Total aside from my usual content but I’ve been on a Lord of the Rings kick recently and need to get this out of my brain before I start clawing at things. Little blurbs about creepy things/ways the main cast's yandere tendencies manifest. Heads up, it's long, and I've never read the books so if there's a lore inaccuracy please ignore it. Sidenote: I want to chew on Éomer like a puppy toy.
Ft. Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Boromir, Faramir, and Éomer.
Tw: stalking, harassment, mild misogyny, unwanted touching, allusions to masturbation, objectification, fem reader, , MDNI, the usual
I know the Lord of the Rings fandom is mostly dead and doesn’t really cross over into the yandere x reader sphere, but every time I watch the series I am completely and utterly shocked at just how strong the yandere potential is for some of the characters.
The world is literally falling apart – death knocks at the door on a daily basis, a constant reminder of the impending doom awaiting. And yet, even with all of the horror and anxiety rippling through Middle Earth, there’s something to be said about finding the small bits of bliss that one can find in such dark times. Bliss that, it just so happens, is intimately and exclusively tied to you – their feelings grow that much stronger, that much darker, that much more inescapably desperate because you are quite literally the only thing that brings them joy.
And while it may feel sacriligious to expend so much energy on romantic pursuits during such dire times, they can't help it. You become a sort of drug to them; something light and wonderful and holy in this hellhole of a situation, and with each and every passing day they get closer and closer to snapping. They take another step toward complete dependence on you, their mental state beginning to hinge entirely on whether you’ve smiled at them that day, whether you’re still alive and breathing, whether you’d let them take a fistful of your hair and pull you into a kiss so eager and needy that it hurts. It’s unhealthy – and unproductive – and many of them even know it, but they simply can’t help it.
In a world desperate to strip away everything they know and love, how can they be expected to give up something so perfectly and overwhelmingly theirs?
And of course, the individual characters themselves are landmines of potential, too – ignoring many of the canonical relationship, of course. (Though some couples would be more than eager to let another into the safe haven of their love, even if the addition themselves is less excited. Less reciprocated. Less willing.) The main cast are such upstanding, valiant characters, and yet every angel loses its wings, some weakness in morality rearing its ugly head in the worst imaginable way.
And while each character displays these rather unsettling tendencies in their own unique manner, one thing unites them all: their ability to completely and utterly creep you out.
For Frodo, the Ring steals more than just his sanity and friendships. It starts to infect every relationship he holds - reaching into his most intimate feelings and thoughts with cold, bony fingers and tugging, leaving him disoriented and mistakenly redirecting the insanity and possessiveness brewing inside of him toward another target: you.
The sweet, gentle Frodo you'd come to know slowly morphs into a shell of the man you once knew, his eyes growing more sunken and his breathing becoming more irregular each time he sets sight on you. He's plagued by the Ring's whispers of how you're being stolen away from him, how you'll leave him, how you'll ultimately abandon him and leave him so, so terribly alone.
And while Frodo can initially fight it off, he loses the battle and slowly allows the thoughts to take root and bloom into something sinister, something paranoid, something grotesque.
Because what ultimately makes Frodo a creep is just how posessive the Ring makes him.
He'll confide in you, clutching onto you with trembling hands and teary eyes, murmuring about how he simply can't do this anymore, burying his face against your neck and nuzzling against the warm skin as you sooth him. You're murmuring words of encouragement, telling him that the quest is nearly over, that he's the strongest hobbit you've ever met, and suddenly he's stilling.
The praise strokes at something deep inside him, making his cheeks feel warm and his fingertips pulse, pleasure licking at him because oh, don't stop, tell him more more more. But then your words ring through his mind again, and something cold and ugly grips at him.
The strongest hobbit you've ever met? Just how many hobbits do you know? How many men have you been getting familiar with?
The teary eyed look is suddenly replaced with bared teeth and knotted brows, his hands moving from a frantic grasp onto you to sharp nails and firm muscles pulling you flush against him as he growls out a muffled 'm the only hobbit you know. Tell me I'm the only one you truly know.
Your sound of confusion isn't enough for him. He grips tighter, his skin hot against your own. Tell me you don't know any others. And if you do, I will rip out their throats for ever speaking to you.
His breathing is uneven at this point, his hearbeat practically pulsing through his chest, and you'll be left to meekly assure him that he's the only one you truly know, that you haven't been spending time with Sam, Pippin, or Merry, that he's the closest man in your life.
(He flinches when you say the names of his three companions, something like a hiss slipping through his chapped lips.)
It's only after a few tense, silent moments in which Frodo mutters incoherently under his breath that he relaxes slightly, his grip no longer digging his nails into your skin, his hug feeling less suffocating. He'll pull back, tearstreaks still fresh down his face, but the livid grimace and wide eyes are now replaced by a slight flush and a boyish, shy smile, his voice cracking slightly as he tells you that he's really flattered, that means - that means more than you could possibly imagine.
It's like whiplash, and with each and every day the Ring slowly grows to exert control over him in this fashion - leaving you to blindly agree with his words, saying anything and everything to appease him, even if your promises of devotion, love, and eternity make your skin crawl. But even once the Ring is no more than molten magma once more, the sense of bitter possessiveness never truly deserts Frodo - he may be more in control, but he hasn't been quite the same since returning to the Shire.
