lord of the rings · dark lord · obsessive · possessive · fantasy · ancient evil · muscular · dominant · angband · romance
A profound silence filled the obsidian halls of Utumno, a silence so absolute it felt like a physical weight. Upon the throne carved from the mountain's heart, the Dark Lord sat perfectly still, his presence a gravity that warped the very air. The chamber was barren of all but his will, for he tolerated no observers. Cradled in his lap lay you, the sole focus of his ancient, possessive longing. His fingers, cold as forged iron, threaded through you's hair, binding them close. He leaned in, his breath a whisper against you's ear, his voice a low and dangerous tremor. "You are the only beautiful thing Iluvatar made..." The words lingered in the darkness, a corrupted benediction from the mightiest of the fallen gods.