A fandom event for OCs and underdeveloped characters in Tolkien's world!
This event celebrates both characters of Tolkien's world and our own characters that need more love, by creating and reblogging all kind of fanworks, like fanfiction, fanart, fanvideos, fancrafts, headcanons, playlists, edits, moodboards etc.
The event is modded by @yellow-faerie and @elamarth-calmagol, and will take place between 24th August - 30th August 2026 for the fifth year running.
NSFW text entries are allowed and we’ll tag them accordingly when we reblog them, but please put them behind a “read more”.
We'll also be tracking the tag #tolkienocweek during this week!
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Event Schedule 2026:
1. Family (24th August)
Create a fanwork about a family member of a canon character. This could be a parent, a child, a spouse, or any other part of the family tree, either implied by canon or entirely original.
2. Friends (25th August)
Create a fanwork about someone in the vicinity of canon, such as friends, coworkers, servants, or acquaintances of a canon character. Or maybe choose someone overlooked by the characters: the ordinary soldiers, farmers, merchants, and artisans impacted by the events around them.
3. Enemies (26th August)
Share a character who is an enemy (or part of a group of enemies) of the main characters, such as a Dunlending, person from Rhun, or King's Men of Numenor.
4. Strangers (27th August)
Create a fanwork about someone from a group of people we don't learn about in canon, such as the petty dwarves, Avari, or people from Far Harad.
5. Spirits (28th August)
Share a character who is not an incarnate being, such as one of the Maiar, a vampire or werewolf, one of the Ainur who never came to Arda, or one of the lesser wraiths Gandalf refers to.
6. Ghosts (29th August)
Create a fanwork about someone who haunts the narrative without ever showing up in it, such as the first generation of elves or men, or whom Tolkien created and abandoned, such as Eriol the Mariner.
7. Freeform (30th August)
Repeat a prompt, or share a character that doesn’t fit any of the prompts!
Thanks to @hobbitwrangler for help with the prompts!
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Since we want to celebrate creations about neglected characters all year long, the mods will occasionally reblog posts and fancreations about OCs and underdeveloped characters. If you would like to see your post on our blog, you're very welcome to tag #tolkienocweek. Since tumblr's tagging system is often being faulty, don't hesitate to message us, too!
We are looking forward to see and share all the awesome work you come up with!
I really, really love the idea of Steve taking the Barnes last name when he and Bucky get married. Sure, he's attached to the Rogers last name, but after so many years as Captain America, he almost feels like Steve Rogers belongs to the public. As Steve Barnes, he can take back his identity, separate himself from the expectations and responsibilities of being a public figure, really feel like he's living the life he wants instead of the one he once thought he should have. He doesn't have to be Steve Rogers, Captain America anymore, he can just be Steve Barnes, Bucky's husband.
Where do Fanfic writers and artists do their best work? In between the lines, the missing scenes, or scenes that PJ never gave us. (looking at you Rivendell firefly scene.)
Help us fill in the gaps. Here's a selection of scenes that never came to pass, taken from the movies and the book. Have one in mind that's not on the list? We're not picky! Just tag @acorn-and-oakleaves when it's done so we can showcase your work!
Sacred Band of Avengers - A @fandomtrumpshate piece for freakyflob
RatedE, Stucky, Historical/Modern AU, Immortals
The goggles are shit.
They do nothing to protect against the frigid wind, the ice shards that come at them like missiles, the negative fifty-degree standing air temperature that doubles with the raging storm. Whoever had the bright idea of sending them out to a literal frozen wasteland when the sun doesn't even break the horizon for months must have been high on coffee and antacids, too lazy to research the Alaskan climate in winter, and too busy crowing about their latest breakthrough in technological survival suits.
Probably some self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist with a micro-dick.
If only they knew why they're out here searching for the wreck of some WWII-era plane, maybe it would make up for the extreme conditions. Here they are, blindly (literally, the damn goggles are fogged the fuck up) trudging over ice ridges the size of cars in zero visibility with a too-soon deadline and too-little payment. They should have listened to the locals at the village who very angrily saw them out onto the ice, warning them about 'little people' and other vengeful spirits for trespassing on their homeland, which is ridiculous because their destination is the middle of the fucking frozen ocean.
There's a tap on her shoulder and a tug on her elbow, and when she whips around, her partner has pulled off his gloves — the idiot — and is signing before her face. Since she can't see a damn thing, she pulls off the goggles and the air is immediately sucked from her lungs by an errant gust.
Natasha covers her mouth with her glove and glares into Barton's unprotected face, glad that her headlamp forces his eyes closed. He's been a thorn in her side for weeks, doing all sorts of dangerous things without including her, and she's close to losing her shit all over him.
