Furiously working on my pieces for #TRSB26, but one story is absolutely breaking my heart to write. So, I’m taking a short emotional break from the angst and coping the only way I know how: cutesy headcanons!
- Hightower
「 Fíli 」
『-』 Fíli puts far more thought into the proposal than anyone expects. Despite his easy charm and playful nature, this is something he takes incredibly seriously.
『-』 He'd want it to be private and meaningful, not a public event.
『-』 He'd spend weeks leading up to the day asking everyone for advice.
『-』 The ring would be something he crafted himself, something symbolic for your story together.
『-』 The proposal location would be something special and meaningful, maybe a spot that holds memories for the two of you.
『-』 When the moment comes, he'd start confidently and then immediately become nervous. The once well rehearsed speech? Gone.
『-』 He'd be smiling the entire time, but his hands would absolutely be shaking.
「 Kíli 」
『-』 Kíli absolutely y intends to plan something romantic.
『-』 Unfortunately, everyone knows he's proposing before you do because he's terrible at keeping secrets. Fíli knows. Bofur knows. Bombur knows. Bilbo knows. Honestly, at this point it’s kind of shocking that you don’t know.
『-』 His proposal is spontaneous, he'd suddenly realize there's no perfect moment except this one.
『-』 The ring would be a family heirloom, something passed down to him from Dís.
『-』 He's grinning nervously, trying to joke to hide how terrified he is.
『-』 When you say yes, he'd laugh in disbelief, pick you up in a hug, and immediately run off to tell everyone. He’s definitely shouting it down the halls before you've even finished putting on the ring.
「 Thorin 」
『-』 Thorin would approach a proposal with the gravity and dignity of a king (ofc)
『-』 He'd only propose when he was certain.
『-』 The ring would masterpiece forged specifically for you.
『-』 Follows tradition religiously and would definitely seek the blessing of those closest to him and you.
『-』 His proposal wouldn't be overly elaborate but every word would come straight from the heart.
『-』 Thorin isn't one to kneel dramatically. He'd simply hold your hands in both of his, looking at you with that intense, unwavering gaze of his.
𝔹𝕠𝕟𝕦𝕤! 𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕠 𝕐𝕖𝕤!
* Fíli: Smiles so brightly that everyone notices. He kisses your forehead and spends the rest of the day looking dazed with happiness.
* Kíli: Has the entire mountain celebrating by sunset and insists on telling the story of the proposal to anyone who will listen.
* Thorin: Holds you close and quietly thanks Mahal for bringing you into his life. He might actually laugh and rest his forehead against yours for a quiet moment before telling everyone.
"why do you even want romance in an rpg, go play a dating sim-"
I like little whimsical romances!! I like the magical experience of seeing two characters fall in love among a bigger complex world!! I love romance! I love giving love to the one character who is not expecting!! IT IS A CHOICE, AND I CHOOSE IT
Freedom and creativity are often aspects of gameplay that players like. It lets them experience the game's world in a way they want. ... There's no right way to do things, and that's why Skyrim wins over other games, because players keep on coming back and starting over to experience it all from a different perspective.
Imagine: being Fili’s wife, wounded in battle, surviving against all odds, only to learn that motherhood has been stolen forever. And while love still remains, duty does too. To preserve the family line, Fili is forced to take another wife — while the first still lives beside him.
[A/N] : Don't hesitate to use this idea in your story. The photos / gifs do not belong to me. I do not claim any copyright to them and do not own any. 📷 [ GIF: BALA / FILI ]
ATTENTION! I’ve got an idea for this story. It’s nothing huge and includes quite a few time skips, but let me know if there’s interest in a short Fili story.
Sketch underneath. Enjoy!
[ ( ´ ꒳ ` ) ♡ ] For one horribly brief moment, nothing made sense. The world went silent so suddenly it felt as though someone had shoved you beneath freezing water. Every sound of battle vanished in an instant — the screams of orcs, the clash of steel, the heavy crunch of boots through snow. Only moments ago chaos had been tearing the air apart, and now there was nothing left except silence.
Dead. Hollow. Wrong. All you could hear was your own breathing. Short. Shaking. Broken. And your heartbeat. Pounding so violently it felt ready to burst from your chest.
You looked down. And the world stopped completely. You couldn’t breathe. Your body looked unfamiliar. Like something detached from you. Like the corpse of a stranger seen from far away — unreal, disconnected, impossible to understand.
