One Dozen Roses

Author's Note- Here it is the latest story complete with happy ending. This on is for Marcy- the only one who I'd ever write a fluff piece for. Thanks for reading my stories and editing them despite your distaste of the "darker elements." Any mistakes I made are my own because Marcy spent hours before the homecoming game talking through this piece with me and making it perfect. So to everyone- Happy reading!


They are gorgeous- the most beautiful you’ve ever seen. You don’t know why they are there but you don’t care- they are simply breathtaking. They are a deep violent red, no not red. Red is too simple a descriptor. They are a deep violent crimson. You frown at the word violent. They aren’t. But how else would you describe the sheer power behind such a color?

They are newborn- not yet in full bloom- a delicate dozen of the loveliest just-opened blooms. They are alone in their crystal vase, undisturbed by extra foliage and gaudy baby’s breath. Instead just the bare stems, dethorned and gracefully ridged, support the majestic flowers.

You’ve never been so taken back. Did you forget some celebration or holiday? You never have before. He’s the one that can’t remember a sentimental occasion unless you’ve circled it in red and left a note on his desk. So why roses? For no reason at all? The idea has you close to swooning.

The door begins to open and you rush to greet him. It’s been a long time since you’ve been this excited to see him. He laughs as you almost launch yourself at him, catching him up in a kiss that consumes you both. You hadn’t realized how stale your relationship had grown and you swear to yourself, as he pushes you back against the door, covering your neck in heavenly mini-kisses, that you won’t take the passion for granted again.

You’re both panting now when he finally pauses to pull you inside the door and you blush. Who all saw the two of you, out there, doing that? You start to wonder but before you can reach the point of true caring, he kisses you again- the perfect kiss. It’s one of the things you love about him- the way he kisses you. It’s not the chaste perfunctory ones that have become the norm. Rather, it’s slow and sweet, as though he has all the time in the world just to kiss you and he want to do nothing but. It’s more than just a kiss. It is an exchange of passion, love, and breath- everything you need to survive.

His tongue playfully duels yours for control of the kiss- control you’ll cede once you’ve had you fun. He growls low in his throat and fun is over, the game is over. He wins, he always wins, and you enjoy nothing better than letting him. The kiss becomes fierce, dominating your lips, tongue, and soul- all you can do is moan.

His erection brushes yours. Two layers of clothing separate your bodies but you seem to have forgotten as you start rocking your hips into his. He lets you; hell not only lets you but pushes back. He’s moved you over to the dining room table. When did that happen? It must have been when you were both lost in the world he has crafted with his passion. The kiss is broken when he lifts you up. Sitting on the table you are the perfect height to continue and you become nothing but the pants and gasps that echo throughout the room.

“Oh, yes- gods yes, I’m-” You never finish. His hands on your hips keep your bodies in almost painful contact as you lose control. You fall back as your orgasm fills your clothing and you faintly hear the sound of crystal breaking. You blush: you haven’t come in your clothing in years, not since you were a teenager. What must he think? You daringly sneak a look only to realize he is staring at you in awe.

“You’re beautiful.” Your blush reddens- any redder and you will match the roses.

The roses!

“I broke them.” And sure enough- the vase lies in irreparable shards, sparkling like glitter over the scattered flowers.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, lifting you in his arms and carrying you into the bedroom. “How about if you change out of those while I go think of a better place to keep these?”

His suggestion has merit and you reluctantly let him go. You’re removing your last article of clothing- the sticky come stained pants- when he finally returns carrying a dozen roses, sans crystal glitter, sans vase. His eyes roam over your nude form as he lays the flowers on the bedside table.

“Lie on the bed.” You would have preferred to have the opportunity to wash the drying come from your skin but you follow the gentle order anyway, happily.

He kicks off his shoes before straddling you on top of the covers; his body providing a barrier of warmth from the cool air. His kisses are drowning you but you are past caring. He works his mouth over one nipple, teasingly nipping while the other is twisted and pinched in his hands. The sensations borders on pain but are lost in the wash of pleasure. He alternates, content to do nothing more than play with you until what feel like the end of time.

Finally, though, he moves. Leaving both hands at your nipples to tease and torment you, his mouth begins a downward journey. He presses kisses down your chest. The only time you have ever hated your bellybutton is as it catches his attention, halting his progression. His tongue begins a parody of the act you have become so desperate for, darting in and out of your salty flesh in powerful strokes.

