Izombie The Wanking Dead

"Hunh?" Liv asked, slurping up some brain.

Ravi stared at her in patient apoplexy. Liv thought sometimes he was jealous he didn't get to eat brains, which were perfectly tempting once she put them through some prep: in this case, involving a pasta maker. Certainly looked better than anything he could get from Sizzler. "I said, have you imagined the possibilities?"

Liv looked over at their latest customer: pale, overweight, and currently absent a brain. "We can find out if it's possible to die from a lack of tanning? What's the opposite of skin cancer, anyway?"

"Healthy skin. And you're one to talk, indoor kid. You are aware that we have a titan of literature on our slab?"

"What, some chick who wrote a few bodice-rippers? You know we have Grey's Anatomy for that now, right? And internet porn."

Ravi huffed a sigh. "First of all, Meredith Connors did not write 'romance'. She wrote stories with important human themes." He ticked off on his fingers. "Elements of romance. History. Adventure. Mystery. Philosophy."

"Ripping a woman's panties off with your teeth..."

"In a tasteful way that shows the characters' growth."

"That's what I have internet porn for. The growth."

With a dismayed groan, Ravi returned to his microscope. "She's your first author, though. Imagine if her writing prowess lives on in you! Imagine if Stephen King died in the middle of writing a manuscript, but you were able to carry on his work and finish it for him!"

"I've seen Maximum Overdrive. I think that's about as far as I want to get into the Kingster's head." Liv twined up her spaghetti in her fork and ate the last of it. "If my texts to you mention any heaving bosoms, promise me you won't take it personally."

"Liv, I

always

assume your bosoms are heaving."

She wiped her mouth off with a napkin. "Okay, so how's the cure coming? Not to rush you or anything, but the sooner you're done, the sooner I can have sex."

"On behalf of all men, I am of course eager to see that happen, even though it clearly won't be to my personal benefit—"

"Don't speak too soon. I may let Major have that threesome he's always wanted for his birthday."

Ravi did a slight double-take before being sure she was kidding. "Slow-going, as usual. I thought I was on to some promising retardant effects, but I think it was due to the subject samples, not the prospective cure itself."

"You've got anti-zombie rats?"

"No, the brain matter I was studying the effects of the virus on. Some of it seemed resistant to the virus, but I think we can chalk that up to hormonal qualities at the time of death. Both women were, eh, in flagrante derelict at the time of their passing." Ravi stretched the corners of his mouth in an empathetic gesture. "Refrigerator fell right through the second story and onto the bed."

Caught on the way to the sink to wash her bowl out, Liv stopped and set it down nearby instead. "Wait, so some endorphins released through sex hit the virus like a pesticide?"

"No, I checked it against some brain tissue from that recreation of Fifty Shades of Grey that went so horribly wrong. Those were infected by the virus, same as ever. Did you just set your dirty dishes down on a body?"

Liv looked at the sheet-covered cadaver on the table and picked up her bowl. "Fifty Shades was a man and a woman. Maybe that makes a difference."

"You think that lesbian sex might be a sort of booster shot against the virus?"

"Is it possible?"

"

Anything's

possible. There's still so much science doesn't know about lesbians..."

Liv sighed affectionately. "You're so smart, Ravi. And handsome."

"It's just the beard. And the beard."

Liv batted her eyelashes. "What's department policy on workplace fraternization?"

"The word 'don't' comes to mind."

"Shame." Liv undid a button on her blouse. It made more room for heaving. "Imagine it—two people, so similar, with such an intense connection, but forbidden to ever be together. Would it be worth it? One passionate moment of twisting fire, our desperate love aching and straining to only the night's acknowledgment... but then, if someone were to find out... the shame... the scandal... my only consolation, the time we shared, the sweet music our bodies made when we finally let them sing the duet bursting to be shared between us!"

Ravi nodded. "I miss the Brony brain."

***

"Hey girlfriend."

Liv smiled to herself. What a wonderful thing to be called! Of course, it was Peyton, and she meant it totally platonically—all their college experimentation had been with other people, or in Liv's case, Mr. Snowball, Edward Clarke's fursona.

But still, wouldn't it be wonderful to be Peyton's girlfriend? Those strong arms wrapped around her at night, lifting boxes by day, those long fingers petting the cat they were co-parenting...

Well, that settled it, Meredith Connors was the most repressed person Liv had mind-melded with since the guy who owned The Covenant on Blu-Ray because he liked the special effects.