Impossible. This couldn’t be happening.
For one desperate second your mind tried to reject the truth. It insisted this was a mistake. That the blade wasn’t truly buried in your stomach. That the blood belonged to someone else. That in another moment you would blink and wake from this nightmare. But the pain was real. Gods… it was real. The blade had gone deep. So deep it felt as though it had split you open from the inside. Thick, dark blood ran down the steel in heavy streams, dripping into the mud beneath your feet with sickening wet splashes. You stared at it, frozen.
At your own blood.
At your trembling hands.
At the steel protruding from your body.
The freezing air no longer existed. Neither did the snow beneath your boots. There was only the blade tearing through your insides and the animal panic crushing your throat shut. Your fingers clamped around the orc’s forearm instinctively, nails digging hard into filthy skin. Beneath your touch you felt tense muscle, dried blood, grime, and the stench of sweat mixed with rot. Its breath smelled like death.
The orc bared yellow teeth in a slow, disgusting grin. As if it could taste your suffering. As if every second of your agony delighted it.
Then it twisted the blade. The world exploded.
A strangled sound tore from your throat. Your body jerked violently, knees trembling so hard they nearly gave out beneath you. And then the orc ripped the weapon free. A wet tearing sound shattered the silence. The scream that burst from you afterward hardly sounded human. It was raw, ragged, filled with so much agony it destroyed your voice entirely — more like the desperate howl of a wounded animal dying slowly in a trap. Your knees collapsed instantly. The sword slipped from your fingers and struck the mud with a dull clang, though the sound barely reached you. The world was breaking apart into fragments of noise and blurred images.
Flashing blades.
Shadows moving through snow.
Blood staining the white ground crimson.
Every inhale burned your lungs like molten glass. Every movement tore the wound wider. Inside your stomach was a horrible emptiness left behind by the blade — hot, throbbing, soaked in blood. You tried to press your hands against the wound. But the blood poured through your fingers too quickly. Far too quickly. Hot. Thick. Terrifyingly endless. Gods…
Fili turned only when he heard your scream. You would never forget the look on his face. At first there was confusion. Then shock. Real shock. Sudden. Crushing. And after it came fear. So enormous it stole the breath from his lungs. The color vanished from his face beneath the soot and blood. His eyes widened in horror, and the axe nearly slipped from his hand. For that single moment he did not look like a warrior. He looked like a man watching his entire world fall apart.
“No… no, no—” Fili lunged toward you. You never even saw him kill the orc. Maybe he split its skull with his axe. Maybe he slit its throat. Maybe he tore it apart with his bare hands. It didn’t matter. The only thing you remembered was blood spraying across the snow and the fury in his eyes — wild, blind, terrifying fury. The kind that left nothing alive.
And then he was beside you. He caught you in his arms so tightly it felt as though he was trying to hold your soul inside your body through sheer force alone. As though he believed death itself could be kept away if he refused to let go.
“Look at me,” he kept saying, voice trembling violently. “Don’t close your eyes. Please… please…”
You survived.
Later, the healers would call it a miracle. They said that if the blade had gone even slightly deeper, if your body had collapsed at a different angle, if the blood had poured faster, there would have been nothing left to save.
But those words meant nothing to you then. Because miracles were not supposed to feel like this. A miracle smelled like blood, bitter herbs, and infection seeping through bandages. A miracle meant weeks of fever so violent your entire body shook beneath sweat-soaked blankets while dreams and reality melted together into one endless nightmare. It meant pain so unbearable there were moments you prayed they had simply let you die on that battlefield.
Some nights you woke screaming, convinced the blade was still inside you. That you could still feel cold steel tearing through your flesh. That you were drowning in your own blood all over again. And every single time, Fili was there.
Always.
He barely left your bedside for more than a few minutes at a time. He slept in a chair beside the bed, head resting against the mattress as though he feared you would disappear the moment he closed his eyes. Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night and found him already watching you in silence, something fragile and terrified hidden deep inside his gaze — something you had never seen in him before. He held your hand while the healers changed your bandages, when the pain became so unbearable your nails dug into his skin hard enough to draw blood. He never even flinched. He let you crush his fingers if it meant carrying even the smallest piece of your suffering for you. He fed you slowly and patiently when you were too weak to lift your head. Wiped trembling lips with a damp cloth. Brushed tangled hair away from your face after nights ruined by fever and sweat. Read old chronicles of Erebor beside your bed in a low, steady voice until sleep finally claimed you. Sometimes he stopped halfway through a sentence, thinking you had already fallen asleep.