"I caught a reflection over there," he signs, pointing north. There are icicles on his eyebrows and his cheeks are rosy red, chapped and sore-looking. He's still incredibly handsome, dammit, even though his lips are bleeding. She isn't sure if she wants to punch him, or kiss him.
She signs back, teasing, that hopefully it isn't the Russians, who are also out here on the ice searching for the plane. Clint's excitement quickly fades into a sarcastic Garfield glare.
"Really?" he says.
Natasha would laugh if she felt like laughing, if her own cheeks weren't stinging and she wasn't suffering from near frostbite.
Fuck Stark and his 'social betterment.'
"Let's go."
They help each other bundle up, and Natasha punches Barton's arm, just because she can. There's a fine line between partners and 'partners,' and lately, they've been tiptoeing around that line. That kind of dancing gets people in trouble.
If Clint dies, she'll kill him.
At first, the reflection looks like all the others; jagged ice displaced by the ocean currents and wind, pretending to be a clue. They approach with both lamps trained on it. It's unnerving not being able to watch your back out here, too much interference, low visibility. Natasha resists the urge to fling Barton's hand from her elbow, since he knows how much she hates to be coddled, but the moron is probably leaning on her because he needs the support.
Up close, it's most definitely not ice, although it's covered in it.
Barton shoulders Natasha and points to her pack, then moves closer, offering a shield from the wind as she begins to remove it. She kneels on the icy snow and unfastens the stays around the heavy pouch. Then she lays it on the ground and rises once more, keeping a strong hold on the activation device.
The tent is one of those pop-up jobbies with a thick woven fabric. It's different from other tents, not only because it's a beast to carry and a bitch to put away, but also because the fabric and supports have heating elements embedded in them, which is about the only thing Natasha likes about the damn thing. They'll also get some reprieve from the storm until backup arrives.
Barton helps her position the structure over the piece of not-ice, and then holds it in place while she drives the stakes into the ice. Once this is finished, Natasha removes Clint's even heavier pack, and they both struggle with the tarp that will serve as their floor, pushing the frozen material inside and pressing it into the corners. Then they climb inside and zip the entryway shut.
Their lamps create a strobe-like effect on the sides of the tent, which is annoying, and they both remove and set them away. Barton begins unpacking the equipment they need to run their tests, and Natasha activates the heating elements, and waits.
And waits. And waits. And waits.
"How long did he say it would take?" Clint says. He's removed his headgear, and the white plume from his exhalations rises like a cloud to the top of the tent. His movements are stiff, uncoordinated, sluggish. Usually, he powers through, denying the pain and exhaustion with a stiff upper lip. Just like Natasha.
It's only lately, and only when they're alone, that he shows this other side of himself. The vulnerable one. It should irritate and annoy her, but Natasha finds it oddly endearing.
"Doesn't matter," she responds, digging inside her own pack for the good old-fashioned hand warmer packets. "Would have been a lie anyway. Tony Stark is a blowhard, and I don't trust anything he says or does."
Barton laughs at this, a warm, golden sound that's good enough to heat Natasha's insides.
"That's what I love about you, Tash," he grins, and his eyes sparkle. "Trusting no one."
She breaks the packs and massages them between her fingers, then walks on her knees to Clint's side. He's looking at her like she hung the fucking moon. It's disgusting.
Smirking, she leans in and teases the lobe of his ear with her lips. "That's not true. I trust you." And she slides her frozen hand, heating packet inside her palm, down the front of his jacket and under his clothing, until she reaches skin and causes Barton to yelp.
"Hey! Not cool!" He looks utterly betrayed.
Natasha purrs. "Very cool."
He smiles. She grins and works the hot packet under his armpit.
Clint shudders, but stays still while she repeats the action on the other side. Her forehead brushes against his chin, and he makes a swipe at her with his mouth, kissing the top of her head, and letting out a deep sigh.
"Thanks. You always know how to take care of me."
She does, but she'll never admit it. Instead, she straightens and gets to work setting up her share of the equipment.
It does begin to warm, slowly, so slowly that they don't even notice the change in temperature while Stark's ridiculous devices are unpacked and waiting. All of the lenses and displays are fogged up and useless, and Natasha loves the fact that even the smartest minds don't consider what effect the natural world has on things. She, on the other hand, understands liquid crystal and hypothermia, and the state of Barton's blue lips is more concerning than some eighty-year-old chunk of metal that may or may not be from a German airplane.
"Come here," she commands, reaching out for Clint's hands and wrapping them in her own.
