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Title: Photo Enlarged To Show Texture
Fandom: Cereal Mascots
Characters/pairings: Count Chocula/Cap'n Crunch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A few days on the edge of crumbly-brown Cocoaland wouldn't hurt.
Warnings: Brainhurt, child-hood-raping mental images, excessive liberties taken with 90's commercials.
Notes: God, I wrote this in - what? April? - for Porn Battle over on InsaneJournal. I couldn't bring myself to write out and out smut, and my brain breaks when I try to imagine it.
I keep thinking Sonny (Cocoa Puffs) is, like, the Count's majordomo and Tony (Frosted Flakes) is the Cap'n's favorite drinking buddy back home and shut the fuck UP, brain, you will NOT world-build around god-blasted cereal mascots.
o o o
The crew didn't want to port here, not in the strange, northern lands, but the coming storm was whipping the MilkSea into froth and the storage bays beneath the deck were almost full of precious, jewel-toned Crunchberries. A few days on the edge of crumbly-brown Cocoaland wouldn't hurt.
Though he had hoped that the Lord of these lands didn't notice his presence. No such luck.
So here he was, a brilliant splash of blue and gold in the dark red-brown dining hall of the Count's castle, and the Count himself was at the other end of the long table, asking in neat, polite tones about his whereabouts since their last meeting, while marshmallow homunculi slithered back and forth with more food, more wine, more cornwood for the fire. He kept up his end of the conversation admirably well, despite the smell of chocolate everywhere, and the low good-sick rumble in the pit of his stomach that seemed to ignore how many years had passed since he'd last been in this hall.
The conversation died off, and he was just thinking that maybe, maybe he'd get through the night fine, when the Count wasn't at the other end of the table anymore. The chocolate smell got stronger, and long, narrow fingers curled around his shoulders (and when had he removed his coat?)
"It has been a long time, Captain," Never the shortened 'Cap'n' his crew used, not from this one. Everything felt super-real with the Count this close, and he noticed in the part of his mind not fogged with wine and the scent of cocoa that the table was woven wheat, a rare luxury in these parts, and he ran his fingers over the weave in an attempt to stabilize himself. It didn't work, and he nearly moaned as his fingertips flared in hypersensitive reaction. Maybe the Count wouldn't notice.
Again, no such luck. There was a quiet laugh from behind him and then he didn't know which way he was because there was a fanged mouth over his and all he could taste was chocolate.
Fandom: Cereal Mascots
Characters/pairings: Count Chocula/Cap'n Crunch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A few days on the edge of crumbly-brown Cocoaland wouldn't hurt.
Warnings: Brainhurt, child-hood-raping mental images, excessive liberties taken with 90's commercials.
Notes: God, I wrote this in - what? April? - for Porn Battle over on InsaneJournal. I couldn't bring myself to write out and out smut, and my brain breaks when I try to imagine it.
I keep thinking Sonny (Cocoa Puffs) is, like, the Count's majordomo and Tony (Frosted Flakes) is the Cap'n's favorite drinking buddy back home and shut the fuck UP, brain, you will NOT world-build around god-blasted cereal mascots.
o o o
The crew didn't want to port here, not in the strange, northern lands, but the coming storm was whipping the MilkSea into froth and the storage bays beneath the deck were almost full of precious, jewel-toned Crunchberries. A few days on the edge of crumbly-brown Cocoaland wouldn't hurt.
Though he had hoped that the Lord of these lands didn't notice his presence. No such luck.
So here he was, a brilliant splash of blue and gold in the dark red-brown dining hall of the Count's castle, and the Count himself was at the other end of the long table, asking in neat, polite tones about his whereabouts since their last meeting, while marshmallow homunculi slithered back and forth with more food, more wine, more cornwood for the fire. He kept up his end of the conversation admirably well, despite the smell of chocolate everywhere, and the low good-sick rumble in the pit of his stomach that seemed to ignore how many years had passed since he'd last been in this hall.
The conversation died off, and he was just thinking that maybe, maybe he'd get through the night fine, when the Count wasn't at the other end of the table anymore. The chocolate smell got stronger, and long, narrow fingers curled around his shoulders (and when had he removed his coat?)
"It has been a long time, Captain," Never the shortened 'Cap'n' his crew used, not from this one. Everything felt super-real with the Count this close, and he noticed in the part of his mind not fogged with wine and the scent of cocoa that the table was woven wheat, a rare luxury in these parts, and he ran his fingers over the weave in an attempt to stabilize himself. It didn't work, and he nearly moaned as his fingertips flared in hypersensitive reaction. Maybe the Count wouldn't notice.
Again, no such luck. There was a quiet laugh from behind him and then he didn't know which way he was because there was a fanged mouth over his and all he could taste was chocolate.