#not a whole lotta consent here anon just a heads up

[gelenka-daria]

Halloween's coming up so maybe you could write something to go along with the spirit for Manwe and Melkor? Werewolf AU? Vampires? Fairies? Anything? :D

i don't know what happened

Rain and thunder rattle against the window after the first bolt lights up the sky, but that isn't what awakes him. 

The screaming sounds distant, remnants of a fever-induced dream, little more than a hallucination. Manwë almost believes it is.

It takes him longer than appreciated to come to, for his blurry vision to clear. He shifts, sore limbs protesting when he attempts to lift himself off the bedding, succeeding with no little effort, before looking about his bedchamber, dim save a few strings of silver moonlight trickling through the window. 

He frowns. It's quiet, unsettlingly so, and it drags on long enough for him to question his state of mind. Perhaps that, too, had begun to deteriorate alongside his body. 

But then, as suddenly as it went, a commotion breaks the silence, haphazard movement in the hall behind his door. Frantic footsteps up a stairway, another blood-curdling scream, terrified and terrifying and the hairs on Manwë's arms stand on end, goosebumps prickling his skin as his eyes widen at what sounds like hysterical begging right outside his chamber before the cries are cut short, replaced by wet gurgle. 

Manwë freezes, feeling a wretched twist of fear in his chest, his heart in his throat, in his ears, loud, but not enough to drown out the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by footsteps against worn wooden boards, each step accompanied by the low creak of ancient woodwork, deliberate-like and slow, getting closer. 

It springs an abrupt reaction from him, but his weakening knees buckle right as his feet touch the floor and he crumbles, pain shooting up his bones the second his body collides with the worn wooden boards, hissing at the harsh contact. Manwë tries to get his joints to function as he attempts to hitch himself up, but even that seems to be too much effort on his weakening form. It's when he's finally up on his knees, fingers clenched around his bedding and stopping to take a breath, that it dawns on him. The abominable, godawful quiet. Nothing but the faint pitter-patter of rain and his own stuttering breaths.

Something terrible presses down on his chest; the icy cold creep of fear across his shoulder, the surge of panic that makes him feel sick to his stomach. It's then that he realizes that he isn't really alone in his bedchamber, that something else is sharing his space with him, lurking in one of the shadowed corners. A silhouette, shifting darkness.

Manwë looks despite himself, peering over his shoulder between pale, limp hair. It takes him a second to absorb his surroundings— his room looks strangely unfamiliar when the blue lightning reaches every niche, the corners empty, nothing hiding in them, but that's only because whatever thing had prowled its way into his home was standing there, mere feet from him. 

It all makes sense, suddenly.

It looks human, Manwë can't help but notice, struck rigid and staring wide-eyed at it, but he can sense it, its otherness, glowing golden eyes staring back through shadowed features, the steady drip-drip sound of something dribbling down clawed fingers before lightning comes again, and a face comes into view, equal parts terrifying and beautiful, red streaking down a defined chin.

Manwë loses grip on the bedding and falls face first onto the floor. Ignoring his useless legs, he sets on a frantic, pointed crawl to where the bedside table harbors a silver dagger. His health might be failing, but he refuses to concede to such a death without fighting for his life. 

He reaches it by some miracle, the creature uninterested in stopping him for whatever reason, yet what frail, little hope he'd fostered in this short period of time fades when the drawers turn up empty, his only means of defending himself nowhere to be found.

"Looking for this, perhaps?" A deep, velvety voice resonates through Manwë's bones and he wants to cry at the impossibility of it because no, no, it cannot be. Except it is, the blade a glaringly bright gray in one uncanny hand when he struggles to turn his head and look. 

A sharp grin reveals sharper teeth, gleaming in the bordering darkness, and it slowly tips its head towards Manwë's study where he now remembers having left it laying prior to the days he became bedridden. It takes everything in him to stop the tears from coming. The creature tuts, "such carelessness over such precious things." Before dropping the dagger into Manwë's reach, the sound of it clattering against the floor too loud on Manwë's ears. 

"Go on," it says almost enticingly, stepping closer, "you are welcome to try." 

Manwë swallows with difficulty and grits his teeth, his trembling fingers barely secure around the blade don't stop the frisson of horror curling in his belly. What good is a weapon, if he doesn't have the strength to wield it?  

"I had heard talk amongst townsfolk, of how the lord of this manor had succumbed to the spreading plague," it says, as it steps closer, voice holding the detached curiosity one would spare for a particularly interesting insect, "I can smell the disease on your skin, I hear it in your lungs. It should suffice to deter me, a well-nigh corpse is of no use to me, I ought to leave you to perish, however," boot-clad feet come into view, "Mercy is no virtue of mine, and yet you look so pitiful, it has gotten me in a charitable mood, I might spare you such pain, grant you a quicker death, my bite need not hurt so much." 

Laying there in helpless despair, Manwë can't help but scoff, incredulous, might as well. "How gracious of you," his voice is watery and bitter, "I wouldn't presume you to have extended the residents of this house the same courtesy." 

