headcanons pls about my bby Robert leckies childhood ??? also I adore hoosier and leckie bUT CAN I JUST SAY RUNNER HAD A GIANT CRUSH ON LECKIE THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE SERIES WE ALL KNOW THIS
I can’t believe I forgot to do this one, I’m so sorry!! But yes my dude, okay, Runner, totally had a crush on Leckie?? But tbh he totally ends up with Chuckler because those two sweet boys love each other too, and Runner’s crush on Leckie probably turned more platonic with time?? Especially when he found out Hoosier liked Leckie and noticed Leckie liked him back (because damn son Leckie was obvious af with that, but he refused to admit it, that stupid boy).
Anyway!! Some headcanons!! I don’t have a whole lot, because I haven’t focused on that a whole lot, especially seeing as there’s already some known about it! So some things might be stuff that comes from actual things! Some of these might also be repeats of stuff from my last thing I wrote, so I’m sorry about that if that’s the case!
Leckie started reading to escape from his many siblings, and to get a calm moment in his otherwise very busy house. Especially when he was younger, he’d hide anywhere he could think of (under the dining table, in closets, in the bathroom, in the garage), just to get a calm moment.
Being the youngest, he’d get forgotten quite a bit. Not in the sense of his family actually leaving him somewhere, or abandoning him places, but in the way of them forgetting he exists until they do a headcount a realise something’s missing. Which would then lead to a call of “Robert, come here right now!” and for Leckie to pop out from underneath the sofa or something.
He’d totally also take advantage of that to get a calm moment, because he would quickly learn how long he could be “gone” before someone realised.
He wrote his first story when he was maybe 7 or 8, calling it “Too many sisters”, because he had too many and he used that as his inspiration.
He started “acting out” quite early to get attention. While being a really good student (because, man, is that boy clever), he’d get himself in trouble as a way of trying to get some attention from his parents. He probably continued doing that until he got back from war, because him going to war in general was a way of making his parents proud of him/notice him - which we all already know didn’t really work.
(Honestly let me fight his parents bye)
He never really had any encouragement when it came to writing, and it wasn’t until high school that he properly started doing it. He had already been writing stories and his own little papers before then, but he hadn’t really allowed anyone else to read his things. So joining the school newspaper (which again was a way of trying to get attention), was what really got him going.
Speaking of high school, he totally joined a poetry club for a while, but he quit because he didn’t like the other kids, and he also had a tendency to not pay too much attention to the others’ writing, woops…
Anyway, ahhh, that’s probably what I have for now?? Hmu if you want me to try and think of some more things??
The Gallery of the Kings is nothing but rubble, age-old tapestries torn down and ripped to shreds, and the river of gold that had encased the dragon still glimmers there, drops and dashes of the precious metal like thousands of brilliant brushstrokes across the pillars reminding them of how the beast had broken free of its weak confinement. The tall ceilings whisper to Thorin of his grandest failure, but he closes his eyes against it and inhales, searching for the familiar earthy scent of the Mountain’s heat in the air.
“It’s quite beautiful,” Bilbo notes, and Thorin looks on him incredulously – he looks back, shrugging, almost apologetic, and Thorin can’t wrap his head around him at all.
He gazes at their surroundings again, the dwarves scattering among the ruins, millenia of history reduced to dust-covered rags on the ground, and among it the gold shining so bright he almost feels like it’s mocking him, and thinks, where’s the beauty in this?
“I’m sorry,” the halfling mutters, “I know it’s a horrible shame, all this destruction, it’s just that… well, look at it. It shines. And who knew daylight could get this far inside the mountain? That round thing up there, what do you call them…?”
“A rosette,” Thorin supplies in a daze.
“Yes, that. That’s quite the craftsmanship. Letting all the light in. You must show me that… that roof-opening mechanism you told me about… All I’m saying,” Bilbo speaks more clearly when he catches Thorin’s gaze, “is that this place is not all gone. I – I think it’s marvelous. My mother used to say there’s a certain beauty in rubble, you know? In – in a mess. Allows for starting all over again. Cleaning up and, and rearranging. Did you know, Bard thinks nothing will ever grow in the battlefield again? Or around Dale?”
“He’s probably right about that,” Thorin sighs.
“Nonsense! Nonsense,” the halfling declares so firmly it takes Thorin by surprise, “do you know, sometimes a fire helps a tired field bear crops again? And some plants require ash to even think about growing? The ground around the Mountain and Dale might be scorched, but it is not lifeless. Not lifeless at all.”
The derelict hall ahead of them lies forgotten, for Thorin cannot tear his eyes away from Bilbo now. There is a twinkle in his eyes brighter and more precious than the wasted gold all around them, and he looks almost… eager.
“Is this why you stay?” Thorin asks very quietly, something within his chest constricting, “to eke out life from barren land?”
The burglar watches him some, his expression unreadable, then his eyes dart away.
