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Chapter Text

If Liv really thinks about it, when she’s on the tail end of a brain and feels more like herself than she ever does anymore, she’s pretty sure she’s always been this way and she can’t just blame it on the quirks of being a zombie.

It’s not just that she wants to nibble on the brains of someone a little chunky, a little chubby, maybe even a little-- or a lot-- fat , it’s that it’s what she thinks of when she’s on the cusp of orgasm, and what drags her over the edge.

She thinks about this fat guy in her college organic chemistry lab, the way his gut would rest on his lap when he sat on the lab stool waiting for something to crystallize in an Erlenmeyer flask. She thinks about how she used to walk past him just a little too close, so that maybe her hip could brush up against his belly. She never talked to him, didn’t even know his name, but sometimes she thinks about him while she touches herself, thinks about kneeling in front of him, letting him splay thick thighs apart as she goes to work on his cock, the top of her head bumping his belly and his pudgy hand stroking her hair.

Recently, though, Liv finds herself thinking about Ravi. Specifically, Ravi and those tight sweaters that can’t quite hide the curve of his belly. Liv’s never seen him shirtless, but she’s pretty sure that those layers he’s always wearing are covering up more than the little bit of softness his face hints at. When she watches him eat, she’s certain. And god, does she ever want to touch him.

But then there’s another murder investigation, and another, and another. Liv’s tangled up in the personalities of other people like hair in a brush-- a spoiled hotel heiress, an ichthyologist, a painter-- and it takes her a little while to get back into herself.

There’s a lull, something that hasn’t really happened since she started working here, but Ravi says it happens.

“People can’t just get murdered mysteriously every day,” he says, and so now she’s cataloging specimens and eating leftover brains all blended together into a smoothie and there are no visions, no other personality traits fitting over her own like a second skin.

She’s just Liv, for once, and god, Ravi is the most distracting person she’s ever met. Now that they don’t have an investigation, it seems like he’s always eating, or talking about eating, or about to eat.

Right now, she’s sitting cross-legged on the cold tile floor and all she can hear is Ravi munching his way through a bag of nacho cheese Doritos, endlessly. She looks at the same gram-stained slide for much too long, her eyes unfocusing until there’s the infinitely loud sound of Ravi crumpling up the bag and tossing it towards the wire garbage can.

He cheers and she drops the slide, which breaks.

“Now look what you made me do!” she says, and it’s a little cranky and more than a little whiny, because he’s making her horny and she’s frustrated about it and why is he so oblivious ?

Liv stands, and Ravi’s still leaning back in his rolling office chair, looking slightly guilty.

“You’ve got Dorito dust on your fingers,” she says after a pause. “It’s not sanitary.”

“You’re one to talk,” Ravi says, and when he leans back a little more she swears she sees a brief slice of caramel skin, a little roll of pudge threatening to spill out over the top of his khakis. “You eat all your meals in a morgue, straight out of the skull, even.”

“Well, I usually cook it first,” she says primly, and Ravi shrugs and licks his fingers. “Look, Liv, if I didn’t eat my meals in the morgue I’d waste away to nothing, and we can’t have that, you know?” He pats his little tummy and Liv almost dies.

No, they certainly can’t.

***

A month later and Ravi pouts his way into the morgue, where Liv is dissecting liver specimens.

“Wait,” she says. “You’re actually pouting, like lip out and everything. Wow. What is it this time?”

And he sticks out his belly and says, “They don’t button.”

Liv drops her scalpel.

“Shit,” she says as she comes back up from under the gurney. “Now I have to glove up again.”

Ravi ignores this, because now he’s demonstrating that in fact, the two sides of his pants just do not meet. They don’t kiss cheeks, and they definitely don’t penetrate.

“Well,” Liv says after a long pause. “Looks like you need some new pants?” She hates herself more than a little for doing that thing that girls do when they’re insecure, that making every sentence a question? Because she’s flustered? And really wants to zoom in on the way that Ravi has a little trail of black hair on the pooch below his belly button, that exact pooch that’s preventing his pants from buttoning?

Liv busies herself then with cleaning her scalpel and getting new gloves on.

“Can you help?” Ravi asks then, and Liv almost drops the scalpel again.

“Help with what?” she says, as if she doesn’t know, and as if this isn’t the moment she’s been dreading/can’t wait for.

“Getting some new clothes?” Ravi says, a little more quietly. He’s embarrassed, and it makes Liv want to keep him inside and let him wear only sweatpants and feed him whole casseroles.

“You want me to take you shopping?” she asks, and the clarification is killing her, too. She’s already mostly dead but she’s certain she’ll make it all the way there if she has to go and hand Ravi khakis in a size ( or two! Her brain screams, in a kind of pleasured panic) up over the fitting room door at Banana Republic.

“Yes. Please. Liv, take me shopping, take pity on me and the way American food is making my clothes too small.” Ravi affects a little bit of begging, and god, Liv is going to lose it.

She makes a careful measurement of a growth on the liver she’s been examining and notes it on the chart.

“First of all,” she replies, “It’s not like England is known for its healthy eating, Mr. Fish and Chips, and second”-- she gestures the scalpel at him as Ravi tries to protest, and she softens as his motion makes his shirt move up and she can actually see a little of his gut, and it’s a god-honest- gut -- “well, second, I would be happy to take you.”

Happy doesn’t even begin to describe it.

***

So now they’re in that circle of hell Dante probably called something else, but Liv knows that it’s called the dressing room at J. Crew.

1. Crew, where everything seems sized down to begin with, so Ravi starts out with pants in the next size up and can’t even get them up his “fat thighs.” This Liv knows because he calls it to her though the wooden dressing room door, and she has to kind of let the wall behind her catch her, because it’s the sort of thing that makes her want to swoon.