"Ah, are you grieving your servants?" it sounds almost spiteful, "worry not, you shall join them soon." 

Manwë hisses when the creature digs the tip of its boot into his side, pressing into his ribs and flipping him over, as though he were a mere carcass in decay on the side of a road. Once he's on his back, he keeps his eyes to the ceiling, his hands tightly gripping the iron hilt of his dagger, held close to his chest, a feeble measure of security. The thing crouches next to him, its presence too cold and Manwë can hardly bear to look at its too human features in fear of being lured into a false sense of normality, that maybe this was someone he could reason with. 

He jolts when cool, bloody fingers hover over his forehead, moving whatever's strayed of his hair out of his face, before its hand cradles his pale, sunken cheek, smearing the scarlet print of its hand upon Manwë's face. Manwë makes the mistake to look, and meets the creature's gaze, its eyes feverish and pinning him down more effectively than if it had used brute force.

"However," it says, tone unexpectedly light as Manwë falls prey to sudden burgeoning interest, a horrible, horrible darkening to its eyes, a wolf gone hungry, "I might be inclined to change my mind." 

Manwë doesn't care for an explanation, as he takes advantage of the proximity and unforeseen regard. He takes aim, plunging the dagger upwards with all he has, his one chance, the sound of a single slice sharp in the near silence. And he hits his mark, he thinks, hands shaking around the hilt, both horrified and delighted and all kinds of frantic. He looks up, into black, wide, astonished eyes and for a second there relief floods him. Any minute now, the hands gripping his wrists should loosen. Any minute now, the flesh and bone around the blade should start to fray away. 

Any minute now.

Except, none of that happens. The surprise fades out into unsettling mirth and it cackles hoarsely, throaty tones vibrant with devious delight as it raises its head and pins him with an ancient stare. "Why, you did try. Such endearing determination." Cutting fangs come into view from under a likewise grin. Manwë's hands slip off the hilt, falling limp at his sides as he watches the creature yank the dagger out, dripping tar-dark blood, with not so much a flinch, and tossing it aside. "Had there been a chance of such a thing ever posing a threat, I never would have handed it to you, sweetling." 

Manwë flinches at the endearment, his fingers digging painfully into the wood bellow, blood welling from under his fingernails. The creature sniffs, its grin softening. "There," it sighs, deceptively gentle, as it leans ever closer, "underneath the stench of death, you smell utterly delectable." 

Ah, Manwë thinks, defeated, what little strength he had left bleeding out, I see.

The creature tsks. "No need to look so glum, precious, I'm of a mind to preserve your life, not end it." It says into the minuscule space between their lips, dark, pitch-black eyes switching to a malevolent carmine. "Twould be a shame," a thumb sweeps across Manwë's left cheek, "such a lovely face, wasted to mortality." 

"No," Manwë says, rejecting the heavy implication. He would much rather die. 

It blinks. "No?"

"No." Manwë affirms between gritted teeth. "I would prefer to die on my own terms. I refuse to become like you, either leave me be or kill me."

"How gullible," it cradles his head, fingers burrowing into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a manner that, in any other circumstance, would have eased him into comfort. "To think you have a say in the matter."

Dread fills him as he breaks into cold sweat. He looks at it, the blood-spatter across its face, so beautiful, so horrible, devoid of warmth. Further from anything Manwë wishes to ever be. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. "Please." 

"You should be groveling at my feet in thanks," it lifts Manwë's upper body off the floor, slow and careful, the other hand brushing his hair out of the way, its breath cool against his collarbone, "for the gift I am to bestow upon you." 

Manwë shakes his head, his shivering hands reaching up to grip its shoulders, intent on pushing it away, yet all he can do is hold on.   

"Shhh," it breathes against his neck soothingly, "I assure you, in no time, you will be loath to part with me." 

One cold kiss to his skin, and it's over. 

A low growl coils in its throat when it draws blood, demonic, feral, possessive, frightening. Manwë can't find it in him to make a sound. The teeth in his throat don’t even hurt. Sharp bright sensation, flesh parting at the join of shoulder and neck, an obsidian dagger splitting him open from sternum to skull—his consciousness reforms and he feels—he’s whole, he’s whole, he’s bitten open and bleeding out but somehow he’s whole for the first time in his life. 

His eyes are wide and unseeing, blinded by the sudden rush of power, so intoxicating that he clings, wraps arms and legs around this thing, ignoring the distant screaming of you don't want this, you don't and draws him closer for more give me more, close enough to hear a yes purred into his own blood, until the scalding light fades and there's nothing but darkness.

#not a whole lotta consent here anon just a heads up #i really don't know what happened omg #i was aiming for romantic and it took a life of its own and turned into THIS #in fairness i did have a similar idea in my head for a long time so 🤷🏻‍♀️ #melkor #manwë #prompt #tolkien #melkor x manwë #it’s not even halloween anymore #anonymous