I love making characters look just like their mom. Sometimes I'll be pondering what could make their design eat more and suddenly their mom has a whole backstory that makes the resembalance as heart breaking as humanly possible.
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I love making characters look just like their mom. Sometimes I'll be pondering what could make their design eat more and suddenly their mom has a whole backstory that makes the resembalance as heart breaking as humanly possible.
Soldier Boy, Stop Talking With The Dead
I visited Chernobyl, once
I think it was a dream
Or maybe I just hope so
If it was
That's a fucked up thing to show a kid
My father said he had family in Pripyat
I hugged an aunt I never got to meet
She looked just like my father did
when he was her age
She told me I was a sweet, soldier boy
I hadn't known I was a boy yet
but it made my heart flutter the same
Vikya, I think she called herself
Aunt Vikya apologized and whispered
"Đelka, listen," her poisoned corpse, lovely and fair,
warned
"You must march on. No matter how much you feel."
That's when I woke up, I think
Or maybe the radiation just got to me
I visited Chernobyl, once
Dream or not, it hurt
I saw too many corpses who looked like me
Who looked like my father's and sister's
They were so kind
It broke my heart to kill them again
Bošistvor-Zhek
Ki punyerčri
Iktazhera
Raikyet dai ki,
Zhera Nydaki,
mau va fyatal
Kropakin dy ki
naru byrifčyr dy vorzheđaiv
Ukibekča ki. Molim.
You love me. You love me so much you're willing to hurt me to keep me. I am in pain and it is your fault. I'm just a kid. This is wrong. I love you. You're hurting me in every way a person can hurt another person. You were my older brother, you are my lover, we've forever been soulmates. I'll never recover. You're fucking sick. I hate you. I forgive you. You tainted me. You raped me. I'm 16. You lied to me.
I forgive it all.
Please don't leave me.
The only fluff I have ever written for Andi
It's habitual, the way he sits down on the couch and leans into his father's side. Again, he finds a cup being pressed into his hand. But rather than a slightly warm paper cup of coffee, it's one of his large, stackable mugs and it's filled with cocoa, whipped cream, and cinnamon.
They don't talk, rarely do they on nights like this. Lonnie's music, the slowest songs made by various classical composers, is the only audible sound in the flat. Cocoa melts on his tongue and his atoms reorder themselves, fitting together compliantly.
"You ought to sleep, ange. Lon et toi avez l'école in a few hours." The empty mug is carefully pried from his hands and set on the table.Interrupted from replying, his father removed the tie from his hair and separates the braid. Damp strands are brought away from his face by a loving hand, a comb from the coffee table drawer passed through to coerce out any knots.
Though his father's hands were calloused and still learning, new braids quickly found themselves wrapped around his head and finished off with blue ribbons.
how I feel when I give my characters detrimental physical and mental illnesses, trauma, and then send them to war
"Dad's genes stood no chance" ahh family
Me when
me when Andi and Fallon call Léon "Dad" or "Papa"