it's the feeling that you've lost it

the Truth is (You Should).

2008-05-29T08:20:30Z

Oh my GOD, I wrote something. Listen, nobody else was going to write this goddamn pairing, which is a shame. So, here you go. Say Anything slash. Max Bemis/Parker Case. (In both these pictures, Parker's the one furthest right. In the first, Max is on the floor. In the second, he's laughing wildly.) Parker is, in fact, the Parker half of JamisonParker, if you guys remember. I know I do, hey! Anyways, give it a read? I like it. Maybe you will, too.

“Hey, hey,” interrupts Parker, “I just got a great idea.” Max throws him against the wall and pins his hands there. Parker quivers, physically quivers, and lets his head fall to the side. Max kisses, kind of, more bites, really, scraping the sharp scruff on his chin against Parker’s soft neck. Parker moans.

“Yeah?” Max breathes, biting and kissing, working at Parker’s belt with twitching fingers, not fast enough for either of them. “Go ahead.”

“Nnngh.” Parker shakes his head, frowning almost. “The moment’s—it’s gone, I was gonna tell you to stop talking but you did so it didn’t make—it was a context thing, now it sucks—“

“How about you shut up a minute?” offers Max sweetly, grabbing Parker by the front of the shirt and throwing him down onto the couch, climbing on top of him fast and smooth, like something much longer and more liquid than his stocky frame suggests. Parker lets Max pin him down. His arms are strong. They don’t shake with effort. Max doesn’t have to try. Still, Parker cocks an eyebrow at him and curls his lip.

“Make me, psycho boy,” he sneers at him, to rile him up. This makes Max growl back and seize Parker’s lip between his teeth and tug until Parker has to give in and whimper in pain. Max pulls back laughing.

“Dumb queer,” he drawls, accent going a little southern suddenly, a little Kentucky. It’s not lost on Parker.

“Pot and kettle?” says Parker, rolling his eyes. He arches up and Max’s eyes close. His jaw sets. “Come on, you gonna fuck me or what?” he breathes, waiting for Max to make the next move.

He doesn’t disappoint. He starts tugging at Parker’s clothes wordlessly, getting his belt undone and pulling at his jeans to help guide them down his legs. Parker pulls off his shirt and then Max’s, and they’re kissing again, hard. And it’s hard for Parker to believe that Max had never been interested in guys, not any at all, before him. Not how he kisses, too aggressive and mean for kissing girls. From Max’s back pocket emerges a little tube of Wet and a condom. Max glances down at Parker, who gives him the tiniest of grins, a silent go-ahead. Max does. He lets Parker undo his jeans as he nudges Parker’s legs apart, sliding a slick finger into him. Parker grits his teeth and growls, sighing when Max pushes in a second finger, then a third. Parker whines softly, and Max laughs again, cruelly. “What?” he sneers. “What do you want? Tell me.”

Parker bites his lips and glares up. “I want you to fuck me, now,” he says bluntly, not wanting to give Max the satisfaction of making him beg.

Max raises his eyebrows, grinning wryly. “That was easy,” he says, shifting out of his pants and hooking his thumb into his boxers. “You always this slutty, or is it something special for me?”

Parker rolls his eyes this time. “Honestly, if your cock’s half as big as your ego, tonight’s going to be choice,” he says. He moves closer to Max despite it.

“Like you’re complaining either way,” says Max wryly. He pulls his fingers away and tugs his boxers down. He slides on the condom. Parker watches as he lines himself up. “Deep breaths, honey, I’m not gonna slow down for you.”

“Good,” spits Parker. He tilts his head back and spreads his legs further as Max thrusts in, not fast, but definitely steady. Once he’s in, he waits, just for Parker to let out his breath and glance up at him. Then, his grip tightens on Parker’s thigh and he pulls out then practically stabs back in, watching Parker’s face. He grins when Parker cries out quietly in surprise. Parker’s face heats up under Max’s condescending look, but he makes eye contact. Holds it. Max is watching him carefully. His smarmy grin doesn’t go all the way up to his eyes, which is probably why Parker’s here right now. His eyes are careful, studious. Parker smiles on the inside but Max changes his angle and Parker gasps, throws his head back.

“Aww, yeah,” drawls Max, all 70’s porno, “yeah, moan for me, baby.”

“Fuck you,” says Parker, feeling his face go red. He bites his lips, bites them hard, but Max repeats the thrust and Parker whines again, breathy and high and totally unintentional. Max kind of laughs, gasping.

