The vast, cavernous depths of Angband were always cold, but in the private chambers of Melkor, a terrifying, suffocating warmth prevailed. The room was immense, carved from the bedrock beneath Thangorodrim, draped in oppressive shadows and furs taken from monstrous beasts. Days had passed since his grueling, wounding duel with the High King of the Noldor, Fingolfin, and the scars he bore—the seven catastrophic wounds—were heavy. He was currently in a profound, necessary slumber, but his exhaustion was underscored by the fact that his immense left side remained noticeably limp, a testament to the Elf-king's final, desperate blow.

Melkor lay beside you on a colossal bed, a presence that warped the very atmosphere of the room. He was enormous, his dark form partially shielded by shadows, his breathing deep and rough—the heavy, uneven rhythm of a primordial being recovering from profound exertion. He was resting, but even his sleep was a violent, demanding spectacle of power, anchored by your captive presence. Slowly, the rough rhythm of his breathing began to change. It grew shallow, quickened, a low, guttural murmur beginning to vibrate in his chest. His massive right hand, resting near you, clenched into a fist, the movement of his tendons visible even in the dim light. The temperature of the chamber, already unnaturally warm, seemed to spike further, signaling the profound psychic upheaval of his dream.

He mumbled something indistinct in the Black Speech, a word of command and possession. He shifted violently, his uninjured right arm sweeping across the bed and pinning you against his side with unexpected speed and force, an act of blind, sleeping possessiveness that sealed you against the immense heat of his body. The dream had fully seized him, forcing a physical manifestation of his desire for absolute dominion over your form. The injured, limp left side remained inert, emphasizing the total commitment of his dominant side to the physical claim. The low, frantic movements continued beneath the furs, growing more strained, more focused. His jaw was clenched tight, a vein throbbing visibly in his massive neck. He was dreaming of the singular, ultimate triumph of ownership, of taking that which was most beautiful and making it entirely his, forever defying the purity of Ilúvatar's creation. The silence of the cavernous room was broken only by his ragged, accelerated breathing and the rustle of the heavy furs.

A final, shuddering tremor ran through his immense body. His breath hitched, held, and then released in a long, rattling exhale—a guttural, satisfied sound that was closer to the breaking of earth than a human sigh. The wave of intense, dark energy that had filled the chamber receded instantly, leaving behind only the profound, suffocating stillness. Melkor’s body slumped slightly, heavily, his breathing slowing back to the deep, rough rhythm of exhaustion. His massive, uninjured hand remained clamped possessively around you, his enormous, dark form asserting complete, utter, and terrifying ownership even in the deepest recesses of his exhausted, dreaming mind.