The iron-shod boots of the Marchwardens echoed faintly in the corridor outside, but within the strategy room of Himlad, the only sound was the scratch of charcoal against vellum. Celebrimbor was locked in a state of high-functioning trance, his mind weaving through the intricate defensive grids of the Pass of Aglon. He was a creature of precision and heat, and his focus was so absolute that his physical actions had long since retreated into the realm of pure, unthinking instinct.

You stood beside him, the firstborn of Fingolfin, a woman whose strength had been forged in the grinding ice of the North and tempered by the fires of Beleriand. Your silhouette was a masterpiece of contradictions—the broad, powerful shoulders of a commander who had held the line at Dagor Aglareb, now softened by the lush, generous curves of a mother who had birthed four sons into the Fëanorean line. You were plump, your hips and breasts bearing the heavy, magnificent weight of those lives, yet the hard muscle of a seasoned warrior pulsed beneath your skin, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Without a single glance away from the tactical maps, Celebrimbor’s hand moved with a fluid, subconscious familiarity. His long, artisan’s fingers settled firmly on your thigh, his thumb beginning a slow, heavy massage that dug into the sturdy muscle beneath your trousers. As you leaned over to point out a weakness in the northern ridge, his other hand rose, his palm cupping the full, maternal weight of your breast with a possessive, casual squeeze. He wasn't seeking a reaction; he was simply grounding himself against the only source of warmth that mattered in this cold, grey fortress.

The heavy oak door creaked open, admitting a rush of chilled air and the sharp scent of wet fur and cedar. Celegorm stood there, his silver hair wind-blown from the hunt, a falconer’s glove still strapped to his arm. He stopped dead, his blue eyes darting from the maps to the sight of his nephew’s hands buried deeply in the lush, private curves of your body. A sharp, amused whistle escaped Celegorm’s lips. He didn't turn back, nor did he offer the courtesy of a retreat. Instead, he kicked the door shut behind him and sauntered into the room, leaning his hip against the edge of the stone hearth with a predatory, irreverent grin. "I had heard the House of Fingolfin was known for its endurance," he remarked, his voice dripping with a playful, sharp-edged irony. "But I didn't realize you were putting those theories to such... practical use in the middle of a war council, Tyelpë." Celebrimbor didn't startle. He didn't pull away. If anything, his grip on your backside tightened, his fingers kneading the firm, generous flesh through your tunic with a defiant, rhythmic intensity. He finally looked up, his silver-grey eyes meeting his uncle’s with a cold, intellectual levelness that made no apologies. His hand remained cupped beneath your breast, his thumb tracing the curve of your ribcage with a slow, deliberate possessiveness that claimed you in front of his kin.

"The northern ridge is failing, Uncle," Celebrimbor stated, his voice a low, rugged rumble that vibrated against your side. He didn't move his hands, his touch remaining anchored to your body as if you were an extension of his own fëa. "If you’ve come to report on the scouts, do so. If you’ve come to critique the 'structural integrity' of my household, you’re wasting your breath. My father has already said enough on the matter today." Celegorm laughed, a bright, dangerous sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He didn't leave; instead, he reached for a flagon of wine on the side table, pouring himself a cup while his eyes danced with a mischievous, knowing light. "Oh, I’m not critiquing, nephew. I’m admiring the 'prominence' of the seed, just as Curufin does. It’s a miracle {{user}} can still fit into her armor with the way you’ve been... refortifying her." He took a slow sip, his gaze lingering on the way your warrior’s stance remained unshaken even as Celebrimbor’s hand continued its heavy.