Tolkien Fanfiction Recommendations
Spiced Wine.
Organic list. More will be added.
Currently reading, and re-reading.
Esteliel has hooked me completely from since first reading her. Her series is not all about sex, despite the warnings and ratings, in fact it is a very skillful and thought provoking look at what is basically Stockholm Syndrome and how and why that can develop into love. The way the characters relationships develop from a terrible beginning is enthralling, deeply moving, and sympathetic, steamy and addictive. Any-one perceiving at this as just a kinky slash fic has missed the point entirely. I love this series. Highly recommended.
NC17 rating. MPREG. Slash. Rape. BD/SM.
Asfaloth snorted and shook his head, eyes rolling so that Galuron visibly paled, though he refused to step aside. “I have warned you,” Glorfindel then said, so formidable in his anger that even Legolas shivered. “I have warned you repeatedly. Have you forgotten who I am? Run home to your father, tell him your lies, but know this: I am not someone you want to anger, boy. Where are the great deeds you have accomplished? Have you faced a dragon? Or one of the Dark Lord’s demons, spewed forth right from the maws of Angband? Who are you to talk of shame? Legolas has shown greater honor and courage than you ever will. And one more thing I will tell you, another piece of intelligence to send your father if you will. The gift of foresight was given to me, and I tell you this: You will not sit the throne of Mirkwood, nor will your brother. But the day shall come when all the folk of the wood will sing the name of Legolas in praise, and Mirkwood shall not be restored to its former glory until this has come to pass.”
Glorfindel’s words resonated among the golden mellyrn, and all talk fell silent. There was a power to them which touched even the hearts of those too far away to hear his pronouncement, and Legolas shivered, seeing for a moment as if through a golden haze a cavalcade of wood-elves, setting out from his father’s forest with himself in the lead.
Elfscribe
Elegy For Númenor is superb. Her Sauron is suave, witty, intelligent, beautiful, and incredibly dangerous. This is the Maia who engineered the downfall of Númenor. Her wonderful young OMC’s are the best I have read. I have taken them too my heart, and despite knowing how this story must end, I want them to be among those who escape.
Mature rating. Slash. Noncon. Drama. Angst.
“And the elves in Ost-in-Edhil, did they not dance … before you destroyed them?” Aphanuzîr said, thumping his cup down.
Annatar’s reaction was unexpected. He actually blanched and lowered his eyes, staring at his right hand. He ran a thumb across the base of his middle finger. “They did dance and beautifully,” he said. “But not for me.”
Pharazôn was riveted. How curious. Was this some kind of weakness that he could exploit?
Anarithilien
Dark Forest.
When Legolas and Gimli venture into Fangorn, little do they realize the danger they are about to meet or the wretched secrets they will uncover from ages past.
One of those unusual gems from FF.net. Rating M. Genres: Drama, Angst. Slash.
It was then that Faeldaer turned away from the bitter ruin that approached them. Legolas saw that he was dressed as a general might be. He wore a coat of mail in a metal Legolas could not quite identify. It glistened brightly, despite the darkness around them, but it seemed rather extravagant given their weak position. Over the elf’s shoulders Faeldaer wore a light-colored cape bearing capped shoulders edged in cut crystals. It was clear to Legolas that this was of elven make, and it was quite beautiful to behold, but deadly as well. To come into contact with the stones would be painful, he knew, their jeweled cut put there to slice. Legolas noticed that the elf also wore a bejeweled knife at his side, the haft inlaid with gold and mithril. He wondered how the elf had come across such beautiful weaponry.
Pink Siamese.
Pink is a phenomenal writer, frighteningly talented. She also writes the steamiest het erotica I have ever read. Reading her over a year ago confirmed in me that some of the best writing is on the net, not published and on bookshelves.
Rating: Mature/Explicit. Het. Drama.
Lugmokí slept.
In her dream she stood at the farthest rim of existence and saw the nexus of the multiverses wrought in the shape of a big black tower.
