are you not entertained?

aya -- xxii -- she/her -- manwë/melkor goddess of the silmarillion trash ships pantheon -- mostly asoiaf/tolkien/mdzs/ tua -- give us hannibal season four you cowards -- in'cest la vie i guess

[ontheidiotbox]

[convelocity]

Yet amidst the quiet, there's a whisper. A subtle assurance of a guardian watching over you.

Grab prints here

[podcastwizard]

sorry boss can't come in today i was on my way to work and then a gentle spring breeze kissed my cheek and reminded me it is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world

[asturlavi]

"i ought to be thy adam, but i am rather the fallen angel"

[velvetcloak]

Elle Fanning (ph: Szilveszter Makó)

[fatmzehraa]

[midnightinshadow]

[cametotheshowinsd]

Me and my wild boy, and all this wild joy!

[velvetcloak]

misamaru

[yourmum8609]

girls will look at a man and say “he’s just misunderstood” as he murders people

[gelenka-daria]

Can you write Manwe/Melkor and hanahaki disease?

i’d rather eat raw soil and cry in a field than watch either of them suffer through romantic plant-based respiratory failure, i’m sorry 😭

[gelenka-daria]

strangers in an elevator please!!!!!!

here's 7k of elevator-induced romantic chaos

The elevator lurches with a groan that sounds far too theatrical to be anything but personal.

Manwë blinks up at the flickering panel, blinking like it’s trying to feign innocence. The floor counter stutters, then goes blank. The overhead lights dim to a sulky glow. A deep metallic clunk reverberates through the walls, and silence swallows the space whole.

So that’s it then. Death. At the tender age of twenty-five, in a stainless steel coffin with faux-marble flooring and a mirror that has, for the past six months, insisted on reflecting back the worst possible lighting for his cheekbones.

Tragic.

He pulls out his phone.

manwë: stuck in the elevator again with someone else this time send help or snacks

varda: WHO IS HE HOT or is it like old mr. harrow from 12B because if it’s him you need to prepare to die

manwë: idk tall broody looks like he eats iron nails for breakfast

varda: OMG NO IT’S HIM THE NEW GUY THE ONE WHO THREW OUT THE HOA PRESIDENT FOR TRYING TO GIVE HIM A WELCOME BASKET RUN

Manwë glances across the space at the looming shadow beside him, then back at the screen.

manwë: how claw through the ceiling panels like a reverse poltergeist? do u think i could scale the cables like a victorian chimney sweep

varda: i think u could distract him with small talk until the fire dept arrives and just. don’t die ok.

varda: if he looks murderous pretend to faint. people respect a good swoon

Manwë smothers a laugh into his knuckles. Across the small enclosure, the man hasn’t moved, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the closed doors like he intends to psychically melt them open. He’s got that look about him, frankly. The kind that probably has melted things open before, doors and hearts and probably expensive hand-stitched trousers. His hair is dark and slightly damp at the ends, as if he’s just come from the rain, or possibly a knife fight. His jaw could cut glass.

Manwë clears his throat softly. “It seems we’re stuck.”

The man shifts. Turns. Looks at him, really looks, for the first time.

And—ah. There it is. The full force of that face. It is, in a word, a lot. In several words, carved from marble and basted in sin. His eyes are golden, uncomfortably so, like molten coinage or a lion deciding whether or not to be bored. They sweep over Manwë slowly, and perhaps a little too thoroughly, and he resists the urge to tug his sleeves down or touch his hair or spontaneously evaporate.

“Oh,” the man says, voice like molasses and thunder, the kind that gets into your bones and refuses to leave. “You’re here.”

And what does that mean?

“I—yes,” Manwë says, gesturing vaguely at the floor. “Tragically. I suppose there’s worse places to be trapped than a luxury elevator with questionable lighting and an infamously hostile stranger.”

The man’s mouth quirks. Just a little. “Infamously hostile?”

“Well,” Manwë says, with the dignity of a cat in a bathtub, “I do read the building group chat.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, stepping closer, casual as cloud cover. “So I’m infamous.”

“Or possibly fictional. There was some debate.”

“I hope I disappoint, then.”

He doesn’t.

He’s handsome in a way that should be inconvenient. Possibly illegal. Like he’s stepped off a runway in hell and brought the tailored coat with him. Everything about him says “trouble,” from the scuffed boots to the sharp glint of amusement curling at the edge of his mouth like he’s found something amusing and intends to hoard it.

“I don’t usually bite,” the man adds, clearly noticing how far back Manwë is pressed into the corner. “Unless provoked.”

“And do you often get provoked in elevators?”

“Only by critics of my lighting choices,” he deadpans.

Manwë can’t help it. He laughs, quietly, helplessly, and the man watches him like that was the goal all along.

The seconds pass. Then minutes. Manwë tucks one foot behind the other, shifts his weight, taps his phone again only to find zero signal and no rescue updates. Varda, he assumes, is busy organizing a resistance.

“So,” he says, because silence makes him itch and because the man hasn’t taken his eyes off him, “I don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Manwë.”

“Melkor,” comes the response, almost lazy. “Penthouse.”

Manwë blinks. “Oh. You’re that neighbor.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I imagined someone taller.”

Melkor laughs, rich, deep, and undeniably genuine. “You’ll be devastated to know I’m six-three.”

“Lies. Propaganda. HOA misinformation.”

“You wound me.”

“Only emotionally,” Manwë says, pleased with himself. “Physically, I’ve decided you’re probably very durable.”

“Durable?”

“Resilient. You strike me as someone who’s survived at least one forest fire, two scandals, and possibly an ex with a vendetta.”

Melkor’s smile sharpens. “Only one of those is true.”

“I’m not guessing which.”

Another laugh, an easier one, this time. Lower. Closer.

“You’re not what I expected,” Melkor says, folding his arms, lean shoulder brushing the mirrored wall. “They talk about you in the group chat too, you know.”

Manwë’s mouth parts, then shuts. “I—excuse me?”

“‘Unfailingly polite,’ ‘even prettier in person,’ ‘makes really good fig tartlets.’”

Manwë stares at him. “Varda.”

Melkor tilts his head. “That the friend with the fondness for all-caps and gifs?”

“Yes. She—why are you in the group chat?”

“I like to stay informed,” he says simply, then adds, “Also, it’s wildly entertaining.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“That’s accurate.”

There’s a long beat. It's not uncomfortable, but charged in a way Manwë can’t quite name. Like static before lightning, like one more glance could be too much, and yet he keeps glancing anyway, and Melkor keeps meeting his eyes like he doesn’t mind at all.

“You know,” Melkor says, voice quieter, low enough to catch against the curve of Manwë’s ear as the elevator gives a mechanical whine and shudders beneath them, “I was going to ask you out.”

Manwë blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Eventually,” Melkor continues, tilting his head like he’s calculating the exact speed at which to wreck Manwë’s composure. “When I saw you again.”

“I—when have you seen me?”

“Once. Twice. By the mailboxes. In the garden. Elevator now makes five.”

“You were counting?”

“You’re very countable.”

“You’re very...forward.”

“I’m very interested.”

And just like that, click. The elevator lurches, the lights flare back to full strength, and the panel pings as it resumes its upward climb like it didn’t just bear witness to the start of something faintly deranged and possibly magical. Manwë is still blinking, words caught somewhere between his throat and the back of his tongue.

They’re barely halfway to the ground floor when Melkor, cool as moonlight on marble, adds, “So. Coffee?”

Manwë jerks his head around. “Now?”

