SERIES: Domestic Relations

PART: 1 of 1

RATING: Hard R (Explicit Heterosexual Sexual Activity, Adult thematic material, language, adult content)

PAIRING(s): L/L

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CATEGORY: Romance

FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!

SETTING IN TIMELINE: Post-Show AU.

SPOILLER/SUMMARY: Laverne wakes to a cold, early morning and the embrace of a loved one...

 

***

 

Like a dead man hissing in her ear, the breeze was chill and stale.  Its cold billowed out exhalative across Laverne's bare shoulder, causing a light ache - exacerbating.  She shuddered, rotating her numb, bare limb until it dipped beneath the top sheet covering her, staving off the early spring chill and willing the day away.  Bright yellow light slanted into the room, across the chalk-colored sheets, into her left eye as she opened it.  Blinded by the electric glow, she turned her head, scooting onto his pillow, his half of the bed.

 

It was a half, she noted for the millionth time and with no decrease in her grimness, that he barely occupied.  As she opened her eyes she recognized his form, curled like a baby's, at the edge of his side of the mattress.  She blew a sigh of annoyance.  When would he get it through his skull that the bed was theirs - plural, mutual? 

 

Laverne shuddered again - the wind was really gusting.  She smirked through the distance between them, seeing no barrier.  There was always one way to get warm.  She moved like a ninja against her cotton protection, sidling over until his body heat radiated against her breasts.

 

They had been lovers and partners for eleven years that very day - something that had started out inauspiciously with a celebration and a large bottle of merlot.  Lenny had been promoted to foreman, something daringly ambitious that she - and only she - had encouraged him to try.  Shirley had been out of town visiting her pregnant cousin, and Squiggy had a very hot date with a florist - or so she said she was - they had been left alone and in need of a good time.  Unfortunately, they had gotten so pickled that she had entertained the entire clientele of Arogasta with a medley of songs from "My Fair Lady" - and much later and cramped on the lower bunk of his bed, he coated her body with slobbery uncouth kisses, rucked her sweater halfway to her neck and rolled her skirt up to her waist, encasing her as a fashionable sausage.  Despite their frantic activity, she was of no help to him in the nitty-gritty, and he went flaccid halfway through the act.  Humiliated and very drunk, Lenny wept as she soothed - neither of them would have orgasms that night, but it didn't matter.  Everything was different in the morning.  The universe had warped and split and bubbled - and gone brilliant with new light. 

 

In a sober mood, she had picked over the events all of the following day - her usual sense of recklessness was blamed, her passion denied, her lack of faith love cross-examined.  She wasted a week going out with other men, trying to erase from her memory the feeling of his weight on her belly, the smoky cindery smell of his throat, the temporal fullness stretching her open and leaving behind a hollow that could be filled but not consumed - not the same way again.  Alone for one more day, she floated in a warm bath and stroked herself, conjuring the heady insanity of the previous weekend's follies, wishing her fingers were as thick as his.  She cursed her susceptibility, went to church and hated him for being there, lighting candles and taking communion beside her.  Now she wondered why she resisted him for so long. 

 

They had come to a resolution mutually, a language of touches and superstition.  He had been bent over the ball return at her father's bowling alley, and she had placed her hand on his shoulder - he jumped away like a scalded cat.  Her hand didn't move.  The animal wearing his skin understood her.  It always would.

 

The next time - that night, while Shirley attended Carmine and Squiggy hollered for him up the dumbwaiter - he took her against a wall in the third floor hallway of the Knapp Street building.  It was near-perfect.  His passion had knocked her for a loop, his body rock solid as it spread, as she contained.  He prepared her roughly with his fingers, squeezing her breast through the net of her navy blue sweater, his eyes never leaving hers until she glowed, sticky and hungry and empty.  She felt the smooth, natural pressure of his body as he pressed for entrance, her body swallowing him whole with an almost painful delight so sharp that she yelped out loud and he had to cover her cries with his mouth.  Lenny's thrusting was jerky, uneven, and desperate - she grabbed him by the hips to still him and he exploded.   She was like a fist around his sex - desperate to come after weeks of buildup.  Heroically, he threw himself down onto his knees and worshiped her with his mouth, ignoring the taste of rubber until she climaxed, her head banging against the wall, her throat constricted, unable to make another sound, her fingers knotted in his greasy hair.  

 

In this manner and with much invention and improvement they continued on for a year, hiding their mutual desire from everyone they knew and loved dearly.  It was to her shame that Laverne knew she held him with her body before she held him with her heart, but when mind caught up with flesh it was a near-devastation. 

 

She hadn't wanted to be in love.  Not after Randy.  Over the course of that year she came to realize that she had no real choice in the matter - she loved deeply if not wisely.  Eventually, she broke the news to Shirley before the neighborhood gossips could.  She had been understanding - the Novocain had helped with that, Laverne remembered wryly.  Laverne had married Lenny a year later, her father's accusations of "too soon" ringing in her ears.  She couldn't tell him why it wasn't too soon for her - just let her calmative spirit and affection speak for her. 

 

Eight years later, she had more than enough evidence of what worked and what didn't - a lifetime of memories and sensations.  She knew that his orgasms were religious (Oh God, Laverne indeed).  She knew what the back of his neck tasted like (tangy).  She knew his every goofy orgasm face (on an especially good day, she could make his eyes cross).  She knew what he looked like hovering over her, standing beside her, in a reflection as he stood behind her, kneeling between her legs, on his back, curled around her with his head on her shoulder (her favorite position).  She knew the rude slurping noises he made against her flesh, accompanied by the glittering laughter in his eyes (usually when he was inches from the center of her sex).  She knew the animal and yet innocent smell of his skin, musk and sweat and Johnson's Baby Powder (cleaner now than it had ever been).  She knew the softness of his eyes as he knelt between her knees in the flickering candlelight as he made her his wife, and the laugher on his lips as he bent her over the counter of the Pizza Bowl a few hours after closing time (he had turned on the taps, beer rushing over her bare breasts as he sucked on her nipples).  She knew his loving touch as he stroked her hair (as she stretched her lips around the width of his cock).  She knew how awful he was at writing mash notes (some day, she would have to tell him it's not spelled "pussee").  In all of these guises, these shadow plays, she was his protector - he was her lover.

 

He stirred against the sunlight - it filled the room now.   On opening his eyes, he seemed startled to see her there - always tended to.  She pressed her breasts to his chest - the barely-visible blond hair stroking her thick buds.  She shuddered - not with the cold now, but with the pleasure of his touch. 

 

He grinned - opening his mouth to speak, she shuts it with her tongue.  He's a strawberry sundae in a sugar cage, milky in pinks and whites and butterscotch blond.  She's a mother of the earth, rooted to the good soil of his love, fertile with the blood of their desire. 

 

As she came against his palm, a bird screeched on their windowsill.