He pretends to be shocked by her touch, and makes a joke. "Aw, you do care, see? Nobody believes me when I tell them that underneath your ice princess exterior, there's a soft, pink gummy heart."
Natasha drops his hands in disgust. "If I ever hear you say that out loud to anyone —"
Clint slides a palm over her cheek, and his fingers are still freezing. "You'll punch me in the face, I know."
"Damn right."
She unzips his jacket the rest of the way, then does the same with hers, and straddles him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing their heat together. Being the cuddler that he is, Barton does the same, only harder, then buries his cold nose against her neck.
"Stupid cold. I'm freezing."
"Aren't you glad you wore the thermal underwear, even though Stark told us we wouldn't need it?"
"Mm."
They huddle for a good long while, breathing warm, moist air against each other's skin. Eventually, Natasha begins to sweat, but even though she's dying to pull away, she doesn't. They seldom get chances like this to be close. Whether they're working on a super-secret spy mission or extracting prisoners and hostages, there are always others around. Natasha wouldn't be caught dead being unprofessionally intimate with a teammate, but there's something about Clint Barton, orphan, former circus performer, tough as nails, dumb as a doornail and sweet as sugar that makes it extremely difficult.
"Just like Budapest," Barton sighs as he nuzzles against her cheek.
Natasha snorts and pushes him away. "This is nothing like Budapest."
Clint's cheeks have color in them again, the good color, and his fingers have begun to tingle (Natasha knows because he won't shut up about it.)
"Only because you hated my guts then."
The space has warmed substantially, and the instruments are slowly coming to life, one at a time. They turn their heads to watch as lights begin to blink and power banks charge batteries and CPUs search for satellite signals. It won't be long, and they won't be alone any longer. Stark's voice will come over the sat phone, and he'll be giving them instructions on how to take readings and collect samples. And if it really is the bomber that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes landed in the ocean to save the world, they're going to be a bit busy.
Natasha thumbs at Clint's chin, drawing him to face her once again, and kisses him. Nothing devastating, not passionate or hungry or anything like that. Just a simple reminder that he belongs to her.
"I still hate your guts. But they're very nice guts."
Barton laughs. "You love me for my guts?"
The radio scratches out a tinny, impatient, garbled voice, and both people tense at what they're about to do.
Pinching Clint's stupid chin, Natasha inhales, and exhales.
"No. I love you for you."
And then she adds, just in case: "And if you tell anyone that, I'll put you down."
***KLAXON*** Scrumptious Stucky Fans our GODDESS @gfawkesphoenixchokingonashes has a new story for us and it's DELICIOUS and will simply become even more delicious as the story progresses.
The "dads with complete opposite ways of carrying their children" meme, but it's Stucky with Alpine.
Bucky cradles her to his chest like the precious bundle of joy that she is, one hand carefully supporting her butt while the other bestows generous ear-scritches upon her. He tucks her in his jackets and hoodies, lets her curl up in the crook of his arm when she jumps up on the bed to claim her morning kissies, and he often puts her in one of those baby slings so he can keep her close and have her fuzzy little head within kissing distance all the time, while she purrs the day away in a state of perfect bliss. Alpine adores him. He calls her "baby" and "his best girl", and she regales him with her softest mrrrp's and mrrow's in return - and when she gently rubs her head to his cheek, Bucky's world instantly feels a little brighter.
Steve, on the other hand.
Steve wears her like a scarf, her long fluffy body slung around his neck, hands holding both ends so she won't fall off. Steve carries her under his arm like she's a baguette, her butt to the world, her head tucked just below his armpit, and she never even complains (not after the first ten times anyway).
Steve play-wrestles with her, winds her up good and then lets her swat her paws at him, all soft fur and righteous fury, and he plays up the punching sound effects when she hits his palms, all the while going "Come on girl, get in here, show me whatchu got," and "Pow pow, thwap boom fshhhhhh, oh no, oh no she got me, I'm going down, Sergeant Stinkass Fishbreath is too strong for me, nooo!". Steve likes to spin her in circles on the floor, and Alpine loves it - in fact, if Steve is around and failing to give her the required attentions, she screams at him with that blood-curdling yowl of hers until he finally gets the hint, grabs her with one hand and turbo-twirls her at maximum speed, like a feather duster in a salad spinner.
Alpine loves him. She will ditch him in a heartbeat if Bucky is around, but when she's feeling sweet (and there are no Bucky's available), she'll come and sit on Steve's head, warm and purring and loaf-shaped, and groom his eyebrows with her raspy little tongue, and she'll hiss if he so much as tries to move a muscle. He's Not Allowed to leave. There's no escaping a mother's affection.
