Title: "Candy Cane Kisses"
Author: Allison Lindsay
Pairing: Chelsea/Raven (Chrave)
Rating: M
Disclaimer: You so do know so know so so know that That's So Raven does not belong to me. (Remember that line from "The Parties"?)
"Candy Cane Kisses" is a femslash. This means, of course, that Raven and Chelsea are dating. Each other.
Okay, all together now: "Thanks for the newsflash, Captain Obvious!"
Smooches,
Allison
Chelsea Daniels ascends the basement steps of the Baxter residence, her eardrums absorbing the sound of musical notes as they filter through the air. She gravitates toward the mellifluous melody, her heels clipping the floorboards as she approaches the living room.
She pauses by the Christmas tree, admiring the tinsel twined around the conifer, the ornaments suspended from the prickly green leaves.
Adjacent to the tree is the grand piano, its pianist sitting statuesquely at the keyboard, the posture of poise. Chelsea smiles, watching in delight as the agile fingers float across the ivories.
Raven Baxter's eyes abandon the keys, and the sight of Chelsea silences "Silent Night."
On her head, the redhead wears a pair of fuzzy reindeer antlers. On her nose, she wears a squishy red bulb.
Raven's lips take the shape of a smirk. "So, uh, how are things at the North Pole, Rudolph?"
"Chilly," the redhead replies, clutching her arms and shivering.
"Your little reindeer friends still messing with you?" the psychic quips.
"No, but Jack Frost is. He's been nipping at my nose." Chelsea squeezes the artificial schnoz, causing it to squeak, an impressive imitation of a bicycle horn. She chuckles heartily, thoroughly amused.
Raven shakes her head and rolls her eyes and laughs softly. "Don't ever change, Chels."
"I won't," the redhead vows. "Pinky swear." And she grasps Raven's hand, linking their pinkies like the loops in a paper chain.
When the deal has been sealed, the designer rises from the bench and saunters into the kitchen.
"Want some hot cocoa?" Raven offers, opening a cabinet. She removes a box of powdered mixes, retrieves two mugs.
"I would love some hot cocoa," Chelsea accepts, and attaches her lips to the cocoa-colored skin of the other girl's neck.
The psychic murmurs her appreciation, her words unintelligible, their meaning unmistakable.
The redhead removes her antlers and squeaky nose. "You know what my favorite thing to do is?" Chelsea whispers, clutching Raven's waist and turning her around.
"No, what's your favorite thing to do?"
"Kiss you." She kisses her cheek. "You know what my second favorite thing to do is?"
"No, what's your second favorite thing to do?"
"Kiss you again." She kisses her forehead. "You know what my third favorite thing to do is?"
"Kiss me some more?" Raven ventures.
"Nope, but good guess. My third favorite thing to do is make you or-"
"Cory!" Raven shrieks, scowling at her younger sibling.
From the doorway, Cory Baxter sneers at his sister. "Ooh, when Santa checks his list twice, he's gonna find out who's been very naughty… but not very nice."
"You know what you are, Cory? I'm gonna tell you what you are. You-" here, the psychic pauses for dramatic effect "-are a sneaky little snoop, that's what you are."
"I'm sorry, Chelsea," Cory apologizes, giving the designer the cold shoulder. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. Now, uh, what were you sayin' to my lovely, loving, lovable sister Raven?"
The cotton candy pink tint in Chelsea's cheeks shades into a vivid red, similar in color to Rudolph's red nose. "Uh… Well, I… I was saying that, uh, that my third favorite thing to do is… is make Raven… or… igami… birds. Right, Rae?"
"I got a whole flock of 'em," the designer confirms, nodding for emphasis as she ushers Cory out of the room. "Now shoo, spy, don't bother me."
"Listen, Miss Haughty by Nature," Cory huffs, "it's the Christmas season, so you better 'tis the season to be jolly so we can all have a holly jolly holiday, all right?"
Raven raises an eyebrow. "Uh, whatever you say, little bro," she surrenders, displaying a façade of fear. When the boy is gone but still within hearing range, Raven remarks, "Watch your back, Chels. He's in fa la la la la-la land right now."
"Yeah, no kidding," Chelsea concurs, filling a kettle with water.
"That little nasty. One of these days, that boy is gonna be surprised to find himself dead when he wakes up," Raven mutters, adjusting the knobs on the stove. "Okay, you take care of this stuff up here and I'll take care of… some other stuff downstairs," the designer dictates.
"But, Rae-"
"There's marshmallows in this cupboard and candy canes in that cupboard," Raven informs her, and points to illustrate.
"Wait a minute, Raven. Where are you go-"
"Don't ask questions, girl, just follow directions."
Always one to oblige, Chelsea capitulates. After fixing two cups of cocoa, she joins Raven in the bedroom.