“Unless you’d prefer tea,” Melkor says. “Or a slow walk around the block during which I make vague, poetic observations and you pretend not to notice that I’m flirting with you.”

Manwë stares at him.

Melkor lifts one brow, just a little, just enough. “You do drink coffee, don’t you?”

“I—yes, but I didn’t think we were—” Manwë flounders, which is deeply undignified, and Melkor seems to enjoy every second of it.

“Think of it as a post-trauma bonding exercise,” Melkor says, smiling now, crooked and indulgent and just a bit too handsome. “You survived me. That earns you caffeine.”

“I didn’t think I was being tested.”

“Oh, you weren’t. But you passed anyway.”

Manwë opens his mouth to protest—what, exactly, he’s not sure—but then the elevator doors slide open with a dignified ding and the lobby sprawls out in front of them, glass and granite and golden light, as if nothing happened at all. Like the past ten minutes haven’t rearranged his insides with the subtlety of an earthquake.

Melkor gestures him forward, a little half-bow like a devil pretending to be a gentleman. “Shall we?”

Manwë steps out, legs a little weak, heart a little louder, and texts Varda as they head toward the revolving doors.

manwë: he asked me to coffee manwë: i said yes manwë: if i die it was worth it

varda: WHAT

-

The café hums around them as sunlight pours through the windows in long strips, spilling across the checkered floor, soft and golden, steeped in that particular kind of afternoon lull when time feels pliable, warm and loose at the edges, like honey coaxed from the jar.

The coffee is almost too pretty to drink. Light cream foam feathered into a leaf, a dusting of cinnamon, the glass mug warm in his hands and already sweating at the sides. Manwë sips anyway, slowly, just to give his mouth something to do while he tries to wrap his head around the fact that this—this—is happening.

Melkor, of all people, is sitting across from him, reclined slightly in his chair, a quiet grin playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly how ridiculous this is and is enjoying it far too much.

And to be fair, he looks good in the sunlight. Not terrifying at all. Just… stupidly, offensively attractive, in a sharp-coffee-and-tailored-jacket sort of way. There’s something more relaxed about him here, away from the marble and metal and reflective elevator walls. He’s not smiling wide, but the smile he is wearing keeps growing in fractions whenever Manwë talks. Which is...disorienting, to say the least. He’d expected a lot of things from this unexpected coffee detour. Intense staring. Awkward silences. Maybe mutual escape via fake phone calls.

Not this pleasant, easy rhythm.

And certainly not the subtle, creeping realization that he’s kind of enjoying himself.

“I’ll admit,” Melkor says, his fingers absently toying with the silver spoon in his espresso cup, “I didn’t think this would work.”

“This?” Manwë repeats.

“Coffee. With you. I thought you might throw it at me.”

“That’s still on the table.”

“Mm. But you haven’t yet. Progress.”

Manwë hums, pretending not to be flustered by the way Melkor’s gaze lingers a second too long over his mouth as he takes another sip.

He’s surprised at how comfortable he feels. He’s not trying to perform, or impress, or fill silence with panicked chatter. Melkor’s attention isn’t demanding, it’s focused, but calm. Like he’s just… genuinely curious.

Which is probably why he doesn’t notice the phone buzzing in his jacket pocket until it’s been buzzing, like a demon mosquito, persistent and increasingly deranged, for several full minutes.

He pulls it out discreetly and taps the screen.

53 unread messages.

Oh no.

Group Chat: keep It Divine, Girls Named years ago by Varda and it hasn't been changed since. It also never should be opened in public.

He opens it anyway, heart sinking.

Varda: emergency emergency EMERGENCY. MANWË IS STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR. WITH MELKOR

Ulmo: what.

Yavanna: wait is that the guy with the bone structure? the one who made the HOA president cry?

Vàna: MANWË'S GONNA DIE. he’s sweet. he’s dainty. he says please and thank you. melkor is gonna SNAP HIM IN HALF

Aulë: THAT'S IT. I’m getting the crowbar

Nessa: do you need an exit plan? we can be outside the building in 7 minutes. MANWË BLINK TWICE IF IN DANGER!!

Nienna: oh no sweetie are you ok? does he seem stable??

Estë: what's the vibe. hostile? criminal? sexy??

Oromë: manwë if he lays a hand on you I will tranquilize him

Tulkas: ON MY WAY. fists first. questions later.

Varda: and now they’re getting coffee. TOGETHER.

Ulmo: WHAT????!!!

Námo: I HAVE FORESEEN THIS.

Vairë: …you’re telling me Manwë bagged the hottest man in the city during an elevator malfunction??

Aulë: forget crowbar. bringing champagne.

Irmo: how is the date going. is that melkor dude doing the thing? the brooding stare thing?

Tulkas: SOMEONE DROP A LOCATION PIN. I’M BRINGING MY WEIGHTED BLANKET AND A CHAIR TO STAKE THIS OUT

Nessa: no guys. listen. what if he likes him. what if melkor is NICE actually

Ulmo: ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELVES? SHUT UP!

Manwë closes the app and puts his phone away, slowly, carefully. Like he’s diffusing a bomb, before pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to combat the headache fighting its way to his frontal lobe. Secondhand embarrassment is a physical thing. Like a sunburn. Or gout.

“You okay?” Melkor’s voice cuts in, amused, if not slightly concerned, his head tilted just so.

“Just…” Manwë clears his throat. “My friends. They’ve gone feral.”

“Because you’re on a date with me?”

“You’re not supposed to know it’s a date,” Manwë mutters, heat creeping up his ears.

Melkor leans in, one brow raised. “It’s not?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

Manwë glares, but it’s hopeless because he's smiling too hard for it to stick. “Anyway,” he adds, trying to salvage some dignity, “they think you’re going to kill me.”

Melkor laughs. It’s brief but genuine, slipping past his teeth like something unguarded. “Why?”

“You have a reputation.”

“For what? Brooding at mailboxes?”

“For emotionally waterboarding the HOA president.”

Melkor hums, thoughtful. “He tried to enter my apartment uninvited.”

“He brought you banana bread.”

“I hate banana bread," Melkor declares, without an ounce of shame because who in their right mind hates banana bread? "And he called me ‘buddy.’”

Manwë stifles another laugh. “Oh, the horror.”

“Exactly,” Melkor says. “You understand me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

Just like that, the moment folds open, easy and warm. They sit there in the glow of it, the afternoon curling around them, the coffee cooling, the conversation flowing in starts and swells. Manwë lets himself forget the notifications, the panicked memes, the sheer volume of caps lock waiting for him just one tap away and just sips his drink, Melkor watching him over the rim of his glass like he’s quietly delighted by the fact that this is going well.

And it is. It is going well.

Which is the most dangerous part of all.

-

The café door swings shut behind them with a gentle click, and the outside air greets them like a sigh, cooler now, touched by the bite of oncoming dusk. Autumn has slipped quietly into the streets in their absence, draping the city in her softest layers, golden leaves curling at the edges, dry and crisp beneath their steps, wind that teases the hems of coats and nudges hair into disarray.

Manwë hadn’t noticed the time. He doesn’t quite remember the conversation shifting from art to architecture to which building in the city most resembles a bread box. He can’t recall exactly when he started leaning forward between sentences or laughing too easily or forgetting to check his phone. He only knows that somehow the hours folded up around them, warm and easy, like being wrapped in something soft.

One minute they’d been sipping coffee and trading barbed remarks about HOA conspiracies, and the next, the café lights were softening, the playlist drifting into something slower, the barista subtly wiping down tables like he’d been trying not to kick them out but wouldn’t mind if they maybe wrapped it up.

