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Fanfic: Rainy Playground

Chapter 1: Dirty

Rainy Playground

author: Pepperstasia Beaverhausen
rating: another bit o' NC-17 goodness, smutstyle
categories: MRR, attempts at humor, Micki POV (it's her turn, now!) Oh, and total Smut, I'm not sure if that's a rating, a category, or both. I'm shooting for both, that's how dirty this is gonna get. You'll need to wash your eyes...
spoilers: No. This is, however, a continuation on the previous story, "Ryan, Just Admit It".
Author's notes and disclaimer: Shopcrew characters do not belong to me, they are propertah of the Man(Cuso, Jr.) and Paramount-n- sech. Although I do think they have more fun with me because I allow them to get some without casualties. I dunno, ask them sometime and see what they say. Summation: The sequel to what I call the Jane's Porn, this time from Micki's viewpoint, who was quite the sated chica when we last left our terrible twosome. Poof! Release the naughty goodness!

"I wanna do it outside/I wanna do it in the rain..." ~Digital Underground "April Showers"

It's early morning, the sun has yet to dawn, and Ryan and I are in the process of a good go of it in the style of sleepy sideways sex, in the room that used to be mine but now is ours. He 'moved in' almost immediately.
I'm just about to...oh, there I go, where the flavor is, 'cause it's Orgasm Country. I've been visiting quite a bit in the past little over a month since Ryan and I have decided to come together in the physical sense. It's nice here, oh, so nice. The newness hasn't worn off for us yet. For the most part, our lives have not changed that drastically. We still hunt cursed objects frequently and tend to our shop. We continue to face danger and save each other's lives, although now we've been sort of *liking* the danger. I guess Ryan always did, in his way, but for me, well...
Now, it's kind of a kick start, so to speak. Not that I need danger to get one of our now many coital sessions going, but it's *always* incredibly insane after we recover an object, and usually in a creative way or place.
Oh my; Ryan Dallion, the Stallion. It's his new nickname. We've been pretty insatiable, needing each other at least twice a day, and our public displays of affection are in short, on the disgusting side, but, as Ryan says, we could give a rat's ass.
Well, that is, until around a week ago. Poor Jack. It was later in the evening after a successful recovery, we thought Jack was sleeping, and were in the garage, going at it like jackrabbits on the hood of the Curse Hearse in the dark when the light popped on and Jack caught us, thinking we were burglars. Embarrassing. Since the incident occurred, Ryan and I decided we would give Jack a break from our "disgustingness" as we call it, and go to another city to scout for legitimate antiques for the shop.
We're leaving for St. Paul, Minnesota on a plane later this morning. Hence, the early morning coitus. Ryan finishes, panting like a puppy as he brings me back to Orgasm Country. Mmm, succulant. I feel rather spoiled, because this occurs almost every morning now. Plus, I happily enjoy sleeping in his arms. I feel secure in them.
I was afraid that we would lose our edge at first, in the way of artifact hunting, but I've been proven wrong on that, too. We are now a fully functional unit and our communication skills are as sharp as a razor's edge. Our new development in this relationship has actually made us better, more aware, intuitive...lest we not forget what occurs *after* we recover an object.
He kisses my shoulder as we remain on our side, his stomach flush against my back, "Good Morning."
I can do nothing but give him post-orgasmic giggles, "Yeah. Twice."
Ryan laughs, clutching my hip and nibbling on my cheekbone, "Good morning, twice, huh?"
"Mmmhmm." I manage to let out between giggles. I tend to laugh a lot after the fact, it's a knee-jerk reaction, and has always plagued me. Ryan tells me it's cute and he wouldn't change a thing. Which is refreshing; Lloyd used to think I was laughing *at* him, and would get huffy and irratably concerned. He just didn't get me. Ryan gets me.
"Oh, multi-orgasmic Gift," he begins teasingly, "What time is our flight?"
"Nine-something. A taxi's going to pick us up." Oh yeah, I forgot. He calls me The Gift, short for The Gift from Baby Jesus. He *is* sillier than shit, but I can't get enough. I just want to lap him up like a cat.
"So, should we make some coffee and start waking up?" he yawns against my neck.
I glance over at the alarm clock, "Ryan, we have over two hours; the alarm's not even supposed to go off for another hour."
"Woo hoo. Then I can have some breakfast and we can crash out until the alarm goes off." He kisses languidly across my shoulder blades, making me tingly.
"Breakfast?" I ask, turning in his arms to face him and cocking an eyebrow. He immediately begins kissing his way down my body, looking up for a moment, "Good morning three times."