The J. Crew dressing room is also where chirpy Dana the J. Crew employee resides, and Liv doesn’t even want to know what Dana did in order to end up in this Alighierian circle. All she knows is that Dana keeps knocking and asking Ravi if he’s “doing okay” or if he needs “other sizes or styles.” She tells Ravi to “just let her know.”

Liv wants to garotte Dana with a size 0 Minnie ankle pant because she, Liv, would like to be the one to know about Ravi’s other size needs.

Luckily, she gets that wish in another minute, when Ravi pokes his head out the door of the dressing room and says sheepishly, “Think maybe the next size?”

Liv’s eyes go to his waistband like a fucking laser and she’s unable to drag them away when she sees that Ravi still can’t get the pants to button.

“Or maybe the next,” she says, casually, like someone who has no ulterior motive here, like someone who’s definitely not filing all of this away to masturbate to later. Someone whose hand isn’t itching to reach out and pinch the little bubble of pudge that’s spilling over the too-tight waistband of this pair of khakis.

Ravi sighs. “Yeah, that’d probably be good. Don’t really have time to work out much, lately.” He shrugs and disappears back into the fitting room, and this time Liv herself goes out into the store and grabs pants two sizes up before Dana can get her claws on them.

Liv feels a heated tingle below her belly button at holding both size 38 and 40 pants (the 40s, especially, because she is a trash person and already wants to watch Ravi outgrow these, too).

“Here,” she says, thrusting the two pairs at Ravi. “One of these should work.”

Ravi takes them from her and-- because he wants her to actually die-- looks carefully at the size tags. “Should I even try my luck with the 38s?” he says, like this is a normal question and not something Liv would imagine him saying in the kind of fantasies she has before she goes to sleep.

She shrugs, guiltily, and says, “Maybe the 40s?”

He smiles a little ruefully and says, “All right, then,” and shuts the dressing room door.

Dana reappears then to ask how they’re doing.

“Great!” Liv squeaks, desperately willing Dana to leave before Ravi reappears in the 40s. She wants this moment unfettered by simpering sales clerks, goddammit. An idea comes to her. “But maybe bring him one of the cashmere sweaters? In like an… extra-large?”

Dana nods. “What color?”

“You choose,” Liv says, doing everything she can aside from actually physically pushing Dana. “He looks good in everything.”

At that moment, as Dana exits, Ravi reappears and says, “Thank you, Liv, for noticing that my caramel skin and dark, definitely-will-get-a-pat-down-at-the-airport features lend themselves to radiance in all colors. But I am not an extra-large, thank you very much.”

“You are now,” Liv says before she can help herself. “That sweater you’re wearing right now looks pretty snug.”

Ravi turns to look in the full-length mirror. “That’s how everyone’s wearing them these days.”

“It’s not,” Liv tells him matter-of-factly.

“Clive is.”

Liv sighs. “Ravi, Clive is a small. You”-- she reaches out a hand and pats his stomach before she can stop herself-- “are not. Got it?”

He hangs his head slightly. “Got it.”

“But,” Liv continues brightly, “these pants look fantastic on you, and I know the sweater will, too. And won’t it feel nice to have clothes that fit well?”

Ravi concedes to this, and Liv considers it a win when he also picks up a new belt in size large when they’re on their way to the checkout. “More room,” he says, and that tingle below her bellybutton becomes a burn.

***

Things come to a head during their next case.

“Apparently, her last boyfriend ate himself to death,” Ravi says to Clive, but it sounds a lot more like “Ate himself to deff” due to Ravi’s accent and the fact that he’s currently polishing off the last of a footlong meatball sub.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Clive asks, and Ravi affects shocked offense.

“I’m a growing boy, Detective Babineaux.” He stuffs the last bite into his mouth.

Clive just looks him up and down and says, “Apparently.”

***

“But seriously,” Clive’s saying a little later. “This chick was a dominatrix? Haven’t we done this already?”

“Domming is a dangerous occupation,” Ravi says, looking at Liv, who’s resolutely looking at her knees. “High likelihood of jealousy and the heat of passion, I’d say.”

Liv’s still blushing-- or would be if she had a little more blood flow-- but she clears her throat as she looks up. “She wasn’t really a dominatrix, though.”

“No?” Clive asks, and Liv clears her throat again, because it’s hard to talk about this, especially with Clive and Ravi, who know most of her secrets but not this one.

“She was an encourager,” Liv says slowly, and goes on when Clive still looks blank. “You know, like a feeder? Except she wasn’t there in person, she just told them what to do?”

Liv’s praying with all she’s got that neither Clive nor Ravi will notice just how familiar she seems to be with this esoteric topic. Or if they do, they’ll chalk it up to her eidetic memory or penchant for Jeopardy! or that she reads the Atlantic all the time.

“So,” Clive says. “These guys wanted to get fat and she helped them do it?”

Liv feels an electric zing in her crotch, and she shifts. “Um, I guess?”

There’s that annoyingly feminine questioning again, but she can’t seem to help it.

“All right, then,” Ravi says, and is that a hint of excitement in his voice? “I can’t wait to see what this brain does to you.”

Liv swallows. “Yup. Um, hope you guys are hungry? I feel like I might be doing some cooking.”

Clive groans, but Ravi grins.

Liv is so dead.

***

At first, it doesn’t even feel like the brain hits her. She makes herself some brain sushi rolls and dips them into generous amounts of wasabi while she works on an autopsy report on her iPad. Then she goes home and picks a movie to rent on Amazon Prime.