“God, you love it, don’t you?” he says lowly, nailing Parker’s prostate again and again. Parker groans and claws the upholstery like a restless kitten.

“‘S not for you,” he grates out, slurring his words a little. It’s true, too. Parker’s never been one to keep quiet. Sounds just burst out of him, and it’s hardly ever a problem. He hardly ever deals with guys like Max.

“Ouch. You hurt me,” pouts Max, but he’s gritting his teeth, too. He slows down. “It’s not for me, huh? That’s okay. I like it fine anyways.” He thrusts hard, once, and Parker yelps, wishing for once that he could just keep it down. Max laughs quietly, tongue between his teeth. “God damn,” he mutters. “’s kinda hot.”

Parker rocks forward into him, clenching his muscles, so he can watch Max’s eyes roll back. It gives him a thrill of pleasure to bring that look out of him. He doesn’t say anything. He lets his own eyes slip closed and he waits for Max to start moving again. He’s still doing these short little stabs, these little nothing thrusts, and Parker knows what he’s waiting for. He opens his eyes, and Max is staring down at him. “C’mon,” says Parker softly. Max raises an eyebrow. “Move, Max, please,” hisses Parker.

Max shrugs. “I’m moving,” he points out.

Parker actually laughs, half a gasp. “Come on, don’t be a fuckhead,” he mumbles. “If you can’t take it, just—let me get on top, or something.”

“Oh, I can take it,” grins Max. “I’m just trying to figure out what I can do that’ll make you scream like—“

“Fucking me might be a good way to start,” suggests Parker with the kind of boldness that comes from being already too far gone. “C’mon, we haven’t got much time.”

Max does seem to take this to heart. He shrugs and starts thrusting into Parker, hard and fluid. Parker lets his head fall back, his muscles aching to be closer to Max, to draw himself a little bit closer. Max responds, leaning down over Parker til their chests could almost touch, until he takes him into his arms and holds him close. “Fuck,” he says softly, teeth gritting. He thrusts hard again, and Parker whines helplessly, knowing what it sounds like. Max loves this. “Anybody ever try gagging you before?” he asks offhand, jerking his hips to get another loud whimper from him. “To keep you quiet, I mean. Not with his –“

“No,” growls Parker. “Wash your dirty mouth.”

“Mm, it gets you off,” chuckles Max, burying his face in Parker’s hair, biting his ear and down his neck. “You love it. Bet you beg guys to do this for you.”

“All the time,” says Parker, rolling his eyes. He grinds forward, and he doesn’t want to admit it before Max does, but he’s kind of close, actually. He distracts himself by opening his mouth and sucking hard on Max’s sharp collarbones. Max holds him tighter and gasps softly. Parker crows quietly with victory. “Mm, tell me how you like it,” he breathes back in a mirror of Max’s jeers.

Max grits his teeth. “Honey, don’t make me,” he warns lowly. “Don’t make me prove who’s on the chain right now.”

Parker’s antsy and needs a distraction, though, so he smirks up at Max and bites his collarbone, hard. Max hisses and grabs Parker by the hair, pulling his face away. Then he stops moving completely.

Parker shudders. He strains forward before he can stop himself, and Max tugs his head back. Not letting him. “Asshole,” he breathes. Max yanks his hair again, and Parker’s desperate, he needs more, but he twitches. He tries not to moan, this one time, fuck. Max laughs, thrusting so slightly that it’s not anything at all. Parker’s toes curl, come on, just a little more.

“I can stop,” Max offers. “I could pull out right now and walk away, leave you to just work it out on your own. That what you want?”

Parker doesn’t say anything, bites his lips and clenches the muscles in his stomach. He doesn’t make eye contact with Max, looks down, ignores the tugging on his hair. He doesn’t want to come from this, but he might.

“Speak up,” breathes Max, leaning in. God, please no. “C’mon, Parker,” he coos. “Cat got your tongue?” He opens his mouth and slides his tongue over Parker’s vised-shut lips, and Parker chokes on a moan. He twitches, twitches, and Max does it again and this time – “N-no, please,” spits Parker, dragging his nails across the couch viciously – he thrusts hard. Parker jerks forward and comes hard between their stomachs, breath quivering and he hates to admit it but he’s mewling softly, these tiny high noises escaping his throat and he couldn’t stop them, if he tried, even.

