Title: Playing with Fire
Author: Linderith of Lórien (Linderith@seznam.cz)
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Quotation from The Silmarillion in italics. Contains incest.
Summary: When Fingolfin speaks to his father against Feanor, Feanor is 
angered and threatens him with his blade. But he still isn't satisfied that 
his half brother will not do so again. So, that night, he goes to he sneaks 
into Fingolfin's room to teach him a lesson... Many Thanx to The 
Fanged Plot Bunny.
Feedback: really needed and much appreciated

      High princes were Fëanor and Fingolfin, the elder sons of 
Finwë, honoured by all in Aman; but now they grew proud and jealous 
each of his rights and his possessions. Then Melkor set new lies abroad 
in Eldamar, and whispers came to Fëanor that Fingolfin and his sons 
were plotting tu usurp the leadership of Finwë and the elder line of 
Fëanor, and to supplant them by the leave of the Valar; for the Valar 
were ill-pleased that the Silmarils lay in Tirion and were not commited 
to their keeping. But to Fingolfin and Finarfin it was said: ”Beware! 
Small love has the proud son of Míriel ever had for the children of Indis. 
Now he has become great, and he has his father in his hand. It will not 
be long before he drives you forth from Tuna!”
      And when Melkor saw that these lies were smouldering, and that 
pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them 
concerning weapons; and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of 
swords and axes and spears. Shields also they made displaying the 
tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied one with another; and 
those only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not speak, 
for each believed that he alone had received the warning. And Fëanor 
made a secret forge, of which not even Melkor was aware; and there he 
tempered fell swords for himself and for his sons, and made tall helms 
with plumes of red. Bitterly did Mahtan rue the day when he taught to 
the husband of Nerdanel all the lore of metalwork that he had learned of 
Aulë.
      Fëanor now began openly to speak words of rebellion against the 
Valar, crying aloud that he would depart from Valinor back to the world 
without; and would deliver the Noldor from thraldom, if they would 
follow him.
      Then there was great unrest in Tirion, and Finwë was troubled; 
and he summoned all his lords to council. But Fingolfin hastened to his 
halls and stood before him, saying: “King and father, wilt thou not 
restrain the pride of our brother, Curufinwë, who is called the Spirit of 
Fire, all too truly? By what right does he speak for all our people, as if 
he were King? Thou it was who long ago spoke before the Quendi, 
bidding them accept the summons of the Valar to Aman. Thou it was that 
led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to 
the light of Eldamar. If thou dost not now repent of it, two sons at least 
thou hast to honour thy words.”
      But even as Fingolfin spoke, Fëanor strode into the chamber, 
and he was fully armed: his high helm upon his head, and at his side a 
mighty sword. “So it is, even as I guessed,” he said. “My half-brother 
would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters.” Then 
turning upon Fingolfin he drew his sword, crying: ”Get thee gone, and 
take thy due place!”
      Fingolfin bowed before Finwë, and without a word or glance to 
Fëanor he went from the chamber. But Fëanor followed him, and at the 
door of the king´s house he stayed him; and the point of his bright sword 
he set against Fingolfin´s breast. “See, half-brother!” he said. “This is 
sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the 
love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to 
be the master of thralls.”
      Fëanor´s words greatly pained Fingolfin. He was facing his 
brother, cold tip of the sword still pressed against his chest, firmly 
enough to break the skin and draw the tiniest gouts of blood. Fëanor´s 
enmity and wrath falling upon his head hurt him and he could not help 
feeling sorrow about it. Tears bit the corners of his eyes. He had to shirk 
from that scorching gaze, so he turned his back on Fëanor and marched 
away.