It’s a Thursday, and Peyton is working late and then going out for a drink. I’m gonna need it , she texts to Liv. Don’t wait up.

Liv’s not planning on it. She hums to herself as she measures out popcorn and melts butter in the microwave. She hardly even notices her fingers texting Ravi: Movie? I made popcorn.

She also hardly feels it as she preheats the oven and pops in a batch of chocolate chip cookies from a tube of dough she’d picked up on her way home, along with a six-pack of dark craft beer.

Her phone buzzes with a text as she’s pulling the cookies out of the oven, and she shuts the oven door with her hip before setting the tray down on the cooling rack and shedding the oven mitt to swipe at her phone.

It’s Ravi. On my way over. Bringing a pizza.

That little spark from before kindles into a full-on house fire.

***

The flames are only fanned when Liv opens the door to Ravi, chewing.

“Couldn’t wait,” he says in explanation, handing her the pizza box and pushing past her into the apartment. “I’m starving.”

Highly unlikely , Liv thinks as she looks at Ravi’s tight button-down, pushed up at the elbows.

“So,” she starts, setting the pizza box down on the kitchen island and getting a plate down from the cupboard. “What kind of movie are you--” She interrupts herself as she peels open the pizza box and says, “Oooh, meatlovers. Yum!”

Her brain is already doing a calorie calculation and making little ding-ding-ding!! noises like she’s a winner on The Price is Right .

“Let’s watch a rom-com,” Ravi says, unnoticing. “I like making fun of people who are happy.”

Liv’s heart does a little squinge and she briefly forgets about the pizza and the cookies just out of the oven and the ice cream in the freezer and wait, she should probably put the pizza on a plate for Ravi and bring it to him. It’s just the kind of thing you’re supposed to do when you have a houseguest.

Even when said houseguest is your boss/secret-keeper/best friend/guy you’ve been masturbating to??? who puts his socked feet up on your coffee table and sprawls back on your couch like he owns it.

(Does he own more of it, now? Does he look a little-- wider ?)

“Shut up,” Liv tells her stupid brain, and Ravi looks up.

“Pardon?”

“God,” she says, “You’re so British.”

“Well, pardon me,” he says, and makes a grabby hand towards the plate she’s carrying. “Some of us still have class.”

And then he shoves a whole piece of pizza in his mouth and she almost comes untouched.

“Um,” is all Liv is able to say while watching Ravi with his mouth full. “Let me grab you a drink, too.”

Is it really bad of her that she makes him a root beer float? And puts two-- three-- cookies on a little plate, too? She’s just being a good hostess, that’s all.

“God, Liv,” Ravi says when she reenters the living room. “I’m going to develop diabetes at this rate.”

Liv doesn’t mention the fact that she’s recently seen him eat a whole family-size bag of Sour Patch Kids by himself over lunch, and then spend the afternoon lying on the couch complaining about his “sugar hangover.”

“Scoot over,” she says, and sets the dishes on the coffee table. Ravi scoots, but not before taking a bite of his next slice of pizza.

Liv tries not to get distracted by the sound of him chewing, by the motion of his hand from plate to mouth out of the corner of her eye, and gets their movie all set up and playing. She’s only partially successful. During the opening credits, Ravi takes note of the little plate of cookies, their chocolate chips gleaming from being just-out-of-the-oven.

“Did you just make these?” he asks, and takes a bite before letting her answer. “God, they’re still warm.”

“Yup,” Liv squeaks, putting her hand between her thighs and squeezing, hard.

Ravi swallows, then finishes the rest of the cookie in one big bite, washing it down with a large gulp of root beer float.

“Amazing,” he says. “I love this brain.”

“What?” Liv takes her hand out from between her legs.

Ravi opens the pizza box and fishes out two more slices, then looks at her seriously. “Really, do you not think you’re affected already?”

Liv stares hard at the TV screen, where well-dressed hipsters are meet-cuteing.

“No,” she says.

Ravi leans back even more, and his shirt bunches up a little. “All right,” he says. “So you normally would have this kind of spread for your houseguests. This is like, a regular thing.”

“Yup,” Liv manages.

“Because,” Ravi continues, “I’ve been over here before and all you have in that fridge is twelve types of hot sauce and a jar of olives, but all right. If you say so.”

He holds her gaze as he slaps the two pizza slices together like a sandwich and takes a giant bite.

Liv shivers. She is so fucked.

***

She’s beyond fucked by the time the movie’s half-over and she’s excused herself to the kitchen to “do dishes” and maybe grind up against her own hand a little, clutching the granite countertop and panting.

She’s so far beyond fucked because when she comes back into the living room with one of the craft beers in her hand, Ravi’s got the bottom buttons of his shirt undone and it’s all rucked up over the unmistakable crest of his gut. The pizza box? Empty. The root beer float? Gone. The cookie plate? Practically licked clean.

As she watches, Ravi hiccups and his belly jumps. His hand moves up to the top of its crest and rubs gently. Liv is mesmerized-- for how long, she’s not sure, because she startles when Ravi says, “You can come over here, you know. You don’t have to stand there goggling.”

She’s on the couch without even feeling her feet move. Legs tucked up under her, kneeling, the bottle of beer between her thighs. Dying to touch Ravi’s belly and to see just how far down that little stripe of denser furry hair goes.

She wants to ask him if it hurts, being stuffed full of an entire pizza and cookies and a root beer float. She wants to ask if she can touch him, if she can get down on her knees in front of the couch and worship his chub with her mouth.

Instead, her wicked mouth opens and says, “I got this beer for you.” Her equally wicked hand reaches between her thighs and pulls out the bottle and works the top off. There’s that saying about the left hand not knowing what the right is doing, well, Liv doesn’t know what any of her hands are doing but she’s going with it.

