Title: "Caramel Cream Kisses"

Author: Allison Lindsay

Pairing: Chelsea/Raven (Chrave)

Rating: M

Disclaimer (applicable to this and all future chapters): That's So Raven is so not mine.


"Caramel Creams Kisses" is the long overdue sequel to my first Chrave story, "Cotton Candy Kisses." If you haven't read that one, or if you would like to read it again before you begin reading its sequel, just click on my name, Allison Lindsay, and you can access the story via my profile.

A brief update for everyone: Since completing the first story in the Kisses series, I've been quite the busy bee. I graduated from college, attended Anneliese's opening night of Beauty and the Beast with a fellow Chrave writer, and, in July of this year, met Raven at her concert in Wilmot, Wisconsin.

One more thing before we begin: "Caramel Cream Kisses" is a femslash. This means that Chelsea and Raven will be romantically and sexually involved. If you're uncomfortable with that, please leave now and find a story in a genre that is more to your liking. Gracias.


Chapter One

Splish.

Splish.

Splish.

Splish.

Splaaaash.

"Chels!"

Five-year-old Raven glares at her soppy mop-topped tubmate, arms folded over the soap suds clinging to her chest, face scrunched up like a crumpled paper ball.

Across from her, Chelsea ducks her head and giggles sheepishly. "Sowwy, Waven," says Chelsea, who is in her Tweety Bird phase and has taken to substituting W's for R's.

Raven wags a finger at her friend and chides, "That's very naughty, Chelsea."

"It won't happen again," the redhead vows, head swiveling from side to side, her springy curls spraying droplets of water onto the cerulean tiles.

Tanya observes the two, her lips curved into a smile that is part amusement, part sympathy. She's proud of her daughter's leadership abilities, but she worries that Chelsea will always play second fiddle, walking behind Raven rather than beside her, Ethel Mertz to Raven's Lucy Ricardo.

"Okay, Chelsea. Time to water the flowers," Tanya announces, hoisting a red plastic watering can above the red head. "And then it's bedtime."

"Awww," Raven whines, frowning at her mother. "We don't wanna go to bed yet. We're not tired."

"Yes, you are," Mrs. Baxter insists.

"No, we're not," Raven protests.

"Raven." Tanya's tone is stern and carries with it the promise of a very mild but very undesirable punishment.

"Okay, okay," her daughter relents. "We'll go to bed."

"That's more like it." Tanya turns to Chelsea, nodding at the watering can. "Ready?"

A pair of shriveled hands advances in Chelsea's direction, the fingernails coated with pearly purple polish, chipped and peeling. Raven uses her hands to shield Chelsea's eyes and prevent the watermelon-scented shampoo from inducing tears.

"Weady!"

When the watering can is empty, Mrs. Baxter wraps the girls in matching purple towels and leads them into Raven's room, where she allows them to prepare for bed in private.

As Raven maneuvers her head through her Princess Jasmine nightgown, a pale, pasty finger pokes her bellybutton.

"Waven, how come we don't share an umbrella-cal cord?"

"It's called an umbelly-cal cord, Chels," Raven corrects her.

"Ohhh, okay," Chelsea stands corrected, and for the next ten years, she will continue to mispronounce the word, because she thinks that Raven knows everything.

Raven Baxter reclines in the bathtub, body blanketed by bubbles, like the foam atop a root beer float, neck cushioned by a pillow that resembles a half-eaten donut. Her long black tresses are piled atop her head and held in place with a pink plastic claw clip.

On her face, an indelible grin. On her mind, childhood memories. In her heart, Chelsea.

Raven loves the way Chelsea smiles, sunny and radiant. And the way she laughs, dulcet and lilting. And the way she smells, a synthesis of apricots and cinnamon. And the way she looks at Raven, like she has never encountered anyone who possessed such… What's the word Chelsea uses? Pulchritude? And she loves the way Chelsea hugs her and kisses her and makes love to her. She loves the way Chelsea loves her. She loves loving Chelsea.