Peyton scurried closer to Liv's perch on the love seat, bearing a fast food paper bag in one hand like the head of a slain beast. "I know not much is happening with your sense of taste right now besides spicy foods, so I got Mexican."

"Pey, my boss is Indian. I get all the spice I need."

"Good. Then one of the enchiladas is mine." Peyton took hers, which Liv thought would've happened if her boss was five generations Minnesotan, and dumped the bag into Liv's lap. "Now, not to be a cliché or anything, but let's talk about boys."

"I like their chances in the play-offs."

Peyton Indian-sat beside her, swatting her arm. "You and Major. He, uh, giving you any brain?"

"Did you come back just because you thought of that pun?"

"Hey, I wasn't a hundred percent sure you were a zombie. You could've been a werewolf. Then I would've been screwed. Now, no more evasions. Tell me where, to the best of your knowledge, his penis has been."

"Well, in my hot little hand while we took a shower together. And in some Calvin Klein underwear. Zombieism's a bitch. My entire body's an undead minefield for johnsons. We've been using toys; it's like I'm dating a lesbian with more hair. And he has such a nice penis too..."

"So you're like two Mormons saving it for marriage?"

"No, we can't do anal, either."

"But you love anal!" Peyton teased.

"I didn't say this zombie stuff was all bad. But Christ, does he have to have

abs

when I'm Rogue of the X-Men?"

"You either need to marry a super-rich guy or hope zombieism is like chicken pox and you only get it once."

"Only get it once." Liv blinked. "Peyton, you're a genius!"

"Well, yeah, I've become a district attorney in my twenties—"

Liv leaned over and kissed her.

It was a tingling rush of heat across her extremities that pulled her to Peyton's lips like she was dousing a flame in cool water. Their soft bodies crushed together, the paper bag falling with a crinkling noise to the floor as Liv pressed Peyton back, her head bumping against the armrest as Liv's sweet tongue charged into her mouth. She felt Liv's soft, feminine hands moving up her sides; the zipper of Liv's jeans pushing hard against her abdomen as Liv covered her. And Liv's breasts, burning with cold against her chest, hard nipples chilling her deliciously.

The kiss was devouring her, dizzying her. It seemed wonderful, dangerous, and made Peyton feel like she was those things too. Breathless as she was, Peyton didn't stop herself from slipping her arms around Liv's curvaceous body, pulling it even harder to her. Soft satin rustled and whispered under her fingers. Through the thin blouse she could feel the narrowest of bra straps. Underneath Liv's jeans, Peyton could feel nothing at all. Liv was all but naked under her clothes, and Peyton's hands dug into them, as if to tear away what little Liv did wear—and it really did feel like very little, compared to the body underneath—but that temptingly soft mouth was gone, Liv leaving her dashed across the love seat, perching over her on outstretched arms.

"Do you, uh, kiss every genius you meet?" Peyton murmured.

"Yeah," Liv replied, "multiple times for the cute ones."

Peyton pulled back as Liv leaned in again, dragging herself up the armrest she was pressed against, making Liv drop into her cleavage. The chill of Liv's soft, keen face met thrillingly with the hot-blooded flush that ran through Peyton's breasts, making her moan embarrassingly loudly. She thought nothing could be as shamefully good as suddenly getting to second base with Liv, but then Liv looked up at her through her fringe of platinum-blonde hair, like a layer of glimmering frost atop the snow that was her face, and Peyton felt her pulse amplify drastically right at her center.

"Imagine it, Peyton. Two friends, best friends, lifelong friends, who've always been there for each other, always loved each other... when suddenly they realize there's something more to that love, or that what's always been there can be expressed another way... a forbidden way... Peyton, Major is failing the desperate desires of my willing young body! Is it so wrong to seek the burning embrace of another woman?"

"Uhh... no? This feels like a multiple choice question..."

Liv ran her hand up Peyton's leg, into the little hammock of her disarrayed shirt, pushing underneath the hem to pet bare flesh with the pads of her fingers. "Then let's be simple. Yes or no. I'm pretty sure that first kiss was a yes... then the second was a no..." She moved her hand higher, its outline rippling up under Peyton's shirt, until there was a sudden stillness at the cusp of her breast. Peyton took in air desperately, feeling fingers hook across the left cup of her bra, greet the nipple straining towards them... "And this really feels like a yes. But if it's a no... if any of this is a no..."