“I just ate a whole pizza,” Ravi says, but he still takes the beer from her and raises it to his mouth almost immediately.

“I know,” Liv replies. “You were very good, so you deserve a treat. I know you like this brand.” She reaches out and taps the label of the beer with a fingertip just as Ravi’s raising it to his mouth again, and-- oops? -- she kind of tilts it a little so he has to gulp a few times.

“Christ,” Ravi says when her naughty finger stops tilting his beer and he finishes swallowing. He punctuates it with a heavy belch. “Pardon me.”

“You’re excused,” Liv says, and she’s so turned on she could start a fire in her panties right now, even though she’s pretty sure zombies and fire don’t play well together.

Ravi goes about drinking the beer slowly, begging off after the second long pull.

“Don’t be silly,” Liv says. “You’re almost done.” She tips the bottle again and Ravi swallows, and swallows, and then leans his head way back off the edge of the couch.

He groans a little as he tilts his head back to neutral and palms the rounded side of his stomach.

“I’m stuffed,” he says, stifling a few burps behind his hand, and Liv grinds down a little on her own heel.

“Oh yeah?” she asks, before she can stop herself. “Must be because you ate a whole pizza, and that’s not to mention all the other stuff.”

Ravi’s hand is still moving on his gut, making soothing motions. Liv’s fingers itch, and she clenches her hands.

“It’s your fault,” Ravi says, tilting his chin.

“My fault what?” she responds, widening her eyes innocently. “My fault you ate so much you don’t want to get up?” She pokes him right at the roundest part of his gut, and Ravi winces.

Liv’s ready to immolate.

“God,” Ravi pants a little, readjusting himself under the weight of his full tummy. “Think I might have to take a little food coma nap on your couch, all right?”

Liv has to readjust herself, too, shifting her crotch’s point of contact from one heel to the other. “That’s… fine, I guess,” she says. It seems like a rejection, weirdly, even though she’s not sure what she should reasonably do at this point. Go grab the ice cream out of the freezer and feed Ravi until he’s begging her to stop, no, he’s going to explode? Climb onto Ravi’s more expansive lap and get off by rubbing herself against the very visible swell of his aching gut?

No. She can’t. Despite how crisscrossed the lines of professionalism and friendship already are here, she can’t start this, not now, not-- yet .

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she repeats, getting up from the couch. “I’ll go get you a blanket and pillows.” She whisks herself off to the linen closet before she can say anything more incriminating.

Liv comes three times that night in quick succession, biting her own tongue to keep from making noise. In the living room, her heightened sense of hearing picks up the sound of Ravi’s heavy snoring, and she falls asleep thinking about what she’s going to bring him for lunch tomorrow.

***

Chapter Text

This brain must not’ve been a morning person, because when Liv finally wakes up, she’s late for work and Ravi’s long gone. The living room is tidied up as if it hadn’t been strewn with the evidence of his excesses last night, and the extra blankets are folded neatly on the arm of the couch.

She gets dressed quickly and rushes out the door, intending to get to work right away. Instead, she finds herself in line at the Starbucks drive-thru, ordering a venti black coffee and a grande of the frappuccino with the most adjectives in its name, extra whip.

Liv shoulders through the swinging doors into the morgue with the coffee balanced in her arms and finds Ravi making notes on his iPad like everything’s the same.

“I brought coffee!” she chirps, moving around behind Ravi’s elbow and setting the frappuccino on the scalpel tray.

“That’s not coffee,” Ravi says without picking it up. “That’s a heart attack.”

“Did you know,” Liv says, undaunted, “that there’s a restaurant in Las Vegas, Nevada, called the Heart Attack Grill, where customers over 350 pounds eat for free?”

Ravi blinks. “No,” he says slowly. “No, I did not.”

Liv takes a sip of her own low-calorie drink, realizing she’s put her foot in her mouth again. Well, more like the feedist zombie brain.

“Sorry,” she says, much too late. “This brain is a little. Um.”

“I’d noticed,” Ravi says, finally taking a sip from his sugary coffee. Liv follows the motion of his hand bringing the cup up to his mouth, calculating calories. She’d googled when she was in line at the Starbucks, and this drink has over 400 calories. Just knowing that makes her squirm.

Ravi finishes typing something on the iPad and sets it down on the scalpel tray, taking a much longer swallow of his coffee.

“Mmm,” he says, rolling the word around in his mouth like a quality caramel. “That is good.”

Liv hops up onto the exam table next to Ravi’s and swings her legs. “Fridays are good for indulgence,” she says, taking a miserly sip of her own plain beverage. She has no need for excess calories; she’ll make do just fine by savoring Ravi’s enjoyment of his.

“Well, then happy Friday,” Ravi says, raising his plastic cup and so Liv raises her cardboard one in turn.

“So,” she says. “What’s on the agenda today?” She’s not even slightly thinking about autopsies or murders-- her mind is all on whether there’ll be time to take Ravi out for lunch, and whether she can get him to order dessert.

“A certain Detective Babineaux came calling for you,” Ravi says, “and I do believe it was urgent.”

Liv’s smile slides off of her face. “Oh. Clive? Okay.”

Clive is a notoriously fastidious eater. Liv has no time for him right now. Right now she’s all about Ravi, Ravi and the way she’s seen him eat at three different fast food establishments in one day, Ravi and his tight sweaters and straining button-downs.

“He did make it sound urgent,” Ravi says, surveying her, shrugging in a kind of disappointed way. “You better call him, yeah?”

“Fine.” Liv slides off of the exam table and stalks off to the office to call Clive, who tells her he’s waiting outside for her in the car.