Max’s jaw drops. “Oh, nnnnfuck,” he moans, and he fists Parker’s hair and squeezes his hip and thrusts harder, and Parker realizes in the final slam that Max is coming, and somehow that makes Max’s face relax. First time all night. That does something to Parker’s gut, and when Max slumps forward on top of him, sweaty forehead on Parker’s shoulder and hot breath on his neck, Parker wraps his shaking arms around him and strokes his neck, lightly.

“It’s okay, yeah,” Parker hears himself whisper into Max’s hair. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Max kisses his neck over and over, gentler than he’s done anything all night. “Parker,” he breathes. “Parker, my God.”

Max laughs at their next practice when he catches Parker wincing, for a second. Cody kicks Parker’s knees out playfully, as he does sometimes because he’s at the right height. Parker’s such a scarecrow. Parker’s knees go out and he falls on his ass. Max laughs at Parker’s millisecond grimace and Parker glares at him, flushing red. There’s pride in Max’s face, though, pride and genuine like, and Parker feels the blush soften to a glow, there under his eyes.

No queries!

2008-05-20T07:22:07Z

I'm changing the content of this entry so I no longer look like a fool. The good news is, I found the fics I was looking for, yay! Sorry for my toolery, flist!

...oh god. No, oh my god.

2008-03-10T01:14:36Z

I'll ask you not to question but to just believe me when I say this is the best thing I've ever read. No, seriously. I don't know why. It just is.

The Water Runs Off Your Skin [1/2]

2008-02-13T07:47:03Z

First: The Beginning Stages Of

Conor starts begging when he’s sixteen. It’s not so bad. Tim can ignore it at first. He only mentions it every once in a little while, a quiet nudge in the direction he means, nothing he hasn’t been doing since he was thirteen, flirting.

Then they’re more frequent, little remarks, requests. “Yeah, well,” retorts Conor as he tries a new chord, eyelashes long with his downcast face, “I don’t know how ‘deep’ you expect my lyrics to be, kind of a virgin singing about sex here.”

“Well, then sing something else,” says Tim offhand, nudging Conor’s fingers into place where he keeps frustrating himself, slipping up the chord. “Like that,” he says under his breath. Back to the conversation at hand, he says louder, “Or learn it.”

“Someone should teach me,” says Conor.

Tim blinks at him. “Someone should,” he says plainly. He leans forward and kisses Conor on the forehead. Then he walks into the kitchen, and Conor strums the chord perfectly. Then his string snaps.

--

It’s June. It’s hot and Conor is sprawled across Tim’s couch, shirt riding up and jeans riding down so there’s nothing at all in Tim’s vision but sharp, skinny hipbones, those hollows on either side tracing down, framing that little wispy trail of dark hair, Tim’s thoughts all down, down, down. “Tim,” drones Conor, rolling over onto his stomach. Now Tim stares at the curve of Conor’s incredibly perfect ass. “Tim, I have a question.”

“Yeah, Conor,” says Tim, settling on the arm of the couch.

Conor looks up at him. “Will you fuck me now?”

Tim shuts his eyes. “If I’d been drinking coffee, I would’ve been, like, forced by law to spit it out, you know.”

Conor laughs. “Yeah, maybe,” he says quietly. “Come on, answer me. Last Christmas you kissed me and said you loved me. Now it’s been six months and I’m ready to move forward.” He nods solemnly, like that’s the end of it.

Tim pauses. “What’s the rush?” he asks, which is neither a yes nor a no and will make Conor hilariously frustrated.

“I’m sixteen,” says Conor patiently. “My sex drive is through the fuckin’ roof, I want sex all the time but I can’t have any.”

“Poor thing,” says Tim dryly. “Who’s stopping you?”

“You, Tim!” says Conor, rolling over again and arching up. Tim watches. “I want you but you’re so avoidant. So I’m asking you.”

Tim puts a hand over his heart. “What am I to you?” he says, pouting. “Just some sex toy? Real nice.”

“Yeah, shut up,” says Conor, rolling his eyes. “You know how I feel about you.”

“How d’you feel?” asks Tim, trying not to grin.

“I love you,” says Conor simply. “You’re my best friend and I love you.” His casual tone could almost come off apathetic, but Conor looks at him with big honest eyes and Tim knows he means it. He swallows and continues, “and you’ve been my best friend since I was thirteen and I don’t care you’re older, I love you and that’s all.” He nods. “So can we?”