"Rae?" the redhead calls, urging the door open with her back.
"I'll be out in a sec!" Raven answers from the bathroom.
Chelsea sets one mug of cocoa onto the nightstand and settles onto Raven's bed. Nestled in the cushy embankment of pillows is Overton the elephant, the stuffed animal that Chelsea had given her girlfriend several months earlier. It's not a day either one remembers fondly, though, as it's the day that they revealed their relationship to Eddie. They felt certain that the trio had been truncated, that there were now Two Blind Mice instead of three. But after-
"Feliz Navidad!"
Chelsea directs her attention to Raven, who stands before her clad in little more than Yuletide cheer. The designer dons a chiffon bra-top and matching panties, the lingerie dyed a vibrant red, the color of candy canes. The top's off-the-shoulder style exposes her shoulders and midriff, and two heart-shaped apertures adorn the front of the bra and the back of the panties, revealing the cleavage of both her breasts and her backside. True to form, the designer has added her own personal touch – sequins and sparkles and all manner of filigree pinch the shirred seams and ruffled sleeves.
Chelsea's eyes consume the voluptuous view, soft and supple and sumptuous. She adores Raven's confidence, the way she vaunts and flaunts her curves.
Much to Chelsea's delight, the eye candy doesn't stop there. Completing the ensemble is a pair of Christmas stockings, fishnets that cling to Raven's calves, travel to her toes, and disappear inside ruby red pumps. Bows, bells, and buttons embellish the tops of the stockings, each appliqué nestled in a bed of fluffy feathers and luscious lace.
Raven proceeds to transform her bedroom into a catwalk. "I know it's a little early for presents," the psychic comments mid-flounce, "but you've been a good girl all year, so you've earned it." She takes a break from strutting to strike a paparazzi princess pose. "What do you think, Chels? Am I The Finest Thing in the Room?"
Chelsea swoons, her composure crumbling like the walls of a gingerbread house.
"C'mon, girl. Ain't you gonna whistle while I work it?" Raven requests, resuming her one-woman fashion show.
A marshmallow tumbles out of Chelsea's mouth and into her lap. She can no longer remember how to formulate sentences, let alone whistle. So she does the only thing she is capable of at the moment: she salivates.
In the midst of her modeling, it comes to Raven's attention that the candy cane Chelsea is holding has begun to melt, sending a red-and-white runnel of sugar trickling along her palm. "Uh, maybe I better take that from you, boo," the psychic suggests. She unfurls Chelsea's fingers and pinches the sticky stripes between her own.
"Hey, Chels? You okay?" Raven queries, bringing the saccharine confection to her mouth. No sooner does the candy cane pass through her lips than she is propelled into the future.
Raven's bedroom. Raven is engaged in a striptease for an audience of one.
Chelsea looks enraptured as she peers over the rim of her cocoa mug. Her eyes embark on an odyssey from lips to hips, scrutinizing the movements of Raven's body - every sway and shimmy and swivel, every rotation and gyration and undulation.
"Wow, Rae. Pelvis Presley has nothing on you."
"Elvis Presley."
"Yeah, him, too. Man. I love that heart on your heinie. It's so-"
The door is flung open and an exuberant young man bursts into the room. "That's my jam!" he crows, as the lyrics of Beyoncé's "Check on It" segue into the second refrain.
"Eddie!" Raven screeches, grabbing the nearest object and hurling it in the intruder's direction. Fortunately for Eddie, the nearest object is a throw pillow.
Eddie shields his eyes, or rather, spreads his fingers in front of them, giving the illusion of embarrassment. "M-My bad," he stammers, shifting from foot to foot. "I'm out." Despite having made the declaration, the boy's departure has yet to commence.
Raven hurls another throw pillow at him and hollers, "If you're out, then get out!"
"Oh, snap!"
The instant the psychic rejoins the present she jumps off of the bed and makes a beeline for the door.
"What's wrong, Rae?" Chelsea probes as Raven activates the lock, then double- and triple-checks to ensure that the door is secured.
"I had a vision that I was, um, that I was dancing to that Beyoncé song, 'Check on It'. And you were checkin' on it and I was watching while you checked up on it. And then Eddie barged into my room and checked up on it. And, girl, the boy was looking like he liked what he saw."
Chelsea blinks. Once, twice. "So Eddie saw you dancing," she says, and shrugs. "No biggie."
"Uh, big biggie, actually," the designer insists. She returns to Chelsea's side and climbs onto the bed, taking her cup of cocoa with her. "I was wearing this outfit, Chels, which means I wasn't wearing much, and with the kind of dancing I was doing, I was about to be wearing much less."