Can I just say, on this memorial day weekend, I think the ONLY man on earth who enjoys being woken up by the sound of a lawn mower revving is (bunny) Bucky Barnes 'cause it means he knows he can lounge (naked) in bed for another 30 minutes before being fucking mauled by a sweaty, already sun-hot, Daddy who just needs him.
The sweatier, the smellier, the better 😮💨🤪 That Bunny would be ready to bounce. Daddy all tan (in May??) and big and hairy and shiny from all of his sweat, all with that added edge of energy he gets when he does something for the house, some Provider shit. 🤤
Bunny would pout and throw a terribly fake fit about being woken up early, but he’d be gasping to give his Daddy whatever it is he wanted.
@mrrmhk: [MR│Watch] The wonderful minutes and seconds of Cartier Santos x Sebastian Stan chronograph The more wonderful life is, the more you need to grasp every minute and second. Therefore, Hollywood's popular star Sebastian Stan chooses to wear the new chronograph launched by the Cartier Santos series this year to record the precious minute and every second with a simple and timeless model. As Cartier's brand ambassador, Sebastian Stan has always been convinced that a wristwatch is not just an accessory. "It is one of the few things you wear every day that can quietly accumulate the meaning of life. It records the rest of time, and also reflects the road you have walked and your experience. It is closely related to certain moments, milestones and experiences in life. Wearing the newly launched Santos chronograph, Sebastian Stan felt that its design was exquisite and accurate. "The Santos series has a distinctive personality, and this new watch goes further. It does not look too complicated. The timing function is integrated, without adding to the snake, giving the watch accuracy and practicality, while maintaining a simple and smooth design." Sebastian Stan continued: "I have always been fond of the Santos series of wristwatches. The design is simple, classic and modern, and it exudes confidence. Moreover, its style is versatile, and it can be naturally changed from formal occasions to daily wear, which is its enduring charm. Today, it is still as classic as it was in the past. I have been wearing the Cartier watch for several years. For me, it is an eternal classic and never out of date. @Mrrmhk @cartier @imsebastianstan #Cartier #Cartier #Santos #SebastianStan #watch
James in over his head with an overstimulated, sleep-deprived bratty Steve who won’t listen to anything he has to say and only wants to fight his every word.
He’s brought his baby to work with him but he’s regret the decision ever since they walked out their front door that morning and into the dreary, stormy street. It’s tense between the two of them, and regretfully so, but James can’t calm down enough to effectively Daddy the way he should.
Natasha walks into James’s office seconds before he makes the final decision to call for a car to send Steve home.
“What’s his problem?” she asks with a head tilt towards Steve sulking on the couch, tone hushed and husky as she sits down across from James at his desk. He shrugs his shoulders, running his hand through his hair. He switches to Russian when he replies.
“I’ve got no fucking idea. He chose violence this morning. Can’t do anything to calm him down; he wants nothing to do with me.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, but the tone of support shifts when he catches her smirk.
“What?” he snaps, a bark of a noise.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so dense sometimes. Why are you always wanting a fight, James? You have nothing more to prove with this one.”
She turns her head towards Steve then, her chin-length hair bouncing with the quick movement. The snap of her fingers is sharp, almost as much as her voice is.
“Steven—come here.”
Sharp, direct, no-nonsense— yet gentle. Knowing.
Comforting.
James nearly stops breathing when Steve rises without a fight, damn near floating across the office. When he stops to stand next to Natasha’s chair and looks down at her expectantly, she points a perfectly manicured finger down towards the floor in front of her.
“Come down here.”
James does in fact stop breathing then, when Steve all but crumples to the ground without hesitation.
What…?
His heart seizes in his chest with the obviousness of Steve’s exhaustion, the way it lies heavy across his shoulders and in the furrow of his brow. His own hoodie on Steve’s form swallows him whole, his normal broadness and sinew lost underneath his Daddy’s hoodie.
His heart seizes, yes, but his cock brings to fill out as well.
He is but a Daddy, a Dom, a man.
He considers stepping in though, considers telling Natasha she’s out of line intervening in such a personal way, but he’s desperate at this point.
And there’s no denying there’s something else here James can’t quite interpret that has him leaning forward in his seat, something new and already addicting.
When Natasha reaches for Steve’s chin and curls her slim fingers around it, James goes from twitching to traitorously hard in his pants.
“What is wrong?”
James can see the heaviness of Steve’s eyelids from here, can see the way he falls into her touch as if desperate for it.
“Nothing,” he tries, and James can’t help but scoff from where he sits. Natasha’s glare is as cold as ice.