“What’s with you?” he asks as she gets in and shuts the door.

“Didn’t get to enjoy my coffee,” she says, like it’s her plain coffee she missed out on and not watching Ravi absentmindedly take in empty calories.

“Uh-huh,” Clive says disbelievingly, and then starts to fill her in.

***

When their subject enters the questioning room, Clive’s eyebrows go up and Liv bites her lip.

“Darryl Turner,” Clive states after their subject has seated himself, tapping on the file folder he carries around with him even when there’s nothing to add to it.

“Yup,” Darryl says, and Liv clenches her thighs, because she wasn’t ready for this, because Darryl Turner is not just chunky or chubby but downright, gloriously, unforgettably-- fat .

He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt that’s snug on his belly, which rests in his lap like a doleful pet. His chin doubles even when he’s not looking down, and did she-- did Jennifer , the late encouragatrix-- do this?

“So,” Clive starts. “You said you had some information about Jennifer Bailey?” He pauses for emphasis. “Some very, uh, specific information?”

Darryl reaches to get his phone out of the pocket of his pants, and Liv’s definitely only interested in this in a professional sense. She’s not at all staring at the way his pants are maybe a little too tight and the phone is kind of a struggle to retrieve. Not. At. All.

“Here,” he says finally, thumbing through the phone and then flourishing it at them. “See?”

Liv leans in close to Clive to peer at the iPhone screen, at a photo of a skinny, nerdy-looking guy with glasses.

“See what?” Clive asks, nonplussed. “Are you wasting our time?”

“No,” Darryl says, and taps the picture with a pudgy pointer finger. “That’s me. Or, well. That was me, before I met Miss Jennifer.”

“Miss… Jennifer,” Clive repeats. “Okay. Go on.”

Darryl puts the phone down on the table, likely not wanting to have to worm it out of his pants pocket again, Liv thinks gleefully.

“Well, uh,” Darryl starts.

“Hey,” Liv interjects. “Do you need some refreshments? There are donuts in the break room. Let me go grab some.”

She returns with the whole box, and opens it up, sliding it across the questioning table towards Darryl, who immediately takes a cruller and shoves it into his mouth.

“Good,” Liv says in a low tone. “Questioning is hungry work, isn’t it?”

Clive’s Allen Edmonds dress shoe grinds down on Liv’s toe. Point made-- for now. Clive is so greedy about getting all the questioning time, Liv thinks. Too bad he’s not greedy when he eats. God, he’s such a disappointment.

Clive clears his throat and Liv straightens up in her chair, noticing that Darryl’s almost done with the cruller.

“Here,” she tells him. “Have another.”

Clive sighs as Darryl picks a custard-filled donut and takes a bite. “As I was saying,” Clive says. “Go on?”

“Mmm,” Darryl says, mouth full. “So, I, uh, met Miss Jennifer online.”

“Uh-huh,” Clive says, unimpressed.

“I was looking for a feeder,” Darryl says without embarrassment, and Clive’s eyebrows raise a little again. “It’s okay,” Darryl continues, “I’m not ashamed. It’s pretty hard to hide all of this.” He pats his gut, and Liv might have to sit on her foot pretty soon.

“Anyway,” he says, “I talked to a few people, but Miss Jennifer and I just clicked, you know?” He chews another bite of donut and swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Liv wants to watch him eat the rest of this box and then melt a quart of ice cream and watch him drink it.

“She was a really good encourager, you know?” Darryl pauses to reach for a third donut. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t eat breakfast.”

Liv’s finger twitches, and she hides her hands in her lap, watching Darryl chew.

“Miss Jennifer was really good about keeping me on task,” Darryl says.

“How so?” Clive asks, jotting down a few notes onto his legal pad.

“Well, she was good at reminding me what I was working towards,” Darryl says around a mouthful of donut. “And she was really, really good at keeping me full. God, she kept me so fucking full all the time.”

“Did she ever get upset with you?” Clive asks, trying to keep the conversation more relevant to this murder investigation. “Did she ever mention any enemies or anything of that nature?”

Darryl stretches, and a sliver of gut overhang becomes visible. For a moment, Liv wants nothing more than to grab onto it and shake.

“Well,” he considers. “She was only ever strict because I wanted her to be. And I paid her, you know,” he says. “Miss Jennifer was the best of the best and that’s what I wanted.” He pauses to finish the third donut.

“I don’t know about any enemies per se,” he says, leaning back a little, the chair creaking. “But one time she did tell me about another client whose wife left him when he got fat.” He shrugs, as if he can’t imagine such a thing happening.

“Do you know his name?” Clive asks, scribbling furiously as Liv’s fingers itch to latch onto those inches of belly overhang and pinch, pinch while she tells Darryl to keep eating.

Darryl shrugs. “I know his username.”

“Okay,” Clive says. “Okay. We can work with that.”

***

Then Clive takes a few moments to go back through his notes, biting the end of his pen and finally saying, “What was this about Jennifer being strict with you? I’m not sure I understand.”

“Oh.” Darryl says. “Well, uh, she would give me certain goals each day, you know? Like calorie or amount goals. And if I didn’t meet them, then she’d make me come meet her somewhere so she could make sure I did.”

He grins, and Liv’s hand snakes out of her lap and towards the donut box. She pushes it towards Darryl. “One more?” she asks sweetly, and Darryl obliges.

“This is getting hard to watch,” Clive says, looking away, but Liv can’t even care.

“Go on,” she purrs. “What exactly would she do with you?” Darryl grins again, cheeks both dimpling, and Liv bares her own teeth wolfishly.

“She’d mostly have me come meet her at McDonald’s or something,” Darryl says. “Then she’d have me eat until I used my safeword.”

