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[personal profile] conjure_lass
Title: A Sentimental Kind of Mood
Fandom: Vassalord
Rating: PG
Summary: Sometimes you have to dig to find the sentimental moments...
Author's Note: Hi there! Hope you all enjoy my first little jump into the fandom! Forgive the purple prose. :D

He keeps it pressed inside a book to allow it to wilt within.

Over time, it turns the color of parchment, blushing deep brown along the edges as the stem curls in on itself despite the weight of the pages. There the daisy remains hidden away while the world changes around it, until charred stone walls echo emptily in abandoned halls and everyone who lived within them are long since dead.

Well…almost everyone…

The brittle petals catch his attention as they tumble from the pages to scatter in the grass, crumbling and fragmenting with age. Bending, he captures a remaining one and holds it up for inspection in the firelight. The memory is faded, faint, hard to draw from the sludge of his mind, and he hates it. Hates how far away he is from smiling children, from sunny patches where blooming daisies hide betwixt the trees.

Fingers feeling numb, he lets it fall back to the ground, crushing it and all the others beneath his boot. He wishes it were the memories instead.


Pigeon can hear the sounds of the party from here, the soaring string quartet, the tinkling of glasses, the waves of laughter that rise above the drone of conversation only to be swallowed back down again moments later. But he prefers it where he can take a meal in peace. Where the air is crisp and fresh and isn’t laden with expensive perfume and the sweat of too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

Granted, he might have liked a suite, a four-poster bed, a private room somewhere at the very least, but this would have to do. Because even though he might want to savor things, he knows damn good and well that every moment he dawdles is another moment closer to interruption.

Quickly now! He’s close! His presence is unmistakable. And fun as their awkward confrontations can be, Pigeon isn’t sure he’s in the mood tonight.

…But it’s already too late.

Lowering the youth into the grass with a grateful kiss, he closes his eyes and stretches his arms high above his head, feeling the warm burn of his muscles as liquid vitality runs through them like electricity, jump starting his heart. The soft fabric of his overcoat hisses and slithers across his chest as he reaches upwards, taking pause to really feel it, to feel himself breathe. In and out. Out and in. He knows he doesn’t need to, but little comforts like this make him feel a bit more…human.

“Forgive my disturbing your meal.”

The nearly palpable disappointment in Chris’ voice makes him wince, but he doesn’t look back to see it. Despite how ignorant the boy is of his power, Pigeon knows that critical gaze would pierce every part of him, pin him in place like a butterfly on a corkboard, freeze him on the spot. “We were just finishing,” he says at last, breaking the tense silence with a dismissive wave of his hand before toeing off his shoes and meandering further into the garden.

The shadows dissolve away as he steps into a clearing, soft moonlight seeping down onto countless cocooning daisies playing hard to get from the night, waiting for dawn to open wide once again. They tickle against his bare feet, cold along his ankles, the budding dew soaking the edges of his trousers and chilling his skin. He can hear footfalls closing in, the rustle of boots whispering through the flowers, but ignores it. He likes this slow game of cat and mouse, likes the feel of Chris’ eyes on his back, burning a hole between his shoulder blades.

He likes being hungered for.

But the chase comes to an abrupt halt as fingers dig unexpectedly into his hair, wrenching him back to bump against a body he hadn’t realized was so close. Was he getting out of practice in his old age or was Chris getting faster? Either way, he finds himself torn between the instinctual urge to escape and the growing desire to lean back into what has become an increasingly delicious man. Though frankly, the thought makes him feel a bit filthy as flashes of little-boy Chris go parading through his mind, but he pushes them aside in favor of wriggling to expose the long line of his throat to the lips seeking along it.

“Oooooo,” he purrs, reaching up to cup the back of Chris’ neck, “someone’s been working out.”

“You’re shameless,” Chris replies, his voice muffled.

“~Cherry~“ He turns in the circle of arms surrounding him, herding the taller man towards a small grove of bushes. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. And I’m not the one accosting a man in public, am I?”

“No, you just finished that, remember?”

Well…he certainly had him there. Quickly! A distraction!