Melkor insisted on paying, even though Manwë tried to argue, but he'd done it with the kind of practiced nonchalance that suggested he always got the last word.

Now they're walking with takeaway cups in hand under a sky washed in mauve and ash-blue, with the last rays of sun trailing behind the buildings like spilled gold. There’s a softness in everything, to the way people wander by with scarves knotted at their throats, to the smell of street food thick in the air, sugar and spice, something fried. The soft glow of windows lighting one by one as the city edges closer to evening.

And Manwë still can't believe he's on a date with the guy everyone in their building, for one reason or another, has beef with. Which is still mildly insane, if Manwë lets himself think about it too long.

He doesn’t. Or tries not to. His mind is already full enough.

“You’re quiet,” Melkor says, not quite looking at him, his tone easy but nudging. “Do I need to be worried?”

“No,” Manwë says quickly, then amends, “Only a little.”

“That’s fair. I’m told I’m a bit much.”

“You were charming enough not to say that in the elevator.”

“Survival instincts,” Melkor replies. “Didn’t want to get kicked through the emergency hatch.”

Manwë laughs, open and helpless and surprised by the lightness of it. “That’s assuming I had the upper body strength to hoist anyone through anything.”

“I don’t know,” Melkor muses. “You look deceptively capable. Dangerous, even.”

Manwë snorts. “Is that your subtle way of saying I don’t look dangerous?”

“No," Melkor's eyes slide to him, a grin tugging to his lips. "That was my not-at-all-subtle way of saying I think you’re adorable and that’s probably how you get away with murder.”

And that sends a warm pulse through his chest that has no right being as loud as it is. He casts a glance toward Melkor, who is still watching him with something bordering on fond amusement. Not mocking or overreaching, just...interested. Genuinely. Like he’s trying to figure out how someone as soft-spoken as Manwë can hide so many thoughts behind careful words and buttoned-up coats.

They walk past a vendor selling sweet roasted chestnuts, the scent curling through the cold like a ribbon. Manwë breathes it in and tucks his free hand into the deep pocket of his coat, fingers brushing the corner of his phone.

He doesn’t look at it. Not yet, anyway. Not when the evening is this gentle, and his companion this unexpectedly delightful.

“Earlier,” he says, after a pause, “you said this wasn’t how you thought the afternoon would go.”

Melkor hums in acknowledgment.

“And now?”

There's a beat of silence, and then, “Now I wish I’d suggested dinner instead.”

Manwë doesn’t respond at first. He can’t. His heart has taken it upon itself to do something unhelpful and traitorous like flutter, as if it has opinions, as if it wants things.

He clears his throat. “You really aren’t what I expected, you know.”

Melkor smiles without looking over. “What did you expect?”

Manwë thinks. “I don’t know. Based on your reputation? A little more…glowering. Maybe some dramatic monologuing. I assumed you slept in a room with no furniture.”

“That’s not true,” Melkor says, scandalized. “I have a chair.”

Manwë dissolves into laughter. “Okay, but like, is it austere, expensive, definitely uncomfortable, probably haunted—”

“It’s Italian.”

“That proves nothing.”

Melkor’s eyes narrow playfully, his voice gone quiet. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Only a little.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

The words hit softly, like petals tossed in jest, but something in them still catches and blooms slow behind Manwë’s ribs.

He glances over. “You’re lucky I like you back.”

It slips out before he can stop it.

Melkor halts, just briefly, like he didn’t expect it, like maybe he hadn’t been sure. Then he grins again, crooked and bright and dangerous in a very different way than the rumors ever suggested.

“Dangerous,” he says again, like it’s the highest compliment.

They reach the corner of their street without noticing. The wind has picked up slightly, catching fallen leaves and making them swirl at their feet like confetti. Above them, the first stars flicker in the bruised sky, shy and pale. The windows of their building glow faintly gold.

Melkor walks him to his apartment, and by the time they reach his door, the hallway is wrapped in stillness, the kind that only arrives when night begins to settle deep into the bones of the building. Golden light spills softly from sconces on the wall, brushing the floor in warm pools, casting their shadows long and gentle behind them. It’s quiet here, like the world is holding its breath for them.

Manwë hesitates at the threshold, his keycard cool between his fingers. He turns, and Melkor’s still there, not quite touching, not quite distant. There’s something new in his expression, something cautious, hesitant, like he's second guessing himself. And it softens the sharpness in him like sunlight through frost.

“I know we’ve just met,” Melkor says, voice low, almost hushed, and something in it makes Manwë's lungs tighten, his breath shallowing by a fraction. “And this might be forward, but… may I kiss you?”

The question settles in the space between them, warm and delicate. And Manwë—

He should say no.

That’s what the rational part of him is saying, in some quiet, thin voice already lost beneath the drumbeat in his ears. You just met him. It’s too soon. You barely know anything about him except that he’s charming and unfairly beautiful and makes you laugh in ways you weren’t expecting. You don’t even know his middle name, for stars’ sake. What if this is a mistake? What if it’s—

But then Melkor is looking at him, and all the reasons dissolve like sherbet on Manwë's tongue, because his gaze is steady and intent and...honest, in the kind of way that makes Manwë’s breath catch in his throat. Like Melkor isn’t asking out of impulse, but something quieter, deeper. Like he’s afraid to ruin something he hasn’t even had the chance to touch yet.

Manwë’s thoughts quiet. Completely. What’s left behind is a soft ache, the echo of his heart against his ribs, and the sudden, inescapable certainty that yes is the only answer he’ll regret not giving.

So he nods, slowly, not trusting his voice, not trusting the way it would crack under the weight of whatever’s building in him.

Melkor smiles, gentle and slow and entirely different from the ones before. There’s no edge to it, just warmth and want and a quiet kind of wonder.

He steps close, easing into Manwë's personal space, tucking them both against his door in the shadowy hallway, and lifts one hand to cradle the side of Manwë’s jaw, his fingers featherlight, his palm warm. Manwë leans into it instinctively, breath catching, and the space between them narrows until it disappears entirely.

Their mouths meet like it’s always been leading to this.

His lips are soft and careful, his lashes caress Manwë's skin, catch in his own, one of his hands reaching for Manwë's own tentatively, the brush of their fingers almost shy. Heat creeps through the fabric of his clothes, sinking like an ache through his skin, curling perfectly between his ribs and around his heart like a string tethering him to this man who's kissing him like it’s a secret, a promise, like he doesn’t want to startle the moment into ending, his hand sliding to Manwë's waist like he wants to keep him right there. Just a little longer.

Manwë sighs into it, body weightless, nerves humming, and when the kiss deepens—just a breath, just a little—Manwë feels the whole world tilt slightly, like it’s offering them a better angle.

When at last they part, it’s slow, reluctant, foreheads brushing, breaths mingling in the hush.

Melkor doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, almost with reverence, a rasp to his voice that hadn't been there before, his pupils nearly overtaking the gold of his eyes whole.

Manwë’s heart stumbles, at least he's not the only one affected. “For what?”

“For tonight,” Melkor murmurs. “For letting me kiss you.”

Manwë exhales slowly, words catching on the rise of his smile. “You can… do that again. Sometime.”

“I intend to.”

He presses one more kiss to the corner of Manwë’s mouth, soft as the fall of a petal, and then steps back, just enough, just barely.

“Goodnight, Manwë.”

Manwë lingers in the doorway long after he’s gone, the quiet of the hall still echoing with his footsteps. He touches his lips once, lightly, dazed, and walks inside on legs that don’t quite feel like his own, warm all over and glowing from somewhere impossible to name.

