That's why raccoons are so valuable. (skelliehokes) wrote in stephen_paul,
That's why raccoons are so valuable.

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Midnight in the Garden of The Rigid Squirrel, NC-17

Title: Midnight in the Garden of The Rigid Squirrel
Pairing: Russell Hokes/Lenare Degroat
Rating: NC-17
Based on: Wigfield
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author’s Notes: This is an absolutely ridiculous fic, in which I attempt to write Russell/Lenare slash using Wigfield’s narrative style. Apologies for the sheer amount of FAIL contained in this work. Despite its being a rather poor imitation of S-P-A's wonderfully nuanced and hilarious book, this fic makes me laugh. Sexily. So, I thought I'd share it with this comm. Feedback, critiques, and friendliness appreciated and encouraged! :D
Summary:"Two things became clear after speaking to Lenare Degroat: One, steer clear of Lenare Degroat…" -Russell Hokes, Wigfield

My first impression of Lenare Degroat had cautioned me to avoid him, yet I inexplicably found myself heading back to his Stuffin’ Shed later that night, after a balmy evening spent taking in the local color – and copious quantities of off-color baked goods – at the Muffeteria.

A sane person might judiciously enquire about the purpose behind my return to Lenare’s utilitarian workspace, especially considering that my first house call – or as it were, shed call – had nearly ended in my enthusiastic strangulation at the hands of Wigfield’s most infamous citizen. And my equally sane answer would be: I have absolutely no idea.

I can only speculate that the memory of the sweet relief afforded by Lenare’s stuffed boar’s head earlier in the day had formed an association in my mind, and led me thuswise to attempt to relieve another of my bodily urges in that humble local shrine to taxidermy.

Admittedly, I was just half a sheet short of being three sheets to the wind, thanks to a few complimentary pitchers of the Muffeteria’s house jello-shot brew, when I brazenly knocked on the shed’s door. Finding it open yet again, I entered.

Upon setting foot in this quaint, leather-scented abode, I immediately found myself subject to another display of Lenare’s unique brand of small town hospitality. That is, Lenare was so pleased at my return that he immediately grabbed me by the shoulders and vigorously bade me welcome by pinning my body roughly against the rough-hewn wall.

I returned his friendly greeting in kind by screaming and good naturedly begging for my life.

“Oh. It’s you,” Lenare growled in greeting, loosening his grip by a fraction of an inch. “I thought you might be the town maniac,” he continued. I assured him that I was far too busy doing research for my book to take up such a time-consuming and non-book-completing hobby.

Lenare released his bear-trap-like hold on my shoulders just enough that my feet were able to return to their resting spots on the floorboard. “What are you doing back here?” Lenare asked, narrowing his predatory mammal eyes and looking me up and down.

Under the weight of his gaze I found that words escaped me, so I decided instead to let my fingers do the talking. I tentatively began to untie the leather cord that served conveniently as Lenare’s belt. Lenare looked down suspiciously and for a panicked moment it occurred to me that I might have misjudged his willingness to partake in this particular form of gentlemanly repartee.

But then he responded to my wordless invitation with some wordlessness of his own, as he released my shoulders and tore my shirt open with one swipe of his hands. As my buttons rained liberally onto the sebum-spotted floor, I was pleased to remember that I still had an entire closetful of the Grimmetts' clothes left in my wardrobe.

Soon all thoughts of the finer points of fashion retreated from my mind, however, as Lenare gripped the back of my head with his hand, and, holding me immobile like a chipmunk caught sleeping in a trash compacter, pressed his supple yet insistent lips to mine.

I was about to protest that he was holding my head too tightly when he suddenly shoved his fingers down the front of my pants and gave me a first hand demonstration of the benefits of a firm handshake. In all of my encounters with the ladies of Wigfield, I hadn't met anyone who could take charge of my nether regions quite like Lenare was demonstrating that he so forcefully could.

I gasped in delight at discovering this rarest of small town talents, while my own hands worked to separate Lenare from the remainder of his clothes. My task was only partially completed when Lenare abruptly stopped and returned his attention to the finer details of my attire – namely, the hasty removal of my pants and the tattered shreds of my shirt.

That deed quickly accomplished through additional torn fabric, Lenare returned to becoming better acquainted with my mouth by way of his tongue. By this time I had finished removing his shirt and was pleased to discover that his physique would not be out of place on stage among the all-male dancers at The Banana Hammock just down the highway.

As if to demonstrate that his well crafted biceps were not just for enticing female customers to shove gifts of carefully folded currency into a g-string, Lenare suddenly lifted me and carried me bodily across the shed, all the while continuing to assault my mouth with his own. My legs wrapped around his hips in a blind effort to create more friction between our mutual pelvises, and were rewarded with sharply pleasant electric sensations that radiated toe-ward.

Reaching his intended destination at his workbench, Lenare gripped me tightly with one arm and swept the counter’s contents to the ground with his other. He then put me roughly onto the tabletop amid the clatter of the many pointed taxidermy tools falling onto the floor, as I gripped his face with my hands and kissed him as though my life quite literally depended on it.

Like a mountain climber eager to reach the summit so he can partake of his midday meal, Lenare shoved me backward onto the bench and climbed on top of me, grinding his pelvis so vigorously into mine that I could swear there were fireworks exploding on the backs of my eyeballs. I complimented the man on his technique through the vigorous application of my fingernails on the surprisingly smooth flesh of Lenare’s back and arms.

But soon, perhaps succumbing to my insistent and possibly delirious whimper, Lenare hoisted himself up off of me. Using nature’s own lubricant and several other unmentionable substances, he prepared himself and me for the final course of our three-act dinner theater as I waited with eager trepidation.

Then Lenare lifted my legs and pressed into me in such a way that I momentarily felt like a helpless woodland creature caught in the headlights of a runaway dirigible. But this feeling of panic was quickly replaced with a sensation that wise men of the East Village call prostatic nirvana, as Lenare demonstrated his impeccable sense of rhythm and his tragically unadvertised trait of stamina.

Finally, though, the combined friction and internal massage arrived at their logical conclusions, and I slammed my hips upward against my partner as I acquitted myself of what felt like liberal quantities of my own seed. My timely release was followed soon after by Lenare delivering a few parting thrusts before biting down on my shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

It must be noted that the rest of the evening’s events are hazy, perhaps as a side effect of the secret herbal ingredient in the half dozen Muffeteria muffins that I had earlier consumed, or possibly from the fumes emanating from the several bottles of chloroform that lay open beside the workbench. Either way, the next morning I awoke from my deep comatose slumber to find myself covered in a rustic wool blanket and huddled in the corner of Lenare’s shed.

Finding the owner currently away, I hastily collected what articles of clothing I could find and made a timely departure, pausing only to feed the bobcat as I exited the shed.

The end

*descends into shame spiral* *sexily!!*

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