***
      Second mingling of the lights came and the silvery brilliance of 
flowering Telperion flooded Valinor. Fëanor was lying stretched on his 
back in his bed, but his uneasy thoughts did not allow him to rest, nor 
dream. His mind kept on playing some sort of loop in his head, replaying 
the scene in front of Finwë´s house again and again. Far too well he 
knew that Fingolfin won´t give up this easy, and on the top of it, his 
brother´s composure was increasingly driving him red-hot. After a few 
hours of tossing around in his bed, he came to a decision: Fingolfin must 
get a lesson.
      Fëanor jumped out of the bed, excited by that thought. He 
quickly got dressed, stepped into his knee-high leather boots, fastening 
them in haste and putting a small dagger into one of them, then strode 
down the corridors of his house and then out into the streets of silent, 
sleeping Tirion, not even bothering to braid his thick mane of dark silk 
into some proper form. Like a wraith following midnight calls, he 
creeped into the courtyard of his half-brother´s house, hiding in the dark 
shades of walls and trees, taking the risk of a few quick passes over the 
Telperion-kissed floor-tiles. Finally he reached the window of 
Fingolfin´s bedchamber. He pressed his body against the wall and 
sneaked past the window-frame, soundlessly landing on the floor in the 
darkened room. Once again, he cursed the never-ending light of Valinor. 
Carefully he surveyed the chamber, listening to Fingolfin´s breathing. 
The Elf was lying sprawled on his back, deeply enthralled in dreams 
which seemed not to be very pleasant, his arm thrown wearily across his 
forehead, pale marble of a bare chest rising and falling with chaotic, 
jerky breath. Fëanor smiled evily to himself: At least, Fingolfin has a 
nightmare. Be it any other occassion, Fëanor would be stayed by the 
breath-taking, ethereal beauty of the sleeping Elf, unbraided steel-grey 
hair spread on the cream satin pillow, graceful arc of his arm lying 
across his face, lips slightly parted. Fëanor moved closer to the bed, lithe 
as a cat, then Fingolfin muttered something under his breath, too 
inaudible even for the keen Elven ears to hear and he froze in his tracks. 
Again Fingolfin murmured something nonsensical and his arm landed on 
the satin bedcovers. In one fluid motion, the Noldo leapt upon the bed, 
astraddle Fingolfin´s hips. Strong arms of the still-sleeping form ran up 
his thighs and stopped gripping his buttocks, then running back down, 
unconsciously caressing. Parted lips formed a soft smile and Fingolfin 
sighed happily. Fists tangled in Fëanor´s hair and he found himself being 
forced down, until his lips were touching his brother´s, and was too 
shocked to react. As their lips met, Fëanor regained his self-mastery, 
knocked the insistent hands off of him and put a bearable distance 
between their faces. Fingolfin´s smile grew mischievous.
“You want to play, my beloved? I will have you rough, if you insist.” he 
murmured, eyes still closed. Fëanor´s eyes widened and his brow 
frowned in puzzlement. What does this mean? Nails gently scratched his 
nipples and unwanted shudder of desire rushed through him. 
“Oh Tharanar...” Fingolfin sighed. If it was ever possible for Fëanor to 
be more confused, he was. Tharanar? Am I mistaken for my half-
brother´s young charge? Then it means he is bedding his foster-son... 
Fëanor shook his head in disbelief and disgust. Then he struck Fingolfin 
hard across the face, once and again. Closed eyes were open in instant, 
the Elf for a while unable to place this kind of situation properly, finally 
realizing that the dark figure sitting in his lap certainly *isn´t* his young 
ward.
“I am here to put thee in thy place, half-brother,” Fëanor icily 
announced, once his captive seemed to come to his senses. 
“That is surely what you have already done.” Fingolfin retorted, his 
noble features mirroring nothing of his inner feelings. That familiarly 
scaring sadness returned, and together with it also pain and – to be 
honest – fear. He knew this hot-blooded Elf was able to do anything.
“Not properly, I think.”