"It's not a no... it's not a yes... I don't know what it is, I don't know what this is! It's all so sudden—"

"Sudden can be good," Liv mused. "Death is still. Life is... different. Always different."

"This is a brain. This has to be. You're never like this—"

"It's possible that it's making me really good at crossword puzzles, what with all the adverbs, but I was the one who brought the wonderful, supportive, loving, best friend who would be

superb

for kisses to the table." Liv pushed her finger atop Peyton's nipple, covering it, summoning its hardness like some wicked spell, then taking her finger away to reveal the little dimple poking through Peyton's tight shirt. Liv lowered her lips to the hardness, crushing them around it, pulling with taut suction...

"Yes! Yes! That's a definite yes!" Peyton cried, actually reaching to pull her shirt inside-out before she stopped herself. "No, wait—I'm still not sure how much is you and how much is the brain and how—Liv?" It looked disturbingly like Liv was about to pass out. "Do you need to lie down?"

"Yes, we should definitely lie down together... no, wait, sorry—vision. Sex Addicts Anonymous. Ewwww, stale coffee tongue..."

Peyton winced inwardly. "Yeah... that'd explain it."

"No, no—" Liv corrected her, sitting back on her haunches and grabbing Peyton's hands to jerk her up so they were kneeling together, facing each other atop the love seat. "I thought Ravi was super-cute too, but I didn't jump him! Or Clive!"

"Maybe you're just a racist?" Peyton offered.

"Pey!"

"You are

really

white..."

Some days, Liv really regretted her high school pledge to never,

never

get a spray tan. But she had sworn on Britney Spears, Baby One More Time. No takebacks.

"So it took nymphomaniac brains to figure out you had a crush on me?" Peyton asked. "Actually, given my dating history, that sounds pretty plausible..."

"Mine too!" Liv cried, putting her hand on Peyton's thigh. "We have so much in common—like two hearts that can't help but in the same moment, and not just this moment, but every past moment, every moment yet to come—our hearts will always beat together..."

"Okay, now you just sound like Mariah Carey."

"You want me to wait for sexy time! You sound like—my life!"

***

Major tried the door, and as soon as he found it unlocked, he was pushing through, surging into the apartment. No Liv. He tried the various rooms, anxiety mounting into outright panic. The text had been terse, worrying, his attempts to call her or text her back meeting only silence. But he forced calm, forced thought. Quick-dialed her cell again. Heard her ringtone through a few walls, followed it around corners to an open door, opened it, saw Gilda inside.

She was in Liv's bed, naked, the sheets around her hiding the specifics but not much else. In her hand, she muted Liv's ringing phone.

"Not funny," he said, teeth clenched.

"What's not funny?" she asked, vocal fry running high. "I was just hitting you up—oh, did I accidentally use Liv's phone instead of mine? Oopsie. That happens all the time with us roomies. We share

everything

."

"Good. You can borrow some of her clothes, get dressed, and get out of here."

"Or I could tell Liv all about your nocturnal activities. I wonder which she'd care about more: that you've been knocking off zombies like a Call of Duty mode or that you've had your cock so far down my throat that I could put teeth marks on your balls?"

Major laughed disbelievingly. "You're blackmailing me for sex? Because that's how hard up you are? You—you look like a model."

"Awww, lover, you say the sweetest things." Gilda looked at her bare wrist as if anyone still wore watches. "Better hurry. Won't take long for Liv to get back from Peyton's Place—wasn't that a web serial or something?—and she probably won't buy that you slipped and fell on your dick, with me to break your fall."

"So you're a sick bitch just doing this for kicks?"

Gilda nodded. "My roomie, I love her to death, but sometimes—you just really wanna fuck her boyfriend, you know?" She flipped the sheet off her body. "You can put it anywhere."

Major knew he should resist. That was what you were supposed to do under these circumstances, in movies or books—not keep secrets, not cheat on your girlfriend, not kill people. But after all the build-up of getting back together with Liv, of seeing her beautiful body again, of waiting for Ravi's tests and then the anticlimax of being told they couldn't be together... he needed something. Not sex, but to stop fighting the current for one moment, to go with the flow and try to enjoy himself. One more thing he could make up to Liv later. Or one more thing to even the scales between them.

