Of Rose Buds
Jun. 17th, 2012 04:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charisstomaTitle: Of Rose Buds
Author: charisstoma
Word count: 271
*snickers* Sunday Snuggle?
* A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/a_red_red_rose.htm
He looked down at the flower he held between fingers and thumb. So beautiful a deep pink was the bud, blushing from base to tip. Perfection, he thought breathing in its scent, touching and drawing its smooth velvet over the sensitive skin of his face and down to stroke back and forth across his lips. Warm sweet perfection.
The day had been hot and his love lay upon the sheets splayed exhausted, the romantic flickering of candle light highlighting his naked form. Yes, perfection, and he drew the furled petals over vulnerable skin watching it blush even as the bud, rose to rose pink.
“O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.*” he quoted.
He stopped and grinned, “well, perhaps not red red, least wise not yet, but the night is young.”
His lover’s eyes smoldered tiredly, “You’re going to try killing me with sex, aren’t you?”
“ERIK. If you can’t tell romantic love making from plain sex, I’m not doing it right. I’m spouting poetry while clasping a rose here.”
“I know love and you’re doing very well but I’ll be more interested in that rose bud of yours when I’ve recovered a bit. Then we’ll see about the romantic using of your blossom. In the mean time, kisses I hear have greater restorative powers,” he grinned wickedly tracing a finger pad over John’s lips, “your rose bud to mine.”
“It’s my turn next,” he whispered against John’s neck nipping lightly and dragged him down into position for the beginning of those reinvigorating kisses.
Author: charisstoma
Word count: 271
*snickers* Sunday Snuggle?
* A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns http://www.worldburnsclub.com/poems/translations/a_red_red_rose.htm
He looked down at the flower he held between fingers and thumb. So beautiful a deep pink was the bud, blushing from base to tip. Perfection, he thought breathing in its scent, touching and drawing its smooth velvet over the sensitive skin of his face and down to stroke back and forth across his lips. Warm sweet perfection.
The day had been hot and his love lay upon the sheets splayed exhausted, the romantic flickering of candle light highlighting his naked form. Yes, perfection, and he drew the furled petals over vulnerable skin watching it blush even as the bud, rose to rose pink.
“O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.*” he quoted.
He stopped and grinned, “well, perhaps not red red, least wise not yet, but the night is young.”
His lover’s eyes smoldered tiredly, “You’re going to try killing me with sex, aren’t you?”
“ERIK. If you can’t tell romantic love making from plain sex, I’m not doing it right. I’m spouting poetry while clasping a rose here.”
“I know love and you’re doing very well but I’ll be more interested in that rose bud of yours when I’ve recovered a bit. Then we’ll see about the romantic using of your blossom. In the mean time, kisses I hear have greater restorative powers,” he grinned wickedly tracing a finger pad over John’s lips, “your rose bud to mine.”
“It’s my turn next,” he whispered against John’s neck nipping lightly and dragged him down into position for the beginning of those reinvigorating kisses.
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