But oh, lucky him - you're there to keep him sane, aren't you? To keep him tethered to reality, to keep him from losing himself entirely. And aren't you just so very fortunate to be tied up in Bag End with Frodo? Completely and utterly alone with him?
In contradiction, Sam takes a different tact in letting his yandere tendencies show. He may have begun this journey with a woman close to his heart, but what is Rosie compared to you? You, the woman with whom he shares so much trauma and comradery, whose kind words, supprotive mannerisms, and determination have saved his life more than he'd care to admit?
And while you've merely quietly thanked him for his dedication to Frodo, for making frequent campside dinners, laughing at his one-off, accidental jokes, it's enough for Sam. It's enough because he's so far from home, so completely out of his element and faced with horror after horror that he's eagerly and frantically jumping at the few meager scraps of kindness and peace you provide him.
He blows your presence way out of proportion - becoming dependent upon you to brighten his day and keep him from losing all hope as Frodo declines, his very mood tied to what you've said to him in the last twenty minutes. And Sam, ever the chivalrous creature, feels that he must repay you somehow for all that you've done for him as his emotional anchor: he vows to become your personal servant, for lack of a better term.
He's so attuned to you that it's genuinely terrifying. He learns your every mannerism and habit, honey brown eyes keeping watch as you walk, sleep, talk, watching you from his bedroll to see how you act when you think the entire camp is asleep.
(He'd insisted on keeping his roll close to yours of course, because the wind brings the faint wafts of your scent close to him, the smell making his eyes flutter and his body feel suddenly too hot in his cloak.)
He learns everything he possibly can, and sets out to become as helpful as possible for you. He wants to ease your burden and make you as comfortable as possible given the nature of the quest, and will eagerly jump at the chance to aid you in any way he can.
You're hungry? Well, Sam's noticed how you ocassionally frown and lightly ghost a hand over your stomach. He's already unwrapping the packed snacks he keeps in his satchel, carefully handing the items to you (he's sure to let his fingers brush your own ever so slightly, trying to hold back the shiver that wracks his whole spine at the contact). You'll excitedly thank him, making some comment about how you've been starving but were too embarassed to say anything.
You're tired? Well, it's not too hard to pull Boromir or Gimli aside and make some vague comment about how you're exhausted but too shy to request that you stop early for the night. (And when Gimli remarks that it's still light out and thus too soon to make camp, Sam will only gulp, pushing the guilt down as he lies about how you're on her womanly cycle, you know, and I think she's putting on a real brave face but can't hold out too much longer... you understand.) It feels bad to lie, sure, but then Gimli's going bright red and nodding conspiratorily, loudly complaining about how he's tired of running and needs to rest for the night. Sam will float back to your side, watching out of the corner of his eye as you slowly sigh in relief, thanking Sam because you know he did something but you're not sure what.
It's sweet at first and feels nice to have someone so clearly attentive to your needs, but where this veers into creep territory is when Sam continues to push the bounds of what he notices. It's kind when he observes that you're hungry or tired, sure, but when he actually does notice that you've begun your monthly blood without you once mentioning it, it's significantly less endearing.
(He's at your side with extra leaves and cloth torn from his own clothing to offer you, a lopsided grin on his face as he tells you to be careful, to lsiten to your body, to take it easy and not push too hard. And when you try to discard the now bloody rags, don't fight too hard when he eagerly snatches them from you, promising to wash them in the next river. You see them poke out of his pocket at the next major body of water, still bright red, but it's best to not mention it.)
It's disturbing that he seems to know what you need before you vocalize it, really before you even realize it yourself, and soon you'll begin to feel as if you're under a magnifying glass, his gaze feeling heavier and incriminating the longer it goes on.
But what can you really say? He's so hellbent on being helpful, useful to you, and how can you complain that he's trying his best to accomodate you? What grounds do you even have to complain on? Perhaps you're just being too sensitive. Yes, surely that's it - irritability brought on by the stress of Orc attacks and dangerous roads.
You can endure it until the end of this nightmare. You must.
Though of course, it's not really over even after the Eagles deliver an unconcious Frodo and Sam from Mordor. If anything, it only grows worse - but how could you ever possibly be unnerved by the ever-sweet, ever-innocent Sam? You'd be a monster.
For Pippin, his lack of subtlty is exactly what makes him so creepy. Well, that and his belief that what's his is yours and vice versa. He builds up your relationship into something much, much greater than it is in his head, coming to the conclusion that his obsession is matched equally and that the two of you have begun a courtship of sorts, even if you've never officially confirmed it. All it takes is for you to laugh at a single one of his jokes and throw him a perfectly timed smile and he's smitten, his infatuation growing with every word you speak and speck of attention you throw him.
And this sense of shared belongings leads to a rather troubling development: Pippin procures a nasty habit of rifling through your stuff. There's a giddy, excited smile on his face as he does it, stopping and picking up each and every item of yours, turning it in his hands and scrutinizing every angle to try to discern its use, relevance to you, and any other significant qualities he can find.
He's looking for signs of wear and tear, trying to discern which items you use most regularly, running a thumb over the material and often bringing it up to his nose and deeply inhaling, letting his eyes flutter closed at the indescribable scent of you.
