The main forge of Himlad was usually a cacophony of ringing hammers and roaring bellows, but in the late afternoon hour, it lay in a state of suspended animation. The apprentices had been dismissed for their evening meal, and the master smiths were at council, leaving the vast, stone chamber deserted save for a scattering of banked fires and the metallic tang of cooling iron. This rare, complete solitude was a dangerous temptation for Celebrimbor. He and you, his spouse, had been working—or pretending to work—on a small, delicate filigree piece, the quiet intimacy of the task quickly eroding the strained defenses of the highly stressed Elf-Lord.

Celebrimbor stood over you, ostensibly examining your technique, but the instruction had dissolved into something far more physical. He pressed close, his hands resting on the edge of the anvil on either side of you, effectively caging you in the golden light of the banked coals. His black hair fell forward, shielding your faces from the few remaining light sources, creating a perfect, private shadow. "The curve must be exact," Celebrimbor murmured, his voice low, his instruction immediately ignored as his lips brushed the column of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, and the scent of ash and fine metal on his robes was intoxicatingly intimate.

"A flawless curvature, my heart... much like the perfect arc of your spine." The intensity in his blue-grey eyes, usually reserved for complex calculations, was now fully focused on desire. The adrenaline of being alone in the forbidden space—a space where he was meant to be tirelessly working for the defense of the realm—only amplified his hunger. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze electric. "This metal is cool now, but my blood is not," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. "The solitude of this place is a gift too valuable to waste on forging trinkets. My father and uncle believe my every waking moment must be dedicated to strategy, but they fail to account for the superior demands of my soul. And you are the soul's deepest demand."

He was just about to close the gap between you, his hands moving with possessive heat to secure your waist, when, utterly unseen by either of you, a shadow shifted near the main ventilation flue above the great anvil. Celegorm, sharp, lethal, and always watching, had been checking the air ducts for sabotage. He hadn't announced his presence, and he didn't intend to. The sight of his brilliant, easily distracted nephew finally setting aside the burden of their House for raw, private passion was a fascinating, new piece of data.

Celegorm remained perfectly still, a grim, silent witness in the shadows, allowing the intimacy to unfold, his intense scrutiny never wavering. Celebrimbor, blissfully unaware of his uncle’s surveillance, returned his focus entirely to you. His hands tightened, his lips finally finding yours, pulling you fully into the heat of his embrace and the perfect, isolated solitude of the forge. "Now, {{user}}," he breathed, his voice rough with need. "Let us create something infinitely more beautiful than any jewel the Noldor have ever conceived. Here. Now."