Ryan, Just Admit It

Ryan, Just Admit It

Author: Pepperstasia Beaverhausen
rating: NC-17, for rampant sex and substance use
categories: RST, MRR, funny story, and my own special category, stonerfic. Oh, and Ryan POV, by the way
spoilers: Hells to the no. Timeline around beginning Season 2
Author's notes and the Disclaimer: That's right, you guessed it. The characters of Micki, Ryan, and Jack are not mine, they are the propertah of the Man (Cuso, Jr.). I've taken them off the shelves, dusted them off, and readied them for naughty playtime. In essense, this story's about to get Regalia.

"...There's so much space I can cut me a piece with some fine wine/Brought peace to my mind in the Summertime/ and it Rolls..." ~Jane's Addiction "Summertime Rolls"

"Antique Wine Bottle bound in silver weaving." Jack announces as he pours throught the Manifest, "Circa 1892."
"What about it?" I ask him, sipping my coffee and scratching my head as he and I sit at the table in the kitchenette, going through the morning routine of newspapers/Manifest comparison.
"There's an interesting picture here in the Variety section this morning." Jack answers as he hands me the paper.
I glance at the picture and the caption above it, "So, Jane's Addiction is coming to town?" I ask, checking out the crowd scene from their show in San Francisco.
"Spy the gentleman with the black dreadlocks in the cape a little to the right." Jack points, "Look at what he's holding."
"A wine bottle? There are plenty of wine bottles that look like that at a Jane's Addiction show, or so I've heard." I explain to him, "It's not that much of a correlation."
"Look closer, there's a marking on the cap." Jack indicates.
Well, I'llbedamned, "You and your eagle eye." I say to him as the front door opens and slams shut downstairs. Micki must be back with breakfast. Mmm, muffins.
"Hey Micki, looks like we get to go see Jane's Addiction!" I yell down to the stairwell.
"Wouldn't be a bad idea; it seems, according to their tour dates so far, that there's been an unsolved murder in every city following their shows." Jack suggests, scratching a bit a his beard.
"You were up late last night reading up on this, weren't you?" I ask as Micki makes her appearance with milk and muffins.
Jack shoots me an 'of course' look and nods, "I've also seen this young man in pictures from their last few shows, which leads me to believe that he's following the band..."
"What're we talking about?" Micki asks, placing the bag of muffins in the center of the table.
"There's a kid following around Jane's Addiction with a cursed wine bottle." I sum it up for her as I snag a chocolate baked piece of heaven, "Thanks, I was *hungry*."
"You're welcome." she answers, placing the carton of milk in the fridge and sitting next to me at the table, "Do you have any idea how it works, Jack?"
"The item's origin is from London, and I've managed to trace the ownership to Aleister Crowley, among others."
"Meester Crowley?" I interrupt in my best Ozzy sing-song.
"You know of him?" Jack asks.
"Yeah, from Ozzy Osbourne's solo album, Blizzard of Ozz. Wasn't he heavy into the occult and openly bisexual? Anyway, there's a song about him." I tell him.
"Yes, Aleister Crowley was notoriously involved in matters of sex magick and had written quite a few books relating to the occult." Jack continues, "I'm sure Lewis used these elements when the wine bottle ended up in his hands."
"When is this show?" Micki asks, biting into her own banana bread muffin.
"Tomorrow night." Jack answers, "Ryan, I think after we finish eating you should go buy tickets for Micki and yourself."
"What about you?" Micki questions Jack.
Jack chuckles, "I think I'd be a little out of place at a rock show of this caliber, young lady."