Clive rubs his hand across his face. Liv’s about ready to come untouched.

“Did she ever feed you?” Liv asks. “Not just watch you eat, I mean.”

Darryl considers, with chocolate donut in his mouth. He swallows a big bite, then says, “Yeah. Sometimes.” He takes another big bite almost immediately.

“So were you two… intimate?” Clive thinks to ask, in his precise, cutting things up into tiny bite-size pieces kind of way.

Darryl gulps.

“Meaning sexual,” Liv adds, even though she can’t imagine this kind of thing being anything but.

Darryl’s hand is brushing crumbs off of the shelf of his belly, and he shrugs, as if that were obvious.

“Yup,” he says finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean, I think she was with all of her clients, in a way? Like, this is a thing for me.” He gestures to his gut again, and Liv’s leaning her heel against her crotch, on the edge of her seat.

Clive opens his mouth and then shuts it again. “Well,” he says finally. “Why don’t you tell us the usernames you remember and we’ll keep on with our investigation. We’ll be in touch if we need you further.”

***

Later on, Liv sits on the edge of Clive’s desk and swings her legs petulantly. Clive’s typing up notes for a report. There’s a chocolate glazed donut with a single bite taken out of it sitting on a little paper plate next to his elbow.

“Don’t you”-- Liv starts, but Clive cuts her off, continuing to type without looking at her.

“Liv. We’ve been through this.”

“-- want the rest of that?” Liv smiles sweetly, fingers nudging the donut a little closer until the plate kisses Clive’s elbow. Clive merely shifts his arm over, still not looking away from his computer screen.

“No. I don’t want any more. I didn’t want it to begin with, but you didn’t really give me a choice.”

Liv pouts, rummaging around in her tote bag for her iPad. Fine, if Clive’s not going to help a girl out, a girl can help herself. She pulls up instagram and starts swiping through a round-bellied, chubby-cheeked plethora of plus-size male model goodness.

“You were kind of out of control in there,” Clive says conversationally, as Liv presses the “heart” button underneath a picture of a brawny guy in a plaid shirt with some seriously straining buttons. “I mean, I’m glad I know about you and the brains and the personality mind-melding now, but sometimes it gets a little difficult not to intervene.”

Liv makes a brushing-off motion with her left hand, still using her right to scroll on the iPad. “Whatever,” she says. “If you’re not eating right now, I’m not really interested.”

***

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Clive had asked with a wary expression creasing his forehead. “I mean, with the way you are right now.”

Liv had rolled her eyes. “I’m a professional, Clive, of course I can handle it.”

Clive had mm-hmmed in a way that inspired disbelief, but he’d handed over the list of usernames that Liv was to check out.

“I’ll just, you know, make a username of my own on the site and, like, I don’t know, chat these guys up a little and then ask about the investigation. It’ll be a piece of cake.” (Or two. Or four. Or a whole cake. With ice cream. Keep eating, honey, you’re doing so well .)

Liv hadn’t mentioned that she already had a username on the website, and so it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.

“Hold on,” Clive had said at the last minute. “You’re not supposed to ‘chat them up,’ Liv. Just see what they’ve been posting in the forum and if any of that triggers a vision or anything. Keep an eye out for suspicious posts, and then we can look into it further.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re no fun,” Liv had said, and Clive had shrugged.

“Just keep it in your pants.”

***

Speaking of visions, wasn’t it a little strange that she hadn’t had one yet? Usually it hit her a few hours after consuming a brain, but here they were going on hour 20 and nada. She’s sitting on a stool in the morgue, her laptop set up on an instrument tray, biting her lip.

Liv clicks into the feeder forum without the usual twinge of guilt, and glances down the list of usernames. She doesn’t recognize any of them, but it’s been a while since she’s been online here. Being a zombie has really taken a lot away from her “me” time.

She starts to look for posts by the first username when Ravi comes in the door, all windswept and-- most importantly-- carrying a bag from McDonald’s.

That’s when it hits her-- the reason why she hasn’t had any visions yet.

“Ravi,” she says as he comes over to her. “I think I need to feed you.”

***

She’s kneeling on a bedspread, holding a fork. She blinks heavy lashes and sees the hand with the fork reach out to feed the man a bite of what looks like turtle cheesecake.

“Mmm,” her voice says as she watches the man chew and then swallow, then reaches out to wipe a crumb off of his upper lip. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

The man is shirtless, a little sweaty, and full-bellied. He’s wearing dress pants that are all the way unbuttoned and unzipped, his gut pushing through the space proudly.

“Yeah,” he manages, and she gets a little better look at his face- dark curly hair, mustache, kind eyes. “Just gimme a sec.”

She loads up another bite. “Hardly,” she purrs, “we’ve only got half an hour before I have to leave and we need to get the rest of this in you.” Her hand pats his swollen belly and he winces a little but opens his mouth for more.

Then there’s the sound of a door opening, and she’s rapidly pushing herself back and getting off the bed. Another woman is yelling, jabbing her finger in the air repeatedly, and then she’s running.

***

The vision comes quickly, and when it’s over, Liv has to process for a minute. Ravi’s blinking at her from the couch, mouth full.

“So it worked?” he says, swallowing, and Liv has to get up from the little couch in the office, pace around, and try to sort through the tangled mess of memories and emotions. The aura of Jennifer’s lust and control still lingers, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from plunging her hand into the McDonald’s bag and feeding Ravi french fries one by one until he begs her to stop.

Liv’s not paying attention, now rummaging in Ravi’s desk for a piece of paper and a pen, scribbling down what she remembers so she can tell Clive later. Woman, mid-40s, blonde hair, angry. Long dark nails in that shape only celebrities seem to be able to maintain, that pointed claw.