Chelsea and love have become synonymous, interchangeable, inextricable.

Raven watches as a soap bubble dislodges from the frothy mass and bounces along the air molecules. The curve of the bubble reflects a prism, reminiscent of the kind of rainbows that appear in the sky after a downpour.

Chelsea loves rainbows.

The redhead is not there at the moment, but she is on her way. Keeping the designer company in the interim is a rubber duck, with a yellow body, neon orange beak, and ridged wings fused to its sides. The bath toy bobs up and down, like a buoy in the ocean. Raven squeezes the toy's midsection, releasing a puff of air from the circular hole punctured in its underside. When she does this, the duck squeaks – or, rather, it wheezes – and it is for this reason, and not for Louise Jefferson, who moved on up, that she has dubbed the duck Wheezy.

The psychic sets the duck back in the water, and as she does so, a visitor knocks at the door.

"Hey, Rae?"

"Hey, Chels!"

"Are you in there?"

Raven shakes her head and rolls her eyes and laughs softly, because Chelsea will never change.

"No."

"Okay, I'll come back later."

"Get in here, Chels!"

Enter Chelsea Daniels, wearing short shorts and a tank top, her strawberry locks swept up into a ponytail. In one hand, she holds a canvas tote bag, in the other, a flat rectangular box.

Approaching her girlfriend, Chelsea greets Raven in her customary perky fashion. "Hi, sweetie!"

"Hey, boo."

Chelsea bends at the waist and pecks Raven on the cheek. "I signed us up for the summer reading club at the library," the visitor announces, as she plops her rump onto the rug in front of the tub, setting her bag down beside her. "I put your card back in your wallet."

"Get anything good?"

"Mmm-hmm," the redhead responds. "I know I'm kinda old for it, but I found this really cute book in the juvie section – Love Me, Love My Broccoli. It's about this girl who's a vegetarian, and she loves animals."

"And her name is Chelsea, right?" the psychic surmises.

"Chloe."

"Close."

"And then I got this book on the history of shoes. That's for you."

The designer's hand emerges from beneath her bubble blanket and transfers the fluffy foam from her finger to Chelsea's nose. "Thanks," she says, as her girlfriend snarls playfully and swipes at the soap. Raven giggles. I love my Biscuithead. "So, what's in the box?"

"Caramel creams. Uncle Earl sent 'em."

"Uncle Earl? The one who tries to get you to pull his finger on Thanksgiving?"

"And his leg, yeah. Aunt Earline decided that Uncle Earl needed a hobby, so she's teaching him how to make stuff. I think these turned out pretty good," Chelsea comments, then adds, as if to entice her companion, "They're all-natural. Not organic, but the next best thing."

Removing the lid, the redhead reveals two neat rows of coffee-colored wedges with snowflake-white cream embedded in their centers. Chelsea plucks one from the box and bites into it, her teeth puncturing the goopy clump.

"That looks good," Raven remarks, the tip of her tongue traversing her lower lip.

A pair of pretty brown peepers twinkles, exuding mischief. Chelsea leans forward, pausing just inches from Raven's face. "Want a taste?"

The two gravitate toward one another, compelled by a mutual need.

Their lips connect.

A chaste peck, sticky and satisfying.

Caramel cream kiss.

Continued contact, gooey and gratifying.

Caramel cream kisses.

They disconnect.

"That was yummy," Chelsea comments. "You whet my appetite. Get it? Whet my appetite? 'Cause you're wet and…" Chelsea trails off, her thoughts disintegrating. And before her companion can utter two syllables in response, her tongue is demanding access to Raven's mouth. Eager, anxious, impatient. Urging her lips asunder, Chelsea probes the familiar orifice, tracing the ridges and grooves of the hollow interior.

The temperature in the room is rapidly escalating from tepid to torrid, and Raven is certain that when they separate, a sheen of steam will be visible on the mirror above the sink.

A full quarter of a minute elapses before the psychic breaks contact, which she would not have done were her brain able to subsist sans oxygen for long periods at a time.