You groan and squirm until he abandons your bellybutton, only to cry out again when the smooth flesh of your inner thigh distracts his wandering mouth. He shifts around but you hardly notice as he nibbles gentle bites onto your skin, careful tugs with pearly teeth. Gods, you would give anything if he would just…

You scream out his name when, after an eternity he takes you in his mouth; scream even harder when, as its delicate pedals skim along your balls, you realize he has plucked a rose from the bedside bouquet. Your pleasure is centered on the rose, on those nips and nibbles, and the perfect suction found only in his mouth. He takes his time, treating you like his favorite spun sugar until you are reduced to being beyond thinking. You are nothing but a pile of sensation. He swallows you whole: that along with the rose suddenly pull you beyond feeling. You ride the high of orgasm into the blackness- falling beyond consciousness for only a minute.

You resurface flipped on your stomach, his hands rubbing lazy circles into your back.

“You okay?” He sounds concerned and if he hadn’t robbed you of the ability to speak, you would have hastened to reassure him that you have never been better. You settle for grunting.

“Been awhile, huh?” He continues speaking to you softly, gently bringing you fully into awareness. You flinch instinctively as he spills a cool oil that slips over your skin, but settle once more as he uses his hands to warm it and relax your muscles. His voice, telling you he loves you and whispering other words of passion, as well as the massage- sprinkled liberally with reverent kisses pressed to your skin- have you relaxed into a boneless state you haven’t experienced since the early days of your relationship.

The scent of roses has grown to fill the room and you breath it in, enjoying the heady fragrance. It must be the oil. You shiver as you realize how much effort he has put into this night and again when his kisses follow the trail of oil. The oil is steadily dribbled lower still, spilling to the darkest recesses of your body.

His tongue follows, stoking deeply into your body. Forgetting the errant droplets, he instead laves intently with broad stokes, slowly reawakening you, bringing your over sensitized body to arousal once more. As you grow more responsive, he grows more bold. It becomes a precarious see-saw of pleasure- a balance of give and take. All you can do is enjoy him; allow him to enjoy you.

He pulls away, uses his hands to turn you so that you are again facing him. You turn your head to watch as he leans over and slides open the bedside drawer. Through your fringe, you can see him pulling out a thin box and flipping the top- the faint click resonating over tense nerves.

You tingle when he reveals a delicate white gold tube from the dark crushed velvet lining. He holds this new sound, his gift, up for inspection. Your heart flutters as you take in the smooth metal capped with what appears to be the perfect rose- so lifelike it could have been plucked mid-bloom. It is a startlingly gorgeous piece, one you plan to treasure.

“Do you like it?” He asks the question almost hesitantly, as though unsure and you stop to think. When was the last time you played with such things? Has it really been that long since the days when the hardest thing in the world was keeping your hands to yourself or waiting to play with your latest toys? Everyday used to be another chance to be together, to flaunt your love and happiness in the face of the world. Life has gotten in the way of the passion you swore was unstoppable.

“I love it. I love you,” you whisper back, realizing he is still waiting, the words damp with emotion.

That’s enough for him. He smiles back, a wet smile, and nods. He doesn’t say it back: he doesn’t need to. This whole night is his declaration- every action his reaffirmation.

He strokes you deliberately, firmly, and you tingle knowing what will happen next. Anticipation, more than his hand, has your body hardening. How long will he keep this going? You love the smooth glide of his oiled hands burning up your skin however…

You do nothing but incoherently mumble as he searches for the oil that had been discarded somewhere amidst the tangled covers. Victoriously he pulls it from the foot of the bed and pops the cap. In plain view he liberally dribbles the oil onto the cool metal. Carefully and with a steady hand he lines up the toy, setting your nerves on pins and needled with just the tip to tip contact.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to slip it inside you- and stops. Strung tightly you wait, and wait and wait. Then you realize- he is the one waiting, studying you intently, watching for a sign to continue. Maintaining eye contact, unspoken love and trust flies between the two of you, you nod just once, resolutely. You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.

In a single movement, the rose is flush with your flesh. You scream out his name, pleasure and pain warring within you.

Slide out.

Slip in.

Slide out.

Slip in.

The burn. The vibrations. The sting. They all work together to create within you heaven, hell, and peace. In this moment your life is perfect. Yesterday doesn’t exist. Work doesn’t exist. The world doesn’t exist. He’s taken you back to that place in which only your love, you and he exist. It’s been such a long while; you’d almost forgotten this place existed.