Chelsea raises and drops her shoulders. "I still don't get what you're wigging out about, Rae. It hasn't even happened yet and obviously it's not gonna happen. Besides-"
"Wait," Raven cuts in. "So, you're saying you don't mind if Eddie scopes me out?"
"Well, yeah, I mind, kind of, but Eddie's not really a threat to me, Raven. I mean, for one thing, he's, um, anatomically incorrect. Besides," Chelsea persists, unmindful of the spurt of snickers generated by her comment, "It could've been worse. It could've been Cory who walked in on you. Or your parents."
Raven shudders and squirms. "Let's just put the future behind us, all right?" the psychic proposes.
Chelsea retrieves the fallen marshmallow from her lap. "Okay by me," she agrees, as though she has a say in the matter. "Well, since you gave me an early present, I should give you an early present, too. It's only fair." She pauses, then tags on, "You've been nice enough."
Ignoring Raven's signature squeak of indignation, Chelsea reaches into the front pocket of her jeans and extracts a piece of recycled stationery. "I wrote you a poem. Well, it's not really a poem, exactly. No, actually, it is really a poem. It's an acrostic name poem, so not like the kind of poems that Emily Dickinson wrote. Not deep and profound or anything. But it's still considered a poem, so... here you go."
The designer plucks the paper square from Chelsea's hands and unfolds it. She reads the poem silently, imbibing the purple-penned words.
Rae-diant
Alluring
Vibrant
Effervescent
Narcissistic
Raven lifts an eyebrow. "Narcissistic?" she challenges, displeased.
Chelsea nods nonchalantly. "Narcissistic, yeah. See also: vain. See also… you. Oh, notice how I spelled radiant. Isn't that cute?"
As Raven smothers the snarl curled onto her lips, she wonders if it's possible to love Chelsea any more than she already does now. "Too, Chels. Too cute."
"Awww, I'm glad you like it," the redhead coos, none the wiser. She crawls closer to Raven, one hand aiming for the lumbar region of her back, the other angled toward the ruffled sleeve of her top.
Raven leans in the opposite direction, putting some distance between them. "Whatcha doin', Chels?"
Chelsea leans in Raven's direction, diminishing the distance between them. "I'm unwrapping my present," she informs her, and tugs on the garnished fabric.
"Hold up, now," the designer instructs, and holds up her hands like a mime. "I spent 28.95 on this lingerie, 7.95 on these stockings, plus the cost of materials and all that, plus tax, plus shipping, plus all the time I invested. I ain't takin' anything off just yet." Recalling her vision, she adds, sotto voce, "At least not until I start the striptease."
"What?"
"Huh? What? I didn't say anything."
Chelsea sulks. "What if I said please? Would you take it off if I said please?"
Raven balks. "Nothing doing."
"But… aren't you horny, Rae?"
"Are you a vegetarian?" the designer quips.
But the rhetorical nature of the question is lost on Chelsea. "Rae, silly, you know I am. All righty, well, I'm gonna go ahead and get started and, um… yeah, you just jump in whenever you're ready. Okay?" Knowing that the proposition will prompt Raven to relent, Chelsea turns her frown upside down.
"Well," the psychic reconsiders, just as the redhead predicted, "Maybe you could, um, maybe you could work around it. 'Cause compromise is the foundation of any solid relationship. You know how it is."
Chelsea titters, snatching Raven's candy cane from her mug.
"Thief," the psychic accuses, watching as the redhead partakes of the peppermint pole, her tongue sweeping over the smeared swirls and hooked handle. "Aren't you gonna share?"
"Hmm," Chelsea hums, looking thoughtful. "Well, they say that sharing is caring. And I do care about you, a lot, so… I guess I don't really have much of a choice, do I?"
"None whatsoever," Raven certifies, and moistens the oval of her mouth.
The girls gravitate toward one another, motivated by instinct and impulse.
Their lips connect.
Heat kindles their bodies, like that first sip of hot cocoa as it drizzled down their throats and into their bellies.
Candy cane kiss.
Sticky-sweet smooches with the fragrance of peppermint and the flavor of passion.
Candy cane kisses.
They disconnect.
Chelsea returns the spiraled staff to its rightful owner. "I love you, Raven," the redhead professes, sweet and silly and sincere.
A smile twitches Raven's lips. A giggle tickles Raven's throat. "I love you, too."
"I love you three."
"I-"
"And four."
"You-"
"And five."
"Chels-"
"And six and seven and eight and nine and ten…"
"You're really on a roll there, aren't you, boo?" Raven remarks. Chelsea continues counting, not missing a beat. "Well, far be it from me to slow your roll." With a shrug of resignation, the psychic reclines against the pillows and nibbles her candy cane, her eardrums absorbing the mellifluous melody of Chelsea's words as they filter through the air.
"…and seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and twenty and…"
The End