*****************************************************************

It's after lunchtime; Micki and I left Jack to tend the store and stopped at a soup and sandwich place before heading to the record store to buy tickets. I have to physically *force* myself not to stare at her. It's summer, and lately her wardrobe is resplendant with white tank tops and slit skirts, just *killing* me. It's hard enough to deal with running around in our "Goods Lair" in our underwear in front of each other during off hours; at least when it was winter it was a little easier on me during the day.
When I first laid eyes on her I felt an instant attraction, but what red-blooded male wouldn't? Micki has been blessed with incomparable beauty and a body that seeps sexuality like a constant leaky faucet. It won't quit.
She made it clear in the beginning that she wasn't interested and that's been it, pretty much. Our scenario has been lain out in script ever since: We work together to recover cursed objects, sleep a few feet away from each other at night, and I have to find new and interesting ways to keep my perma-boner at bay. And let me tell you, when this gorgeous woman is pressing her braless bosom into your back full-time, you find yourself pretty creative at concocting erection calming scenarios in your head. Currently, I'm thinking of a three-way involving Margaret Thatcher, Mikhail Gorbechev, and Mr. Belvedere.
I glance over at her in the driver's seat, braless in a white tank, miniskirt and pumps, her curly red hair pulled up in a fetching ponytail and exposing her creamy white neck. Oh shit, I just caught a bit of side-boob. Down, boy.
"Have you heard any Jane's Addiction yet, Micki?" I ask her as I try to recover the Thatcher/Gorbechev/Belvedere scenario. I was starting to get a little rise in the pants.
She smiles and shakes her head, "No. They're fairly new, right?"
"Sort of, their second album just came out last November, and they've been touring clubs and smaller venues. They kind of remind me of a heavier Love and Rockets, but seem to also have a sound all their own."
"Who?" she queries, confused.
"Never mind." I chuckle, "Lets just say they're definetly no Robert Palmer."
Micki parks the car in front of the record store and we head inside. There's already a line at the ticket counter and we get behind a couple of kids that we would have referred to as Darksiders at my old college: They dress in all black, and tend to try for the vampire look with black lipstick, heavy eyeliner, lots of dark velvet and poet shirts. Or, in a girl's case, corsets, slutty black dresses, and ripped black sheer pantyhose. Nice. They're playing a Dramarama song on the overhead, and Micki's bouncing a little along to the beat as we wait in line, adorable in her summer whites.
"...I'll give you anythinganything, Anything..."
Okay, the Belvedere threeway isn't happening for me anymore. I lace my fingers together strategically in front of my growing area and shift back on my heels, trying to play it cool. The kids in front of us get two tickets to Jane's Addiction and give us a snotty once-over as they walk away.
"...probably going to see Paula Abdul..." I hear the girl snigger in the distance.
Paula Abdul? Fuck you. I prefer The Cure, thankyouverymuch. Sheesh.
It's our turn at the counter and we're greeted by a scruffy blond surfer-type who sounds like Spicoli, "How can I help you dudes today?" he asks, then notices Micki and jumps back a bit, "Excuse me, lovely babychick, *Dudette*."
Micki smiles and laughs a little. She's used to this sort of treatment, and Spicoli *is* amusing, "Two tickets to Jane's Addiction, please." she requests sweetly.
"Seriously?" He starts to laugh, giving us both the once over, "Sorry, I totally shouldn't judge a book by it's cover, but I was fully expecting Def Leppard, at the most." He keeps chuckling as he prints out our tickets, "You two are hipper than I thought."
I hand him the cash, not knowing whether or not to be insulted or just amused, "Well, lesson learned, I guess." I say to him as he hands me the tickets.
"Guess so; maybe I'll see you there tomorrow." Spicoli says to us on our way out the door.
We step outside and I look down at my white art shirt and knee-length brown shorts, "I didn't think I looked *that* square."
"You don't look square, Ryan." Micki consoles me.
"Well, we certainly can't wear anything like what we have on now for a Jane's Addiction show. We'll stick out like sore thumbs, and will never be able to get close enough to this guy to get the wine bottle back." I explain.
"At least you know the music, I don't even have that knowledge. I'm a babe in the woods."
"What do you say to a little shopping for the proper attire, and then going home and listening to my copy of Nothing's Shocking on cassette? You know, to help prepare us for our foray into the 'darkside'. " I inquire as I dare to slip an arm around her waist.
"Sounds like a plan, Mr. Dallion."

