Glorfindel leans against the doorjamb, watching Erestor as he sits hunched over the ancient tomes piled high before him, dark eyes shot red with exhaustion and from an Age’s accumulation of dust.

“You work too hard, arimeldanya, [1]” he chides, his gentle whisper breaking the library’s silent reverence. “Our bed, I fear, is much too cold and large without you beside me.”

Erestor’s smile is worn but wide, blushing demurely to meet Glorfindel’s eyes before glancing out at the first rays of pink and grey heralding the dawn.

“Fin!” he sighs, relaxing into his chair to run a hand through his hair. He scoffs, a small, self-deprecating sound as his fingers catch in his forgotten braids, and Glorfindel cannot resist the siren call of his pink, pouting lips. “I have worked away the night again, have I not?”

He crosses the room to kneel before his love, nipping at the fleet pulse at his wrist as he frees and clutches his hand before stealing a deep, reassuring kiss. Erestor gasps, lips and thighs both parting at the questioning brush of tongue, and, when finally they part, it is to rest his forehead against Glorfindel’s, sighing contently at the tiny kisses his golden husband places upon the knuckles caught between his own.

“How long since you last took a moment’s rest?” Glorfindel asks between them, drawing back just enough to watch Erestor frown between the humiliated stubs of his candles and the oily dregs of his waning lamp. He feels Erestor’s guilt in the strength of his grip, sees it in the working of his throat as he swallows thickly, and all he can do is steal another loving kiss as he stands, drawing Erestor to his feet and into his arms once more.

He rests his head atop an inky crown as Erestor lays his head upon his shoulder, linking his hands at the small of his husband’s back and holding him tightly. “Will you join me, Erestor, for a walk in the gardens to watch Anor’s ascent before retiring?” he whispers, voice pitched low and deep, his reward a purr-like rumble as Erestor worries with teeth and tongue the hollow of his throat nestled above the head of a well-shaped clavicle.

“Aye, melmenyá, [2]” Erestor husks, humid breath teasing moist flesh, and allows Glorfindel, with a parting peck to the underside of his strong jaw, to lead him from the library.


[1] my dearest one (Q)
[2] my love (Q)