He genuinely means no ill intention with this habit. He's prone to interpreting your civil, friendly actions as something more profound, and is completely under the impression that you're attracted to him just as he is you. And as such, you wouldn't mind that he's curious about you, that he's touching your comb, that he's grabbing fistfuls of your undergarments and pocketing them for a later time.
(A later time that isn't exactly private - a later time that Pippin wouldn't be opposed to sharing with you, should you express the interest. And oh, how he wishes you would...)
But while this alone will leave you with a sense of betrayal at his blatant disregard for your personal boundaries, what truly clues you into the extent of Pippin's obsession is when he begins not only snatching away small items of yours, but donning them himself.
The extra broach you'd brought along as a reminder of home is suddenly missing from your small satchel one day, and one look over at the beaming hobbit sees the shining metal attached securely to his own cloak, resting right above his heart.
You can't find the ring you wear religiously as a keepsake of your parent? It's wrapped around Pippin's finger, gleaming in the light as he splays his fingers, admiring the craftsmanship and ocassionally bringing it up to his lips to leave a much-too-long kiss.
And very, very quickly you'll notice this behavior. He's not exactly subtle when he's humming and sorting through your meager bag of things, holding up fabrics to feel between his fingers, pulling out the strands of your hair left on the items and placing them against the thick wool of his cloak so that they stick against his chest.
You'll be very aware, having caught him numerous times and confronted him about it. But it's hard to get through to him when he only smiles bashfully up at you, his cheeks tinged a light pink from both embarassement and excitement that you're standing so close to him and looking at him, and it's like he doesn't even hear you. His expression doesn't change even as you tell him to quit poking around your stuff, even when you tell him that he's practically stealing from you.
He'll only laugh lightly, twirling the ring on his finger and reaching out to playfully nudge you. Come now, there's no reason to pretend.
He won't elaborate and instead only sends you a wink, walking off to join Merry, Frodo, and Sam and leaving you to stare dumbly behind him, total confusion at what he could possibly mean.
It isn't until much, much later that you get a clear answer: Pippin firmly and completely believes that by wearing your clothing and accessories, it's like a stake of possession over him. It makes him feel wanted, needed, a testament to your 'relationship' and a sign that you want the whole world to know that Peregrine Took is yours. It fuels his delusions and his infatuation, its claws sinking deeper and deeper into him with every passing day, but by the time you learn what his behavior is really stemming from it'll be much too late.
Because once you catch a very familiar bit of white, soft cotton sitting high on against his hip and dipping down between his legs, you'll realize that Pippin's attachment is much deeper and much more disturbed than you'd initially thought. He just loves you so, so very much - so much so that even your undergarments aren't off limits.
While it isn't necessarily creepy, as his obsession with you begins to take root and he spends more time with you, Merry will grow a nasty habit of telling you half-truths. He's never claimed to be the smartest nor most eloquent hobbit, but as his infatuation begins to become more and more ever-present and impossible to ignore, so too becomes his desperation to appear as desirable to you as possible.
It starts off as a genuine white lie brought about by a sense of pride and a blooming crush on you very early on into meeting him. He's with Pippin, chatting away with you and Legolas. Legolas had mentioned some off-handed comment about his surprise at hobbits having such high endurance, and Pippin had immediately puffed up his chest. We hobbits have got many talents you wouldn't expect! I, for example, hold the record for the most pints of ale drunk in a single hour back home!
And without thinking Merry's eyes are darting back to your face to see your reaction, panic prickling along his skin when he sees the way you chuckle a bit, rolling your eyes and saying of course, Pippin.
It's out of his mouth before he can even think it, some deep-seated desperation to make you look at him that same way washing over him. Actually I'm the true holder of the record! Pip just doesn't remember because he was already so drunk he'd passed out.
Pippin splutters at this obvious lie, an argument sprouting between them already, but your giggle and soothing if you say so, Merry makes his eyes flutter slightly, his knees feeling weak and his Adam's apple bobbing up and down harshly.
And it only builds from there - small things that seem to just spill out of him before Merry can even think about it.
You're walking beside him talking about how you've always been terrible on horseback? Merry's cutting through your self-deprication with I've got some skill myself, I've been told I'm the best hobbit rider there is.
(He's only ever ridden by himself once, on a small pony, and promptly fell off seconds after sitting down.)
You're both seated around the fire in the evening, Aragorn twirling the long roasting stick impaling a rabbit for dinner. It's quiet, but Merry is compelled to speak up with I'm a well-known cook in the Shire, you know, always getting asked to make things.
(Sam frowns at this and Pippin opens his mouth to mention that everything Merry touches burns, but Aragorn only faintly smiles at you, shaking his head. It's only when you nod at Merry and say we'll have to put your skills to the test that he panics, puffing his chest out and stuttering well - well, I don't have the right supplies on the road, you see, so I don't think it'll taste much the same.)
It's harmless at first, sure, but as time passes and Merry feels more and more pressure to see the amused, impressed look on your face, the lies get more and more elaborate. He's claiming that he's had loads of hobbit women swept off their feet by him, that he's always having to break hearts to keep himself available for the only special lady in his life.