“Oh, and you sometimes do think before you speak? Do not try to be 
funny, Fëanor.” he taunted. Fëanor slapped him again. That last thing 
finally drove Fingolfin to reveal something of the anger he held inside, 
and he struck back. Fëanor wasn´t expecting it and he almost fell 
backwards, slightly dizzy. Fingolfin used the moment of his weakness to 
reverse their positions, pinning Fëanor under him effectively. The Elf 
struggled to free at least his arms, but Fingolfin´s forearms pressed 
firmly against his throat convinced him to lie still, especially after a little 
loss in the oxygen department. Then he remembered: yes, the dagger!  
He lifted his right leg and the dagger slipped out of the boot and landed 
in the waiting palm. Commiting his actions to the calling of his rage, 
Fëanor rushed the shining blade against where he thought his brother´s 
leg would be, but he underestimated Fingolfin. The weapon was 
knocked out of his hand before it could cause any harm and both Elves 
launched themselves on the floor to reach it. As they struggled and 
grappled, a messy tangle of limbs and hair, cries of outrage and pain 
filled the air. Fëanor finally took control and in vain attempt to silence 
his opponent, he laid the whole lenght of his body upon him. 
	And then it happened, when time seemed to halt in its path, as 
two pairs of grey eyes locked together and two hot bodies stiffened, and 
the air surrounding them became suddenly suffocating. Unconsciously, 
Fingolfin licked his lips. All he could see at the moment were lips, no 
matter whom did they belong to, lips that were undoubtedly soft and 
fervent; and there was no longer the matter of identity of the figure lying 
upon him, all he craved for was the overwhelming friction of their hot 
erections, sprung out of nowhere in instant, beneath the pliant fabric. 
Fëanor´s passionate spirit could not be held back. He leaned forth and 
sealed his lips over his brother´s, running the tip of his talented tongue 
along the sensitive line of the upper lip and then its fuller mate, licking 
and teasing, to finally plunge inside the willing mouth, winning the 
mock battle of tongues to finally settle in Fingolfin´s mouth. They kissed 
deeply, slowly building the fire within, until it was almost unbearable. 
Fëanor jerked off his silver tunic and threw it away, pressing his bare 
chest against his brother´s.
      But with that fiery touch, Fingolfin was the first to return to 
reality and he shoved Fëanor quite rougly back. Passion-dilated pupils 
darkened even more and Fëanor forced his brother to lay back – once the 
fire within was ablaze, he was determined to seek his release. Fingolfin 
panicked. The hot mouth was there again, promptly closing the distance 
between them, stealing the last breath from his very lungs, until his chest 
was burning. He thrashed wildy beneath his captor, trying to free himself 
before all that is usually following would be inescapable. 
      “Lie still,” Fëanor barked, pressing the cold blade of the dagger 
against the pale throat of his captive, forcing him to petrify in place. 
“No, please... no, Fëanor...” Fingolfin whispered desperately, the move 
of his throat making the blade break the tender skin underneath it, a line 
of tiny red drops appeared. Agonizingly slowly the pressure ceased and 
Fëanor stood up, stretching out a hand to help the lying Elf up, 
immediately collecting him into his arms. Fingolfin shut his eyes weakly 
as moist breath tickled his ear, carrying the damning words.
“Undress. Quickly.”
A brief moment of indecision flashed through Fingolfin´s mind: what if 
he cried out for help?
“Do not even try to make a sound,” Fëanor purred, “or make it the last 
thing this world would hear from you.” Fingolfin´s unwillingness only 
served to spur him on. He gripped a fistful of his hair and forced his 
tongue between the clenched lips, tasting the sweetness inside, and 
simultaneously thrust his hips forth, pressing his aching need against the 
fascinating body before him. Now he was kissing Fingolfin hard on the 
lips, forcing his jaws wide. The steel grip in his hair was now painful 
enough to bring tears to his eyes.