And then you heard it. The way his breathing broke. The quiet sound of him crying. You had never heard Fili cry before. Weeks passed. Then months. The wound slowly began to close, but something inside you never truly healed. You could feel it. In the silence of your own body. In the strange emptiness beneath your ribs that no healer could name.
Until one day the healer asked Fili to leave the room. And immediately, you knew. Not because he said anything. Because he didn’t.
The old dwarf avoided your gaze for a long time. His wrinkled hands tightened nervously against the edge of the table as though, despite a lifetime spent delivering news of death and suffering, this might be the hardest thing he had ever said.
“The wound was very deep, my lady,” he said quietly at last. “The blade damaged more than we were able to heal.” Your heartbeat became so violent it made you nauseous.
“Tell me.”
He hesitated again.
Too long.
Then he spoke the words that shattered your life into pieces.
“You will never be able to bear children.”
The world fell silent.
There was no scream.
No tears.
Not even pain.
Only emptiness.
You sat motionless, staring at the stone wall of the chamber, hearing nothing except your own breathing — shallow, uneven, unfamiliar. As though you had drifted far away from your own body.
You will never be able to bear children. The words echoed endlessly inside your mind. No son for Fili. No little boy with golden hair running through the halls of Erebor with a wooden sword in his hands. No little girl falling asleep in Fili’s lap during feasts. No tiny fingers curling around his. No child carrying his laughter. His eyes. His name. And then came something even worse than grief.
Guilt. Heavy. Suffocating. Wrapping around your heart like chains.
When Fili returned to the chamber, he looked at you only once before understanding immediately. He saw it in your eyes. In the way you sat perfectly still, as though your soul had already left your body.
“What did he say?” You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t force the words out. And then the truth struck him too. You would never forget the look on his face. That brief moment when all the color vanished from his cheeks. As though the air had been ripped from his lungs.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed so suddenly the impact cracked loudly against the stone floor.
“I don’t care,” he said instantly, grabbing your hands with trembling fingers. “Do you hear me? I don’t care!” And that was when you finally broke. Because you knew he was lying. Not to himself. To you.
He loved you more than the crown. More than the throne. More than his own life. But Erebor was not only his heart. It was duty. History. The bloodline of Durin stretching back through centuries.And the kingdom needed an heir.
At first the whispers were quiet. Conversations abruptly ending whenever you entered the room. The lingering looks from elders lasting one second too long. Then slowly they became bolder. The advisors began speaking of “the good of the kingdom.” Of “the stability of the throne.” Of “securing Erebor’s future.” They never said it directly in front of you.
But you heard them. You always heard them.
Fili would explode with fury every time. His voice thundered through the halls loudly enough for echoes to carry across Erebor itself. He drove advisors from the throne room. Threatened to strip titles from anyone who dared mention a second wife. Then he would return to you shaking with anger and pull you into his arms so tightly it felt as though he was trying to protect both of you from the entire world.
But the years passed. And the whispers never stopped. Slowly, they began to break him. You saw it. In the new lines forming beside his eyes. In the silences that grew longer and heavier with every passing year. In the way he sometimes remained sitting alone upon the throne after council meetings had ended, staring into nothing. For the first time, you truly understood the weight of a crown. A crown was not gold. It was chains.
And so one night, with only a single candle still burning in your chambers, you finally spoke the words that tore your heart apart more cruelly than the blade ever had.
“You should marry again.”
I'll write or say the obvious things (I'm sure you thought the same way)
Whether it was intentional or not, Connor was created for women.🛐
His body, appearance, and personality are all perfect.🫦 He is balanced, strong, resilient, caring, and kind...In short, he is a rock (Yes, he made mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes). This is what he conquered us with, because this is the kind of man every mature woman (the majority) is looking for in her life.
Ezio and other similar characters are written for men.😎 After all, it's more interesting for them to chase after a hero who is fun, jokes, charms women, and has cool weapons and clothes. P.S. Don't get mad if you like Ezio. He's great, but he's just not my type.😚🙏🏻
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