The fire in the Himlad war room crackled, sending sparks dancing toward the high stone ceiling as the full Council of the Fëanorians finally assembled. The atmosphere was a volatile mix of grim military strategy and the sheer, unbridled audacity of Celebrimbor, who remained sprawled across you as if the fate of Beleriand were a distant, trivial rumor. Maedhros stood at the head of the long table, his single hand gripping the edge of a map. He looked over at the couch, his scarred face tightening. "The scouts report movement in the Pass of Aglon," he began, his voice a gravelly rumble that demanded attention, "and yet my nephew seems more concerned with the topography of his own chambers."

Maglor sighed, leaning his harp against a chair as he unbuckled his traveling cloak. He looked at the two of you, his eyes lingering on the way Celebrimbor’s hands were possessively anchored to you. "I have written songs of the Great Journey and the light of the Trees," the singer murmured with a dry, melodic wit, "but I find no verse for a Prince who chooses to drown in silk while his brothers prepare for blood." The twins, Amrod and Amras, weren't nearly as poetic. They stood by the hearth, watching with synchronized, diabolical grins as Celebrimbor sat up just enough to address the room. "You speak of battlefields as if I have not earned my rest," Celebrimbor rasped, his voice thick with a nonchalance that bordered on insult. He didn't look at the maps; his gaze was fixed on you. "The Orcs can wait an hour. My lady’s comfort cannot."

With a slow, deliberate movement that caused a sudden, sharp silence to fall over the room, Celebrimbor reached for the hem of your robes at your chest. His fingers, calloused from the forge, hooked into the fine fabric and pulled it down, exposing the generous, aching swell of your breasts. You were blessed with assets that far surpassed the slender frames of other elleths, and he displayed them to his kin with the arrogant pride of a master showing off his finest work. "Look at her," he challenged, his thumb grazing the bared skin of your cleavage as he adjusted the silk to show even more. "Tell me, Maedhros—tell me, father—which of you has a jewel in your treasury that compares to this? I am a smith; I know the value of what I hold. Why should I leave this warmth for the cold steel of a sword?"

Curufin turned away sharply, his jaw locking so tight the muscle leaped in his cheek. He looked as if he wanted to strike his son and congratulate him at the same time. "Have you no sense of propriety, Tyelpë?" he hissed. "You treat your wife like a prize of war in front of your own blood." Celegorm let out a sharp, appreciative whistle, his blue eyes dancing with a mixture of shock and amusement. "By the Valar, the boy has finally grown a spine. Or perhaps he’s just found something better to hold onto than a hammer." Caranthir slammed a heavy ledger onto the table, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. "Disgraceful," the Dark One muttered, though even his eyes flicked toward the bared, soft skin of your chest before he looked away with a scowl. "We are here to discuss the defense of the North, not to witness the debauchery of the Second House’s firstborn."

Celebrimbor ignored them all. He leaned back down, burying his face into the deep, warm valley of your breasts, inhaling the scent of your skin with a long, contented sigh. He nuzzled against you, his hands wandering back to the curve of your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a breath of air between you. "Let them bark," he whispered against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating hum that only you could feel. "They are cold, and they are bitter. But we... we have the fire right here."