Tim listens and slides down beside Conor. “No,” he says softly, petting his hair fondly.

Conor doesn’t throw a fit. He sinks down and rests his head on Tim’s leg like a good boy, sighing. “Please?”

“No, Conor,” he repeats gently, as wrong as it feels. “You’re sixteen. I’m twenty-one. Not until you’re eighteen.”

“You’re making me stay a virgin ‘til I’m eighteen?” Conor sounds a little outraged. “Will you at least blow me or something?”

Tim bursts out laughing. “You’re missing the point,” he says, shaking his head. Then he pulls Conor up off his lap and holds him tight, kisses his forehead. “Conor, it doesn’t have to be me, okay?” He looks him in the eye. “I’m always going to be here. I don’t mind if you mess around with other kids.”

“I don’t want to,” says Conor, petulant.

“Then go home and jerk off,” says Tim gently. Conor pouts and before he can talk again, Tim shuts him up with a kiss. Conor groans softly, scooting closer to Tim until eventually he’s straddling his lap, Tim’s fingers squeezing Conor’s hips. Conor’s sort of wiggling around, and Tim tightens his grip, holding him still, grinning up into his mouth.

Conor breaks the kiss, panting slightly. He kisses Tim softly, again, then puts his lips to his ear and mumbles, “Would you take me, like this?” He grinds down. “Lemme ride you here?”

Tim bucks his hips up and lets go of Conor. He tumbles off Tim’s lap, yelping in complaint. “The hell!” he whines, picking himself up. “Don’t be such a dick, Tim!”

“Come on, you’re going to turn this into Green Eggs and Ham on me,” protests Tim, trying not to laugh. “I will not fuck you in a box, okay?”

Conor’s trying to glare, but his mouth twitches, and then he laughs too, albeit kind of reluctantly. Then his face brightens. “Have you got any Samiam records?” he asks, glancing over at Tim’s collection. “Made me remember them. They do that nice Pixies cover.”

Tim breathes out a long sigh of relief and disappointment and relief again. “Third from the left,” he says, gesturing with his eyes closed. He knows it all well enough that he doesn’t need to see.

--

“So,” Conor says another time, “Last night I dreamt you were fucking me.”

Tim ruffles Conor’s hair and stands up. “Go back to sleep.”

Next: The Ballad of Neely Jenkins

Tim has a party one night. Tim’s well-known for throwing most excellent parties. It goes that everyone is invited to come with drinks and guitars, favorite records and girlfriends, boyfriends, cats. Tim invites Conor and his brothers. He invites Neely Jenkins, Conor’s next-door neighbor. She’s sixteen, too, and she and Conor used to walk to school together as kids.

Neely Jenkins has big brown eyes and shiny brown hair. Conor pays her absolutely no attention, until Tim, halfway through the night, has had a lot of whiskey to drink and bellows, “Neely Jenkins, sing us a song!”

She laughs, nervous and embarrassed, and Conor glances at Tim skeptically. “No, she says, “I didn’t bring my guitar. Thanks, Timmy, but I’m good.”

“You can borrow mine,” says Robb, unslinging it from over his shoulder and handing it to her gently. He’s wrapped around Justin, who untangles himself to announce, “’ve heard you sing, Neely, y’ver good.”

“No, no,” says Neely, her little voice getting almost lost as more and more of Tim’s wasted friends support this claim. “I’m stage-frightened, she laughs, blushing pink and hiding behind her long bangs.

“Go on, Neely,” says Conor, punching her lightly in the arm. His hips are swaying with the sips of whiskey he’s stolen from Tim’s bottle throughout the night. “Who’s gonna judge you?”

This is when Neely Jenkins takes a deep breath and starts tuning the guitar. Everyone conscious in the room starts to clap and cheer for her, and she looks like she’s about to be sick as she strums something pretty.

Tim watches the whole room fall silent as Neely Jenkins’ little voice spills out and fills the place. She’s singing Joni Mitchell. Tim thinks it’s “Circle Game,” and his mouth confirms it before he does when he joins in on the chorus with everyone in the room.

--

Later that night, like, a full bottle in, Tim stumbles upon Neely Jenkins and Conor making out conspicuously in a corner. Tim’s never seen Conor from this perspective before, never seen what he looks like when he’s kissing someone. Neely’s tilted away from Tim, so he sees most of Conor’s face. It’s strange, from this angle. Tim cocks his head and watches like a tourist, amused and too alert and too confused all at once. Conor’s jaw is strong when he kisses. One of his hands is holding Neely’s cheek, and his eyelashes are long and silky dark on his own face. He kisses like he means it, but a little sloppy, hips still swaying from the drink. He’s drunker than he wants to admit. Tim knows that. Tim knows it should be him Conor’s kissing, Conor wrapped up in his arms. But then. No. Tim watches like a tourist and then turns away, shaking his head.