She was good, too. Major didn't know if that made it better or worse. He didn't compare her to Liv, at least. His memories of her had Midased their way into pure emotion, romance, nostalgia. Gilda was visceral pleasure, just flesh and skin and some kind of twisted thrill in making her come before he did, or surrendering to her efforts and letting her mocking laughter ring out. But it wasn't like she was just anyone—just a warm body.

Through the nostalgia, he remembered that if Liv wasn't some kind of seductress, she had a charmingly boundless enthusiasm. She'd bounced and wriggled all over the place, trying a little clumsily to get the right tempo, him struggling right beside her until they found it, or something like it, or had a good enough time that they didn't care.

And the girls who weren't Liv, or Gilda, they'd seemed not to care. Maybe he'd just had bad luck, gotten with women who were incompatible on some level with him, but they'd seemed to just lie there, making pleased sounds, letting him do all the work like it was a privilege that he could have sex with them.

But Gilda, Gilda had technique. It was almost like a dance with her. His moves were made, anticipated, responded to. She rolled her hips, twisted them, thrust them, counterpointing his motions, overriding them sometimes. He'd heard about those old 'backward in high heels' song and dance numbers that a good dancer didn't look half as good without a good partner. With Gilda, he could believe it. Whatever else, she made him feel more virile, more skillful, made him take more pleasure in the simple satisfaction of being inside her, naked with her, kissing her.

Gilda was enjoying it too. Both of them were so filled with lust, they weren't aware of anything else. Least of all the fact that the bedroom door was ajar a few inches. And peering through it was Liv Moore.

She'd come home fast after her chat with Peyton at Major's place, still confused over who had killed her romance writer, what her feelings towards Peyton were, and if they were hers or those of a really kinky corpse. The last thing she'd expected to find back at her apartment, in her own bed, was Major. Well, okay, that wasn't

that

unlikely. But with her, not with Gilda. And not having so much fun.

Christ, Gilda really did sound like a cartoon character getting electrocuted.

Major had his face buried in her crotch, arms around her thighs, struggling to hold on as Gilda kicked and thrashed wildly. She was clawing at his back in a delirium of lust, jerking her naked sex furiously into his licking mouth. "Oh, baby, oh,

honey,

lick it! Suck my clit, lick, suck—

darling!"

Liv felt her heart hammering—such as it could—against her ribs. Was that what sex was like again? It seemed a lot more—

obscene

—than she remembered. More exciting, too. Gilda doused in sweat was sexy as ever, but naked? Fucking? She was

delicious.

And Major, hunched between her widely spread legs... had his cock always been that long, his balls always so hairy and big?

Confused and shocked, it actually occurred to Liv how odd it was that her foremost reaction was lewd excitement. Maybe it really had been too long, or maybe she'd unlocked her inner slut, gone on some Eat Pray Lesbian journey or something. But it seemed to her like maybe this was a healthy reaction. Being glad that the two of them were getting some, happy that at least

someone

had a Major boner inside them. And it wasn't like Major hadn't done well for himself. Gilda was hot as hell. And a natural redhead, to boot.

Liv felt herself tremble. It'd been a while since she'd even masturbated, the notion seeming depressing to her, like drinking nonalcoholic beer to make up for never being able to have red wine. But watching her roommate turn over onto her belly, knees folded under her, lush and creamy ass presented like she was posing for a pin-up—Liv may not have been able to pop the cork, but she could definitely smell the bouquet.

"Fuck me like a dog," Gilda panted, nudging her asscheeks back toward Major's cock as he knelt upright behind her. "Give it all to me, bitch, every inch! Ram it to the hilt! Don't let me stop coming!"

Liv tried to keep from panting too heavily—it should've been easier, since she wasn't much breathing—as she watched every movement with an avid frustration. Like it was a drug taking hold, she felt her hand flow down her body, following the leaden blood that seemed nearly molten inside her. She felt the strong, sure curvature of her belly give way to the silky softness underneath her belly button, the little wisps of hair as thin and fragile as spider's silk, the sudden warmth hidden like a flower about to blossom...

She bit her lip to keep the outcry in her throat. It was so intense, dipping into that almost forgotten power, feeling what she could make herself feel. She built a rhythm, stroking her fingers to the tune of the throbbing at her core, her softly rounded hips swaying delicately to the music...

And all the while, Major clutched Gilda's creamy ass in his hands, letting her reach between her spread thighs to seize his cock in her hands. She pulled it to herself with merely a stroking fingertip along the underside of his shaft, and he nudged into her quivering wetness. A long, dreamy sigh escaped Gilda's throat.