“It’s the least I can do,” he utters, “I highly suspect the Lakemen know nothing at all about gardening. It’s all fishing and boat building and water-proofing things with them, and, well, that won’t do them much good anymore, now that they’re…”
He trails off, and silence overcomes them for some time, uninterrupted but for the gentle noise of the workers ahead.
“I would see life return to this place,” Bilbo says then, and it’s as if he’s been preparing those words for a very long time, “I mean, not… not this place, the Mountain is yours to restore, of course, but we hobbits feel sort of… indebted to nature, you know? There’s much potential here, and I can’t just leave it behind for the Men to miss, now can I?”
Thorin gazes at him, hands folded behind his back, and wonders, is this what you fight for? To see grass grow again?
To him, life has always constituted miles of solid, warm stone under his feet, and the noise of furnaces working day and night, and the hubbub of thousands of dwarves going about their business, shaping metal and singing and carving their way deeper down… There had been more fresh air in the Blue Mountains, more sky to be seen every day, more wind, more forests. Fili and Kili had been born into it, never knew anything else, and Thorin himself had gradually learned not to feel so uneasy, but there had always been something missing. Nothing like the safety of miles of solid rock up above and down below, everywhere around you, son. Nothing like the warmth of a mountain’s heart to lull you to sleep.
That’s what had been important to his father. What’s important to Thorin, right now, is that he’s standing in one of the grandest halls of the home he’d been born into, after finally having reclaimed it, and he feels cold.
After heat settles in Erebor’s forges, after its walls swell once again with the songs of his kin, will he finally be able to rest? Will he finally be able to accept that he’s home?
I would see life return to this place. Does life returning to Erebor actually come hand in hand with life returning to Thorin’s veins and lungs and heart? Or is he, much like the desperate patches of ground around the Mountain and the long-lost city of men, nothing but a desolate wasteland, barely breathing, suffocating in ashes and tainted by the blood of too many? Bilbo might believe there is hope yet for the earth to be rejuvenated, but is there such a hope for Thorin as well?
Bruce was sitting in his house staring at his mug of tea. The house was so so empty. His new wings felt like a burden instead of a gift. He had been ripped from his family too early. He didn’t even get too hear his babies first words… He had tried to go back so many times. He had tried to rip off his wings, but nothing ever worked. He was stuck here. Bruce’s home was further away from most others. He didn’t want to reacquaint himself with people he’d lost over the years. His mother was the only exception he would make. She would often come over to make sure he had eaten and was taken care of, but it felt pointless at times. Bruce was so shut off from everything. He always thought death would be a release, but not anymore.
It was a quiet night. Snow was drifting through the air like stars. Bruce was sitting on his porch, huddled in his wings as he looked up at the sky. There was a far off look in his eyes, but that was common. He had lost track of how long he’d been up here. It could have been months… it could have been years. Even his own mother was starting to grow distant. He knew it was his own fault, but what could he say. His heart was still on earth. His heart would always be with Betty and their children.
Bruce broke out of his thoughts when he heard soft crying in the distance. His brows furrowed as he began to walk towards the sound. Bruce was in a soft grey hoodie. His wings were those of a great horned owl, brown and white with speckles of black. He had small feathers that spread to the back of his neck and shoulders as well…
I'm in one of those super romantic moods, can you tell me abut cody? How you met? Your first date? idk whatever really?
This is kinda cute.
We met because we had a ton of mutual friends and had each other on facebook for years. Started chatting, started texting, just about general things, music, work etc. I was in a relationship but it was on the rocks. I never thought anything would happen with Cody, I just really enjoyed having intelligent conversation with him instead of most other people (you know what I mean, the shitty conversations that go nowhere… “hey, how are you, yeah good, how’s work, yeah good, how’s family, good…”). Talking to Cody wasn’t like that, he actually interested me and I enjoyed getting to know him (and he introduced me to some awesome bands that I’d never heard of that I now listen to daily). I’d seen him around at clubs and gigs and stuff but never had the guts to say hello. I promised him I’d say hi the next time I saw him, and the weekend after that I bumped into him and it was a situation where we were walking towards each other and I literally could not bail and avoid it so I said hello and gave him a hug and made an excuse to leave because I was so nervous hahaha.
I left the guy I was dating (for reasons completely unrelated to Cody or any other person). Cody and I started talking more and more until we organised to hang out in person. He picked me up from work, and we drove to my favourite place (a little town on the coast called Fremantle, I adore it). We watched the sunset as we drove, and then we got dinner, and then I took him to this kinda secret little beach spot I know of and we sat and cuddled and listened to the waves and talked like we’d known each other for years and it was crazy. Like, literal life stories were told, and it was the first time we’d ever hung out in person. I was so comfortable around him. He kissed me, and it was amazing. And then we went to the movies and he drove me home and it was perfect. We started seeing each other often, and ended up spending every spare second we could together (he used to drive to my house at 1am just to sleep next to me, and all that cute shit), and the rest is kinda history! We’ve been together (officially) just over 10 months but we’ve been “seeing” each other for over a year now. He moved in with me in January. He’s the most supportive, loving person I have ever met and I honestly can’t believe he thinks the world of me in return.