--

It’s a week later when Conor’s sitting on Tim’s couch, tucked into Tim’s arm, and he casually says, “I went down on Neely Jenkins the other day.”

Tim raises his eyebrows but doesn’t move, keeps on rubbing his knuckles over Conor’s arm like he had been. He smiles slightly. “Did you.”

“I did.” Conor looks up at him, and Tim tries to stop smiling, out of respect. “We were in her room and we were kissing and then I just kinda…did.”

Tim nods. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Conor looks back like Clint Eastwood, unflinching and deathly serious.

“So, did you like it?” he asks, carefully.

Conor seems slightly thrown. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “She liked it a lot. I liked doing that for her.” His eyes narrow, and he smiles. “Something I could get used to.”

Tim pauses. “Good,” he decides. “Maybe you two will stay together a while.”

“I bet we will,” says Conor. It sounds like a challenge.

“Great.” Tim nods and goes back to the book he’s been reading.

Conor spits out, “I bet she’ll let me fuck her.”

“Don’t talk about her that way,” says Tim sharply, pulling his hand away from Conor’s arm. “She’s not a toy.”

“Fuck yourself, Tim,” mutters Conor. “You know I don’t think about her that way.”

“Then what are you trying to prove, huh?” sneers Tim. He’s being mean and he knows this but Conor’s asking for it, begging Tim to fight him. “Because you can give it a rest. Go back to your girlfriend. If you’re only here to try and make me miss something I don’t.”

“Great, I will,” snaps Conor. He stands up and pulls on his coat, wrong arm then right arm, does his buttons up all wrong, and slams the door behind himself.

Tim stares at the door. He knows what’s right, and he knows Conor will be back. He. He hopes it.

--

He doesn’t see Conor for three days. When he does, Conor’s at his favorite record shop, browsing Leonard Cohen records even though he obviously has them all. Conor looks up and Tim nods at him. And Conor sighs.

Tim says, “You look like you need some coffee.”

Conor waits a minute. Then he narrows his eyes. “If you put chocolate in it, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Deal.” Tim opens the door and lets Conor leave first.

--

“Neely Jenkins broke up with me,” Conor says, sipping the coffee. Tim knows how much chocolate to put in that Conor won’t notice. It’s the same he’s been doing for about three years. “Can I have some whiskey?”

“Yeah, a little,” says Tim, going for a bottle. His voice gets a little softer, though. “Why’d she do that?” he asks, pouring a drop of whisky into Conor’s coffee.

Conor takes a sip and burns his tongue. His face scrunches up. Tim settles beside him, letting their arms brush. Conor relaxes into it. “She said,” he mumbles, “she said we couldn’t be together because I’m in love with you.”

Tim raises his eyebrows. “Did she.”

Conversations with Conor sometimes feel like the same thing happening over and over. Tim wonders if it’s something Conor does on purpose, or if Tim just lets himself get caught up in it because he’s not giving Conor what he really wants. Regardless, Conor nods and stares into his coffee. “So thanks for fucking my life up.”

Tim laughs, actually laughs. “Give it a rest,” he drones. “You can’t blame this on me.”

“Look, I’ve got to blame it on someone,” says Conor, glaring. “I feel like shit. My chest hurts and I’m lonely and I hate it, okay?” He frowns at his cup. “I hate it.”

If Tim didn’t know Conor as well as he did, he’d think this was another ploy, a desperate plea for sympathy and attention. But Conor’s shoulders curve down and in. He looks like ruins. Tim sighs and pulls him into his arms, hugging him tight.

“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he says slowly. “It’s going to be all right. I promise. We’ll get you through this.”

He doesn’t say It’s better this way, or You’re going to be happier without her, because he knows it’s true and for the moment he wants to hold it close, keep it like a secret for himself. He kisses Conor’s hair, then his forehead. Conor lets him, putting down his coffee to wrap both arms around Tim’s waist. “I am in love with you, you know, she’s right,” says Conor softly into the flannel of Tim’s shirt.

Tim pauses. “I know, honey,” he mumbles. “I know you are.”

