we like our arms in our brothers' arms by atlantablack  

We like our choruses sung together
We like our arms in our brothers' arms

Blue Jeans & White T-Shirts | The Gaslight Anthem

☀︎

The Helcaraxë is cruel to them during their crossing, and it is not long into the journey that Fëanáro finds himself hearing whispers here and there of how others are going about keeping warm. It does raise his eyebrows, this is true, but he holds no judgment for whatever manner people are going about keeping themselves warm and alive. He had not, however, thought to participate in these actions himself, especially given who he is consistently sharing his bed with.

If asked to explain why he had allowed Ñolofinwë to begin bedding with him, he would have said that it was all down to chance and circumstance.

This is mostly true.

There had been a discussion that ran overlong, and Fëanáro ordering Ñolofinwë to simply spend the night with him instead of going back out into that blistering whiteness and waking his children with the cold. There had been a half-brother pressing up against him and shivering as the heat of Fëanáro's body met the chill of his. There had been a sigh of utter relief, and Ñolofinwë going completely pliant against him as warmth filled the space beneath the blankets.

It could have ended there, but there had also been a series of nights in which Ñolofinwë invented reasons to stay overly long, and Fëanáro quietly allowed it. It is not that Fëanáro needs the warmth of another body next to him to survive the way the others do. He is chilled, but in much the same way a strong wind may chill someone. He does not need it, but it had been more comforting than he had expected to have a body next to his own, when outside the tent there was nothing but endless, endless white.

The pretense lasts for only a week before Ñolofinwë simply drops his pack in Fëanáro’s tent as they set up camp, eyes meeting Fëanáro’s and daring him to say something. Fëanáro smirks in amusement but does not tell him to leave.

This, he will realize years later, is his first mistake.

☀︎

It is several months after they begin sharing a bed that Fëanáro finds himself jerking awake in the middle of the night, unsure as to what woke him, but knowing it is not yet time to rise. He listens, trying to pinpoint what drew him from sleep, and only a second later realizes that it was Ñolofinwë. He is making quiet noises in his sleep, shifting restlessly in Fëanáro’s arms, and he frowns, thinking at first that it is a nightmare. Ñolofinwë has not before had them while they shared a bed, but it would not be strange for him to have one. There is plenty to have nightmares about. 

He thinks that, and then Ñolofinwë shifts as he makes another low noise, and Fëanáro finds that he can feel Ñolofinwë's cock hard against his hip. He becomes suddenly hyperaware that those are not noises of distress but rather quiet moans. He blinks into the darkness and realizes he has no idea what to do. He is not willing to wake Ñolofinwë and throw him out into the cold to find somewhere else to sleep. He is not so mortally offended that he cares enough to do so, even were it not cruel. But, he will also not be able to fall back asleep with Ñolofinwë making such noises and shifting against him in such a way.

Ñolofinwë shifts again, his cock sliding against Fëanáro’s own, and he hisses out a slow breath at the sparks of pleasure that involuntarily shoot through him. He settles a hand on Ñolofinwë’s hip, thinking to still him, but he is not quite quick enough to stop Ñolofinwë from pressing up against him again. It is a firmer press this time, enough friction that this time a clear whine slips out of Ñolofinwë’s mouth and fills the tent.

He shudders, fingers tightening around Ñolofinwë’s hip, and he cannot even find a way to lie to himself about what he is doing when he holds Ñolofinwë still and carefully grinds up against him. Ñolofinwë moans, a low noise that tumbles roughly off his tongue, and Fëanáro swallows thickly at the sound he caused, his cock half-hard already. Still, if he is going to do this, then he will do it with his eyes wide open, and he will force Ñolofinwë to do so as well. 

Fëanáro slides his fingers into Ñolofinwë’s hair and pulls, placing his mouth right next to Ñolofinwë’s ear as he says, “Ñolofinwë, wake up.” 

Ñolofinwë wakes, tensing slightly at being jerked from sleep, and then goes stiff as a board when he realizes what is happening. There is a tense moment of silence, Ñolofinwë's fingers flexing against Fëanáro's back. "I apologize," he begins stiffly, shifting as if he means to pull away, and Fëanáro tightens his grip in Ñolofinwë's hair, refusing to let him move.

“I did not wake you to kick you out into the cold,” he says quietly, lips grazing Ñolofinwë’s ear. 

“Then why did you wake me?” Ñolofinwë asks, voice guarded. His breath hitches when Fëanáro presses them closer together, their cocks sliding against each other through the fabric separating them. 

"If you are going to use my body to get yourself off, then you will do so knowing it is me," he murmurs, letting his teeth lightly graze Ñolofinwë's ear.

There is another moment of silence before Ñolofinwë relaxes. “I knew it was you,” he responds, tilting his head back slightly. “I only did not realize my desire had gone past my dreams.” 

Fëanáro takes that and slots it in next to his mental understanding of his half-brother. The pieces do not align. He hums and, in a fit of curiosity, says, “Go on then. You clearly knew what you wanted in your dreams. Take what you want.” 

Ñolofinwë makes a breathless noise of want, shifting against him. “It would not exactly be in alignment with my dream for me to take what I want,” he says, and it takes only a second for Fëanáro to grasp the implication. 

He laughs, twisting them and settling astride Ñolofinwë. “I see. So, you wish for me to take from you? Is that it?” He leans down, pinning Ñolofinwë’s wrists down beside his head and brushing their noses together. 