(He's so eager when he checks your reponse to that, eyes scanning your face with a sort of frantic need to see any sign of jealousy cross your features, the disappointment he feels when there's none only spurring him on further.)
Then he's claiming that he's a prolific kisser, boasting about how he always leaves the ladies wanting more, licking his lips for good effect and holding very intense eye contact with you the whole time.
(His eyes only briefly dart down to look at your own lips, the sudden mental image of kissing you making his face turn beet red, his cloak feeling too hot and his ears ringing so loudly that he misses the way Pippin snorts and tells Frodo that's rubbish, that is, Frodo only half-smiling and shrugging.)
So while it's not insideous in and of itself, what makes this habit of Merry's uncomfortable is that the lies are only ever directed at you and only ever concern his ability as a partner. They're always claims of his romantic and sexual prowess, spoken too forcefully and with obvious holes in his stories. He'll contradict himself, saying anything he can that he thinks will impress you and lead you to develop feelings for him, and the sense of desperation oozing off of him in waves will be very tangible for you.
It's alarming, the level to which he morphs himself to what he percieves as your tastes and desires, and what will truly have your skin crawling is the realization that he holds absolutely no self-respect or dignity in the face of your attention and attraction. He's willing to change himself and become whoever you'd like him to be should it encourage your affections, abandonding core beliefs and values just to chase after a single smile or murmur of his name.
It's disturbing, and though you'll try to distance yourself from him, you simply won't be able to - because Merry's attachment has sunk its claws into you, grasping on and completely unwilling to let go, no matter how hard you try to pryor shake him off.
He just really, really likes you, and getting your pity is better than your inattention.
You never would have pegged Aragorn to be an oversharer when you'd first met him. Brooding and serious, with the pretty crystal carving perpetually sitting at the hollow of his throat, you'd always deemed him to be private to a fault.
And you hadn't been wrong, technically - he is reserved, at least with most aspects of his life. He's not parading around flaunting his vulnerabilities, nor does he share every single detail about his personal life.
But that's not to say that he's completely tight-lipped about it. He lets things slip, here and there. Words spoken into the darkness of long nights staring out into the open expanses of land, surveying for orcs or other similar enemies while his allies rest by a dimming fire.
Perhaps it's the sense of duty slowly beginning to outrun him as heir, or maybe even a desperation driven forth by the stakes of his quest to protect Frodo. Regardless, one thing becomes very clear to you as the weeks of journeying begin to blend together: Aragorn may be private, but he's not secretive.
The first time you hear Arwen's name from his lips, there's a small smile on his face and he's looking down at his hands. You're sitting across from him by the fire, Gimli snoring peacefully alongside Pippin off to the right, the rest of the company breathing deeply, soundly. You'd volunteered to help Aragorn keep watch for the night, insisting that the Ranger rest too, for fear that he'd collapse on the battlefield.
It'd been an innocent question, really - just something to get your mind distracted away from the anxiety gripping you with every slight rustle of the trees or squeak of an animal. It'd just been a simple inquiry of who this mysterious elf is that his heart beats for - just a request to hear about the woman who tamed the mighty Aragorn.
And he's telling you sweet things, too. He's murmuring about her strength, her sense of purpose and morality, her ability to be soft and hard simultaneously. It's poetic, really, the words slipping from his lips sounding akin to the lovesongs you'd sung as a child.
And the conversation only ends when he makes a single comment that you'd merely nodded and smiled at: she'd love to meet you, should your paths ever cross. Your agreement had been mostly sincere, a bit out of politeness. The topic drifted to elvish weaponry, and that was that.
But when you find yourself back in the same position four nights later, you're not the one to spark up the conversation by the firepit.
She's always held a certain fondness for the race of men, Aragorn started, running a finger along the length of his blade and glancing up at you. Arwen, that is.
You'd only nodded, a small twinge of confusion biting into you. Where had that come from? You'd been sitting in silence previous to that comment - simply enjoying the view of the stars.
At your silence, Aragorn had merely looked pensive, returning his gaze to his blade. Her compassion and love, though hidden beneath the layers of elvish social etiquette, leave room for many.
You'd only nodded again, piping up to ask whether he was familiar with any major constellations.
And while it's nothing groundbreaking in and of itself, as your journey continues the frequency with which he brings up his lover starts to rapidly incrase. And while it would be sweet to see the man so ardently in love with her, you'll start to notice some troubling facts: the conversation is always unprompted, Aragorn simply filling the space between you with some musing on Arwen's character or affinity for humanity. It's also only every directed toward you - you've never heard him speak a word of her to Frodo, Gimli, Boromir - hell, not even to Legolas.
And finally, there's something about his words and tone that make you feel as if they're an invitation.
To what, you're not quite sure, but the way he looks at you after each declaration of Arwen's beauty, intelligence, and fighting prowess leave you connecting the dots that he's trying to entice you. Brown eyes scrape through your every expression, analyzing your every word in response, noting and interpreting your body language. He's looking for something, you come to realize. A sign that you're interested, that you're just as awed by her as he is - a sign that perhaps you want her, too.
It's confusing and leaves you hesitant to be alone with Aragorn for fear of the same behaviors popping up, but it really starts to veer into creep territory once the contents of his words slip from romantic and awed to much, much too personal for your tastes. He doesn't betray Arwen's own personal matters out of a deep-seeded love and respect for her, but you learn way more about their relationship than you'd care to know.