	“No!” Fingolfin cried out and struck Fëanor hard across the face, 
sending him a few steps back with a brutal shove. The violent force of 
the impact sent the Elf reeling, but he quickly regained his footing, 
unable to master the fury that Fingolfin´s rebellion and rejection brought 
to him. He rushed forth, only to find himself falling to the ground down 
in front of the window Fingolfin had left the very second before. He 
launched himself over the window-frame and started the pursuit. 
Fingolfin had the advantage of those few extra seconds, but Fëanor 
could still see his escaping figure. Running with the wind, soon they left 
the city and ran into the wood. 
	“Are you afraid to confront me face to face, half-brother?” 
Fëanor mocked purposefully, still running. His plan seemed to work for 
the question distracted Fingolfin and he lost his lead. His heart was 
bouncing madly within his suddenly too-tight chest as he felt hot breath 
of his pursuer almost on his back. His lungs were burning, but the sheer 
power of anger mixed up with fear was urging him on. A hand colder 
than the death itself gripped his shoulder hard, a leg hooked his knee 
from behind and sent them both crashing to the leaves and dirt on the 
ground. 
      “Are you scared?” Fëanor provoked on. Finally anger overpoised 
fear in Fingolfin´s heart. For a moment nothing happened and then he 
launched himself at Fëanor, both of them rolling upon the ground. Soon 
they became a tangle of arms and legs, sometimes a fist swung out. The 
air itself got filled with shouts of rage. Fëanor managed to perform a few 
dying-like ragged sounds in order to free himself from the steel grip on 
his throat which made his vision go white. For a moment it was as if 
time stood still, Fingolfin loosened his hands on that pale column of 
flesh. Taking an advantage of surprising moment as well as the 
advantage of the stronger one,  Fëanor curled his wrists on his chest and 
tied them tightly together with a length of a leather cord which had held 
his tunic before. Then he raised his bound arms and tied the end of the 
cord to a tree branch. Fingolfin was now balancing on the tips of his 
toes, wild anger upon his burning face, his eyes a fiery inferno to look 
into and his chest heaving.
      “Well... What will I claim my spoils now?” Fëanor laughed, 
grazing himself on the picture of Fingolfin´s trashed figure so 
generously arranged. Upraised strong arms were revealing the tense 
muscles, the soft silver light illuminated well-toned chest and stomach, 
the privilege of a seasoned warrior.
      “Release me, Fëanor. Your twisted lust is the last thing in this 
world I care about,” Fingolfin hissed. There was nothing more than 
contempt for the Noldo in his eyes. 
“You´d better remember your place now.” Fëanor growled. This set 
Fingolfin on fire even more. He rushed his leg to his captor´s chest, but 
Fëanor managed to block it, which cost him balance and he hung on his 
bindings. Fëanor slapped his face hard, drawing more than the first 
blood. Pain carved a sharp relief on the Elf´s face. He licked his splitted 
lip and tried to twist away, but the effort was useless. 
      There it was again, that moist tip of a pink tongue. With a low 
growl from somewhere deep down his throat Fëanor slammed the bound 
Elf into the tree behind them and claimed those still-resisting lips again, 
sucking on that delicate piece of flesh, the sweet smack of blood filling 
his mouth and arousing him even more. To his own disgust Fingolfin 
found his body responding almost violently to Fëanor´s skilled 
ministrations. Long nails were experimentally scratching over his 
nipples, wet mouth sliding down his throat, licking and teasing until he 
found that weak spot under his ear. First betraying moan escaped 
Fingolfin´s lips.