The redhead rises to her feet and approaches the sink. "That was a pretty heated game of tonsil hockey," Chelsea says, cleansing her hands under the faucet.

"It's the only sport I'll play," the designer affirms, then adds, "It's the only sport I can play." She removes Wheezy from the water and sets the duck onto the side of the tub, in between the shampoo bottle and the bubble bath dispenser.

"Rae, you're all wrinkly," Chelsea observes, poking Raven's hand as though it is a foreign object.

The psychic pinches her soggy skin and her nose furrows in disgust. "I look like I'm about to audition for The California Raisins," Raven mutters, unplugging the drain. "I'm gettin' up outta here before they drop me in a little red carton and pack me in some kid's lunchbox."

"Naw, Rae, it's cute. I do love me some chocolate-covered raisins." Waggling her eyebrows, the redhead winks at her sudsy sweetie.

"No, you did not just say that," the designer murmurs. "I think I'm starting to rub off on you, girl."

"Starting?" Chelsea scoffs. "You've been rubbing up on me for a month now."

"I didn't say rubbing up, Chels. I said-"

"I heard you."

"When did you get so naughty?" the psychic ponders.

"Soon as I walked in here and saw you all wet and naked as a jaybird. Although, technically, jaybirds aren't naked; they've got feathers. And technically, they're not jaybirds; they're just jays… Anyway, the point is, when you get naked, I get naughty."

That girl is in a state of perpetual horniness, Raven notes, gripping the curved edges of the tub. As she stands, currents of water stream down her body, navigating its contours, merging and converging. She bends at the waist, fishes for her loofah sponge. "Hey, Chels, you wanna hand me that towel?" Raven requests, nodding at the towel bar affixed to the wall.

Chelsea's eyes abandon Raven briefly, glimpsing the purple cotton material. "Not really," she responds, for Chelsea is nothing if not completely honest.

Raven smirks at the expression on her lover's face. "You look like a deer caught in headlights, girl."

Chelsea begins to titter and tehee, resembling a five-year-old child who's just learned the technical term for private parts. "Suddenly, I have this huge craving for cantaloupe," the vegetarian shares.

"You know what, Chels? You are obsessed with the breasts. For real."

"I know, Rae, but they're so… gargantuan. And… bountiful. Seriously, I mean, who needs Grey's Anatomy when I've got Rae's anatomy?"

Raven's eyes make a three hundred and sixty degree turn. "Why don't you just write them a sonnet, okay? 'Ode to The Girls.'"

"Eh, I'm not really into Shakespeare," Chelsea declines. "However," she continues, drawling out her words, "I can show my appreciation in other ways."

Having made the declaration, the redhead rises to her knees, the loyal subject kneeling at the feet of her queen. She kisses Raven's navel, then the flesh beneath it.

But there her journey ends.

The psychic snatches the towel from the bar and swiftly folds the material around her body, creating a barrier between her lips and Chelsea's mouth.

"Rae!" the redhead mewls. "No coochie smoochie?"

"No. No… coochie… smoochie. You want Eddie coming down here right when I'm coming down there? I don't think so. No."

"Rae, how can you both be coming at the same ti… Ohhh. You mean… Yeah, okay. Awkward."

"Yeah, awkward," Raven concurs, as she steps out of the bathtub and into her flip flops, before padding into her bedroom. Reaching her bureau, she pulls open the top drawer and begins sifting through its contents. "Hey, Chels?"

"Coming," Chelsea chirps, and skips into the bedroom.

Her back to the redhead, Raven removes the clip from her hair, causing her streamer-curly tresses to flop onto her shoulders. "Am I staying over at your place tomorrow?"

"Yeah. But don't bring your pajamas. I mean, it's not like you'll really have an occasion to wear them or anything."

Raven pivots so that she is facing Chelsea. As she is about to reply, she notices that the redhead is concealing something behind her back. "Whatcha got there, Chels?"

"Wheezy," Chelsea informs her companion, holding him in plain view, "has been ab-duck-ted. Get it? Ab-duck-ted?" Chelsea guffaws, slapping her thigh, marveling at her wit.