It is now around four in the afternoon, and we are in our rental car. Ryan's driving us to our destination; he made all of the travel arrangements, just to toy with me, because he knows I hate surprises. I prefer control over my situations; this is indicative of the redhead. Ask another girl with red hair and she'll tell you the same. I *do* trust him implicitly and have been working hard to learn how to compromise with him, because he is not the enemy and only has the best in mind when it comes to me.
He glances over at me, taking his eyes off I-35, "Official card-carrying members of the Mile-High Club. The Gift, you kick 'Penthouse Letters' ass up and down the street!" he exudes gleefully, "Have I told you how incredibly awesome you are today?"
"Twice that I can remember." I shoot back at him as I run a hand through his hair, "Stallion, keep your eyes on the road."
"Yes, Ma'am."
I must admit, my face has a consistent, bemused grin plastered on it, pretty much since the plane ride. We got a lot naughty on our flight, having hurried airplane bathroom sex. All I have to say is, thank God I wore a skirt. That bathroom was terribly claustrophobic, but we worked things out.
We always do.
It's mid-August, and Minnesota still carries a gorgeous lush green-ness to it. The sky is a clear, bright blue and I'm only seeing a few sun scorch marks despite the lateness of the season. It's quite pretty here, even sitting in rush-hour traffic isn't as bad. The weather is still hot for a northern state with 10,000 lakes, the temperature is a humid ninety-five degrees outside. I'm doubly grateful that we dressed in lighter colors today, although as soon as it gets warm, I tend to do a lot of white loads of laundry. Gotta stay cool. Plus, before we resolved the tension, it was sort of fun to wear white around Ryan and try to gauge his reaction. I had to enjoy myself some way. We have human life dying around us all the time, it's good to try to keep positive. Tempting Ryan with a penchant for white and hatred for the brassiere became like a game for me, which kept me going for a long time after Lloyd and I called it quits and I decided that the store was where I wanted to be. Too funny, Ryan thought I didn't know what I was doing. I knew *exactly* what my next move was. Like I said: redheads like control.
Then absinthe at a Jane's Addiction concert happened and we both lost *all* control and came together for the first time on a beanbag chair in a semi-private room of the venue right before obtaining a cursed wine bottle. It was abbreviated but outstanding, feeling like true completion. Suddenly, the dance was over and everything started making sense: He is mine and I am his and we are disgusting together. End of Story. I wonder if that's why the sex is so explosive when it's tied to an object. I suppose three days in St. Paul/Minneapolis looking for ordinary goods will give me an idea.
Ryan pulls the car onto an exit, surprising me with his knowledge of the roads here. We haven't even broke out the map, yet. I give him the eye, "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"Did you know that Charles Schultz lived in St. Paul?" he teases and I smack his shoulder, "Okay! I spent a few summers here with my cousin Josh and my Dad's brother. They lived on the West Side up the hill. St. Paul is a den of antique stores, Micki. This was a good place to go for midwest finds. Between here and Minneapolis, we should be set for stock for a while."
He pulls the car into a parking lot off a wooded road, and I can see the downtown skyline through the tops of the trees. As I get out of the car, I observe that we're right by a river and that downtown is directly on the other side.
Ryan sucks in a breath and puts an arm around my shoulders, "The mighty Mississippi. Third largest river in the world. She starts from a little stream about four hours north from here in Itasca State Park."
I look at him in confusion, "Are you giving me a tour? Why did we stop; I *am* a little exhausted after the plane ride..."
He quells my questioning with a short kiss, "No problem. We're checking in right now."
Good. Our little 'Mile-High Club' excursion on the plane has me bushed, and between that and the heat, I could *really* use a nap. We follow a paved path to what appears to be a boat landing and dock. What did he do? We reach a medium-sized paddleboat that's painted a charming white and adorned with colorful potted flora of all sorts. "Surprise!" Ryan says, beaming from ear to ear.
"We're staying here?" I ask in amusement. He *would* choose to stay on a boat on the river. So far, I'm pleasantly surprised, until I read the sign that says Covington Inn: Bed and Breakfast. I hate Bed and Breakfasts, personally. They always seem to be run by incredibly lonely old women and their cats, and aren't the greatest for privacy. He looks so pleased with himself, though, I'd hate to be a joykill, "It's adorable."
"I thought I'd do something special for you." he tells me, laying the puppy face on rather thick, "We'll check in and you can lay down very soon." Ryan assures me, "I'll get our bags and everything."
"You're so good to me, Stallion." We lock lips and proceed to the office.
As I expected, the mistress of the houseboat is an extremely old widow, and I see at least three cats milling about the place. "Mr. and Mrs. Hawke. We have a reservation for evening check-in?" Ryan says to the lady with white hair in a grandmotherly bun behind the counter.
Aliases? He needs to quit with all these surprises.
"You must be Micheal and Ophelia! Welcome to the Covington, I'm Marge Sunderson." she greets us with a thick midwestern scandanavian accent.
"Thanks, you can call me Mike." Ryan says, smiling.
Mike Hawke? He can't be serious. *Ophelia* Hawke? I try not to burst into giggles as Mrs. Sunderson launches into the list of rules and amenities that apply to the B&B. Ryan did that on purpose, just to see if he could make me crack. He's gonna get it. Later. I hear Mrs. Sunderson say something about no phone calls after nine and Ryan stops her.
"Why nine? That's only incoming calls, correct?"
"Nope, Mr. Hawke. Incoming and outgoing, no one touches that phone after nine p.m. House Rules." she tells us, a little testily, I think.
"Just checking."
She leads us to a door on the open-air deck hallway at the rear of the boat, "I do hope you enjoy your stay." she tells us, handing Ryan a set of door keys, "I'll be around if you need me."
I wait a few beats after she leaves and Ryan opens the door, "Ophelia and Mike Hawke, Ryan?" I burst into laughter as we make our way inside, "You ass, I almost lost it back there!"
"I thought you'd like that." Ryan chuckles, "I felt it was rather fitting."
The room itself is also quite charming, with porthole windows, white walls and painted wicker furniture, cornflower blue accent pillows and a large queen-sized bed with fresh white linens. I land on it gratefully as Ryan turns the wall-unit air conditioning on and leaves to grab our bags. Ahh, rest. Travelling always causes me to be extremely tired.
Mike Hawke. What a maroon.


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