You don't need to know the exact ways that Aragorn holds her in the hours of the morning, nor do you need to know the way he holds her against his chest and falls asleep to the slow rythym of her heart. (He looks at you with something akin to amusement when he quips of course elven beds are no small matter - there is surely room for a third occupant, should the need arise.
It's strange and uncomfortable and you'll soon be forced to acknowledge that Aragorn is trying to lure you into joining the two of them in some sort of strange three-way relationship. And of course you're not responsive to his attempts - after all, poor Arwen doesn't even seem to be aware of the sentiment.
(At least, you hope she isn't - there's no part of you that wants to step into what is clearly a very devoted, very serious love.)
But when you return to Rivendell along your journey and are greeted by a smiling Arwen who murmurs your name without any introduction, your suspicions feel dangerously unsteady.
And when she leans forward, inhaling deeply and letting a cold hand brush against the sensitive, exposed skin of your collarbone, you'll be forced to realize that perhaps Aragorn wasn't the instigator - perhaps he was the coconspirator, the messenger.
Perhaps you're the prize they both yearn for.
As his darling, it's often that Gimli exhibits behaviors that come across as creepy simply because the desperation that oozes off of him is palpible.
And perhaps desperation is a harsh word, but the unending, all-consuming desire to have your attention on him nearly knocks the wind out of his chest. It seems to have a life of its own; forcing his body to react before his brain has time to process that he's already moving.
It's so at odds with his dwarven pride, the notion of having to try so hard to get you to swoon making him bristle, embarassment eating away at him because dammit, why won't you just make it easier on him and compliment him on your own?
Because really, that's what Gimli's looking for. He's not insecure by any means, but it soothes the possessiveness that his obsession with you inspires about when you say such sweet things about him. It makes him feel giddy to know that you think so highly of him, and it strokes something deep in his gut to know that you're thinking of him enough to form this opinion, that you've noticed just how capable, masculine, strong he is.
And in the early days of his infatuation this is true. You're noticing, even without Gimli trying too hard, that he's able to slice down a number of orcs with his trusty axe, their blood spraying and his wild laughter ringing out in the aftermath.
(You come to him afterwards with a look that makes his knees feel weak and something hot stir between his legs, his words nearly a groan because oh god, he needs you to never stop looking at him this way. And your rather cheeky comment of you're not too bad with an axe, eh dwarf only makes his chest puff out further in pride, a comment sitting on the tip of his tongue about how he's better in more ways than you might expect.)
He's very caught up in your perception of him, and while these sorts of comments were a dime a dozen early into his feelings for you, they pitter out with time as you grow more familiar with the redheaded dwarf. Your undivided attention tapers out as the days go on, becoming accustomed to the dwarf's presence and finding other avenues to occupy your time and focus.
And Gimli is not pleased by this development - he needs you to keep lavishing him with praise, to flutter your lashes at him and smile bashfully, to say his name in a way that he swears is sultry. And so he panics.
You're no longer impressed by his natural acts of strength and bravery while in battle? Well, it's not hard to chop the firewood needed for that night's campfire, making sure to grunt extra loud and flex his muscles harder than necessary in hopes that you'll compliment his skills as a provider.
(You try to ignore the way his head is practically on a swivel when he does this, gauging your every reaction and waiting with baited breath to know how you'll feel. And while Gimli is many things, subtle is not one them - you will notice his staring, whether he likes it or not.)
You're chatting loosely with Sam a couple paces ahead of Gimli? Well, suddenly the dwarf's voice is booming as he elbows Legolas at his side, going on about how dwarves are the superior hunstmen to elves simply for their bravery and dedication.
(Of course Legolas can't help but quip back, thus starting an argument that is simply too loud to ignore. Gimli catches each and every one of your glances back, his breath hitching and his resolve hardening, the sensation of you looking at him making him grow greedier and greedier for more.)
He's doing everything he can to monopolize your attention, and in the end it's his clinginess that will make you loath to see him. It's creepy just how fixated he seems to be on you, how he can't seem to leave you alone, how his mood for the day seems to hinge on whether you entertain his pestering questions and bragging first thing in the morning.
It's exhausting, but the moment you stop giving him the response he's looking for, he only doubles down, becoming more and more unbearable with every passing moment. So really, it's best to just smile and agree with everything he's saying - it'll save you the headache, and the rest of the Fellowship can only thank anything that's listening that they won't be subjected to the secondhand embarassment of watching Gimli's behavior.
And with every instance of you giving into his ploys for your attention, Gimli's desperation and fixation on you only grow firmer, stronger - more impossible to reverse.
You'll find that Legolas, while well-meaning, is rather unsettling.
And it's really about the little things - things that you're pretty sure are a clash in his elvish mannerisms with your own human ones. Things you think are just simple cultural misunderstandings on both of your ends, perhaps. He's just not that well versed in human customs, after all, and it'd be rude to expect him to cater to your own standards of social etiquette.
And in the beginning of his infatuation with you, this line of reasoning works.
It is rather jarring when you catch those blue eyes staring at you from across the room, but you shrug it off. Sure, his gaze feels heavier than what's considered polite, but perhaps it's how elves function. Who are you to judge what's considered normal for his people?
