seraphcelene | I beat bitches asses (Reply)

tkp has written disturbing, heart breaking Angel/Connor. If the pairing disturbs you DON’T read it. What made this difficult reading for me were Connor’s exquisite vulnerability and Angel’s fractured longing. They’re both looking for connection. The fact that this is written in the Jasmine-verse makes it a million times more poignant because of Jasmine’s influence and the way that it has changed Angel, but perhaps more importantly, the way that it has not changed Connor.

Title: Pretty Screams In Paradise
Author:

tkp
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angel/Connor. Explicit Angel/Connor sex. If the concept offends you, please don’t click, read, or comment on this fic, and we’ll both be happier.
Summary: You can’t be saved by a lie.

I don’t know what it is about fights that are so fascinating. Last night’s episode of College Hill closed with a fight between two of the girls and I, who usually abhor all physical violence outside of a video game, was enthralled and deeply satisfied by the melee. It wasn’t the most violent of fights, no where near the UFC stuff that I absolutely cannot bring myself to watch, mostly just hair pulling, but I loved it. I loved that Crystal pretty much got her ass kicked because that girl has too big a mouth and talks way too much shit. I find all of that odd because I REALLY don’t like violence. Absolutely do not condone striking people, especially in anger. It’s a head scratcher, that one.

Drive is looking interesting. I love Nathan Fillion on my TV, that tiny, unholy curl of his lip at the end of that race got my heart pumping. That man is just made for moral ambiguity. And torture. He looks really good with bruises.

Heroes in less than a week, Woot!!

Yesterday’s Poem:

One Flesh by Elizabeth Jennings
Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do, it is like a confession
Of having little feeling - or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preparation.

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not wind in. And time itself's a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

Today’s poem:

Poppies in October by Sylvia Plath
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ----

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.