His apartment is dim, still, bathed in the silver hush of city lights bleeding through tall windows. He stands there for a moment, hand still on the handle, as if moving too quickly might erase everything, mouth still tingling faintly. His heart hasn’t yet decided whether it wants to float or sprint or break into full interpretive dance.

Oh stars, they kissed.

And it was—he breathes out—really nice. Stupidly, unfairly nice. The kind of nice that should be followed by a warning label. May cause dizziness. May inspire poetry. May lead to dramatic wall-leaning while clutching one’s own chest.

Manwë toe-kicks off his shoes and all but drifts toward the couch, collapsing into it like a man possessed. His fingers hover toward his lips again, then land on his chest, then back to his lips, because what else is he supposed to do with his hands? He sighs, starry-eyed and stupid.

Then his phone buzzes.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

And then it screams. Well, not literally. But it may as well have, because when he checks it, he finds that he has 126 new messages.

Oh no.

He stares at it, contemplating simply throwing it across the room and moving to another country. Becoming a tree. Something that can’t text back.

Alas, curiosity is a cruel god, so he opens the chat.

varda: manwë manwë HELLO ANSWER ME OR I’M COMING OVER WITH THE KEYS

Tulkas: BRO ARE YOU IN HIS LAIR SEND A BLINKY SELFIE 🫣

Námo: I can trigger a false fire alarm in the building. You’ll have a plausible escape route. Just say the word.

Nienna: i have such a bad feeling, my stomach is doing things

Irmo: That’s called dread. Or excitement. They blur.

Vána: What if they kissed and it was like ✨really really good✨

Ulmo: STOP. STOP SAYING THEY KISSED. WE DON’T KNOW THAT. WE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING.

Yavanna: i’m pacing. in the greenhouse. with a trowel.

Oromë: so we’re all just assuming they kissed, huh? okay. okay. bold of him. honestly.

Estë: what if it was slow. and sweet. and made time stop 🫠🫠🫠

Aulë: manwë’s not answering. that either means he’s unconscious or making out.

Námo: can confirm we are past the “trapped in an elevator” arc and into the “divine romantic comedy” phase.

Tulkas: IF HE KISSED HIM WE NEED TO BAPTIZE HIS LIPS IN HOLY WATER I’M SERIOUS I HAVE A SPRAY BOTTLE

Irmo: hot, dangerous, emotionally unregulated classic manwë taste

Aulë: wait WAIT is melkor actually hot or are we just all affected by the coat and cheekbones and voice thing

Yavanna: no he’s hot tragically canonically hot

Oromë: i hate how correct this thread is

Nienna: y’all this is so bad what if he likes him what if it was good what if they had chemistry what if they HELD HANDS 😭

Ulmo: I’m unwell

Varda: manwë update your location update your soul status update your vibe

Tulkas: BRO WAS THERE TONGUE?? SOMEONE HAS TO ASK IF THERE WAS 👅

Námo: this group chat is unfit for sainthood

manwë: I’m alive. I kissed him. It was nice. Please be normal.

For a blessed second, there is naught but silence.

And then—

Varda: HE’S ALIVE AND KISSED AND ALIVE??

Tulkas: WE WERE RIGHT HE KISSED HIM THERE WAS A KISS WE CALLED IT 🗣🗣🗣

Irmo: define “nice” was it like fireworks? or like gentle symphony in your soul??

Yavanna: DID HE CUP YOUR FACE TELL US EVERYTHING

Oromë: were hands involved elbow grazing? waist holding? STERNUM??????

Estë: did the air change did birds sing did you see GOD

Ulmo: I’M LOSING CONSCIOUSNESS. THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING. I NEED A MINERAL WATER.

Námo: Manwë please we’re on our knees tell us if it was soft or if it was hungry

Tulkas: I’M GONNA ASK AGAIN 👅❓ I’M NOT LETTING IT GO

Manwë stares as the messages fly in faster than the screen can load them, the group name changing twice before his eyes, from Manwë Protection Detail to THE KISS SAGA™ to Manwë’s Divine Makeout Debrief.

His face is hot and his ears are ringing and his phone is glowing like it’s about to combust. He makes a small sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and throws the phone gently but with conviction onto the other end of the sofa.

It buzzes again. And again. And again.

“Absolutely not,” he mumbles, curling into the cushions like a man choosing peace over answering whether or not there was tongue.

The city hums softly outside the windows. The room is dim, warm. His chest feels like a lantern, glowing from the inside. His lips still tingle. His heart is full. He smiles quietly, entirely ruined and entirely okay with it.

The phone continues to vibrate.

He doesn’t move.

-

Something is banging, distant but getting closer, or maybe it's just because he's gradually waking up and instead of pale sunlight and chirping birds, all his ears pick on is a merciless, unrepentant ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-DONG, like someone is pressing it with the fury of a war general and the manic glee of a toddler.

Manwë blinks awake, finally, hair a soft nest against his pillow, blanket still tangled around his legs, and glances at the clock.

Saturday. 8:04 a.m.

He makes a small, wounded sound as the doorbell rings again, cruelly so, before the knocking turns to chanting.

“RISE AND SHINE, SULIMO!”

“SHOW US YOUR SINFUL MOUTH!”

“BRING FORTH THE BOY WHO SLEW INNOCENCE!”

Manwë stumbles to the door in yesterday’s hoodie and the bitter, bitter knowledge that none of his friends respect boundaries.

They spill in like they own the place as soon as he opens it. Every. Single. One. Of them. Dressed in varying shades of mourning black.

Varda has a veil. A veil. Tulkas is carrying a tray of freshly fried eggs with the solemn reverence of a funeral priest as Nienna practically floats in holding a box of croissants like it’s a sacred relic, Irmo following closely behind, a coffin-shaped clipboard in hand.

“What is this,” Manwë asks, hoarse and confused and not at all sure if he wants to know anyway.

“We come bearing offerings,” Yavanna says sweetly, brushing past him with a fruit basket. “And grief.”

“Grief?” he echoes.

“We’re mourning,” Estë explains, already laying out a tablecloth over his breakfast bar.

“Mourning what?”

Varda turns, deadpan, serious as can be. “Your innocence.”

Oromë blows a party horn, and the thing is black and glittery and deeply upsetting.

“I hate all of you,” Manwë says as Tulkas sets a platter of dramatic, unnecessarily perfect pancakes in front of him, each stack dusted in powdered sugar like ashes.

“You kissed Melkor,” Irmo says gravely, flipping open the clipboard. “There are protocols.”

“There are stages,” adds Námo, entering with a carafe of coffee that smells like it was brewed in the seventh circle of obsession. "And you'll have to excuse Ulmo, he has declined to attend, something about yeeting himself into the ocean."

If Ulmo hadn't been a proffessional swimmer and more or less welded to the tide, that last bit would have Manwë worry. So he merely sighs, resigned, and sits down and tries to make it through breakfast by chewing slowly and pretending he lives in a parallel universe where his friends are normal.

“So,” Vairë begins, arching a dark, elegant brow, “was it slow and sweet or passionate and devastating?”

“Did he make a noise?” Vána demands, wide-eyed. “Did he groan?”

“Did you melt?” Estë sighs, chin in hand, hazel eyes blinking at him dreamily. “You look like you melted.”

Manwë wishes he could melt through this floor, right now, actually.

“I’m not answering any of you,” Manwë says primly, buttering a scone like it’s his final defense.

But then his phone vibrates against the tabletop, and instinctively, he glances down.

The number is new and unsaved, but the message is simple.

unknown number: Good morning :) Hope you slept as well as I didn’t

His heart skips, lips twitching then lifting because oh.