One tug and they tumble together behind an ornamental topiary cut in the shape of what Pigeon thinks might be a unicorn, though it could just be his phallic fetish showing. No matter! He has more urgent matters to attend to as he’s pressed firmly down into a damp bed of flowers, all banter forgotten in the flash of fangs piercing his skin, the soft sound of suckling as Chris takes his meal.

Tipping his head back, Pigeon eyes a stray daisy near his fingertips and lazily plucks it from the earth, slipping it gently into the soft blond hair tickling his skin. He situates it securely in the growing tangles.

“A sealed flower.” A whisper into the seashell curve of his ear. Barely there. “It suits you."


Duke Ellington is on the record player, drifting through the air like the scent of blood long after the meal is over, and near the empty saltshaker on the kitchen table, is a single white daisy.

“Cherry?” he calls, the cigarette between his lips bouncing with each syllable. “What’s this?”

“It’s Charley. And that’s a daisy,” Chris says, walking across the hallway too quickly for Johnny to catch his expression before disappearing into the next room. Not that he needs to see it necessarily; the tone of the his voice displays more condescension than any roll of the eyes ever could. “You know, a flower?”

“I know that,” Johnny pouts, despite no one being able to see it. “I meant what is it doing here?”

While your loving attitude, is like a flame that lights the gloom…

When no answer is forthcoming he curiously draws it out by the stem from beneath the L.A. Times crossword (3 down--Add one’s two cents) and lifts it for scrutiny. Big, milky petals ring a buttery center, seeming to stretch towards the window in spite of it being the middle of the night. Delicate and pretty. But an investigatory sniff makes Johnny recoil, nose wrinkling at the bitter scent that clings to his sense of smell, refusing to ebb even when he snorts and rubs at his face.

“Ugh!” He sticks out his tongue, dropping the stinking thing back onto the kitchenette.

“It’s not a rose, Master.” Chris is back in the doorway now, nonchalantly fiddling with the buttons of a shirt that is at once tasteful and utterly outdated all at the same time.

“I wouldn’t know! You never send me any!”

His Cherry’s face is oftentimes very hard to read, but this…isn’t one of those times. Johnny would know that playful half-glare anywhere, the tiny quirk at the corner of his lips, the slightly raised eyebrow that could be construed as anything from amusement to mild constipation.

He’s about to be clever.

“You wouldn’t appreciate them. Besides, this sort of…reminded me of you.”

“Me?” Johnny echoes, glancing dubiously at the flower on the table.

“Mmm.” Stepping forward, Chris reaches up and runs the pad of his thumb slowly down the bridge of Johnny’s nose. He crosses his eyes when it reaches the tip and tries not to look too hopeful.

“A pretty weed.”

The heat blossoming in Johnny’s cheeks that had previously been pleasure morphs quickly into a flush of embarrassment. “A pretty--y-you--Cherry!!” he stutters, his bare foot slapping loudly against the linoleum where he stomps it. Petulantly crossing his arms, he spins away and gives Chris his back, eyes falling once more on the discarded daisy. For a second he’s very tempted to grab it up and throw it in the garbage disposal for dramatic effect, but resists the childish urge. He can always burn it later when no one is looking. “You second-rate Catholic! You don’t have a romantic bone in your body!!”

“I guess I’ll cancel the dozen red then…”

“What?” He peeks back over his shoulder, only to find the tips of Chris’ cords swishing around the corner. The coward, retreating just when the battle is getting good!

Debating on whether or not to give chase, he eventually decides against it, choosing instead to recollect the flower from the table and make his way to the tall bookshelf near the window. Reaching up to the topmost shelf, he runs his fingertips along the line of books (The Cybernetic Brain: Sketches of Another Future, A Travel Guide to Heaven, Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover’s Soul, The Bible, The Bible, yet another Bible…) until he reaches an old, tattered tome with yellowing pages, the smell of must wafting out when he draws it down and gently, almost reverently, opens it.

He keeps it pressed inside a book to allow it to wilt within…

Hope you all enjoy! Loves!



December 2012

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