been traveling up and down his sides, but one decides to take a detour on the way down, sliding towards his front to rest between his legs, right over his, um, his, his—huh?

I freeze. "Ah, Zim?"

"Hmm?" Sounds breathy and, well, drunk.

How to phrase this. Rational thought still on holiday. Beer fogging mind. "Um, you're, um, you're a guy, right?"

"Eh?"

Sobering. I pull away and manage a glance at the mirror on the wall adjacent to us, and oh, aren't we a sight! So flushed and disheveled and sweaty, it makes my stomachs tie in knots and I have to turn away before the thought of what I was about to do actually hits me.

Looking at him isn't much better, wig askew and all. "You're of the, ah, male gender, aren't you?"

His eye lids are half closed, one contact nearly falling out, one brow lowered in a questioning look. He is the embodiment of drunk and if I weren't nearly having a panic attack, I'd probably be laughing my ass off at him.

"Almost eight years spent chasing me and you have to ask? Honestly, stinkbeast," pause for a hiccup, a snorting chuckle, and a clearing of the throat, "I'd have thought that large head of yours might be hiding some of the common sense most of your species lack. Obviously not."

Normally, a jibe about my head—which is NOT big, thanks—would garner a negative retort, but I'm still stuck on the whole gender thing and the lack of confirmation in his response, so I just blink stupidly instead.

He blinks back. After a moment, he narrows his eyes at me and shouts, "Of COURSE I'm male, you dim-witted wormbaby! Dear Tallest, I thought you were joking!"

Well, I may be sobering up, but I'm still zonked enough not to feel like a complete idiot (too bad it doesn't keep me from acting like one). "So, err, why, uh, where—how does your species reproduce without the, um," my eyes pointedly focus on the area between his legs then quickly look away, "proper equipment?" I can't even believe we're having this conversation.

"The equipment is on Irk."

"Huh?"

"The equipment. For producing Irkens."

"…on Irk?"

"Of course. What, you don't think we BIRTH our smeets, do you? Hideous, inferior MATING rituals." He shudders.

And I'm confused. But what else is new tonight, hmm? And to think, all this time I've wanted information about his race and all I had to do was follow him to a party, get him plastered, and try to… to… do that thing I was trying to do a few minutes ago.

Goosebumps all over me. Prickly ones, at that.

"So why were you, you know," blushing now, "touching me like that?" Ahem.

"I was merely responding the way a human would respond… that is what you humans do in those situations, is it not?"

"I guess so… but why?"

"Because, as an Invader, I must blend in!"

"But I've known you were an alien for the past, argh… ever!"

"…and your point is?"

Sadly, his logic isn't any better even when he's sober, but it's something you grow accustomed to after so many years with a person-Irken-thing. I sigh and shake my perfectly normal-sized head. "Just, never mind. Go to bed, Zim." He's looking at me questioningly, but I quickly turn away and crawl into the bed behind me, sure that my back is facing him. Burying my face into a pillow, I notice it feels softer and smells sweeter than it normally does, so I curl my arms around it and relax. And try to forget about tonight. Oh, and completely obliterate that little thought in the back of my mind that insists I'm disappointed with the night's outcome, or lack thereof.

No footsteps. No door closing. Which means he hasn't left. "I thought I said to go to bed, Zim," I mutter, snuggling closer to the pillow in my arms. The scent is intoxicating, almost like—

"You're in it."

D'oh.

- end -