"Yeah, very funny, Chels. Now give it back."

"Ah ah ah. Not so fast there, miss missy. It's gonna cost ya."

"Oh?" the psychic queries, placing her undergarments on top of the bedspread.

"Mmm-hmm. How about we make a trade?"

"I'm listening."

"I'll trade you the duck… for… a fuck."

Raven's eyes expand in diameter, and she feels the urge to insert a bar of soap into Chelsea's mouth. "Chels! You don't swear."

"I wasn't swearing!" the redhead protests. "That wasn't an Oh, fuck fuck. That was a Let's fuck fuck."

Raven feels her innocence unraveling by the yard. "Chelsea!" she chides, covering her ears to hear no evil.

"Ooh, I'll be the speak-no-evil monkey!" Chelsea enthuses. She sets the duck down, then places her hands over her mouth. "Eddie can do the see-no-evil one," she decides, her words muffled and distorted.

"Gotta love ya, Chels," Raven murmurs, crossing to her closet to choose an ensemble for their bowling alley outing.

The designer rifles through her creations, a wardrobe that would put Joseph and his amazing Technicolor dreamcoat to shame. Removing a hanger from the rack, Raven examines the blue and purple frock draped over it.

"Rae, why don't you wear something simple today?" the redhead suggests.

"Simple?" Raven repeats, as though she has never heard the word before.

"Yeah, I mean, some of your stuff is kind of… loud and… well, kind of obnoxious, too, actually."

"What?" Raven squeaks. "Obnoxious?" Raven huffs. "What you mean obnoxious?"

"Obnoxious. You know, offensive, objectionable-"

"I know what it means, Chels," Raven informs her, snatching a pair of jeans off the rack. "You know what I also know? I also know that you-" here, the psychic pauses for dramatic effect "-are not getting into the cookie jar tonight, okay?" Getting into the Cookie Jar is one of the many terms the two have devised to describe sexual activity, and Raven is well aware of her lover's constant craving for cookies.

"Rae!"

"Don't Rae me."

"Don't Rae me fa so la ti do," the redhead croons, shrieking with laughter.

A smile pulls at Raven's lips as she gazes at Chelsea. Chelsea, with her megawatt smile and chaste sensuality and unabashed adoration for the psychic. Chelsea, with her-

The phone rings, jarring Raven from her thoughts. Seizing the receiver, she settles onto the chartreuse settee in the center of the room. Chelsea joins her, sliding the box of caramel creams onto the coffee table and sidling up to Raven.

"Hey, Eddie," the psychic greets the third member of the trio. But her attention does not remain focused on Eddie for long, as she feels Chelsea's lips connecting with the moist, bare flesh of her shoulder.

"What's good, Rae?" the rapper responds. "Listen, I just called to apologize for bein' late. But it wasn't my fault. Chantel was holdin' me hostage. You know how irresistible I am. Don't roll your eyes. I know you're rollin' your eyes right now, girl. Anyway, I should be there in about twenty minutes. I'm at the corner of-" Eddie halts mid-sentence, a peculiar sound having piqued his interest. "What's that noise?"

Raven glares at Chelsea, silently commanding her to back up off me. "Uhh… what noise?" the psychic stammers.

"That smacking sound. What you doin'?"

"Uhh…." Raven clicks her tongue against her palate, producing a sound similar to that of Chelsea's noisy kisses. "Clucking," she answers.

"Clucking?" Eddie echoes, suspicion evident in his tone.

"What's with the third degree, man? I mean, c'mon now. Can't a girl just get her cluck on?"

"Or something that rhymes with it," Chelsea whispers, inciting a smack from Raven. In spite of – or, perhaps, because of – the physical punishment, the redhead becomes relentless. Her kisses escalate to licks. Her licks segue to suctions. Raven shudders and oohs as Chelsea's mouth meanders along her shoulder, then ventures to her neck.