Things have shifted. He’s turned you over, onto your knees, the rose still in your body but otherwise ignored. He’s nibbling and licking at you and the thought that there is more to come, something even better in the works, has you almost uncaring about the abandoned toy. In fact, for a brief moment you hate it, as his tongue works diligently to push you closer to completion and the toy holds you millimeters from falling into orgasm.

You’re distracted when his tongue vanishes, instead replaced with something thin and ridged. You look back and gasp at the sight of him slipping one perfect rose deeper and deeper, sliding it until only the petal-soft crimson bloom rest, nestled snug to your body. The entire rose- the entire long-stemmed rose- somehow fits, creating a pressure and pleasure you have never known. He gives you moments upon moments to adjust as he takes in the gorgeous debauched image you make: you are the image of everything he loves.

Another rose slides alongside the first, just as slowly, and you arch into it- moaning at every delicious ridge of the stem. Your moans only seem to grow louder, more breathy and intense, with every additional rose slowly fitted into you. You enjoy the delicious stretch as he slides in the seventh rose, like a florist designing a bouquet. That sets you off.

You’re coming, the sensation pounding into you in waves but there is no release- the metallic rose traps you into orgasm. You fight for control of your body. He, in the meantime, is busy maintaining his possession of your entirety.

Eight roses.

Nine roses.

The tenth is enough to pull you from the throes of orgasm. Too fast. Too many. Too much. The pleasurable stretch teeters and slips into a pain that flares and grows. You cry out.

He’s there in an instant- pressing kisses to your dampened cheeks. You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“You okay, baby? Just relax.” He whispers comfort in you hair, uses his hands to sooth it into your fevered skin. You ignore the pain that stems from the delicate roses.

You let him hold you for a while, neither looking at him nor speaking. You need to relax, breath, and think about it. You’ve done kinkier things in the past, but not lately. Lately your life could easily be confused with that of an old fashioned housewife. You don’t not like your vanilla life, it’s calm and there are no stressful surprises. You can think of no one you’d share such a life with other than him. But you like this way of life as well- the rush, the excitement. It’s something you are desperate for. You’re just a little out of practice.

You love and trust him with everything that you are, own, and will be. You love and trust him with a newly invigorated passion, a lust that had been pushed aside and left forgotten. You love and trust him enough to know that this is about more than your body, his body, or sex; this, tonight, the dozen roses, is all about you future.

You catch his eyes and smile.

“Okay.”

His gaze searches yours, seeking confirmation to your words. He must have found it because he lifts your chin for a fiery kiss then retreats once more.
One hand taps the metallic rose, shooting darts of pleasure racing along your nerves. The other focuses on the eleventh flower, gentle waves of pain crashing over you. You feel split open, as though one more stem just might break you, but you love every second, would trade it for nothing.
You are crying when the last rose completes the bouquet. The tears like diamond emotions rolling over your cheeks and splashing into the sheets.

Tear- pain. Tear- love. Tear- trust. Tear- peace.

He gives you the time you need to pull yourself together and you look back, watching him stare at his masterpiece, at you, completely captivated.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, bending close to sniff at the fragrant flowers. “So beautiful.”

Slowly he begins tweaking stems. He pulls on one, allowing the dethorned rose to brush along your prostate. He begins to use the movement of the flowers to create magic. Pull this one. Slide that one. His manipulation of the roses, of your body, is masterful and has you praying to every god you can think of for the ability to come.

He grabs the base of the blooms and pulls all twelve back, pushing them forward: you scream his name with every thrust of the bouquet. His other hands flicks at the rose embedded in your cock, driving you crazy with the need for release. You are beyond even the ability to pray to a god- the only name you know in that moment is his and you repeat it over and over.

The burning sting of him removing the sound is overpowered as you spill yourself over everything. Never have you had such an intense orgasm. Your body is boneless- sated and completely limp. You couldn’t care less if you ever regained the ability to move.

Behind you he is rapidly stroking his own flesh, his movement jerky until you finally hear him groan out his own release. His come splatters the loving blooms still within you, defiling their purity. Then you drift off, knowing all is right in your world once more.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They’re gorgeous- the most beautiful you’ve ever seen. You know why they are sitting in a new crystal vase on the bedside table and you blush as you remember last night. He shifts around, trying to locate you without waking.

You turn over and again snuggle into your place against his chest.

“Love you, Harry,” he mumbles sleepily into your hair.

You smile contently and lay your cheek over his heart.

“Love you too, Draco.”

So that's it. This stroy was the hardest thing I've ever written and I'd love to know what you think. Did you love it? Hate it? I'm dying to know.