Cold Tiled Floors

Cold Tiled Floors

Disclaimers: Middle-earth and all its inhabitants belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. I intend no infringement of copyright and am making no money from this.

Rating: NC-17.

Summary: Elrond and Celebrían are trapped in a storeroom. Sweet and fluffy.

A/N: this indicates thoughts. //this// indicates Elrond and Celebrían's speech-without-speech.

Feedback: Yes please. Click on the button and leave me a review or email me: losseniaiel@yahoo.co.uk.

Thanks to Nemis for betaing this for me.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


“We are trapped.”

“And whose fault is that?” Celebrían held the lantern high, the wavering flames illuminating a small room crowded with piles of paper, and, looking more than a little sheepish, her husband.

“I concede that I wished to look for these records, but I did not ask that you be with me.”

“So would you say that your wedded wife has no place by your side?” The Lady of Imladris pretended to pout.

“Would she wish it so?” Elrond slipped one arm round her waist and grinned down at her.

“Nay.” She smiled, cursing herself for her inability to resist even the mildest look of dismay written on those noble features. “But that does not alter the fact that the door appears to open only from the outside. Did you make it thus?”

“It may have been so,” he conceded.

“Is your memory fading, dear my love?” snquinquired solicitously. “Perhaps a healer should attend you – when we are freed.”

He smirked, his hand tracing laconic circles on the small of her back.

“Would you like to know how little my memory has faded, celeb loth nîn? I remember this morning, and a certain elf who did not resist the wanton advances of her husband... I did not imagine that the demure maiden I married could be thus…”

“I was never demure.” She made a token effort to pull away. “And while I accept that you are not yet in your dotage, we are still trapped in a storage closet.”

“You did not … ah … enjoy this morning?” He lifted one eyebrow.

“El-nîn,” she warned him, “this morning was magnificent indeed, but I have no desire for my bones to be found here, nor to become the Lady of the Cupboard.”

Elrond sank down on an upturned crate.

“Fear not. You may eat me when I perish. I would have no wish for it to be otherwise: your lady mother is too fearsome in her anger.”

“Hmmm… A tempting offer.” Celebrían twirled a strand of his hair round her finger. “But there is not enough meat on you. Besides, how might I cook you?”

“There are books, or you might burn Erestor’s entire collection of the financial records of the court of Fingon.”

“Dare I burn my husband’s beloved tomes?” She slid her fingers through his hair, grazing the point of his ear, and Elrond hummed with pleasure. “Nay, I fear that Erestor must lose his tax scrolls first, and then you will taste of mildew and…”

He had pulled her into his lap.

“Have you not already complained many a time that I taste of mildew?” He bent his head and captured her mouth. Celebrían decided that rather than mildew he tasted more of spices, rich and warm, and that she was as incapable as ever of denying the allure of the agile fingers cradling her head, seeking out the sensitive spot at the base of her skull. Parting her lips, her tongue darted into his mouth, only to be met with a fiery assault, a deepening of the kiss.

Finally, breathless, she drew back, her blood pounding in her ears.

“El-nîn, I protest; it is not fair.”

“What is not fair?” He so cso close that she could feel his breath on her face, a heady breeze stirring her hair, and the heat radiating off his velvet-mantled body.

“To hold out such promises when you cannot keep them.”

“Who said that I had no intention of keeping them?” he murmured, his fingers toying at tacesaces of her bodice.

“May I remind you that we are in a cupboard, and, besides, someone will notice our absence soon enough, melethron-nîn.”

“If you name me so, is it not my duty to my lady wife to fulfil the duties of the term?”

“But…”

“Shush…” He pressed one finger to her lips. “No buts. Ai…”

She had nibbled gently on the side of his finger, her tongue sweeping out to tantalise him.

“Now who is teasing, meleth-nîn?” he laughed, his breath catching in his throat.

“No buts. Nothing…” Celebrían snaked out one hand to part his robes, tugging impatiently at the tunic underneath.

“No…” he sighed against her neck, pressing a kiss to the skin beneath her ear. “Come here…”

And he stood slowly, lifting her with him.

“Where are we going?”

“The floor.” He grinned, slowly sliding his fingers under the heavy fabric of her flowing sleeve, caressing the smooth skin.

Setting her down, one hand still resting proprietarily athwart her waist, he hurriedly stripped off his mussed outer robe and threw it to the tiles.

“A bed fit for a lady, hervess.”