"I-I'll see you in menty twinutes," Raven murmurs into the receiver. Realizing she has transposed the letters, she hastens to correct herself: "Uh, twenty minutes. Holla." And with that, she severs their connection.

Beside her, Chelsea is giddy and giggly and gluttonous. "Raven and Chelsea sittin' in a tree, f-u-c-k-"

"Chelsea!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry," the redhead simpers. When she has regained her composure, she inquires, "Raven, how come you don't want Eddie to know about us?"

The designer shifts so that she is facing her companion, and contemplates an appropriate answer.

Chelsea says what she means and means what she says.

And says what she doesn't mean to say.

Chelsea has managed to conceal the non-platonic aspect of their relationship, both from her parents and from Raven's parents. And even from Cory. But Raven is worried that if Eddie knows, he will accidentally disclose the secret, and she isn't sure that Tanya and Victor will react favorably to the news. Raven can't even predict what Eddie's reaction will be. She wishes she-

But the psychic's thoughts are interrupted by a vision, as she is catapulted into the future.

The bowling alley. Lane thirteen. Raven is sitting beside Chelsea at the scorekeeper. Eddie is seated in an adjacent chair, an expectant expression on his face.

"Well?" Eddie probes. "What did y'all wanna tell me?"

The designer glides her palms along the denim fabric of her jeans. One hand forward, the other back. One hand back, the other forward. "Um… Eddie… uh... what we wanna tell you is that… well, uh-"

"Raven and I are dating."

The psychic groans in frustration as she returns to the present.

"What, Rae? Did you just have a vision?" her girlfriend asks, placing a hand on Raven's knee.

"Yeah. I saw us at the bowling alley, and we were telling Eddie about us."

"About us being… an us?"

The designer nods.

"Well, how did he react? Was he mad? Sad? Glad?"

"I don't really know, Chels. My vision ended right after we told him," Raven replies, crossing to her bed.

"So, then, we are gonna tell him? Today?"

The psychic shrugs. "I guess so. It's gotta be today 'cause you're wearing the same clothes you were wearing in my vision." She glimpses the outfit laid out on her bedspread. "And I'm wearing the same clothes I was wearing in my vision, so… Yeah, looks like we're gonna tell him today. And we probably should. I mean, he's gonna find out eventually. So, we might as well just go ahead and get it over with."

"Yeah. I think he'll be surprised, but I don't think he's gonna wig out or anything."

"I hope not," Raven murmurs, and grips her towel, preparing to remove it. "Close your eyes, Chels," she instructs.

Chelsea blinks, doe-eyed. "Why?"

"You wanna get in the cookie jar later?"

Without further ado, the redhead places her hands over her eyes. "Proceed."

Satisfied, Raven removes her towel and begins to dress, having decided on a white T-shirt, tulip pink camisole, and dark blue denims.

"Oh, I meant to tell you," the redhead remarks, hands still shielding her eyes. "I thought up a new nickname for you."

Raven fastens the button on her jeans. It better not have anything to do with gravy, she prays, recalling the Gravyhead moniker Chelsea had conferred upon her at the carnival.

"LL Cool Rae."

"Say what?"

"Raven, don't you remember that huge crush you used to have on LL Cool J?"

"Used to have?" the psychic scoffs, retrieving her hairbrush from the dresser. "I still think he's fine."

"See? Then it's perfect. Except it's kinda long, though. Maybe we should shorten it."

"Yeah, girl, we should shorten it," the designer concurs. Stifling a snicker, she adds, "We need to conserve letters. Don't want our L's and O's ending up on the endangered species list."

"Funny, Rae. Oh, hey! That's it! We'll shorten it to Rae!"

"So, uh, my new nickname is… Rae?"

"Yeah!" her companion chirps, bouncing with enthusiasm, resembling Tigger the tiger. "Isn't that cute?"

The psychic fleetingly known as LL Cool Rae decides to humor her girlfriend. "I love it!" she gushes, sliding onto the chair in front of her vanity table. "Okay, Chels, you can go ahead and open your eyes now. Just gotta put on my face and then I'm ready." Raven studies her reflection, noting the natural radiance of her skin. Sex is definitely good for the complexion, the designer concludes, as she swivels the cap on a tube of mascara.