      “You see... Stop fighting it, Fingolfin...” Fëanor whispered right 
into the pointed ear. Fingolfin felt his knees begin to buckle at the 
affectionate sound of his name rolling past Fëanor´s tongue. Insistent 
hand slid beneath the fabric of his loose white leggings, as he was 
dressed for sleep before, and Fingolfin gasped, arching his back and 
pressing his hips into that touch, begging for it wordlessly. Fingers 
wrapped around his almost aching shaft and stroked in time with the 
tongue plundering his mouth again. Instantly all the heat emanating from 
Fëanor´s body was away and Fingolfin nearly cried out at the loss. His 
leggings were yanked impatiently down. Fëanor was now standing 
before him, hastily stripping, and then the dark-haired head sank down 
and hot mouth captured Fingolfin´s leaking cock, enclosing him in tight, 
wet warmth. Fingolfin´s moans now turned to whimpers. Fëanor licked 
the entire length from the moist tip to the base, simutaneously caressing 
the tender entrance to his lover´s body.
      “Untie me... I need to touch you...” Fingolfin whispered huskily, 
no longer trusting his voice. The dagger was immediatelly back in 
Fëanor´s hand and the thong was released. Fingolfin fell to the ground, 
pulling his lover down with him. Their lips continued the mutual assault, 
the Elves moaning into each other´s  mouths, their kisses growing harder 
and more heated. 
      Fëanor slid his finger into Fingolfin´s mouth and let him suck on 
it for a while, then replaced it with his tongue again. The wetted digit 
found the right way and Fingolfin´s body tensed briefly before relaxing 
into the touch. Fëanor´s skilled finger quickly found what he was 
looking for and Fingolfin cried out at the exquisite sensation that the 
pressure against his sweet point gave him. His hands were clawing the 
grass, hips rising to meet now three fingers working magic within. 
      “More,” Fingolfin whispered, eyes closed in bliss, “I need more 
of you...” Fëanor nearly came at the sound of that voice and the blinding 
need there. He pressed the whole leght of his body against his lover, 
Fingolfin´s hips shifted underneath him, legs wrapped around his waist 
urged him forward. Moaning to the continuous onslaught of insistent 
lips, he felt the head of his arousal pressed against the velvety, 
beckoning entrance. Instinct and passionate rapture moved his body 
forward before his mind could even hope to react. He gave a long, low 
moan and heard it echoed in his lover's voice. Watching the Elf's face 
closely, he slid in to the hilt and saw Fingolfin's eyes open wide, his 
breath catching as he felt himself impaled. 
      Fëanor was on his knees now, his hands catching up Fingolfin's 
wrists and pinning them above his head, making his shaft sink even 
deeper. Then he quickly turned his lover on his belly, never leaving the 
newly-found home in his tight heat, and with a hand under Fingolfin´s 
stomach he urged his hips up to gain better access and more of the 
glorious friction he so craved. Fingolfin seemed dazed at the sudden 
movement and let his forearms and head resting on the ground. 
      Fëanor  withdrew a bit and then thrust back. He was way behind 
the point where he had the power to control himself. He rammed harder 
and faster into the slender body before him, clawing the pale, slim hips 
and holding his thrashing lover in place.
“Wait... just wait, Fëanor!” Fingolfin cried out, trying to stop the devil 
behind him, whose haste was causing him sharp, throbbing pain which 
soon turned off all the passion he felt.
“Fëanor! You are hurting me!” he tried again, turning his head to look 
over his shoulder.
“Never, love...” Fëanor growled and hit Fingolfin in the face again. The 
punch was hard enough to make the Elf´s body go limp for a while. The 
pain he caused his brother brought Fëanor to the verge of orgasm. He 
gasped, holding on to Fingolfin for dear life, trying not to spoil the fun 
too soon. He turned the flaccid body under him on his back and joined 
the two of them in one again. With a low moan Fingolfin came back to 
his senses.
´By the Lady, I´m being ravished,´a thought flashed through his mind. 