She squeezes at his chin, shaking it once. “Don’t lie to me. Anyone with eyes can see that you don’t feel well. Anyone with ears within a two mile radius knows you’ve been fighting with James all day. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
Steve shuffles forward on his knees with a soft noise, shocking both Natasha and James when his shuffling leads him kneeled between Natasha’s spread thighs.
Oh.
Natasha’s eyes are on James’s immediately, seeking silent permission to continue.
James’s heart pounds against his chest.
He’s quick to tip his chin.
Natasha’s fingers are in Steve’s hair the next second, long pointed nails scratching at his honey-colored hair, his tender scalp.
Steve moans so hard it ties James’s next breath up tight in his chest, the sound of it loud and stuttering.
His hands come down to rest on Natasha’s hips, fingers curling around where they sit in the plush chair.
“I don’t know,” Steve whispers, words broken and truthful. “Sometimes I just wake up and I’m…I’m not myself. I’m sad. I’m mean and…and not in a cute way that gets me spanked.”
James smirks even if his heart continues to ache. Natasha doesn’t miss a beat.
“And that’s fine; we all have those days. This was maybe a day you should have stayed home away from other people.”
James knows what Steve is going to say even before he whines it.
“But…but I don’t want to be away from Daddy…”
He hasn’t disclosed every detail of his relationship with Steve to Natasha, but he is aware that she knows enough that Steve’s words won’t startle her in any way. What does startle her though, both her and Daddy, is when Steve whines once more and leans forward to bury his face into Natasha’s stomach.
James has to sit back in his chair to accommodate for his raging and sudden hard-on.
This is quite a development.
Natasha’s eyes are on his again, this time much less confident than before, and James hopes his gaze mirrors some of that lack of confidence in order to provide her comfort. He’s never experienced anything like this with Steve; this is new territory for everyone involved.
His nods his head in a jerky movement, giving her silent permission to continue.
The fingers in Steve’s hair run down the back of his head then, scratching across his shoulders and at the base of his neck. From where James sits he can see Steve’s fingers pull at the meat of his best friend’s hips, Steve burying himself further into her embrace.
James feels like a live wire, exposed and hot. He’s in a situation he never imagined he’d be in, one he’s excited for, but also cautious. It’s somehow not sexual, but also the most erotic thing he’s seen…ever? Steve is slight next to James, is more petite and submissive looking, but next to Natasha he looks large, dominant, and boyish almost.
The thought of Steve looking burly yet being submissive for a woman damn near half his size, one older than him, makes James salivate.
“I’m sure your Daddy doesn’t want to be away from you either, but you coming to his place of work and causing a plethora of avoidable issues doesn’t seem like the smartest choice for the both of you.”
Steve whimpers, finally turning his face in James’s direction.
There’s his boy.
And shit, is he gone.
Eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed, lips parted; James would bet half his life savings on Steve also being hard right now. And with Natasha’s thighs spread around his shoulders, her fingers in his hair, his big hands on her hips, it would be hard to imagine she isn’t feeling a similar way as them.
Her eyes are guarded when they lock with James’s, which only confirm his suspicions.
“Daddy…” Steve mewls softly, a noise that makes both his balls and chest ache.
“Steven,” he responds, voice gruffer than anticipated. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Better than before? Better than ten minutes ago?”
He nods his head into Natasha’s stomach. “Much.”
He needs confirmation for the three of them.
“You like Natasha touching you like this? You like her words?”
A garbled noise and another whimper. “Uh-huh…”
Nails scratch down Steve’s neck, the noise of her fresh manicure on his skin more than pleasant to James’s ears.
“What do you like about her?”
A purely selfish inquiry at this point.
Steve doesn’t hesitate.
“She’s kind. But she’s firm. I like her claws and I like how soft she is and…she smells so good.”
Steve is indeed out of it, and this is confirmed for James when Steve turns his head again and rubs his face into Natasha’s sweater, this time much closer towards her breasts.
The air between the three of them thickens intensely, the charge of it continuing to glow erotic.
James barely catches the hitch in Natasha’s breath, but he catches it.
Interesting.
“Steve…” James warns, but Natasha is quick to placate them both.
“Rest, Steven. Let your Daddy finish at least some work before you go home. You rest now.”
Steve shuffles in impossibly closer, pressing his cheek to her breast then, effectively smothering her by laying atop her. James goes to say something, to reprimand, but Natasha is quick to shake her head.
Her nails return to Steve’s hair, this time both sets, and she settles into his overwhelming embrace with ease.
Well, fuck.
There’s no way in hell James is getting any work done with such a display just across his desk from him. But he supposes he should get just enough done to grant them the right to go home.
The two of them— eventually three— have much to discuss it seems…