She dreamed of stags and oaks and cliffs of chalk.
In her dream she crept beneath the snows and pressed her cheek against the flanks of the earth where she tasted the slow thought of the rock and she rose up, up through the ice, wearing its crystals, her body a house made of snow and furs, her hair a crown of icicles.
She dreamed of roses and granite and salt.
In her dream she lay in an underwater crypt, in an underwater city, the vast weight of the oceans crushed her fëa until it mocked death in order to escape. Her deep dreams slithered out, rode the dismal tides, crossed the stars to kiss the fertile minds of a thousand young.
She dreamed of dancing.
In her dream she was the sacred river. She opened her mouth and breathed fire. She rose and fell. She sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean.
Alpha Ori
The Protege a slash story that is beautiful and unusual, feeling like myth.
Rating: NC17. Slash. Drama.
Glorfindel held up his harm, shouting to his warriors to hold. He would wait a moment before ordering his troop to advance.
As the trees ceased their waning, Glorfindel lowered his arm and signalled the way forward. They warily navigated through the copse at a stealthy walk, all senses on alert, until finally, they emerged on the other side, into a glade…
Black hair flapped around the heads of the Noldorin warriors as they finally arrived at the site of the wood elves’ stand, drawing up their horses harshly and dismounting in but a few seconds. Some stared in open shock at what they saw, as Glorfindel stared at the golden-haired elf with his back to him, facing the woodland warriors, hair undulating eerily in the unnatural breeze, for magic was at work here, of that he had no doubt. The elf held two short swords, one in each outstretched hand, blood dripping from their lethally sharp edges – they had arrived too late – the battle had been fought.
Black bodies littered the floor, many skewered with long, elegant arrows, others lay with severed limbs or heads turned at unnatural angles. Rusted blades, scimitars and other crude devices lay unheeded in the once verdant grass.
He turned then, the golden one, and looked straight into the surprised eyes of Glorfindel, who beheld the most exquisite face he had ever seen.
Ziggy
I am such a fan of The Sons Of Thunder, which takes place during the War of the Ring. All the characters are excellently written, beautiful descriptions, but her guilt-lust-grief tormented Elrohir naturally draws me. I love tormented characters and this story is rich in pathos.
‘Give him to me,’ a voice spoke low and close. The great black horse stood near him, its hoof stamped and there was blood on its foreleg. The Elf warrior sat astride the war horse, his raven black hair tangled in the wind, his sable cloak swirled around him and blood, crimson and black, gleamed wetly on his sword. It seemed to sing with blood. His eyes were fierce and sunk in slaughter and Gimli stared at this vision from the First Age.
‘Give him to me.’ It was a command this time, low and deep and spoke to his bones and blood.
Gimli stared first up at the Elf warrior. The horse tossed its head and the silver bit jangled. Then Gimli looked down at Legolas. The Elf’s head was tipped back, his long hair swept around him, the crimson stain spread over his chest. His cheeks were flushed and his breaths came in short shallow gasps, but he seemed unaware, gazing in rapture at the wheeling gulls. The Dwarf’s shoulders slumped slightly and he knew that he had no choice. To stay would be to invite death. Legolas needed to be removed from battle and his wound treated. Otherwise he would bleed to death. Gimli was no healer and no fool. He glared up at the elven warrior.
‘Tell your brother not to come near him,’ growled the Dwarf. The son of Elrond suddenly looked at him. ‘You cannot understand the love I bear him,’ he said quietly. ‘You cannot understand what he has done to earn the trust and devotion of this Khazad. You only need to know that he has. ’
Defeated, he gently pulled Legolas upright and held him.
Gimli pushed Legolas towards the waiting arms of the other Elf who leaned down and put his arms beneath Legolas’ shoulders, grasping him easily and pulled him onto the great black war horse. Legolas’ head rolled back against the broad chest and their long hair tangled, gold and black.