******************************************************************

An hour or so later after a trip to a local bondage store, we returned home with shopping bags full of goodies and find that Jack had left us a note saying he was out tracking a lead.
At the moment, she and I are on my small bed, lounging and looking through back issues of Metal Edge to find articles about the band as the album plays moderately loud on my cassette player. The final strains of "Had a Dad" segueway into "Ted, Just Admit It" and I can feel trouble brewing.
"I have to say that I'm liking this, Ryan." Micki pipes up, shifting an incredibly long leg to her chest as she leans into the wall behind her, "It's pretty heavy, but extremely melodic at the same time."
Ronald Reagan having gay butt-sex with Andre the Giant. Captain Kangaroo nailing Mother Teresa. I'm trying to think of anything penis-confusing just to keep my composure. The bass and drumlines in this song are dripping with sex and she's right in my eyeline because I'm sitting with my back against the head of the bed. It would be too obvious if I looked away. All I see are legs a mile long and the side of her right breast. Shit. I strategically place my copy of Metal Edge on my lap and continue to conjure up mental images of horrible, non-sexy things. The entirety of John Waters' movie Polyester. There, that did it, for now, at least.
"...Everybody's so full of shit..."
"This song's about Ted Bundy." I comment to her in an awkward response.
"Really? Ooh, dark." she kids me, nudging my foot as I sit cross-legged. This almost knocks the magazine out of my lap and also causes her chest to bounce enticingly.
"That's what they're aiming for." I shoot back as I shift the mag back onto my dangerzone.
Why does she have to be wearing a miniskirt? I know it's hot, but so is she, and it's almost too much to bear.
"...Cause sex is violent..."
Micki has shifted to face me a little, hugging both knees against her chest as her skirt rides dangerously high, "Tomorrow's going to be a bit like Halloween, don't you think?"
"For some people, dressing in black is a way of life." I mock-argue with her.
Dom DeLuise porking a Golden Girl; any of them, I don't care. I'm just trying to keep from pouncing on her and making a fool of myself.
"We're not some people." she counters, leaning back on her hands and making her chest visible again. Why, God? I've been working on the good side, I shouldn't be tortured this way.
"No, we're not." I give in a little and trace a finger on her bare knee, and am surprised when she doesn't even flinch. "We're probably about the furthest from 'some people' that you could get."
"...camera's got them images/can't look at them all/Nothing's Shocking..."
I keep tracing circles on her kneecap and she's just *staring* at me, in a semi-amused way, saying nothing.
Spurred on by her incredible hotness and a sultry backbeat, I shift a little further toward her and boldly but ever-so-gently kiss her knee. This is reverence in it's purest form and her scent is amazing. I am intoxicated.
I hear her suck in a breath and look up at her flushed face, "What are we doing?" she asks me.
"I don't know." I manage out, confused because she's unfolded her legs and now her face is so close to mine I've given up, "I don't know anything anymore."
Mentally, I wave the white flag and move to softly and cautiously kiss her mouth, and she confuses me further by responding and kissing me back. I take it back, God. You really do love me. This moment is astounding, amazing...
The front door opens downstairs, "Micki! Ryan! I'm back!" Jack calls to us.
...Abruptly cut short. Micki pulls her mouth away from mine with a loud smack and stares at me in horror for a beat before getting up and hurrying to her room, slamming a French door behind her.
Fuck me. I am a fool. "We're up here!" I yell down to Jack.

