give me one more moment of peace by atlantablack  

give me one more moment of peace

“Give me a few days of peace in your arms—I need it terribly. 
I’m ragged, worn, exhausted. 
After that I can face the world.”

Henry Miller | A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller,

☀︎

“You do not have to do this,” Fëanáro murmurs, voice strangely gentle.

Ñolofinwë shrugs, feeling tired to his bones, and completely unwilling to leave Fëanáro's side. He slides the sponge over Fëanáro's shoulders, shifting Fëanáro's hair out of the way so he may run the sponge across the back of his brother's neck. "It is customary, is it not. For one to be prepared for their coronation by their family."

Fëanáro makes a strange noise, half-laughter, half-scoff. “I do not feel this is quite the manner my sons would have helped me prepare,” Fëanáro says dryly. “Nor the way any of your siblings would have helped me.” 

“You bid me make myself useful. Am I not being so?” The water splashes quietly around them as he moves behind Fëanáro, dragging the sponge over his shoulder blades and down his back. He is careful to not think too deeply on why, when Fëanáro had snapped at him to be useful or get out, he had chosen to follow his brother into the baths. On why he had not simply left. 

“I suppose,” Fëanáro says softly, head tilting to the side slightly as Ñolofinwë drags the sponge back up and over the curve of his shoulder. “Your manner of helping has always been strange when meant genuinely.” 

Ñolofinwë bites his tongue and does not respond. Watches the water droplets slide down Fëanáro’s skin and must swallow around a sudden urge to follow them with his mouth. A long-buried desire is fighting valiantly to make itself known and Ñolofinwë does his best to smother it. He gently grasps Fëanáro's wrist and pulls his arm up so that Ñolofinwë may gently clean it. The curve of his bicep, the soft inner skin of his elbow, his lower arm marked only by several small burn marks he has carelessly left marring his skin. He repeats the movement with the other arm, the strangeness of Fëanáro allowing this not lost on him.

He releases his grip on Fëanáro's wrist and, for the first time since they entered the baths, glances up at Fëanáro's face. Finds himself sucking in a sharp breath at the way his brother is watching him. Fëanáro's eyes are very dark and heavy-lidded as he tracks Ñolofinwë's movements, and it leaves him suddenly frozen.

“A strange manner of helping,” Fëanáro says again, voice very thoughtful. “I did not think, when you swore to follow where I lead, that you meant it quite so literally.” 

Ñolofinwë flushes despite himself at the words. “I am trying to help,” he says tightly, shifting uncomfortably before going still when Fëanáro’s hand snaps out and grabs hold of his wrist. Perhaps he should feel scared, especially when the memory of Fëanáro’s sword at his neck has yet to fade. He feels nothing but a low heat that treacherously settles in his veins.“You are my brother,” he says evenly as he meets Fëanáro’s eyes, “and you are to be my king. I only wish to aid you.” 

Fëanáro cocks his head to the side as he studies Ñolofinwë's face and then, his eyes drifting lower down Ñolofinwë's neck, over his chest. "Wherever I lead, hm?" he murmurs, tugging at Ñolofinwë’s wrist and drawing him in closer. “And if this is the aid I wish from you?” he asks, guiding Ñolofinwë’s hand beneath the water and to Fëanáro’s already hard cock. 

Ñolofinwë stops breathing for a minute, eyes still locked with Fëanáro’s, the silky feel of Fëanáro’s cock in his hand not quite real. He tightens his grip almost instinctively, tongue suddenly feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth at the low noise Fëanáro makes in response. It should not be so easy to slide his hand down Fëanáro’s cock, to run his thumb across the head and swallow down the saliva that pools in his mouth at the passing thought of what Fëanáro’s cock would feel like in his mouth. It should not be. But he fists Fëanáro’s cock slowly, curiously loosening and tightening his grip, speeding up and slowing down, digs his nail in against the head of Fëanáro’s cock for just a moment and feels a bright surge of lust go through him when Fëanáro gasps and fucks into his grip. 

“Anywhere,” he manages to say, the word clumsy on his tongue. He shifts even closer, eyes never leaving Fëanáro’s dark, hungry gaze. His own breathing hitches in response to the breathless noise of pleasure that sneaks out of Fëanáro’s mouth. 

Fëanáro laughs, wild and beautiful as he grabs a fistful of Ñolofinwë’s hair and hauls him in closer. “Tell me, Ñolofinwë, is this still loyalty? Or is it only another instance of your opportunistic side shining through?” 

“Can it not be both, brother?” It is more honest than he should be, but Fëanáro’s mouth is so painfully close to his and all of his attention has narrowed in on it. 

“Both,” Fëanáro echoes softly, laughing once more. “Yes, I suppose.” He has pulled Ñolofinwë into a kiss before he can wonder at the words. 

The impact of Fëanáro’s mouth on his knocks the air from his lungs and leaves him greedily pressing in closer. Fëanáro does not stop him, the fingers in his hair tightening. Fëanáro’s other hand slips beneath the water, his fingers tangling with Ñolofinwë’s as their cocks slide against each other. It is utterly overwhelming—the wet heat of Fëanáro’s mouth, his hair caught tight in Fëanáro’s grip, the press of Fëanáro’s fingers between his as they fist their cocks together. For several long, blissful minutes there is no noise but their heavy breathing, the sound of their mouths sliding against each other and parting before coming together again and again, the water disturbed by their hands moving in unison. 

Fëanáro pulls away from the kiss eventually only to ghost his mouth down Ñolofinwë’s neck, not pausing until he reaches the curve of Ñolofinwë’s shoulder. Fëanáro kisses his skin so gently that, for a second, Ñolofinwë feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes. It is only a second, and then Fëanáro sets his teeth to Ñolofinwë’s shoulder and bites down hard. To Ñolofinwë’s humiliation, a pained moan claws its way out of his mouth as he jerks and spills across their hands. Fëanáro makes a muffled noise, fisting himself fast and hard for a moment before spilling as well. 

They stay pressed up against each other after. Fëanáro's grip on his hair loosens, though he does not let go. Ñolofinwë simply holds his brother close and tries very hard to not think of the broken world waiting for them outside of this room. 

"Anywhere that I lead," Fëanáro murmurs against his skin. "So you said. Perhaps, brother, perhaps I will believe you, given time."

Ñolofinwë breathes out slowly, not daring to hope. He still finds the temerity to tug Fëanáro's head up so that he may kiss his brother once more. None of this fixes a thing at all, but for a brief moment, Fëanáro's hands are free of violence, the water is warm, and his brother is a solid weight in his arms. For a brief moment, he can close his eyes and nothing is bad at all. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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