´Naught but ill came to the race of Eldar with the birth of Fëanor, ´he 
thought bitterly. The hot, searing pain of broken skin paralysed his lower 
body and he was forced to stop his philosophizing. A hopeless, desperate 
cry found its way out of his throat and white sparks burst behind his 
tightly shut eyelids at the nearly unbearable pain. He was roughly kissed 
again, insistent hand grasped his limp cock and began stroking him in 
time with thrusts of both the hard shaft and soft tongue invading his 
body, as well as his very soul. As Fëanor purposefully hit the sweet spot 
deep inside his lover´s body, the pain decreased; and once again 
Fingolfin found himself being consumed by the sheer power of his 
brother´s passion. He did not want to feel such way: he was thinking of 
his young ward, Tharanar, sweet and tender, his milky skin shining 
against the satin pillows on his bed, their gentle and playful lovemaking; 
and he pictured his face as he remembered him quietly coming apart in 
his arms, imagining the low, musical moaning above him to be emitted 
from Tharanar´s lips. 
      The strokes as well as the kisses and both Elves´ breathing 
became erratic as they were nearing the point of no return. Fëanor was 
the first to surrender to the overpowering sensation and he came with a 
harsh cry, immediately collapsing on his lover´s pale chest and kissing 
the swollen lips soothingly, still sheated deep within the formfitting 
velvet of Fingolfin´s body.
      Fingolfin moaned and if that was possible, his grey eyes 
darkened even more. He writhed uncomfortably, pressing his unsated 
need against Fëanor´s groin; he was no more than a few steps from his 
peak. The fiery Noldo smiled and pressed his lips to Fingolfin´s ear, 
licking the upturned tip and then tracing a wet path down his throat; and 
simultaneously slid two fingers inside the tender opening, purposefully 
stroking his prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through his body. 
Darkened eyes fell shut, strong back arched up from the ground, hips 
rose on their own accord, impatiently pressing against the teasing 
fingers. Fingolfin threw his head back and cried out. He was nearer... 
nearer... nearer... and in an instant the fingers withdrew and his lover left 
him gasping and thrashing upon the forest floor, aching in the sudden 
and unexpected emptiness. He cried out, the protest a curious mixture of 
the need to be fulfilled, anticipation and fear of what may ensue. Fëanor 
was afire again; the entirety of the situation, the mighty warrior craving 
for his touch, begging for it, longing to be brought from distraction to 
completeness again, to be loved fully and utterly – it all made him feel 
strong and glorious, the sole cause of the violent tremble of Fingolfin´s 
body as well as of Fingolfin´s release to come. Once again, the 
midnight-hued cascade of hair rushed down and hungry mouth enclosed 
Fingolfin´s throbbing shaft, fingers found their way into his aching, 
needy insides and probed hard and deep. 
      That was enough to send Fingolfin to the very heaven. He arched 
like a highly-strung bow and cried out in an orgasm which threatened to 
split him in two, shooting his release in Fëanor´s mouth until he gagged, 
and what he did not manage to swallow, Fingolfin licked off of his chin 
and lips.
      They stayed like that until the second mingling of the lights, a 
messy tangle of bodies and hair, inhaling the scent of the forest 
surrounding them.
“Someone may approach...” Fingolfin said suddenly. His brother 
yawned and lazily stretched.
“I don´t care,” he murmured into the thick mane of dark hair and 
nuzzled closer to him.
“But I do, Fëanor.”
Fëanor propped on one elbow and searched his brother´s face for the 
tiniest reflection of what he had found in his arms before, but saw none. 
This was the Elf he knew, never out of control, never submitting to 
yearnings of any kind.
“Do you regret it, Fingolfin?” he whispered, a trace of sadness so 
unbecoming in his voice. 
“What would you have me say, half-brother? Isn´t this the very way you 
called me only yesterday? Do you think something has changed since 
that?” Fingolfin snapped and rolled aside to collect his discarded 
leggings. Fëanor, still lying on the ground, kept on watching him. He felt 
somehow empty and Fingolfin´s cruel yet deserved words pained him.
      “You should turn your attention and give your love to someone 
more deserving than me... a balrog, maybe?” Fingolfin spat and gave 
him last look before leaving. He never knew how close to the truth he 
was that time.