He drops the scone and picks his phone up and before he can stop himself, his thumbs are moving, replying before his dignity catches up.

manwë: Good morning You thief You didn’t even ask for my number

[Melkor]: You gave it to me. You just don’t remember. You were too busy smiling.

manwë: That doesn’t sound like me.

[Melkor]: I have witnesses. Also a photo. You’re adorable in moonlight, by the way.

Manwë bites his lip.

“What’s got you grinning like that?” Varda asks, slicing an apple with suspicious calm.

The room stills. Thirteen heads swivel like weather vanes toward him.

Manwë’s smile vanishes as he fumbles the phone toward his chest, shielding it like a wounded Victorian heroine.

“IS THAT HIM??” Aulë all but shrieks.

“OH MY GOD,” howls Vána. “IT’S HIM.”

“HE TEXTED FIRST?” Varda's yell morphes into a series of delighted churtles. “Oh, he's got it bad.”

“DID HE USE AN EMOJI?” Estë demands. “WAS IT FLIRTY OR MELLOW?”

“Is it a paragraph?” Vairë gasps. “Did he say he misses you?”

Everything quiets down when Manwë rises from the table with all the composure of someone whose life is falling apart because a hot man texted him with a smiley face, gazing down upon his friends like he's about to say something important, before he promptly marches out of the kitchen, ignoring the shrieking chaos behind him, and locks himself in his room with all the drama of a man entering exile, looking down when his phone buzzes again.

Melkor: Did your friends murder you Is this your final text Should I avenge you

Manwë flops onto his bed, buries his face in a pillow, and types back with fingers that definitely aren’t trembling.

manwë: I’m hiding from them They’re dressed like I died I think one of them brought a eulogy

Melkor: I’m genuinely upset I wasn’t invited I’d have worn black too You deserve a dramatic afterparty

Manwë covers his face and makes a sound, and lets the soft thrum of joy spread through his limbs like warmth. His room glows gold in the morning light and his heart is a traitor and he doesn’t even care.

The door knocks softly once.

“We made you toast,” Varda says through the wood. “It’s got jam and a single orchid petal, for aesthetics.”

“Go away,” Manwë mumbles.

“You’re in love,” she says smugly. "I would have chosen differently but you're so in love."

“No, I’m not.”

“You kissed him in moonlight,” she sing-songs.

“Goodbye,” he calls. “I’m moving to another plane of existence.”

Her laughter echoes behind the door as his phone buzzes again, he doesn't stop the smile bending his lips.

-

Melkor sits at his sleek, black marble kitchen island with a mug of coffee in hand, his chest bare beneath the open, dark fall of his robe.

He’s also...smiling. Not the usual smirk, not the predator’s grin he puts on when he’s about to ruin someone’s credit score or politically destabilize a rival floor of the building. No, this is something softer. The corner of his mouth has betrayed him entirely and his cheek has the audacity to dimple

Ungoliant freezes mid–scrambled egg flip, eyes narrowing as she levels a suspicious, oil-slicked spatula at him from across the open-plan kitchen.

“Okay,” she says. “What is that.”

Melkor lifts one brow. "What?"

"That." She motions at her face with the spatula before turning it back on him like a weapon. "What is that."

“That,” he replies with exquisite laziness, “is called a facial expression. I know you wouldn’t recognize one.”

“No, no, no,” she says, stepping closer, spatula still raised like a holy relic. “That’s not your normal smug, I’ve-just-manipulated-an-elder-god smile. That’s not I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile. That’s not even the I-won-at-chess-against-Gothmog smile.”

“It’s true,” Gothmog rumbles from where he’s sitting at the end of the bar, chair creaking under the sheer pressure of his entire geological presence. “You look… weird.”

Melkor sets his mug down with dignity. “I do not look weird.”

“You look like you’re about to write poetry in a leather-bound journal,” Ungoliant says, long, dark hair swaying as she stalks forward like she’s confronting a contagion. “You look goofy, you’re glowing. What the hell are you plotting?”

“Nothing,” Melkor says, too quickly, then he opens his mouth to continue, some cutting retort half-formed, some scoff to drive home how ludicrous the accusation is. But the words slip, stutter, and vanish altogether, replaced by—

A flash of pale light. Not real, but memory.

Manwë, framed in the faint gold of the hallway outside his apartment, the light dusting over his long hair like spun pearl. Those eyes, impossibly blue, like sky through frost. His voice, quiet, uncertain, so polite—May I kiss you? The way his lips had parted when Melkor leaned in, the way he'd sighed against his mouth like it was the only thing he'd been holding in all day.

Beautiful. Like a dream tucked inside a mortal frame.

Melkor swallows.

Ungoliant narrows her eyes. “You’re in love.”

“I am not in—” he starts, then stops, because fuck, he might be, and he's not about to lie about this, about Manwë, not even to salvage his own stance. Instead he clears his throat and looks into his coffee like it betrayed him. “—I am not glowing.”

Ungoliant gasps. “You are!” she hisses. “You’re—you’re invested. Your pupils are dilated." She points that damned spatula at him like an accusatory finger, turning her whole baffled face to Gothmog as if to confirm what is transpiring right before her eyes, before looking back at him. "Is that a real smile? Melkor. MELKOR. Oh,” she tuts, shaking her head, "wait until poor Mairon finds out."

"He'll be fine," he shrugs, and Gothmog snorts into his protein shake. Melkor rolls his eyes. “And you’re being very loud.”

“I HAVE EARNED THE RIGHT TO BE LOUD,” she screeches, arms flailing, “AFTER TWENTY SEVEN YEARS OF YOU TREATING FEELINGS LIKE A PARASITIC INFESTATION.”

He grabs his phone and stands, mug in hand, robes flowing like he’s retiring to his villain lair but really, it’s just his room.

Ungoliant is already sing-songing behind him as he walks off.

“Mel-kor’s in loooooove,” she chants, slapping the spatula against the pan like it’s a tambourine. “He’s got a CRUUUUUUSH, he’s got a FLIIIIING—”

“—I will hex your pancakes,” he says without turning back.

“DO IT, YOU COWARD,” she yells.

Melkor closes his bedroom door behind him, sighs deeply, and grins down at his phone as it buzzes again. He taps out a reply as his shoulders loosen as his chest warms, his stomach doing somersaults and his heart in a vice.

He's so screwed.

-

Manwë is curled on his side, still tangled in the oversized hoodie he slept in, the sheets soft beneath him,the sun slanting through his half-closed curtains in gold-and-cream ribbons. His phone rests against the pillow beside him, lighting up every few seconds, and he watches it like it’s speaking directly to the curve of his chest.

Melkor: You’re not still hiding from your friends, are you?

manwë: No. I locked the door. It’s different.

Melkor: Ah yes. Doors. Ancient barriers of ultimate protection. How’s the horde?

manwë: Unhinged Dramatic Currently doing recon through the peephole, I suspect

Melkor: I regret missing it Almost But I have a mental image of you all warm and sleepy, wrapped in a hoodie with bed hair It’s sustaining me

Manwë buries his face in his arm. This is not sustainable. But he’s smiling again. Every time the phone buzzes, it pulls at something low in his stomach and higher behind his ribs, like a string tied through both, because they're already texting like they’ve done it for years, like they’re picking up the tail end of an old conversation, mid-sentence. Teasing and wondering and matching each other’s pace without even trying.

Melkor: Are you doing anything tomorrow night?

manwë: Aside from recovering from social trauma? No

Melkor: Then have dinner with me Actual dinner this time Real food, real place, one chair each Or we can share. I’m open-minded

manwë: Fast, aren't we?