Sinking down onto the velvet folds, she grabbed his hand and tugged him off balance. He landed with remarkable grace, even for an elf, and hissed with desire at the sensation of her soft curves cushioning him. Luxuriating in the solid presence above her, Celebrían stretched, her blue eyes brimming with pleasure.

“I wish you nearer, my lord, my love.” She fiddled impatiently with the ornate fastenings of his tunic, her fingers skittering across the silken fabric. When it finally succumbed to her urgency, she leant up on her elbows, spreading her palms wide to savour the warmth of his skin, her neat nails skating across his nipples.

Elrond’s eyes darkened with pleasure until they were the hue of storm clouds, his head thrown back, his raven hair cascading over his shoulders.

“Daro,” he managed to force out at last. “Daro, sweetheart.”

“Why, meleth-nîn?” she asked wickedly, not ceasing her ministrations.

“You are wearing altogether too many clothes.” At that, she removed her hands, beginning to unlace the front of her simple gown, thanking all the Valar that she had chosen today of all days to wear this particular dress.

“Nay.” He pressed his hands over hers, stilling her, his face beseeching. Celebrían was reminded once again of how new they were to this carnal dance, although it seemed that it had been theirs forever. “Nay. Let me.”

And with practiced skill, he slid the ribbon free, and managed, although neither he nor she was entirely sure how, to divest her of the thin shift which lay beneath it.

The creamy flesh of her breasts spilled out into his waiting hands, and he felt the relentless pressure in his breeches become even more constricting. A moment later, Celebrían had shifted her attentions downwards, stroking him with a steady rhythm.

“Now who is wearing too many clothes?”

It seemed to Elrond that he was afloat, cast adrift from all conscious thought, and so it was that he did not answer, merely bending his head to suckle one nipple into his mouth, rewarded by the sigh of pleasure which escaped his wife.

Nevertheless, feeling the heat within her, radiating outwards until it seemed to encompass the entire room, Celebrían reached for the fastenings of his breeches.

“So much Valar-forsaken cloth,” she muttered against the crown of his head. But as the last button gave way, even she did not hear her own words, instead sliding her hand beneath the constricting cloth to devote long, sweeping strokes to the hot length therein, until Elrond writhed against her, his breath hot and ragged against the nipple he was now teasing.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he gazed longingly at her flushed face, and struggled to free himself from the last cloth which divided them.

“Be quick, El-nîn; the floor is cold,” she begged, her hands reaching up to grip his muscled arms

So much a warrior, yet so much a healer. ‘Tis strange and wondrous indeed.

“I had not noticed.”

“Neither had I until you were gone from me,” she chuckled. “Come back here, my star.”

And he did as he was bid – for what else could he do when she looked at him thus?

And he was everywhere at once, a fiery, demanding presence, matched by the flames which leapt ever higher within her. He slithered down her length, pressing feverish kisses to all the skin he could reach, and, after an age, it seemed, moved finally to lap at her centre. She entwined her hands in his hair, marvelling as much at the twilit brightness as at the sensations mounting within her – for at that moment, they were one and the same, all part of the whole, the marvellous contradiction to whom she was wed for all of Arda and beyond, as necessary to life as the breath escaping her lips in frantic gasps.

“Nay, herven.” Although her eyes were closed, their depths veiled by her fair lashes, she unerringly caught his hand, staying the relentless pulse of his quest. “Be within me.”

Elrond smiled up at her, the shadows of his gaze no longer holding any laughter, yet free, too, from any of the ancient sorrows which so often crept in.

Swiftly, he slithered up to meet her welcoming mouth, tongues united in a duel as old as time, and as young as the new-fledged day.

Bracing himself on his forearms, he hovered above her for a fraction of a second, and then, reading the implicit consent in the love lurking in her eyes, sheathed himself in her with one fluid movement.

As he withdrew, revelling in her tight warmth, she let out an inarticulate sound of dismay, reaching out to wrap one arm across his broad back, urging him closer.

He plunged in again, all else sped away in the sheer bliss of this moment, and she rose to meet him. Her desire met his, matched his, her mind yearning for him.

As the sensations built to an irresistible crescendo within her, each stroke, each instant of delicious friction carrying her deeper and deeper into the welcoming darkness of them, she felt a tingle begin on the edge of consciousness. It grew and grew, swelling into a radiant brightness. Try as she might, she could not open her eyes. It was entirely beyond her to relinquish that sight which transcended sight.

bríabrían felt Elrond’s body grow taut above her, his pale skin slicked with sweat, and her own answer it until all the world was one searing wave of desire, one aching melody of light.

