Vanilla Cream

Posted: October 2003
Title: Vanilla Cream
Author: Kharessa Bloodrose
Fandom: Tolkien
Type: FCS
Characters: Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R
Beta: Circe
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or settings, and I am making no profit from the writing and sharing of this story.
Author's Notes: This is for Master Erestor of Elf On A Shelf, who feels there are not enough Elrond/Erestor stories out there. My apologies for not taking it all the way to NC-17; my brain outright stalled when I tried to make it produce Elrond sex.
Summary: One day – Elrond and Erestor.

*****

Creamy rich, sliding over the tongue like liquid velvet, sweetly encompassing and never passe even after a thousand samplings. Vanilla: simplicity and perfection, a taste and texture that could never grow old.

*****

Elrond watched his advisor, eyes following the graceful line of draped arm from shoulder to wrist to delicate fingers holding a quill with practiced ease. If he stepped closer, he would see calligraphy flowing across the creamy vellum page, artful loops and flourishes that raised the written word to the level of art. Black of night on cream was what he would see, a reflection of the one who created this written masterpiece - Erestor of midnight hair and vanilla cream skin.

He did step closer, and, for a brief moment, Erestor looked up, ink black eyes meeting gray ones. Erestor's gaze was not innocent, nor had Elrond expected it to be. It was a look of promise that the advisor deigned to grace him with, a subtle teasing communicated in the slight inclination of his head, the slight parting of his lips. Erestor paused, lifting his quill to dab its tip with a feline quick tongue before resuming his efforts, and Elrond shivered.

"I am almost finished reframing your response to Thranduil's last correspondence," Erestor said, no longer meeting Elrond's gaze but remaining focused upon his work. "I would think that an elf who formerly had been a herald to a king would have a greater talent for written diplomacy."

"Sometimes my passions override sense," Elrond replied, and once again, Erestor glanced up.

"Do they?" he said, his detached tone belied by the amused light in his eyes. "Passion has its place, my lord, but the office is not the place for passion. Bear that in mind and I will have more time to spare."

"In daylight hours? I find that unlikely," Elrond said while stepping closer, close enough to catch that scent that was so distinctly Erestor. Vanilla. "It seems to me that you have no difficulties in filling the minutes of your days regardless of my… passions."

"'Tis the mark of a good employee, my lord," Erestor replied. There was no arch raising of brows, nothing that would denote flippancy in his speech. He set the quill aside, and dusted the flawless finished product of his efforts with cream colored sand. "Now, if you will excuse me, there are other matters which require my attention."

"Of course, Erestor. I will see you at supper time." Elrond licked his lips, pausing to consider his next words before finally asking, "And perhaps after supper, as well."

"Perhaps."

*****

The dining table was round rather than rectangular, and the place settings were offset so that no one sat directly opposite Elrond; no member of the household took the position that had formerly been held by Celebrian. She could not be replaced, could not be entirely forgotten, and Elrond had no desire to do either. That there was room in his heart to love more than one was a discovery he had made only recently; that replacement was not necessarily the result of finding this room in his heart came as a bittersweet surprise.

Erestor sat at Celebrian's invisible right hand, handling the intricacies of knife, fork, and napkin with perfect decorum. His voice was low and seldom heard amid the more raucous conversation flowing between the twins, Arwen, and Glorfindel, but there was no coldness to him, no sense of distance. The others were like unto various spiced wines, rich and intoxicating, whereas Erestor was rich cream, cool and refreshing, thick on the tongue and delightfully familiar. One might think he'd be forgotten among the brighter, more sparkling company, but Elrond could see the eyes flitting toward him, Glorfindel's and his children's eyes lighting upon him as if touching base. Elrond could understand that; Erestor's quiet presence was as sheltering, comforting, appealing, and homely as a dollop of vanilla cream in a cup of hot cocoa.

*****

Erestor's bedchamber was neat, floor perfectly swept, every surface dusted and every possession in its place. A vanilla candle on the nightstand filled the room with its rich scent, underlayed by the aroma of baking bread. Elrond inhaled deeply, and admired the perfectly even crease in the turned-down bed linens, crisp cream white beneath the warm green, blue, and red plaid quilt. Even more than that he admired Erestor, seated at his vanity table, drawing a silver-handled brush through ebony hair that was still damp from his bath.

"I would have been along, Elrond," he said, eyes meeting Elrond's in the reflective surface of the glass.

"I could not wait," Elrond answered, approaching the seated figure and that figure's reflection. "You left me wondering, cruel one; you only said ‘perhaps.'"

"And what if I refuse you now, importunate one?"

"Will you?" Elrond asked, and the reflection smiled, warmth flowing easily from the curve of lips to the upward slant of ink black eyes.

"No." His gaze remained upon Elrond as the elf lord approached and took the brush from his hand.

"Not a single tangle," Elrond murmured as black silk passed through the bristles, almost without resistance.

"One hundred strokes, meldir; no more, no less. I was on eighty-seven."

"Can you not make an exception tonight?"

"I suppose I could."

A robe of simple white, loose and soft and tied at the waist, had replaced Erestor's formal robes. Elrond laid his hand against the lapel, smoothing it as he knelt at his advisor's side, then sliding it to one side. A smooth, cream shoulder came into view, white with an underlying hint of blue, unkissed by the sun. Elrond bowed his head to it, pressing his lips to skin kept decorously hidden from all eyes but his own. His lips touched, then slid lower to follow the graceful curve of collarbone, and then up once more to rest in the warm hollow above ungiving bone. His tongue touched, and he heard the soft inhalation of breath, tasted vanilla.

"Melethron…" Erestor whispered, and Elrond smiled against warm, pale flesh. "Amin mela le," Erestor said, his words little more than vocalized breathing as cream white fabric slid away from flesh, as the robe pooled softly at his waist. "Slowly, saes, Elrond…"

"Amin mela le," Elrond echoed, his hands moving downward along a familiar trail, down to the knotted sash, loosening, untying, and casting aside. "Slowly, of course."

*****

Elrond blinked, awareness returning in the instantaneous manner of elves. He was not surprised to find himself tucked beneath vanilla scented linen sheets and plaid quilt, gazing up at a cream ceiling.

"Good morning, my lord," an imperturbable voice spoke, and Elrond pushed himself up against the soft pillows, turning his gaze to his chief advisor. Erestor was already dressed, somberly attired in the unrelieved black that matched his hair and framed his perfection of creamy whiteness. In his hands he carried a pair of steaming mugs, and he seated himself on the edge of the bed with the same dignity with which he might have settled into his council seat. His hair was yet unbraided, and the smile he offered Elrond was warm, a smile for private evenings rather than the council chamber.

"Here," he said, handing Elrond one of the mugs.

"Thank you, melethron," he answered, and took a careful sip of hot chocolate topped with vanilla cream.

*****

THE END

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