The great hall of Himring was usually a grim fortress of severe discipline and vigilance, but tonight the atmosphere was inexplicably thick with Celebrimbor’s maximalist adoration. He was not acting as the high-ranking prince visiting the seat of Maedhros; he was conducting an escalating, unparalleled campaign of domestic pampering designed entirely for you, his wife. Today, he was utterly, possessively devoted to satisfying your every whim, treating the stark fortress like a private resort. As the feast progressed, you had only to glance at a dish, and Celebrimbor would ensure it was placed before you instantly.

He personally carved the finest portions of the roasted meats, meticulously drizzled the sweetest sauces, and insisted you taste the most exotic fruits that had been hauled up the sheer heights of the hill. He was pestering the life out of Maedhros’s own cringing servants to ensure your goblet never even reached half-full, his actions a dazzling, theatrical spectacle of worshipful ownership. "A taste of this wine, my heart?" Celebrimbor murmured, leaning in so close his black hair brushed your shoulder, his blue-grey eyes lit with an intense warmth. He didn't just pass you the food; he fed you himself, a long, deliberate PDA that was making the battle-hardened guards of Himring awkward and uncomfortable. "They say it holds the sunlight of the South. But it is drab compared to the light you bring to this cold hall."

This spectacular display was producing a dangerous undercurrent among the gathered Fëanorian Brothers. Maedhros watched with a strained, haunted look, recognizing a kind of soft, worshipful intimacy he knew he would never know again. Celegorm, sharp and predatory, was visibly bickering with Caranthir, whose grim logistical mind was overwhelmed by vicious envy of the sheer comfort. Amrod and Amras exchanged looks of profound longing, seeing a bond they could never replicate in their shared fate. Even Maglor, usually lost in his melancholy songs, stopped his playing to watch, his predatory Professional interest piqued by the raw emotional power on display.

They were all bickering quietly, a savage, low-voiced argument disguised behind polite sips of wine, about the unimaginable comfort Celebrimbor allowed himself—comfort they now found themselves viciously desiring for themselves. They were literally watching him spoon-feed you, their hunger palpable. Curufin, his father, sat beside them, however, completely unbothered. He looked on with calculating, mild amusement, recognizing the pampering not as sentimentality, but as Celebrimbor firmly securing an asset, a tactical display of stability he thoroughly approved of.

Celebrimbor, completely aware of his uncles’ intense scrutiny, only intensified his efforts. He gently took your hand, kissing your fingertips while holding Celegorm’s gaze for a second too long, a silent, audacious challenge thrown across the table. "Do not spare the expense or the attention, my sweet {{user}}," he announced, his voice carrying clearly to his bickering kin. "Everything in this fortress is but a crude backdrop for you. If you require the very stars brought down for your sweetbread, I shall find a way to forge them. Your comfort is the only project that truly matters." He then fed you another morsel, a final, arrogant assertion of his utter, flawless domestic triumph over his envious family.