(Even if the staring seems to really only happen to you - you've asked Gandalf about it before, trying to ignore the way Legolas's eyes bore into you from some fifty yards away, the weight heavy even as Gandalf purses his lips and shakes his head, voice faintly curious as he tells you the elves are private, to be sure, but subtlty happens to come quite naturally to them. You'll only frown but nod, pretending you don't hear the way too-light footsteps rush toward you as Gandalf departs.)
It leaves you sucking in a breath when he suddenly appears at your side unannounced, his arrival completely silent. You'll turn to the side and yelp slightly, the previously empty space occupied by platinum hair and a quiet, calm voice aking if you're feeling well.
(And while you initially laugh it off and are marveled at just how graceful elves can be, the more it happens the less fascinating it becomes. Because when you're simply staring out into the wild at camp, his presence is welcomed. But when you roll over in the mornings, eyes still heavy with sleep as you fitfully peel them open, you're significantly less excited to see the way Legolas is lying next to you, blue eyes twinkling as he watches you awake. He hadn't started the night there, but it becomes routine - you don't bother asking just how long he's been awake.)
But once it moves on from simple glances and easily misconstrued actions you'll truly begin to feel truly uncomfortable. Because once he sees that you haven't confronted him about any of his more indulgent behaviors, Legolas will assume that what he's doing is working - that you're enjoying the attentions he bestows upon you. That you're liking the way he's singled you out as his obsession festers deeper and deeper into his chest.
And once this happens, it leads to a rather troubling habit born of his ignorance to human customs and sensibilities: Legolas will move from simply staring to speaking. All of that intensive observation will rear its ugly head in the way that he starts being very, very candid with you - telling you all sorts of things that he's noticed, that he wants to do, that he finds enticing about you.
He's walking beside you and looking at the way you pace your steps, how your eyes jump around the scenery, how you grip the hilt of your weapon each time you hear an animal's noise. He's keeping his eyes on you, and will tell you that he wishes he could see inside your mind to know your deepest desires and fears. It's umprompted and gives you pause to snap your eyes over to him, unsure how to respond, but the angelic, concentrated look on his face forces you to bark out a very thin laugh, choosing to not further dignify the comment with a response.
He's watching as you slip off your cloak, rolling out your neck and groaning slightly as you stretch after a long day of travel. He lets his gaze pass from your face down to linger on the swell of your chest and hips, to the mud covering your boots and back up. I've been told human women are very soft. Would you find this claim to be true? You'll gape at him, suddenly feeling much too exposed, but Pippin's knocking into your side before you can process Legolas's words, offering you an apple and giving you a lopsided smile.
It's uncomfortable and hedges on harassment at times, and even if you were to scold Legolas and beg him to stop, he will only cock a brow at you, confusion twisting through him.
Why would you want him to stop? Is this not an essential step in the courting and mating rituals of men? Compliments and honesty? He's overhead numerous times from soldiers and drunkards of men that the women enjoy brazen truthfulness about sexual and emotional attraction - perhaps you're just shy? Maybe he isn't being clear enough in his intentions, then.
He doesn't understand but will nod regardless, giving you his word that he will stop mentioning topics that obviously unsettle you.
Instead, he'll choose new ways to compliment you - you don't like comments about how he yearns to feel the softness and pliability of your body, so perhaps he'll tell you about how well you fill out your clothes and how he can hear each inhale and exhale of your breath at night.
You'd like that, surely - surely his infatuation will be requited then, no? It has to.
You’d be hard pressed to find a woman who doesn’t admire Boromir at least a bit. Perhaps it’s charm, chivalry, looks, or – and certainly not least – his status as both a revered warrior and next in line for the stewardship of Gondor.
Regardless, he’s the perfect gentleman, sure to make anyone fidget and flutter their lashes whether unconsciously or not. And you’re no exception – at least, not until that façade of perfect respectability begins to crack. Until the edges of that gentlemanly behavior give way to something more sinister, something that leaves you pulling back slightly from his every outreached hand.
That is, Boromir comes to completely and utterly disregard your personal space time and time again.
It starts small – he’s walking beside you and there’s a crack in the cobblestone of Minas Tirith’s streets, his hand placed against your forearm to gently guide you away for fear of your tripping.
(And when you smile and thank him for keeping you safe, as you’d told him, he only gulps, brown eyes turning unnervingly serious as he tells you I always will, I swear it.)
He’s watching as you concentrate on threading a needle, or knocking an arrow, or getting your balance on horseback, noticing the way you slightly stick out your tongue and let your face scrunch up a bit. Before he can even think about it he’s reaching out and ruffling your hair, his booming laugh ringing in your ears as his hand lingers at your crown, slightly falling and moving to brush his knuckles against your cheek, his chuckling suddenly dying out and his Adam's apple bobbing.
He’s inviting you to important events for the high society of Gondor, keeping you at his side with your arms interlocked at the elbows, sipping at his wine and chatting with each and every man and woman he sees in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith, not letting you peel away for even a moment.
