Just perfect. Really and truly. The opening scene with Jasmine sets the stage, from that moment on we know that this will be nothing but heartbreaking--the very opposite of the bliss she promises.
Angel’s eyes were still very close to black, like burned wood, as if black charred crib bars had had risen between his vision and the bed.
So, so poignant and perfect.
Angel moved down the vertebrae one by one, like a string of beads, circling each with thumb and forefinger, wetting them with whispers before he kissed them.
Gorgeous language. Your way with words is so inventive and original, it leaves me breathless.
He felt limp and wet and utterly open; he doubted death felt this warm, but he felt like someone could open up his veins right now and he would barely feel the penetration, like the blood that would seep out wouldn’t feel like loss but like self-extension, an offering. It felt incredible, and he wondered if people felt like this when they looked at Jasmine.
Perfect summation of Connor's isolation from--well, everyone.
Kisses could be choirs, he supposed, as he angled his face, placed his lips against Angel’s cheek. Connor reached down and laced his finger’s with his father’s, digging his nails into the backs of Angel’s palms. Hands could be psalms. Crying could be a chorus, he guessed, and lies might be worth it.
This could be one of the most poetic passages I've read anywhere. Just amazing. And Connor's plea, “Tell me I’m good.” Completely heartbreaking.
to arch him into rearing, crying creature with a pliable spine, blindly scrambling to get into the place where it went so wrong.
I love this echo, the way you draw the parallel between Connor and the baby demon. As much as I loved the Angel/Connor interactions in this fic, it was Connor's love for the creature that completely broke me. The way you let the story unspool, each turn more heartbreaking than the last--by the end, I felt utterly gutted.
Stroking the creature in his arms, hand back and forth along its knobbed shell, Steven thought about how God had taken him from his demon father and given him to his human one. But it was wrong, he knew, to make God give you presents. It was wrong to make what God had already given you different. It was wrong to make God.
So perfect! Because this is what Connor does with Jasmine, doesn't he? He tries to make God, and he fails utterly.
Besides, he had killed his own mother. Perhaps this was his destiny, too. But the baby, shivering and afraid, he picked up around his blades and knives. And he used to love her, around all the sharp places inside.
He knew, even in that moment, that loving her was wrong. You shouldn’t ever think that maybe your father should’ve loved Sarah, demon as she was, instead of throwing her out of her home so the light would burn her up.
You drive home Connor's anguish like a stake with these two paragraphs. This is a beautiful, stunning piece of work, Joy. Bravo.
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Angel’s eyes were still very close to black, like burned wood, as if black charred crib bars had had risen between his vision and the bed.
So, so poignant and perfect.
Angel moved down the vertebrae one by one, like a string of beads, circling each with thumb and forefinger, wetting them with whispers before he kissed them.
Gorgeous language. Your way with words is so inventive and original, it leaves me breathless.
He felt limp and wet and utterly open; he doubted death felt this warm, but he felt like someone could open up his veins right now and he would barely feel the penetration, like the blood that would seep out wouldn’t feel like loss but like self-extension, an offering. It felt incredible, and he wondered if people felt like this when they looked at Jasmine.
Perfect summation of Connor's isolation from--well, everyone.
Kisses could be choirs, he supposed, as he angled his face, placed his lips against Angel’s cheek. Connor reached down and laced his finger’s with his father’s, digging his nails into the backs of Angel’s palms. Hands could be psalms. Crying could be a chorus, he guessed, and lies might be worth it.
This could be one of the most poetic passages I've read anywhere. Just amazing. And Connor's plea, “Tell me I’m good.” Completely heartbreaking.
to arch him into rearing, crying creature with a pliable spine, blindly scrambling to get into the place where it went so wrong.
I love this echo, the way you draw the parallel between Connor and the baby demon. As much as I loved the Angel/Connor interactions in this fic, it was Connor's love for the creature that completely broke me. The way you let the story unspool, each turn more heartbreaking than the last--by the end, I felt utterly gutted.
Stroking the creature in his arms, hand back and forth along its knobbed shell, Steven thought about how God had taken him from his demon father and given him to his human one. But it was wrong, he knew, to make God give you presents. It was wrong to make what God had already given you different. It was wrong to make God.
So perfect! Because this is what Connor does with Jasmine, doesn't he? He tries to make God, and he fails utterly.
Besides, he had killed his own mother. Perhaps this was his destiny, too. But the baby, shivering and afraid, he picked up around his blades and knives. And he used to love her, around all the sharp places inside.
He knew, even in that moment, that loving her was wrong. You shouldn’t ever think that maybe your father should’ve loved Sarah, demon as she was, instead of throwing her out of her home so the light would burn her up.
You drive home Connor's anguish like a stake with these two paragraphs. This is a beautiful, stunning piece of work, Joy. Bravo.