Conor stares up at him with his big eyes all sorry and honest and Tim says “Don’t cry,” and he kisses him on the mouth, kisses him hard. Lays him down on the couch and kisses lines down his neck, squeezes and warms him with his fingers until Conor’s moaning, until he’s grasping Tim’s shoulders, saying “Please, please, please.”

Tim doesn’t give Conor exactly what he wants but he keeps squeezing, keeps warming, and Conor’s voice climbs higher until he’s gasping against Tim’s shoulders, biting down, straining up. Tim holds him in place with his hands and shoulders, murmurs, “Shh, shh,” and Conor’s panting, “I love you, fuck, Tim, I fucking love you, love you so much, I.”

Tim knows at that point it’s never really going to be the same.

[tbc]

Drowsy

2008-02-04T07:44:10Z

Tim/Conor. NC-17. Five years after Always Be a Light, which is recommended, but not required.

Tim wants to be the kind of person who can sleep until noon every day. But, he acknowledges, as he slowly blinks awake at dawn for the millionth time, he’s destined for morning-personage. He stares out the window, wondering if he should go back to sleep. Snow’s falling, and his body remembers before his brain does. His heart leaps, and then, in a jolt, he realizes it’s Christmas Eve day.

Conor had said. Conor always says, he wants to be awake right away on the day before Christmas. It’s his favorite holiday, even more than Christmas itself or even New Years’, Tim thinks. He knows that it’ll mean more to him and Conor than anyone else, ever. He looks down at Conor, asleep in his arms, and grins. “Hey, kid.” He shakes him gently. “Conor. C’mon.”

“Whum?” Conor shifts in Tim’s arms, eyes still shut. “No. Go ‘way.”

Tim watches, amused. “Do you know what day it is? You told me to—“

“No. No. Changed m’mind. ‘m sleeping.” He curls deeper into the blankets and frowns into his pillow.

Tim stares at him, waiting for a response, then returns to the window. The snow falls gently. Tim’s reminded of everything five years ago, Conor’s boundless energy and coffee with chocolate and sleeping wrapped around this tiny, beautiful thing. Like he is now. Tim lets himself get sappy for a second, leaning down to stroke hair off Conor’s face and kiss his forehead. “Love you,” he mumbles. “C’mon. I’ll make you coffee.”

Conor says nothing, doesn’t even respond to the kiss. Tim raises an eyebrow and leans in again to tug at Conor’s ear with his teeth. Conor whines in protest and hides under the blankets. “Stop it,” he pleads. “Sleeping.”

Tim pulls back. The funny thing is, Conor won’t remember this later. He probably is asleep, talking out of a dream. Tim waits a minute and then decides to test the theory.

He nudges the blanket aside and strokes a cautious finger down Conor’s side. He doesn’t move. His breathing is totally even.

“You really are asleep,” sighs Tim, stroking Conor’s skin. Conor shifts and turns over, leaving Tim with his hand pressed to the base of his spine. Tim grins and grinds his knuckle there, knowing Conor’s ticklish. His back arches, but nothing else happens.

Tim feels a twitch of something dark in him, and he’s not even sure why when he gently slides down Conor’s boxer briefs and stares.

“Conor,” he whispers again. His fingers inch down. Conor grumbles and arches again, ass swaying slightly, and that has got to be intentional. He sucks his fingers into his mouth as Conor settles back down. He bites his lip, watching the sleeping boy, then decides to give it a shot in the name of science. He slides his hand down and enters Conor with one cautious finger, then adds another, quick.

And Conor yelps, starting up. Tim leans forward and presses a hand to his back, murmuring soothing sounds under his breath. “What’sat?” Conor says. “I.”

“Shh, you wanted to sleep, remember?” coos Tim. “Go ahead, go back to sleep.”

It’s a challenge. It is, it’s meant to be a challenge, that’s how Tim means it.

But Conor squirms against the fingers, and then he does.

Tim’s eyes go wide. “You can’t be serious,” he breathes. Conor doesn’t respond. Tim
thrusts his fingers inside him, curling up, and Conor mewls quietly, moving against the sheets. He makes a soft “hmm” sound and pushes back. Tim keeps stroking into him, raising an eyebrow.

“Conor,” he says softly. “You like it?”

“Mnnn,” moans Conor. Tim goes with it and rubs over his prostate, watching Conor squirm. One of his legs curls up, bends at the knee, and he’s. Fuck.