He types it before he can stop himself, and watches the screen, that small spinning typing… bubble teasing him for five full seconds.

Melkor: You’d say no if I were slow

That gives Manwë pause.

He would.

And that’s the terrifying part. There’s a strange steadiness to all this, as if they’re moving with the current instead of against it. The pace isn’t frantic, it’s just right. Natural like breath, like instinct.

He thinks about last night, about Melkor’s hand on his cheek, the warmth of it, that look in his eyes, half caution, half wonder. The way his voice had softened when he asked for permission, how he’d stepped away like he didn’t want to leave, but wouldn’t presume to stay.

Manwë touches his lips, slow and quiet.

It should feel too fast. It should.

But it doesn’t.

It feels inevitable.

Fated, even, if he dared believe in that kind of thin, as if they’ve done this before, in some other shape with different bodies under different stars. As if something older than both of them is humming beneath their skin, gently guiding their hands back to each other.

He swallows, the shakes his head. He's overthinking it.

manwë: Okay Dinner tomorrow

Melkor: You’re making excellent choices, Súlimo Wear something distracting. I plan to stare

Manwë rolls onto his back, a groan curling up from his throat, helpless and delighted. He tucks the phone under his chin like he can absorb the heat of it.

A knock sounds at the door.

“I made tea,” Varda says through the wood. “Are you still emotionally compromised?”

“No,” he says, too quickly because he, unfortunately, is doomed.

“Okay,” she replies. “I’m leaving it outside your door. And also a face mask. For your pores. Because you’re sparkling and I hate it.”

He hears the clink of a mug and her footsteps retreating and he smiles to himself, feeling everything and nothing, like the air is too thin and the world too much.

Then his phone vibrates once more.

Melkor: I keep thinking about the way you looked right before I kissed you Don’t worry I plan to see it again

Manwë reads the message twice. Then a third time, slower, heart stumbling just enough to be noticed before he lets himself fall back into the sheets, eyes closed, smile pulling at the corner of his mouth like the beginning of a secret.

So this is what it feels like.

[xxrrisxx]

When nobody wakes you up in the morning, when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want, what do you call it, Freedom or Loneliness?

Charles Bukowski

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— 6:59 AM by Shane Koyczan

[gelenka-daria]

hiiiii *waves* im not here to nag or demand anything i swear. I’m just wondering if you ever received my prompt about the strangers in the elevator? if yes do you plan on writing it? i’m just curious, is all!

Omg anon that one is YEARS old. I always wonder if those who sent me prompts that long ago are still around, but it’s almost done, actually! I’ve just not opened that particular file in god knows how long 💀

[gelenka-daria]

My firstborn for modern-day Manwe x Melkor getting their freak on in a public space followed by tender aftercare

yeah so there’s a bathroom stall scene. sue me.

The chandeliers glisten like constellations fallen from grace, thousands of suspended crystals throwing fragments of light over velvet gowns, sculpted suits, and champagne flutes kissed half-empty by lacquered mouths. There is music, faint and elegant, a string quartet tucked beneath the grand staircase, and beyond them, the endless ebb and flow of men who wear success like scent, thick and cloying, and women too sharpened to smile without calculation.

Manwë wears his father’s name like one of their diamonds, polished, set in gold, glittering on display. He nods and laughs when he should, wine poised in one hand, the other gesturing fluidly as he charms a circle of grey-haired investors with too much time and too little imagination. His heels ache and his head thrums and his smile sits easy on his lips, though it no longer quite reaches the eyes.

Then it happens.

Like a pulse under the skin, a prickle, a warmth, a flutter of something unspoken but unmistakable. It crawls up the back of his neck and pools at the nape, a sensation he’s felt a thousand times and never mistaken. He doesn't need to look to know who it is.

But he does.

Turns his head slightly, casual, practiced, nothing more than a flicker of attention toward the far columned edge of the hall, and sees him. Leaning against a marble pillar, shoulder-length dark hair pushed back in careless waves, his jacket still in place but his tie undone, the top buttons of his shirt loose enough to whisper of sin. One hand is buried in his pocket, the other holding a half-drunk glass of deep red wine, and those burnished gold eyes are fixed on him, unwavering.

Melkor smiles against the rim of the glass, a slow, knowing thing, and tilts his head by the barest fraction. Anyone else would miss it. Manwë does not.

He excuses himself gently, steps back from the circle, and glides across the ballroom floor with the ease of someone who belongs here, and yet walks toward someone who never quite will.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says when he reaches him, voice light, chin lifted, every movement controlled though his pulse is starting to hammer just beneath his skin.

Melkor’s eyes trail him with quiet, open hunger, far from subtle, far from appropriate. “Only now.”

“You could have joined the conversation,” Manwë murmurs, folding his arms just enough to press his wine glass against his chest and steady the trembling in his fingers. “They’re our clients. Our investors. I’ve been talking us up all evening.”

Melkor shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “Father's not here.”

“You’re not father.”

“No. And unlike him, I actually wanted to see you tonight.”

Manwë sighs and rolls his eyes, fond despite everything. “That doesn’t answer anything.”

Melkor’s smirk only deepens, and with one long step forward, he enters Manwë’s space entirely, leaning in with such calculated ease it borders on criminal. “It wasn’t the conversation that brought me here,” he says, low, a rasp like velvet against flame. “It was that suit. That body in that suit. And that mouth you keep offering to strangers.”

Manwë goes still, lips parting faintly.

“I should rip it off you,” Melkor murmurs, voice sliding against his skin like a hand. “That suit. Thread by thread. Button by goddamn button. I should make you beg for it while I do.”

His breath catches, heat rushing up his spine and flooding into his face. Still, Manwë lifts his chin, holding onto dignity with a fingernail grip. “We can’t possibly—”

“We could,” Melkor cuts in, soft but firm. “I would. If it weren’t for the way they look at you. If it didn’t make me insane.”

The wine on his tongue is nothing compared to this, the slow, tightening ache blooming low in his belly, the helpless clench of his thighs, the heat curling inside him like candle wax beneath a flame.

“I want you,” Melkor whispers. “Right now. In five minutes, you’re going to the bathroom. I’ll follow. And if you’re not there…” He leans in, lips brushing the shell of Manwë’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe, voice thick with something desperate and dangerous, “I’ll fuck you right here, against this pillar, let the entire room hear the sounds you make for me.”

Manwë exhales shakily. “You’re mad.”

“I’m dying.”

The words shudder against his skin. And when Melkor pulls back, his gaze lingers, wild and glittering and starved.

Then he turns and walks away.

Manwë doesn’t think. He can’t. His body moves on instinct, glass left behind on a white-draped table, his footsteps muffled on the marble. The hallway outside the ballroom is dimmer, cooler than the restroom he slips into, quiet and candlelit and perfumed with expensive soaps and false dignity.

He barely has time to breathe before the door opens behind him.

Melkor enters like a storm with a target, eyes unholy in the low light, golden fire caught in a crucible of restraint he no longer has the will to hold. He slams the stall door shut behind them before locking it with a sharp click, and then Manwë is pressed hard against the tiled wall, one hand cupping his jaw, the other already sliding beneath his suit jacket.

“I should be ashamed,” Melkor whispers into the hollow of his throat. “But all I can think about is how wet you are for me already.”

Manwë shudders, tries to speak, to protest, to say anything that doesn’t sound like a plea. But Melkor’s fingers are already between his legs, sliding up the inside of his thigh, brushing warm skin and wet silk and—

“Fuck,” he breathes, reverent and hungry. “You’re soaked, you pretty thing, you sweet little slut.”

