you scream i melt for ice cream

Rocky is melting and miserable and most importantly, bored, and it’s about damn time the world -- or at least Burrowgatory, since the outside world is just a myth, of course -- knows this. 

“I’m so booooooored,” Rocky groans, throwing himself dramatically back into the couch. 

“Then do something fun,” Kiki suggests, sounding entirely unbothered. So unbothered, in fact, that she doesn’t even bother glancing over to him from where she’s reading a magazine draped over his ankles. 

She’s lounging in a bralette and shorts, completely oblivious to the heat that’s packing in around them. She looks like she’s tanning by the beach with a swimosa rather than melting into the couch in their shared apartment. Rocky is infinitely jealous of her complete lack of disregard for everything around her. It must be particularly nice at a time like this. 

“But that requires… like doing stuff,” Rocky replies. 

“Then suffer,” Kiki says, without missing a beat. “I guess.” 

Rocky lets out a truly pitiful moan. “I’m so warm too,” he whines. “How does anyone deal with this summer heat?” 

“Usually they just do something about it instead of sitting there in a loud miserable puddle,” Kiki replies, and this time she finally looks up from the magazine that’s spread across her lap. “I heard there’s an ice cream truck that runs through the neighborhood during the summer time. It’s a little sketch, sure, but it should cool you down and make you shut up for once.” 

Rocky rolls his eyes. “If I shut up you would be lost without my riveting commentary for everything.” 

The ice cream truck, however, is a promising start. The idea of possibly having to chase it down sounds a little less appealing, but Rocky figures the treat at the end of the adventure will be more than worth the reward. Hopefully. Otherwise Rocky will be even more insufferable and Kiki might actually kill him this time. 

Time to stop fucking around, then. He clears his throat, tapping his ankle once into her thigh to get her to remove the magazine so it doesn’t go flying in the next couple of seconds. 

“Fine,” Rocky sighs, lifting his legs from her lap to push himself off of the couch. “I’m going to go try to find that ice cream. Wanna come?”

“Definitely not,” Kiki replies. “I’m much too pretty to chase after a sketchy truck. I would love a push pop.” 

Rocky snorts, bringing his arms behind him to stretch them out properly. “Sure thing, your majesty. Should I acquire the whole truck for you too?”

“Doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea,” Kiki replies with a shrug, mouth pulled up into a smirk. 

“Enjoy your magazine,” Rocky says. “I’ll be back.” 

Dressed in some shorts and a muscle shirt, Rocky sees no reason to change so he only grabs his keys and wallet and heads out the door. The mid-afternoon sun is even more unforgiving without insulated walls to block out the bulk of the rays, and if Rocky wasn’t so deadset now on getting some damn ice cream, that alone would be enough to make him turn back. He doesn’t, though. 

He can hear the faint call of obnoxiously cheerful music in the distance, and dutifully sets off in that direction. It doesn’t take long for him to spot the ice cream truck meandering down one of the neighborhood streets, coming to a stop next to some equally miserable-looking Succubuns at the end of the street. 

Rocky breaks into a light jog to get there before the truck peels away. 

In direct contrast to the broken down appearance to the van, the Ice Cream truck worker is a brightly colored bun-formed Succubun, who gazes at him with warm apple-green eyes and a bright, helpful smile. Rocky can’t help but return it. 

“Hello there, sweetpea! How are you doin’ on the fine afternoon?” 

Rocky can’t stop himself from being honest. “Melting, just about.” 

She laughs, shaking her head as she tsks at him gently. “Well then, lucky for you I have just the fix for ya. What would you like?” 

Rocky hums, looking over the generous menu. Most of the treats seem to be the bun’s own recipe, straying pretty heavily from what one might expect from a normal ice cream truck. Thankfully for Kiki, she has a few of the staples thrown in.

“A push-pop and, hm -- three scoops of your baked blueberry pie ice cream, please?”

She smiles at him. “Of course, comin’ right up. That’ll be 7 carats, please.” 

Rocky digs into his wallet, pulling out double that for a tip. “Hope this is alright. You deserve the extra for saving me from becoming a puddle this afternoon. And for saving my roommate from having to hear me whine about it any further.” 

She laughs uproariously now, like she is absolutely unable to help herself. “Ain’t you just the sweetest thing, like honey. Let me get you those treats.” 

She disappears into the back of the truck to grab the push-pop and scoop out the ice cream. Rocky is waiting for less than a few minutes when she merges again, a beautifully toasted ice cream cone topped with such richly purple colored ice cream that his mouth salivates despite his body’s lack of water from the heat. 

“Those look incredible. Thank you so much,” He says, reaching out for the when she hands them over. 

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Do come back again, and let me know what you think of those treats!” 

Rocky moves out of the line now, seeing that a few more buns have lined up to wait behind him impatiently. That’s just as fine with him, he’s got what he came for and now he’s damn well going to enjoy it. Hopefully Kiki’s push-pop doesn’t melt in the meantime, but well. Self-control has never been his strong suit, and he knows himself well enough by now to know that he isn’t strong enough to resist a bite -- or four -- before making it back to their apartment. 

“Just one bite won't hurt,” he whispers to himself. 

The first taste is a sacrilegious experience, enough so that he can’t stop the noise that erupts from this throat. The flavors are bold, blueberry and cinnamon and what tastes like vanilla taste on his tongue, the texture divine; smooth and refreshing and absolutely everything he hadn’t known he’d been craving for the last several hours. 

He can’t help himself -- he never can when it really comes down to it -- and before he knows it, the cone is all that’s left. “Fuck,” he says to himself, grateful no one’s around to hear it in the small corner of the street he tucked himself into to try the treat. “Kiki’s going to kill me.” 

Rocky has half a mind to try and chase down the truck for a second serving, but thankfully, this time, he manages to resist the urge. He settles for snacking on the cone on the walk back up the street to their apartment. The squishy feel of the push-pop in his grip tells him it’s definitely melted in the time he took to inhale his ice cream, which is going to suck in a few minutes.

But truthfully, it’s Kiki’s fault for not coming with him. She knows what he’s like. If anything, she probably only suggested she wanted something to make sure he actually left the place for some peace and quiet. 

He smirks at the thought. 

Serves her right, then. Melted ice cream comes to those who wait, or whatever. 

He throws open their front door with a shit-eating grin. “Honey, I’m home! And I brought treats.”