“Okay,” Liv says after a minute, taking a deep breath. The quasi-high of the vision’s dissipated like smoke, but that desire hasn’t. Maybe because it’s your own feeling, not Jennifer’s , a little voice in her head whispers, and Liv scowls.

“What’s wrong?” Ravi asks, and Liv notices that he’s leaned back on the sofa, that there are empty burger wrappers next to him, and that the french fry container is fucking balancing on his belly.

“Oops,” he says next, as he moves and it falls off. He eats a fry right off of the couch cushion, and Liv screws her eyes shut momentarily in frustration. “Not quite there,” Ravi says apologetically, as if it’s his own fault that he’s not yet fat enough to balance shit on his gut, use it like a shelf.

“So I’m guessing it worked,” Ravi tries again, and this time Liv moves back over to the couch to sit next to him.

“Yeah,” Liv says. “It worked, all right.”

There’s a moment there where she feels like she could’ve reached out and placed the next fry in Ravi’s mouth, that he would’ve taken it with a fluttering of long lashes and a soft noise of approval. That she could’ve next climbed onto his lap and grinded against his belly, that she could’ve brought herself to orgasm in mere moments.

Instead, she watches him carefully and then stands up.

“I have to go tell Clive,” she says, and leaves Ravi alone with his fullness and his questions and the feeling of her pressing a burger to his lips, her cool hands gentle but unwaveringly insistent.

***

Clive’s nonplussed by her vision, telling her that her description fits thousands of women in the greater Seattle area, and he can’t really do anything with what she’s found out.

“Maybe you can trigger another vision to get us some more detail,” Clive says. “How’d you get this one?”

Liv’s so glad that she can’t really blush anymore. It’s pretty much the number one perk of being a zombie: now she can privately get flustered by her own weird predilections for watching people overeat.

“Um,” she says. “Ravi got some burgers and I fed one to him?”

Clive’s mouth makes a little “o.”

“Just when I thought I couldn’t be surprised,” he says.

Liv fiddles with the hem of her shirt.

“Do you think you could do it again? How about tonight?” Clive suggests, and Liv feels like her heart jumps into her throat like an overeager frog. “We really need a break on this case.”

God, no , Liv tries to say, but what comes out of her mouth is a confident, “Definitely. I’ll pick up take-out on my way back.”

***

“Liv,” Ravi says after she’s opened the door. “Jesus fucking Christ, Liv.” His gaze bounces all around like he’s not sure where to look.

“What?” Liv simpers and bends her knees a little, draping herself against the doorframe. “I’m just getting into character.”

“Christ,” Ravi repeats. “Get inside, you’ll catch your death.”

Liv pouts as he pushes past her. It’s like he didn’t even notice her little yellow plaid apron and her high heels. Not to mention that she can hardly catch her death of cold; she pretty much is both death and cold.

“It helps the vision,” Liv protests as Ravi takes his shoes off with a very focused look wrinkling his brow. “That’s all.”

“Liv,” Ravi says again, and looks like he’s going to say something else but then reconsiders. He sighs. “Okay. Just… just maybe lose the shoes, okay? And put some leggings on or something.”

“Leggings?” Liv raises an eyebrow.

“Look, I don’t care. I just can’t concentrate when you’re literally only wearing a vintage apron. You want me at my best, right?”

Liv bites her lip. “Fine.” She makes a show of dragging her feet back to her bedroom, then quickly throws on a pair of black Lululemon leggings and a University of Washington t-shirt. What, if she can’t wear her apron, at least her ass can look good.

***

Back in the kitchen, Ravi’s peering into the fridge, looking-- well, hungry , Liv’s mind helpfully supplies-- a little perplexed.

“I see you haven’t run out of cocktail condiments,” he says drily. “But I hardly think watching me eat a few olives will trigger any visions.”

“There’s some beer on the bottom shelf for you,” Liv says, undistracted. “Unless you’d prefer a soda?”

“That depends,” Ravi says in a measured tone, “on what it is you’re planning to have me eat. Because I don’t see anything in your refrigerator.”

“It’s not in the fridge,” Liv says, feeling her mouth curl into an unbidden smile.

Ravi bends over to peek at the oven, and Liv gets another little glimpse of caramel skin and she shivers, even though she hasn’t felt cold in months.

“There’s nothing in there,” Ravi says, now looking perplexed. “Is this all an elaborate ruse or…?” He trails off as Liv opens the freezer.

“You didn’t,” he says, slightly in awe. “You wouldn’t.”

“Would,” Liv says, nudging past him with her Lulu-clad ass, purposefully letting it brush his hip. “And did.” She digs a spoon out of the silverware drawer.

“Join me in the living room?”

***

In another life, Liv would’ve taken the apron rejection to heart. She’d have given up on Ravi right that second, quit her job at the morgue in mortification, and fled Seattle for warmer climes.

This Liv, though, the one with her truest self on her tongue and in her synapses, she’s jamming on all of it like a DJ dropping a new beat, eyes half-shut in concentration and enjoyment.

“This is a lot of cake,” Ravi says with his mouth full. “Are you sure this is the way to a vision?”

Speaking to his capacity and his predilection for candy-eating, Ravi’s about a third of the way through the cake already and doesn’t even seem fazed.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Liv says primly, then readjusts herself on the couch next to Ravi. She’s been resolutely spooning ice cream cake into his mouth for the last twenty minutes, the t.v. playing on low volume in the background. There are a few chaste inches of couch between them, meaning Liv has to keep leaning over to reach Ravi’s mouth, and it’s just not-- it’s not quite right , in the same way the burger had been.