*************************************************************

Needless to say, it's been a very awkward day and a half since the kissing incident, otherwise known as 'yesterday when Ryan Dallion lost his Fool mind' or the 'day 'o the dumbass'. We've been tiptoeing around each other on eggshells; neither of us have brought it up or talked about it since, but we can't seem to look each other in the eye, either.
We still have a mission that we have to get through, so luckily, there hasn't been much time for angst, or dwelling. When Jack came back last night, he told us that he had tracked down the previous owner of the wine bottle from the last name in the Manifest, which led him to our current suspect's mother's house. She sang like a canary, telling Jack that he inherited it from her estranged brother who died last year and abruptly left home to follow The Cult (the band) on tour until this last winter, when he started following Jane's Addiction. The mother also told Jack that although his name is Morton Hughes, he will *only* be addressed as Malpheus. Jack is the master of procuring information from strangers; I honestly don't know how he does it.
At any rate, this concert tonight should be interesting, at the very least. I'm dressing in my 'costume' for the evening in the bathroom, which consists of tighter than average, extremely ripped black jeans, a holey and faded black Bauhaus T-shirt, knee high combat boots, spiked leather wrist cuff on one wrist and another leather cuff with a thick metal "O" ring on the other. I also have my nails painted black, a chain on my wallet, a silver studded dog collar around my neck, and my hair appropriately spiked with a good amount of pomade. Shit. I wish I knew how to apply eyeliner. I'm staring at the tube of liquid black liner on the counter in the bathroom like it's a foreign object when there's a soft knock on the door.
"Ryan, could you give me a hand?" I hear Micki ask.
I draw in a deep breath, "Sure, no problem." I say, opening the bathroom door.
Donkey shows. Midgets in a daisy chain. Something needs to help me out, because she's looking downright illegal. Micki's wearing the shortest, tightest little gothic black dress in recorded history, along with ripped fishnets and ankle length witch boots with heels. Lord.
"Can you help tie me? This corset laces in the back and I can't reach." she asks hesitantly, attempting to hold the back of her dress closed.
"Sure, as long as you can help me with my eyeliner." I crack, attempting a casual veneer in spite of the incredible amount of tension in the air.
She turns around in front of me, lifting her red lion's mane of hair to allow me access to the satin ribbon in the back, and I try to make short work of lacing it up while simultaneously picturing R. Lee Ermey from Full Metal Jacket giving Peter Sellers a handjob; hey, I'm feeling fairly Kubrick at the moment. I reach the top laces, "Do you need it looser, or tighter?" I ask.
"It's perfect; just tie it up." she says over her shoulder, "Wow, Ryan, dare I say you look plenty authentic."
"It'll be clenched when you help me out with this eyeliner. I'm clueless, and frankly, a little scared." I admit.
"What, you never dressed up for The Rocky Horror Picture Show?" Micki asks me, spinning back around and smirking at me with bright red, lipstick slashed lips. *Her* eyeliner is perfect.
"I always went as Riff Raff." I shrug, "I bet you made a great Magenta."
"Hmpf! I always went as Janet." Micki counters, laughing a little as she reaches behind me to retrieve the tube of eyeliner. Fuck, she smells like roses, and I am just *dying* to be that crucifix between her breasts in that corset. They're practically tapping her chin.
German Porn of Any Kind. Tony Danza fisting a large cat; make it a leopard.
"Close your eyes." she instructs as she moves in dangerously close.
I do so, "Janet, huh? But your hair screams Magenta." That's right, continue with the easy conversation.
I feel her smack my shoulder and get another waft of roses, "I suppose I just related more to Janet." she says as I feel her apply cold liquid to my eyelids in thin lines, "I would dress up as her and go to shows, usually with my boyfriend dressed as Brad, and I would yell in protest to any of the audience participation lines that yelled 'slut', usually with a 'hey?!'. What can I say? I like Susan Sarandon."
I chuckle a bit at her, "Micki Foster, protesting for the virgins-turned-sluts of the world. That's adorable."
"You can open your eyes now, jerk." Micki exasperates.
I do and her face is right there in front of me, strictly beautiful. Totally off-limits. She's totally off-limits, man.
German porn. German porn.
"Look up; I want to get your lower lids."
I tilt my head to the sky.
"Not that far! You're too tall, I need to be able to see what I am doing."
"Sorry," I apologize, "I'm a little slow."
Micki takes my head in her hands, "Let me help you." She tilts it where she wants it to be, "Ryan, look up with your eyes now."
My pulse is racing, but I comply and she finishes quickly and painlessly. She steps back away from me and studies her artwork, nodding, "Not bad. *Very* appropriate."
I turn and look in the mirror, "Thanks Micki. You're truly awesome." I have become the darkside.
"You're welcome, Ryan." A smile flits across her face for a second, "What do you think? Garter or no garter?" she asks, furrowing her brow a little.
Does she think I'm made of stone? This is evil. Ewok Sex; with Wookies, "Why not go for broke? Garter, for sure." I say casually. Hey, she's askin'.
Micki nods and lifts her leg slightly, slipping a scrunchy black satin garter over her boot with relative ease and up a luscious, fishnet clad leg. Balls. I have only myself to blame for this one.
I suck it up and try to put out my fake-confident charm, "You look mah-ve-lous, dah-ling." I crack in my best Billy Crystal.
Micki giggles, "Thanks."
Jack appears in the doorway and immediately starts to laugh at us, "*Now* you look like you're related to Lewis." he croaks in grandfatherly chuckles.
I'm glad *he's* so amused.