Manwë’s head falls back against the tile, eyes fluttering shut as long fingers slip inside him, two at once, stretching, curling, pumping in a slow, obscene rhythm.

“Say you want me, baby,” Melkor says, pressing their foreheads together, thrusting his fingers deeper. “Say it. Or I’ll stop.”

“I—” Manwë gasps, writhing, clenching around him. “I want you. I always want you.”

Melkor groans, lips crashing into his as he unbuckles his own pants with one hand. Their mouths tangle, desperate and messy, Manwë clawing at his brother’s shoulders as his body pulses with need.

The moment he feels the thick press of Melkor’s cock against his entrance, the heat in his body spikes. He trembles, he whimpers, he arches, thighs wrapped around Melkor’s hips as he’s lifted and pushed up the wall and split open.

Melkor thrusts into him with a snarl, one brutal push that sends stars crashing behind Manwë’s eyes. He cries out, muffled by Melkor’s palm as the man groans, “Shhh, baby, you’re gonna get us caught.”

But Melkor doesn’t stop, can’t stop, won't stop. He fucks him hard, fast, messy, each thrust angled deep, dragging sobs and moans from Manwë’s throat, his walls slick and fluttering around him, greedy for every inch.

“You were made for this,” Melkor growls. “Made for me. For my cock. This sweet, needy cunt belongs to me.”

Yes, Manwë wants to say, take what's yours. But his words lodge in his throat and he loses track of how long Melkor fucks him.

Time folds in on itself, collapses into rhythm and breath and wet friction, the kind that blurs everything else into a hot, helpless ache. Manwë doesn’t know if he’s clinging to Melkor or being held, if the tremors rippling through his thighs are from overstimulation or the crumbling edge of another climax. It doesn’t matter. He is sweat-slick and flushed, full and raw and twitching around the steady, relentless drag of his brother’s cock and he never wants it to stop.

Melkor doesn’t either.

He’s panting against Manwë’s cheek, his breath hot and stuttering, voice cracking in the back of his throat as he thrusts into him over and over, each snap of his hips rougher, more frayed, more worshipful. His hands roam like he can’t decide where to touch, one at Manwë’s waist, the other trembling as it cradles his jaw, thumb stroking the damp hollow of his cheek.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he gasps, lips brushing against Manwë’s temple as he surges deeper, slower now, deeper, like he’s trying to leave something behind. “You don’t know what you do to me, how I dream about this, about you, every goddamn night.”

Manwë moans, high and shaking, his nails digging into Melkor’s back as he arches into the thrusts, body limp with surrender. He feels cracked open, shattered and sacred all at once, walls fluttering and clenching around the thick, aching heat inside him, slick leaking down his thighs, making a mess of both of them. And still Melkor keeps going, moving in him like he’s trying to memorize every pulse of his body from the inside out.

“Love you,” Melkor breathes again, desperate, like the words are breaking him open. “Love you so much it ruins me.”

His hand cups Manwë’s jaw, tilts his face up, and then their mouths meet. It's not a kiss, not exactly, more like a breath shared between battlefields, mouths crushed together as Melkor grinds into him and finally, finally, spills inside with a low, ragged groan.

The heat floods Manwë’s insides in thick, pulsing waves, his body jolting with the force of it, pleasure crackling down his spine like static. He clings to Melkor through it, head falling forward, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a whimper as he comes again, spasming around Melkor’s cock, milking every last drop.

And then stillness.

Only their breath remains, tangled and heavy, limbs locked together in a trembling sprawl. Melkor doesn’t let him go. Not yet. His hands shake where they touch, along Manwë’s ribs, his hip, his thigh. Gentle now. Careful. As though he’s been violent and is afraid to break what remains.

“I’m here,” Manwë whispers, lips against the hollow of Melkor’s throat. “You don’t have to chase me. I love you. I’m yours.”

Melkor makes a sound, then. Quiet. Cracked. He kisses Manwë like a man who doesn't know how to be soft but tries anyway, kisses him until their lips are swollen, until the taste of sex gives way to something sweeter.

Eventually, reluctantly, Melkor draws back. He pulls out slow, almost apologetic, cock slipping free frpm between Manwë’s drenched folds with a lewd, wet sound that makes them both shiver. His spend trickles out in warm rivulets down Manwë’s thighs, and for a moment, Melkor just stares at it, at the sight of his little brother wrecked and flushed and utterly debauched.

Then he kneels, breathless, reverent.

Tucks Manwë’s undergarments back into place. Presses kisses to trembling knees. Straightens his clothes with a gentleness that borders on ache. His fingers, usually impatient and possessive, move now with delicate intent as they fasten buttons and smooth creases, brushing damp, lily-white strands of hair away from Manwë’s damp forehead with all the tenderness in the world.

“I need to fix your tie,” Melkor murmurs, voice low, thumb brushing over his throat.

“You ruined it,” Manwë replies, managing a faint smile.

“I ruin a lot of things,” Melkor answers, and something in his voice softens, quiet and bruised. “But never you.”

Manwë kisses him then, not to reassure him, but because it feels necessary, because he wants to, because no one else ever gets to see Melkor like this, laid bare, longing, still desperate to be needed even after being told a thousand times that he is.

They leave the bathroom hand in hand, washed and re-dressed, their silence easy, warm, content. They return to the ballroom as if nothing happened, their masks slipping back into place with the practiced ease of men born beneath too many expectations. But Manwë walks straighter now, with a slight ache in his thighs, and Melkor watches him with the subtle satisfaction of a man who knows exactly why.

The event winds down in a slow, glittering cascade. Faces blur. Names fade. No one notices when they slip away early.

Their car is waiting.

The leather interior is dimly lit, cool, smelling faintly of cedar and mint. Manwë barely has time to exhale before the partition hums quietly into place and Melkor is on him.

He doesn’t pounce, he possesses. Slides into the seat beside him and pulls him onto his lap with the slow, inexorable gravity of a storm about to break. One hand cradles Manwë’s face, the other slips beneath his waistband, pushing aside the flimsy fabric of the now-ruined undergarments like it’s his birthright.

“Already wet again,” Melkor murmurs, voice ragged with hunger, awe dripping from every syllable. “You’ll never stop being ready for me, will you?”

Two fingers are buried inside him and Manwë gasps, the sound choked off instantly by Melkor’s palm clamping over his mouth.

“No,” Melkor breathes, lips brushing his ear as his fingers curl inside that aching, drenched heat, “no sounds, baby. You had your moment in the bathroom. This—” a thrust, deep and slow and Manwë nearly chokes on it—“this is just for me. For us.”

The car rocks faintly as they drive, city lights flickering through tinted windows. And in the back seat, Manwë trembles in Melkor’s lap, pinned by his weight and his will, his thighs shaking as slick drips from him onto Melkor’s hand.

“Such a good little brother,” Melkor croons, fingers plunging into him harder now, fucking him open with shameless skill. “So tight and perfect, letting me do this to you in our car. You like it, don’t you? Being ruined where anyone could hear?”

Manwë’s eyes flutter shut. He doesn’t try to answer, hips moving of their own accord as they ride the thrusts helplessly, his own slick obscene in his ears. He’s burning. He’s glowing. There’s no shame, not with Melkor’s lips pressed to his neck, his voice threading into his skin like a spell.

“I love you,” Melkor murmurs, again and again, between filthy phrases, between whispered commands and praises that make Manwë whimper against his palm. “You’re everything. You’re mine. My beautiful little whore, my home, my fucking light.”