“You know,” she says finally. “I think it might just be… well. I think I might need to--”

Ravi’s hand snakes its way to her waist. Liv gulps as he looks her directly in the eyes.

“I think you need to get on my lap.”

***

That was it. After only two more bites of cake, Liv feels herself throw her head back and she starts to lose sight of Ravi’s face. She blinks, then blinks again, through lashes that don’t feel like her own.

When she comes back to herself, Ravi’s hands are both on her waist, steadying her on his lap.

“You see anything?” he says, and Liv nods.

“I know who did it, and where to find her.” It’s always rough to come back to herself after a few moments of being completely other , but this time Liv’s battling a growing sense of disappointment as well. It came on so fast, and Ravi didn’t even get halfway through the cake…

“You don’t sound pleased.” Ravi cocks an eyebrow, and Liv starts to push herself off of him. This-- this has gone far beyond propriety and boss-employee relationships and even friendship. She should be embarrassed. She’ll tell Ravi to go home and then she’ll clean up this melting ice cream cake and then…

Ravi catches her.

“Just where do you think you’re going, Liv? There’s still plenty of cake left, and I’m a growing boy.”

***

Well, Liv figures, if she’s going to get melted ice cream in the carpet, this is the way she’d prefer to do it.

*****

Chapter Text

Ravi’s sleepy, afterward, and Liv honestly can’t blame him. The man ate three-quarters of an ice cream cake meant for a whole gaggle of people at a birthday party, and he was a fucking champ throughout.

When he started to flag, Liv leaned over and whispered in his ear about how good he was, and how good it was going to feel when she sucked him off-- but only after she said he was finished.

She fed him until he couldn’t take anymore, but every time she thought the safeword was going to come out, all he said was, “More.”

***

Liv takes the opportunity to carefully climb off of Ravi’s lap-- Jesus, she really went too far this time. No matter how it felt in the moment, there’s no way she’s ever going to live this down, not in this twisted version of an afterlife.

Ravi hiccups as she moves, then opens his eyes. “I’m going to have a sugar hangover,” he says, and belches hugely, then groans. “I feel food drunk.”

“You look it,” Liv says.

Ravi meets her eyes, seems to think about saying something, then reconsiders.

“It’s okay,” Liv says, moving away so that her leg isn’t touching his on the couch. “You can say it.”

She’s steeling herself for it, getting ready to offer Ravi a hot water bottle and then flee to her locked bedroom where she can be alone with her mortification, but then--

“You get off on this, don’t you?” Ravi’s warm brown eyes are wide, and Liv can’t speak. “I mean, more than just the feeder brain. This is-- this is part of you, isn’t it?”

His hand reaches out to find hers, and even that slight bit of movement makes him grimace a little- Christ, he looks packed to the brim, and she can hear how shallowly he’s having to breathe, and despite herself, she’s still turned on.

Liv nods, not trusting herself at first. “Yeah,” she says finally, voice quiet. “I’ve-- I’ve always liked this. Even with Major, I was always thinking about other guys.” She swallows hard. “You know, um. Fat guys.”

“I figured,” Ravi says. “You seemed to take to this whole thing”-- he gestures to the last of the cake, slowly melting on its platter-- “a little too quickly. And I’ve paid attention,” he continues. “I’ve been around for a lot of different phases of your zombie Scooby Doo shenanigans, and this felt different. Like it was more than just the brain.”

Liv swallows again, then forces herself to speak. “And… and you’re okay with that?”

Ravi laughs, then pulls her hand to his belly.

“Well, I didn’t eat almost a whole cake for nothing, did I?”

Liv feels the expression spreading across her face like thick buttercream frosting. “No,” she smiles. “I don’t think you did.”

***

The sex is excellent, although Liv thinks other people might not even classify it as such- more like mutual masturbation. She’s okay with that, though- with the addition of a few rubber gloves, it gets around the whole zombie virus thing fairly neatly, and she’s always been more about the leadup than the actual thing.

And for Liv, the leadup is delicious.

After that first time, she and Ravi have a frank discussion about where they see this going.

“Fifty pounds,” Ravi says, and Liv’s squeal could probably be heard from space.

She buys a scale, and they experiment with different types of food- all-you-can-eat sushi, endless Chinese takeout, a Southern buffet.

Ravi eats a gallon of ice cream in one sitting and then lets Liv wrap a tape measure around his belly, and grins as her eyebrows go up while he swears he’s not pushing it out.

He starts sitting a lot more at work, and Liv gives him a hand job under the autopsy table the day she discovers he’s been raising his rolling chair so he can rest his gut on the table.

Liv takes great pleasure in buying Ravi a new cashmere sweater, this time in a deep violet and another size up.

“God,” Ravi says one night about thirty-five pounds into the experiment. “I could get used to this, y’know?”

“This?” Liv pauses with a spoonful of ice cream in midair between them.

“Yeah,” Ravi says, and takes the spoon from her, swallowing quickly with a little sound of contentment. “Yeah,” he repeats. “I like this. You and me. The food. It’s good.”

There are a lot of responses Liv could give to this proclamation, and she ruffles through them in her mind like a deck of cards. She feels like she’s got a winning hand no matter what, though, and she doesn’t want to play her ace just yet. Nobody’s saying anything about love, not now, but it feels like there could be opportunity in the future.

“I like it too,” she says, and before she gets sappy, smacks Ravi’s belly with her open palm. “Now let me get you some cookies to go with that ice cream, tubby. You’ve got a weigh in this weekend.”

“I’ll burst,” Ravi pleads, but he’s laughing as he says it.

“Is that a promise?” Liv asks, and the grin on his face is all she needs.

*****