PART: 1 of ??
RATING: PG-13; eventual NC-17 (Explicit Heterosexual Sexual
Activity, Adult thematic material, language, adult content, character death,
trauma)
PAIRING(s): L/L; S/C
DISTRIBUTION: To Myself so far; any other archives are welcome
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CATEGORY: Drama
FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!
SEQUEL TO : Shotzette's
"True Colors"; a true and proper one more so than "With
Words" could be.
SETTING IN TIMELINE: Early Show AU; Canon for Happy Days up
to the girls' first appearance.
SPOILLER/SUMMARY: Dare to dream. (Lavenny, Carly)
NOTES: An alternate version of the "True Colors"
side of things - much more romantic in nature.
***
"Laverne didn't dream anymore, she probably never had..." -
True Colors
***
He had fallen asleep on her again.
Laverne's face twisted slightly as she paused in mid-gesture
and studied the man beside her on the blanket.
Lenny Kosnowski had a face like a little boy - the only part of him that
was childlike, she bragged to herself mentally - and large, callous-roughed
hands that grabbed her in fits of clumsy desire. Those hands lay unfolded and cupped in sleep,
making him look like a ragged doll.
He had taken her to his bed this time. His bed, not the rumble seat of his
Her eyes fell on his watch - Lenny insisted on making love
to her completely naked - a squint at the dial reading
If she didn't, Shirley would break a window.
She returned for a second to the days of her childhood -
when she and Shirley had been real friends.
It hadn't always been this way...
But what did she care?
Grunting, she moved beneath the rough green blanket,
climbing out of his bed and picking up her so-easy-to-unzip red dress and
panties from the floor - unlike Lenny, she insisted on keeping something on
while she fucked. In the chilly room,
she dressed as swiftly as possible, looking around herself at the tidy, efficient
bedroom of her lover. She shook her head
in disgust - if she didn't know better, she would have thought Lenny was a
pansy. The walls were painted a salmon
color, filled with white-painted furniture that seemed to belong in a doll's
house. Andrew had bragged to her once
that they'd gotten the entire set for less than ten dollars at a swap meet, and
Laverne wouldn't be surprised if they had.
Her eyes fell on a picture of Lenny's best friend - Andrew
J. Squiggman, professor and forensics champion of
Wait, why did she care?
She looked again at the man sleeping there in bed. They had met at an ROC mixer - Shirley's
panties had a way of falling off around military men even at sixteen - he had
spilled an orange drink down her dress, she had given him a hand job in the
backseat of his car, and from that day on she hadn't been able to shake
him. They had started screwing almost
right away - he had been a virgin, but she had turned him into a fabulous lay.
A fabulous lay who wore a condom every time they were
together and made no excuse about not liking them.
A fabulous lay who wanted to take her places when every
other man treated her like party trash.
A fabulous lay who didn't date anyone but her.
The pump dangled from her palm as she looked at Lenny again
- studied him with a tilt of her head.
Maybe he was just undersexed or something.
She looked at the bulge under the tightly-pressed
sheets. She had measured him with her
hands and her mouth a million times plus two that night.
Maybe not.
Why was she wasting her brainpower? She shoved away her wandering thoughts and
bent over to retrieve her other pump from beneath the bed. A small orange ball of fur hissed at her.
She glared back at the malevolent green eyes staring her
down. "Shut up, Jeffery," she
muttered to the tabby.
"Mrrowl," responded
Jeffery, his tail wagging back and forth.
Swiftly as she could, Laverne grabbed the heel of her scuffed pump and
dragged it across the wooden floor before the cat could scratch her again. She looked up briefly at Lenny - good, he was
still asleep - and congratulated herself smugly.
Then smacked her head on the bed frame,
waking him.
Blue eyes looked at her in confusion. "Szit
morning?" he muttered.
She shook her head. "Nah. I gotta get going."
He sat up automatically.
"You don't want me to walk you home?"
"I can make it by myself..."
He pushed back the blankets, accidentally flashing her. Half-hard, he was a shadow of the man who
could fuck her to oblivion and back, but it still stirred her desires. His hand took hers, caressing it over the
black pump. "Lemme
take you," he said tenderly.
Laverne grinned.
"Okay..."
she pushed him down by the shoulders and straddled his hips.
***
"But, Mister Odenkoswi..."
Shirley whined, as a beefy hand shoved her firmly out the front door of his
package shop.
"OUT!" he said firmly. "Unless you can pay with cash, I ain't
taking what you're offering!"
It was raining outside.
Damn it, she'd have to walk all the way home in this rain. She turned around, letting the streetlamps
illuminate her black lace dress, turning it see-through. "I've seen that hag of a wife of
yours," she said. "A big,
strong fella like you's got
to be awful lonely."
He slammed the door on her, leaving Shirley fuming on the
street.
HEAVEN. He'd rather go to heaven than fuck her! Of all the nerve in the world! Shirley Feeney had major issues with
heaven. It had a way of letting the
scum-suckers in - something she'd learned at a painfully early age. She stuck out her chest. No reason to cry over split milk. She'd ask Laverne to go back. Maybe he was a tits man...
Lost in her storm cloud of anger, she didn't see the squat,
solid form until it bashed straight into her.
Shirley sat on her ass in the soaked gutter for a good
second before shrieking invective at whatever had knocked her off her heels.
"I'm sorry!" the voice coming from above was pleasant,
accented. Brooklynish. She looked up to see two dark eyes, a mop of
dark hair, and a solid, delicious-looking build.
She suddenly wasn't very angry anymore. "It's all right," she accepted the
hand he offered and crawled out of the mess.
"I ain't been thinking straight all day," he
laughed, "see, I got a big prize fight in a
couple of months."
"Prize fight?" Her pussy began to drool as her
mind wailed a warning against getting hooked up with deadbeats.
"You ain't heard of me?" he punched the air with a
series of uppercuts and hooks. "I'm
a junior heavyweight contender!"
Shirley had no idea what that meant, but his biceps were
very appealing. "I see. Do you know a place where a lady could dry
off?"
"If you wanna tell me your name,
lady."
"My name is Shirley Feeney," she said smoothly,
placing her hand on his bicep and feeling the hope in his body. "What's your name, champ?"
He smiled rakishly and slipped
his arm through hers. "It's
Carmine. Carmine
"Kid Gloves"