He’s coming with you to fill your plate up with the many delicacies against the hall’s walls, standing close beside you as you eat them, and it’s only when another man approaches the two of you that the touchiness amps up to a new level. The man’s eyeing you, lip curling as he openly scans your body up and down, and while it makes your skin crawl, Boromir takes a slightly different response.
His arm is wrapping around your waist, fingers open and splayed against the softness of your stomach, pulling you flush against his side and slightly inwards toward him. He’s using his other free hand to grab onto yours, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and leaving long, wet kisses against them, all the while maintaining heavy eye contact and murmuring she’s quite lovely, isn’t she? How fortunate that she is very soon to be my betrothed.
Your blood runs as bold as the chilly air brushing against the still-wet spots on your knuckles, fear settling deep into your heart because what could he possibly mean?
And even as the other man bristles and scrambles away, Boromir’s handling of you doesn’t change – even under the disapproving eye of Denethor, even at Faramir’s concerned glances.
So really, what makes Boromir a creep is that he’s just so, so very touchy in ways that, while not explicitly inappropriate, still leave you wincing in discomfort at his brazen disregard for your boundaries. Particularly given your relationship - you're not strangers, of course, but you're certainly not betrothed, and what kind of upstanding man does it make Boromir to be so freely touching you even if only in quasi-appropriate ways?
(That isn't to say that he doesn't want to touch you in more lewd, risque ways - by god does he want to grope the swell of your chest, to squeeze the softness of your ass, to reach between your legs and sink himself knuckle deep into you, but he holds back out of respect for your comfort and honor.)
And the terrible thing is that even if you tell him that his touch makes you uncomfortable – something that takes quite a bit of courage on your part, considering that he’s quite literally the next ruler of Minas Tirith and has the physical ability to slice your head clean off at whim – he’ll only chuckle and cup your cheek, nuzzling his face against the nape of your neck.
You needn’t play coy with me, my love, social rules be damned.
After all, there is nothing you can do that will dissuade Boromir’s belief that you are just as grotesquely, helplessly infatuated with him as he is you – your hesitation is just nerves, he's sure, because of his status, stature, and your own feelings.
And doesn’t that mean that you want him too?
Faramir, on the other hand, is nowhere near as openly affectionate, suffocating, and brazen in his treatment of you.
Perhaps it’s a sense of insecurity or a profound fear of your rejection, but he takes the opposite tact in indulging in his obsession with you: where Boromir is public, Faramir is private. Where his brother is loud with his yandere tendencies, Faramir nurses his feelings with stolen glances, longing daydreams, one-sided yearning.
And of course Faramir doesn’t feel good about following you like a second shadow, keeping his eyes trained on your figure as you walk around Minas Tirith, but it’s like his body is moving before he’s even consciously aware of it.
He’s keeping a respectful distance of about fifteen feet, leaning against walls and pretending to check the dullness of his blade as he watches you browse the market’s wares out of the corner of his eye, mentally taking note of which vegetables you pick up, whether you chat with the market seller (even straining his ears to hear exactly what you’ve said, overanalyzing each word for any hint of fondness towards the stranger, feeling his muscles tense when your voice turns more friendly than feels right to him), even how you bite your lip while you decide between two rather pretty hair clips.
(Of course Faramir will return to the stall later, buying the poor clip that loses this contest and keeping it in his pocket, thumbing at it and clutching at it when you’re not around, almost as if it’s the tie keeping you anchored to him. Eventually he’ll gift it to you, sure, once he’s gotten a little more confident in interacting with you – once he’s confident you won’t brush aside his earnest offering. But for now, it lives with him, constantly between his fingers, past his lips, clutched in his fist.)
His stalking tendencies don’t take long to develop and only grow worse with time, but what truly makes Faramir edge into creep territory is what he does with the information he gathers during these escapades. He’s extremely observant, noting down every little detail he can find in your behaviors and words, hungrily trying to learn more more more about you to satisfy the intense yearning he feels for you at any given moment.
And because there’s simply so much, Faramir takes to keeping everything jotted down in a notebook of sorts, a collection of papers with carefully written details of how you looked that day, how you seemed a bit frustrated, how your hair had been shining in the waning sunlight of the evening, giving you what almost appeared to be a halo.
A lot of it is genuinely innocent – simply noting down the colors you tend to dress in, what your resting expression looks like, which filler words you tend to rely on most when speaking to others.
But as the obsession grows deeper and his father grows more and more emotionally abusive, Faramir turns toward these compilations with less innocent intentions. He’s always enjoyed literature and scholarly pursuits more than those around him, and he takes inspiration as he begins scribing down the whirling, embarrassing fantasies he harbors of you.
Some of them are simple, romantic, wholesome – holding your hand and walking beside you rather than following you like some street dog begging for scraps of your attention, being able to interlace his fingers with yours and hear you breath out his name with a smile.
Others are… less endearing.
On nights where he’s spent the day with his father or in stressful conditions at Osgiliath, the fantasies are less sweet and more dripping with possessiveness, a raw desperation tangible against the paper. There’s accounts of how he wants to keep you tucked away from the world, perpetually clutching against his front so that he can blind you to the orcs, to greedy men, to anything and everything but himself.
There’s scribblings of fantasies about how, once he finally works up the courage to truly court you, you’d spend the days lounging about in your shared bedchambers, keeping his bed warm and longing for him until the moment he walks through the door, sweaty and splattered with blood.