Glancing at the redhead out of the corner of her eye, Raven grins. The normally chatty Chelsea is quiet now, having learned from experience not to disturb or distract the designer while she is applying her make-up. Otherwise, it will take Raven twice as long, if not longer, to get the job done.

When she is finished, the psychic joins Chelsea on the couch.

"Want some more?" Chelsea offers, lifting the lid off the box of caramel creams.

Raven pinches a nugget between her thumb and forefinger. "We better hide these from Eddie," she says, taking the box from her girlfriend and sliding it under the couch. "That boy just doesn't know when to quit. Probably eats in his sleep, too, you know what I'm say-"

"Rae."

Raven looks to her left and sees Chelsea leaning toward her, lips puckered and ready for action. "I wuv you, Waven," the redhead professes, sweet and silly and sincere.

Raven's insides dissolve into pudding. "I love you, too."

Caramel cream kisses resume.

Peck. Smack. Smooch.

Lips part to permit the entry of tongues, an oral exploration.

Raven hopes that their game of tonsil hockey will go into overtime. But it is not to be. She detaches her mouth from the redhead's. "I hear Eddie," the psychic pouts.

Chelsea groans and crosses her arms over her chest. "He made our kiss go amiss."

"This is not good, Biscuithead."

"Knock, knock."

The two turn to the doorway of Raven's basement boudoir. Standing on the landing is Eddie Thomas, clad in jeans and a red-and-yellow striped polo shirt.

"Who's there?" Chelsea inquires.

"It's me, Chels! I'm standin' right in front of you!"

"It's-me-Chels-I'm-standing-right-in-front-of-you who?"

Eddie sighs in exasperation. "Aw, never mind," the boy grumbles, dismissing the redhead with a flick of his hand.

"Uh, Eddie, I don't think you really grasp the whole knock-knock joke concept," Chelsea observes.

"Anyway… I'm sorry I'm late. You ready to go?"

In unison, the girls nod and rise to their feet.

"You guys wanna get something to eat afterwards?" Eddie suggests, jogging up the staircase that leads to and from the basement.

"Um… yeah, okay," Raven agrees with some reluctance. "Where should we go?"

"Oh, I'll eat anything," Chelsea replies. "As long as it doesn't baa, moo, oink, quack, or cluck."

"So, uh, shrimp or turkey okay?" Eddie jests.

"Eddie!"

It is Raven who scolds him.

"I'm just playin' with you, girl," he assures Chelsea, and continues on his way.

Behind him, the psychic pauses in the middle of the staircase. She reaches for Chelsea's arm, halting her ascent as well.

"What's wrong, Rae?" the redhead whispers.

"Uh, Eddie?" Raven calls up the stairs when she is certain that the third amigo has reached the first floor. "We'll be right there! I left something in my room."

"Okay!"

"Well, so much for us eating out tonight," Chelsea grouses.

"Oh, we are eating out tonight, Chels," Raven promises, squeezing the girl's waist.

Chelsea's brow furrows in puzzlement. "What, you mean, like, go back out again, without Eddie?"

"No. We're not going out again, Chels. We're staying in."

"Okay, but, Rae, how can we eat out if we're staying in? That doesn't make any sense." And then, like an avalanche of biscuits, it dawns on Chelsea exactly what Raven means. "Ohhh."

The psychic observes her girlfriend, watching as the eyes darken, the brown irises barely visible.

"I see," Chelsea purrs. "So we're eating out after we eat out. Gotcha."

Raven grins. "I knew you'd get there."

"Man, what y'all doin' down there?" Eddie demands.

"I'm kickin' it with LL Cool Rae," Chelsea giggles, loud enough for Raven to hear but soft enough for Eddie not to.

The designer steals one last caramel cream kiss before turning and climbing the stairs. She keeps close to the railing, ensuring that there is enough room for Chelsea to walk not behind her, but beside her.