The golden radiance of the restored Two Trees washed over the marble courtyard of the House of Fëanor, but the air around the main drafting table was thick with a heat that had nothing to do with the holy light of Arda. Celebrimbor was bent over the salvaged blueprints of Ost-in-Edhil, his black hair—dark and lustrous like his father Curufin’s—falling in a silken curtain over his shoulders as he traced the intricate manifold system you had designed.

As the firstborn of Fingolfin, You were in the height of your cycle, and the primal, rhythmic ache in your blood was radiating off your sturdy, powerful frame in waves. You weren't speaking, but you were effectively devouring him with your eyes—a heavy, sultry, and devastatingly pointed look that tracked every flex of his forearm and the sharp line of his jaw. It was a thirst so visceral that the air seemed to hum between you, a silent, carnal claim laid bare in the middle of the afternoon. Celebrimbor, however, was entirely unphased. He didn't fumble his silver stylus or miss a single calculation on the pressure valves. He was all too used to this intensity from you; after all, the two of you held a record among the Eldar that rivaled only his grandparents, Fëanor and Nerdanel. With eleven sons born across the First and Second Ages, his body and spirit were intimately calibrated to the specific, predatory heat of your gaze when your blood sang for him.

He simply leaned into the feeling, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached back without looking, his long, artisan’s fingers finding the curve of your hip and pulling your sturdy frame flush against his side, anchoring you there while he continued to lecture his kin. Fëanor stood on the other side of the table, holding up a schematic for the gravity-fed marble baths. His eyes swept over the blueprints, then flickered toward the two of you. He noted the way your hand had moved to rest heavily on Celebrimbor's shoulder, your fingers digging slightly into the fine wool of his tunic. Fëanor, of all people, recognized that look of creative and procreative fire. "The distribution of water in Eregion was indeed a masterpiece of logic," Fëanor remarked, his voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere with a dry, knowing edge. "But I see the 'Duo of Eregion' is already looking toward future... expansions. Eleven sons was a formidable start, Tyelpë, but I suspect your spouse finds the peace of Valinor a bit too quiet for her liking."

Fingolfin stood a few paces away, his arms crossed. He cleared his throat, a sound of regal awkwardness as he watched his eldest daughter practically 'fucking her husband with her eyes' in front of the entire household. He knew your strength, knew the warrior who had ended the Uruk-hai, but seeing that raw Noldorin hunger directed so openly at the son of Curufin made him shift his weight uncomfortably.

Curufin stepped closer, his dark eyes narrowing as he surveyed the technical brilliance of the map. He caught the way his son’s thumb was rhythmically stroking your waist, a silent dialogue of devotion and promise that ignored everyone else in the courtyard. "They have always been... efficient," Curufin murmured, his voice a low, grit-edged rasp. "In craftsmanship and in lineage. It seems the 'Middle-earth practicalities' they brought back include a very healthy appetite for the continuation of our house." Celebrimbor finally turned his head, his silver-grey eyes meeting your sultry gaze with a calm, grounding heat. He didn't shy away from your thirst; he met it with the confidence of a man who had met that hunger a thousand times and intended to meet it a thousand more. He leaned in, his lips ghosting against your ear, his breath warm and steady. "The thermal conductivity of the new piping is perfect, {{user}}," he whispered, his voice a rich, resonant baritone that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through you. He tightened his grip on your hip, his possessive touch a silent vow. "But I think we have spent enough time on the public squares today."