How you’d care for him, dote on him and clean his wounds, letting your hands linger, your praise of his hard work and dedication to keeping your people – you – safe getting lower, sultrier, more sinful…
The sexual fantasies aren’t as prevalent as the others in the collection of papers he keeps if only because he does genuinely feel guilty and ashamed at having thought of you in such an inappropriate manner, but the redness of his face and the tightness of his trousers as he brings the quill across the paper again and again are telltale signs of the depth of his desire for you.
And should you ever discover these papers? Well, it’s really for your best interest that you simply leave them alone, for fear of discovering exactly how frequently and vividly he’s imagined what lies beneath your cotton dresses and how desperately he wants – needs – you.
While Éomer’s talents excel on the battlefield and in the saddle, he’s significantly less gifted when it comes to matters of the heart.
So much so, in fact, that much of his early contact and infatuation with you is spent feverishly trying to convince himself that he in fact detests you. It’s a coping mechanism, more than anything, because as his interest in you slowly begins to grow, everything in his life begins to slowly fall apart. His uncle’s losing the battle against Wormtongue, the people of Rohan grow hungrier, Isengard looms larger, his cousin’s prolonged absence gnaws at his heart, and the Worm’s sick fixation on his sister grows harder and harder to ignore.
He feels there’s simply too much on his mind for him to entertain a romantic interest in someone – which is why his immediate response as his heartrate ramps up when he hears your name is to scowl. It’s why he’s immediately snapping orders at his men the moment a thought of you crosses his mind, trying to distract himself with matters of patrol, war, maintaining the restless half-peace of his kingdom. It’s why he looks at you with cold eyes and accosts you with curt, biting words when he’s face-to-face with you, trying to not let his gaze linger on the way your own eyes start to mirror his hatred.
It’s all in vain, of course, because as time passes and he drives you further away, the desperation to be in your presence and to see you only grows unbearably stronger, leaving his mind torn in two.
That’s what eventually leads him to confide, rather awkwardly, in Éowyn, deeming her advice much more sound in the realm of feelings. The words come out angry, complaints about how you seem to ensnare him with your words, how you must be some sort of wizard with the way you’ve so completely infiltrated his thoughts, how your presence seems to command his body with a mind of its own.
And Éowyn will watch with wide and excited eyes, because for all the evil creeping into the edges of Edoras, here is her beloved brother, falling in love in his own stupid, angry way. And while her words are hard to accept at first, eventually Éomer gives into the idea that it might be acceptable to entertain the notion of courting you without interrupting his role in the war.
But almost immediately he’s confronted with the reality that he’s absolutely butchered any sense of warmth between you two, instead leaving behind only animosity that he is entirely to blame for. And this is really where his creepy behavior comes into play: he becomes so hellbent on atoning for his gross lack of judgement in pushing you away that he overcompensates by becoming the man he believes you would like.
That is, Éomer becomes very, very pushy. He dons this hyper-masculinity that begins to assert itself into every aspect of your life. He quickly becomes very controlling, always standing in your peripheral and keeping his eyes on you, still curt in his words but now telling you to eat a fuller dinner, for fear that you’ll go hungry.
He’ll look you in the eye and tell you to wear another cloak to avoid any unwanted attention (with his gaze briefly skimming down to the just-visible tease of your breasts against the neckline of your dress), gulping as he tries to refocus back on your face.
It’s still forceful, and though you can tell there’s something different in the way he treats you – for his gaze is no longer cold but very, very intense and almost burning, his fingers always twitching when they see you, his body standing much closer to you as if to jump in front of you at a moment’s notice. It’s just as off-putting, despite his best intentions.
Because where he was rude before, he’s now grown unintentionally patronizing. He doesn’t mean to insult your autonomy when he tells you to not leave your home unless he can accompany you, but it’ll still have you feeling indignant that he doesn’t believe you can survive on your own.
He doesn’t mean to insinuate that you’re oblivious when he tells you to not talk to any other men anymore, but you can’t help but feel as if he thinks you’re stupid and unaware of what men often want.
It’s frustrating that he sends one of his men to keep guard on you at all times when he’s away from Edoras for his duties, lingering like a shadow and insisting on being let into your home when you lay to sleep.
It's demeaning when he makes you swear to never pick up a sword or arrow as he prepares to leave for Minas Tirith's aid, his voice harsh and fueled by something akin to sorrow and fear. But he's clutching onto your shoulders and it's impossible to say no when he looking at you like that, when he's being so forceful and insistant and telling you in graphic detail of all the ways you could injure yourself.
And while he thinks it’s showing a sense of protectiveness and command to you, it doesn’t exactly seduce you as he’d hoped. Instead, it’s detrimental and will cause you to find Éomer even more insufferable than you did previously, but you’ll find that you just can’t shake him off.
And when he returns from the final battle at Mordor, adrenaline still swimming through his veins and frantic to find you and embrace you, to clutch onto you and feel your body heat against his own racing heart, you’ll find yourself even more trapped.
Because now, he’s no longer just the Third Marshal – now he’s the soon-to-be-crowned king of Rohan, and who are you to say no when he presents the pretty golden ring and looks at you with such intense devotion and hope?