And then, she toppled over the edge, surrendering herself to the spasms of pleasure which swept through her. Within a heartbeat, a ragged groan wrung from his lips, Elrond followed her and the glow pulsed brighter than ever, and she beheld, in its heart, a deep, steady glow so blue that it could not be gainsaid and even the evening sky paled in comparison. Transfixed, she savoured the intensity of the sweet pleasure sweeping through her, desire’s end and its beginning, and, in the shuddering aftermath, felt a presence so familiar that she almost wept as it bloomed in her mind.

//I am here celeb loth nîn. I am here, my Celebrían//

So much, so many long years. So much.

So she wept, for what else is there to do when the depths of another’s sorrow are made known to you, the glorious breadth of their unending joy…

“Tears, dearling?” Elrond’s face radiated panicked concern. “If I have hurt you…”

//Nay. Do you not feel it, El-nîn?//

And his grin had never been wider, the joy shining in his eyes never more powerful.

//Aye. ‘Tis … I mean …//

They realised in the same moment that they had spoken without speech. Celebrían found herself enveloped in an almost bruising hug.

//Really?// Hearing the uncertainty in his tone, feeling it within herself, she brushed the tears from his cheeks.

//Really//

They lay like that for a long time, cradled together, warm despite the chill of the cellars.

It was the lady who broke the silence, startled to hear her own voice.

“In a storeroom of all places.”

“In a storeroom.” Elrond’s hand trailed lazily over her skin, the slight calluses from so many hours spent holding a pen forcing a shudder of exhilaration from her. “I am sorry.”

“Whatever for?” One finger traced the arch of his brow, smoothing the dark line.

“You fell from a mallorn tree and skinned your knee when you were but ten years of age. Lord Celeborn said…”

“That if I was to climb trees, then I should at least wear breeches,” she finished for him. “And you threw your brother into the sea on a cold day in December. I am surprised that Círdan has forgiven you yet.”

“He has not,” Elrond answered darkly. “He merely bides his time.”

Celebrían smothered her giggles against the angle of his neck, but her husband’s face was shadowed once more, an expression of something akin to awe flitting through his eyes.

“What is it?” She raised her head, noting idly the intermingling of their hair, silver on black, black on silver. The disconcerting sense of wonder was within her, but she could not yet find the will, the courage to reach out and touch its source.

“’Tis a great gift.”

“Aye, that it is.”

“And great gifts oft come with greater burdens,” he sighed.

“Yet do not look too deep, nor wonder too long, for it may be a gift without burdens,” she replied, still alight with the song. //And it may be that this is a gift for sorrows already borne//

Elrond smoothed her hair fondly, but a question hovered on his lips.

“Think you that I am weak?”

“Why would I Her hand rested on his hip, testing the almost imperceptible play of muscle.

“For that I still mourn that which can never be changed. I still …” In this rare, unguarded moment, she saw all too clearly the depths of his grief for his brother’s choice, for his parents’ voyage…

“Nay.” And her mind unfurled before him like the first elanor blossoms of spring, layer after layer, understanding threaded through all. “To mourn is not to be weak, but strong, my dear love…”

Yet whatever she might have said was drowned out by the hammering on the door.

“My lord? Elrond, are you there?” Erestor sounded unnerved. “A trade delegation has arrived from Gondor, and is demanding to speak with you…”

“I am here. The door, it seems, has no handle on the inside. No, wait.” Elrond yelped as the door began to creak open. “I shall find the records I was seeking first…”

With a very undignified rush, the lord and lady donned their discarded garments, attempting to smooth out the creases, pausing only for stolen caresses.

As Elrond stood by the door, still looking a little befuddled by the sudden transition to normality, Celebrían jammed the forgotten circlet onto his head and shoved a bundle of papers under his arm.

“For appearances’ sake.”

“Because it would not do for all Imladris to know of the wanton behaviour of its lady,” he said, the propriety of his proclamation slightly undermined by the hand which crept under the bodice of her dress.

“I shall still be yours in half an hour, El-nîn.” She propelled him through the doorway, and followed with an expression of demure sweetness on her face.

//An hour//

//An hour, and then…//

//And then to bed//


FINIS

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Translations:

celeb loth nîn – my silver flower.

El-nîn – my star.

melethron-nîn – my lover (male).

meleth-nîn – my love.

hervess – wife.

Daro – stop.

herven – husband.

Elrond-nîn – my Elrond.