He presses a kiss to his jaw, then another. Fingers still fucking him, wrist flexing, each thrust angled with such precision that Manwë’s moans grow frantic against his palm.

“You’re going to come for me again,” Melkor breathes. “Come on my fingers like you need it.”

And Manwë does.

Tears sting his eyes as pleasure wracks through him, liquid and blinding, his entire body spasming in Melkor’s grip, walls convulsing around his fingers in a desperate, wet flutter that doesn’t seem to stop.

Melkor cradles him through it. Lets him ride the wave until he slumps boneless against him, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, hair clinging to his damp forehead.

Slowly, Melkor eases his fingers out, lifts them to his lips, and licks them clean.

“Perfect,” he whispers. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

And Manwë, weak and radiant and shaking with the aftershock of it all, can do nothing but bury his face against Melkor’s chest and breathe.

They’re almost home.

-

The elevator glides open to the hush of polished floors and indirect light, the scent of jasmine and aged wood a quiet welcome as they step into their penthouse.

Manwë doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

Melkor presses a kiss to the top of his head as he helps him out of his coat, hands lingering longer than needed at his shoulders, at his waist. His touch has softened, but the reverence hasn’t, if anything, it’s deepened.

Manwë’s legs still ache faintly. There’s a pleasant soreness low in his belly, in the curl of his spine. He feels warm and used and loved, and the fatigue that’s settling into his limbs is the kind that invites surrender.

Melkor kisses the curve of his jaw again before murmuring, “Bath. I’ll draw it.”

Manwë nods, already moving toward their bedroom, his fingers trailing along the smooth edge of the hallway wall as he walks. The place smells like them, like sandalwood and spice, like morning sheets and forgotten laughter, the windows throwing a honeyed gleam across the floor, the city glittering far below, small and silent.

By the time he’s peeled off the last of his clothing, the water is running.

He pads barefoot into the marble-wrapped bathroom and finds Melkor kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up as one hand tests the temperature, the other scattering a handful of dried rose petals across the steaming surface like he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. The room is dim and glimmering, candles lit, their shadows long.

“Come here,” Melkor says softly, offering a hand.

Manwë takes it and steps in, the heat a kiss along his sore thighs as he sinks down into the water with a slow exhale. It envelops him instantly. The tension in his back loosens and his eyes drift half shut, and then Melkor is sliding in behind him, long, muscular legs bracketing his hips, arms curling around his waist to pull him back against his firm chest.

They don’t speak for a long moment, they just breathe. The world could end outside these windows, and Manwë wouldn’t flinch.

Then, fingers comb gently through his hair. He lets them, head tilting, body slack in Melkor’s arms. The water is warm, but Melkor is warmer, and his touch is a quiet promise pressed into scalp and skin and strands of pale silver hair.

“You always get so soft after,” Melkor murmurs into his ear, low and fond.

“So do you,” Manwë replies, his lips brushing the edge of a wet forearm wrapped around him. “You go from ‘fuck you until you scream’ to ‘let me draw you a bath, beloved.’”

“I can be both,” Melkor says, amused. “You bring out the contradiction in me.”

“You were already a contradiction.”

Melkor laughs, and the sound wraps around Manwë’s heart like a ribbon. A gentle sound. Unmasked.

He turns his head slightly, cheek brushing against Melkor’s as the other man pours a stream of lavender-scented shampoo into his palm. The lather is soothing, massaged in with careful fingers, and Manwë hums when he feels lips graze the slope of his shoulder, then linger.

“You’re beautiful,” Melkor whispers. “Even like this. Especially like this.”

“Exhausted and soggy?”

“Mine.”

Manwë flushes quietly but doesn't say anything, just lets a gentle, sated smile bend his lips as he closes his eyes and allows peace and the sense of belonging to wash over him.

They linger until the water cools, until fingers have long since stopped their work and just hold. Melkor eventually coaxes him out with a towel and a kiss, wraps him in plush fabric and carries him to bed with the sort of gentleness that always makes Manwë ache more than any orgasm ever could.

He presses his face into the pillow as Melkor disappears for a moment to blow out the candles, dim the lights, and lock the door. Manwë doesn't need to see it to know. He knows his rhythms.

The sheets are cool when Melkor slips in behind him, long arms winding around his middle and pulling him back into that same perfect alignment they always fall into. Back curved to chest, legs tucked, one arm beneath his neck, one arm around his waist, and one kiss to the dip at the back of his neck.

“You didn’t say much in the car,” Melkor murmurs eventually, voice a vibration against Manwë’s spine.

“I didn’t need to.” He tucks himself closer. “You don’t always need words when you’re being... ravished.”

A quiet chuckle. A kiss to the shoulder this time. “You’re not upset?”

“I came. Twice. I’m not upset.”

Melkor laughs again, softer this time. Then, quieter still. “I missed you.”

“You saw me all evening.”

“No. I watched you. That’s not the same.” He pauses. “You were so poised, talking to everyone like they mattered. You’re always like that.”

Manwë smiles faintly into the pillow. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“I know,” Melkor murmurs, “but I still wanted to drag you away every time you smiled at someone else.”

“You did drag me away.”

“Didn’t say I resisted the impulse.”

They fall into silence then. A warm, content, sacred silence. The kind that only forms between two people who’ve weathered everything and still choose to come home to each other.

Melkor’s hand draws idle shapes across Manwë’s stomach, lips grazing his neck again. Manwë lets his eyes fall shut, the rhythm of Melkor’s breath against his skin becoming the only clock that matters.

“Stay like this,” he whispers.

Melkor hums behind him. “I will.”

“You always say that.” Manwë says a beat later.

“And I always mean it,” Melkor responds, landing another kiss to the pulse fluttering at Manwë's neck before sleep takes them, slow and easy and together.

[gelenka-daria]

You don't think Mairon was heartbroken for Melkor? He remained loyal to a fault til the last breath? He made a religion in Melkor's name?

oh totally, maybe mairon was a little heartbroken, like, sure, maybe he stared longingly into a palantír once or twice whispering “melkor…” with one dramatic tear rolling down his cheek. i’m not saying there wasn’t some emotional investment there. but let’s not slap a tragic love story label on a centuries-spanning campaign of world domination. mairon was many things, master manipulator, amateur urban planner of evil fortresses, control freak, but a selfless romantic? ehh.

because if he was truly loyal to the bitter end, wouldn’t he have, i don’t know, tried to get melkor out of the void? launched a rescue mission? formed a “free morgoth” movement? instead he spent the rest of his immortal career hijacking melkor’s aesthetic and legacy like a brand he bought the rights to. “melkor: the destruction edition,” brought to you by sauron enterprises. even in númenor, he didn’t set up a religion for pure devotion. he weaponized it to climb to the top. he didn’t just preach melkor’s name, he made himself the only guy who could interpret the holy word, conveniently putting himself at the center of everything. worship morgoth? sure, but only if you go through mairon, high priest, supreme dark consultant.

honestly, i don’t even think it was love. maybe mairon thought it was, maybe he mistook the awe and ambition and wild thirst for power for actual affection. but it feels more like he was obsessed with what melkor was, not who he was. melkor was the strongest, the brightest, the baddest, literally the first rebel, the original power move and mairon saw that and went, “yes, that is what i want to orbit forever.” like if melkor had been some chill, underpowered vala with good morals and a garden hobby, mairon probably wouldn’t have given him the time of day. he wasn’t in love, he was entranced by the spectacle. and when the star fell, he made sure to catch the pieces, not to mourn them, but to reforge them in his own image.