“Fëanáro—” his voice breaks as Fëanáro grinds down against him, a moan slipping out instead, and Fëanáro cannot stop himself from closing the distance and kissing him. 

Ñolofinwë's mouth parts easily beneath his, and oh, it is good. Unfairly good. Ñolofinwë melts beneath him like the winter making way for spring. A myriad of soft noises all offered up for Fëanáro to drink down as they rock against each other, heat spilling between them and leaving the space beneath the blankets golden warm and sanctified. He lets go of one of Ñolofinwë's wrists so that he can trail his fingers down Ñolofinwë's throat, and then shoves his hand beneath Ñolofinwë’s tunic so that he may map out the plains of his stomach, the dips of his ribcage. Fëanáro runs his thumb over a nipple and, when Ñolofinwë whimpers, scrapes his nail over it, worrying it between his fingers. 

Ñolofinwë hooks a leg around Fëanáro’s, pulling him in tighter so that they can feel every inch of each other. Slides his fingers into Fëanáro’s hair, pulling hard and swallowing down the punched-out moan that follows. The heat spirals between them, higher and higher as he bites harshly at Ñolofinwë’s mouth and scrapes his nails across his stomach. He awkwardly gets a hand between them and strokes Ñolofinwë’s cock through his breeches, driven by a need to feel it beneath his own fingers, to map the shape of it.

It would be inadvisable to undress, but Fëanáro finds himself wishing that he could strip Ñolofinwë bare. His half-brother is breathing heavily beneath him, arching up into Fëanáro’s touch, chasing after his mouth every time he strays too far away, pulling at his hair, shifting beneath him in a way that pulls Fëanáro’s mind to what it could be like to sink inside of Ñolofinwë’s body and claim it. He tears his mouth from Ñolofinwë’s and leaves a trail of kisses down his throat, biting down just hard enough to make Ñolofinwë whine.

“Tell me,” Fëanáro murmurs, biting lightly at Ñolofinwë’s earlobe, “how long have you dreamt of this?”

Ñolofinwë does not answer, instead turning his head and capturing Fëanáro's mouth again. He allows it, drawn in by the wet heat of Ñolofinwë's mouth, the stark contrast of how warmly he comes alive beneath Fëanáro when compared to how cold he is at all other times. He presses his nail against the head of Ñolofinwë's cock, blunted through fabric but still sharper than anything Ñolofinwë had expected, and the guttural, desperate noise that Ñolofinwë makes in response drives a spear of unbridled lust through his lungs. Fëanáro's breathing shudders, and it is a nearly physical pain that he cannot feel the bare heat of Ñolofinwë's body against his own.

He pulls his hand away, grinding down once more, and wrapping his hand around Ñolofinwë’s throat as they rock against each other. “When we get out of this bedamned frozen wasteland,” he murmurs, pleasure pooling in his stomach and leaving everything glowing golden, “I am going to strip you bare and fuck you until you stop having ambitions higher than you should.”

“And if I do not stop,” Ñolofinwë returns, voice rough and cracking across the words, “if I keep trying to take the crown you do not even enjoy having, what will you do then, brother?”

Rage tries to flicker to life in his chest, for this is the closest thing to a plain-spoken confession he has ever gotten from Ñolofinwë in regard to his intentions, but he banks the fire, does not let it run away from him just yet. Instead, he tugs Ñolofinwë's tunic off his shoulder just enough that Fëanáro may press his mouth to bare skin. "Do you not think that I could wring loyalty out of you this way?" he asks, letting some of the rage slip into his voice.

Ñolofinwë shivers, curling his fingers around the back of Fëanáro’s neck and digging his nails in. “Perhaps you could,” Ñolofinwë says, voice strange, “or perhaps I could tempt a crown from you while you enjoy my body.”

Fëanáro smiles, knowing that Ñolofinwë has felt it against his skin, for he makes a confused noise, fingers carding through Fëanáro's hair. "Perhaps," he murmurs, and before Ñolofinwë can say anything in response, Fëanáro bites down hard on his shoulder, feels skin threaten to give way beneath his teeth.

Ñolofinwë tenses all over, a harsh noise tearing from his throat, and his fingers go brutally tight in Fëanáro’s hair as he arches up against him and comes. Fëanáro groans, slotting their mouths back together and licking the sounds of pleasure from Ñolofinwë’s mouth, feels light-headed from teetering on the edge. Ñolofinwë makes a soft sound and lets go of his hair, reaching between them and hesitating only momentarily before shoving his hand between the various folds of Fëanáro’s clothing. The touch of his hand to the bare heat of Fëanáro’s cock; the sound of Ñolofinwë murmuring between kisses, come on, Náro, spill for me; the rough callouses and the surety of his fingers— it takes little time after that before Fëanáro spills across Ñolofinwë’s fingers with a strangled gasp.

“Well,” Ñolofinwë says after they have lain quietly for a while catching their breath, “that does indeed warm the blood quite well. Though, I could do without the mess.” He sounds terribly amused, fingers tracing circles against the nape of Fëanáro’s neck. 

He hums in agreement, already half-asleep, and presses a kiss to Ñolofinwë's shoulder in lieu of a response. He feels Ñolofinwë sigh, so quiet he would not have noticed if they were not pressed so close together, but Ñolofinwë says nothing, and Fëanáro is asleep before he can wonder if he should ask.

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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