rusame during ww1 gets me because alfred would know exactly what it’s like to go through a civil war and feel oneself being torn apart from within after his own recent experience.
ivan’s very identity and essence splintering as he takes bloody blows from the eastern front and feels his people die by the thousands–from war, from starvation, from rebellion, from assassination. in the end, it’s all he can do to accept a little moral support and comfort from his friend.
(i’m not crying who says i’m crying there’s just something in my eye)
-Alphas holding their newborn pups bundled against their chest and crooning softly
-Wrestling with their Alpha children and playing dolls with their Omega children
-Having a weird fascination with watching their Omega feed their newborns
-Helping coach their Omega child’s sports team as an excuse to be close by to help them if something happens
-Thoroughly scenting both their Omega and their pups before taking them out in public because they feel extra protective/possessive for the first few months
-Being very protective when it comes to the kind of friends their Omega children make
-Alpha parents being very weak to their pup’s tears no matter the dynamic
-Big powerful Alphas being made to sit still as their pup’s tie ribbons in their hair, ignoring the smirk on their mate’s face as they watch and agree that “yes, daddy does look very pretty”
-Being most content when all their pup’s somehow end up tucked in bed between them and their mate, having all the Alphas most precious people in one warm and secure place
-Sulking and brooding once their Omega children are old enough to start considering potential Alphas and being extremely intimidating when introduced to them
Sometimes I just think about Handsome Jack as a teenager like
Jack, in his teen years, his rebellious teen years, with his wrist tattoos and his floppy hair and his glasses, smoking his stolen synthetic cigarettes. Staining his fingers with tobacco and chemicals, ink from the packaging, blood from the fistfights. He falls for everything and laughs for all the wrong reasons.
Jack, at sixteen or seventeen, or close enough that it doesn‘t matter. Time passes strangely on Tantalus, like a fist clenching and unclenching a handful of sand, entire years lost in the sweep of it. Already, he’s too tall, too skinny, slouches when he sits, scowls in all his smiles. He’s wild, willful. Too proud to shut up, too stupid to stay down.
The clothes he wears, he layers like body armor. The friends he makes are never his friends at all, with a brain too big and too much an abnormality, overambitious to the point of delusional, his quick words biting and his occasional stutter filling him with a seething hot anger, as shameful as it is frustrating–His attitude refuses to fit in his body, instead it pushes and twists at his seams, raw and superior and brutal in its honesty.
He spends most of his time dreaming of being a hero, imprecise and impractical visions of grandeur, of fame and fortune. Of carving at the universe until it splits open for him, spilling itself into his hands the way it was always meant to.
TheSpaceCoyote 