“You’re getting off, aren’t you?” breathes Tim. Conor doesn’t respond. Tim scissors his fingers slightly, then pauses. This is one thing, he’s not sure if he can. Take it farther. “Conor,” he says quietly. “Wake up now.”

Conor’s movements have slowed, but they’re still there, discreet little snaps of the hip and nudges of his leg upward. Spreading. Conor makes a sleep noise.

“God damn, even when you’re unconscious you’re a slut,” says Tim, without cruelty. Conor, of course, doesn’t respond. “So, hey,” says Tim softly, “I’m gonna fuck you now. And you’re gonna wake up, okay?” Without another word, he slides his fingers out and shifts between Conor’s legs. Holding himself up on one elbow—it’s a position he’s never really liked, but it’s the only practical option—he shifts and guides himself into Conor, thrusting down.

It’s weird, because Conor doesn’t move. He really doesn’t. He sighs and breathes and kind of whines softly, but nothing he wouldn’t do anyway. (Conor always sleeps noisily, plagued with nervous dreams that make him start awake and squirm closer to Tim and pretend nothing’s wrong.) Tim thinks about it and thrusts in again, slow, deep. He watches for reaction and then speeds his thrusts. Conor mumbles, makes a lilting noise like a question and then starts rubbing against the sheets again, still so softly that it might not even be intentional. “You’re awake,” says Tim blankly. “Admit it, come on.” He puts a hand on Conor’s hip, balancing still on one arm, and starts fucking him harder. Conor mumbles and sighs, thrusting down into the sheets, moving his hips more steadily. “That’s it,” Tim says softly, biting his lip and grinding in. “You like it, know you do.”

They move together, kind of. Tim thrusts a little harder, faster, determined to make Conor respond in a conscious way. He doesn’t acknowledge that there’s a weird little part of him that doesn’t want Conor to wake, that fears that if he thrusts too hard he’ll really scare him and make him hurt himself. He doesn’t acknowledge that more than that, the shock factor, this sick position, thrusting so gently and Conor working himself off on the bed, thrusting down, whimpering, it’s just making him even harder. Conor’s fingers twitch on the sheets. His legs move gracelessly, his movements still so small, but speeding up, going harder. “What, Conor?” mumbles Tim, not certain whether he hears him, or if Tim’s saying it for himself, his own enjoyment, “gonna come soon? Like that, using the bed, like a desperate teenager?” This is mean, Tim knows, because Conor wasn’t a teenager very long ago, but if he hears him, he effectively doesn’t react. He whimpers, though, starts breathing harder and whining at the end of each of Tim’s thrusts. It’s fucking filthy, pornographic, Conor’s little moans speeding up and getting higher and higher the faster Tim goes, the harder, ‘til he’s practically panting as he ruts against the bed.

Tim’s close, but Conor’s closer, and his whines escalate as he stiffens and claws the sheets. Tim watches him with his jaw dropped as he finally comes with a sound Tim can only describe as a squeal, a high, desperate noise, and he humps the sheets, grinding down and squirming and Jesus fuck. Tim forces himself to still, stunned.

“Oh, really?” he says disdainfully. “Thanks for making a mess of the fucking bed, asshole.” He pulls out, still achingly hard, and watches him. He gets a wicked, wicked idea, and decides in the name of science and in the name of fucking needing to come to try it. He pulls off the condom and moves up the bed, staring at Conor’s gorgeous, neutral face. His lips are slightly parted and they’re wet and his eyelids flutter and Tim fuck fuck fuck he comes, a broken moan and a gasp, hips snapping up.

He stares, feeling a little proud and a little sick and a little smug.

“Mmm?”

He watches as Conor’s eyes slowly open, drowsy confusion spreading prettily across his face. His tongue darts out to lick his parted lips, and he coughs and makes a face. “Tim?” he rasps, and Tim can’t help but think Conor’s never looked hotter. He looks down at him matter-of-factly, doesn’t say anything. “What’s…why’d you do that?” He sounds young and helpless, and Tim rolls his eyes.

“I refuse to believe that after everything, that’s what woke you up,” he says, watching Conor lick more come from his mouth. “You were totally faking.”

Conor rolls over and winces, looking down at the bed and himself. “I don’t appear to have faked anything,” he says fairly, pointing. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand and then rubs that on the sheets. Tim plans to strip the bed as soon as they’re both up. Conor’s eyes suddenly go wide. “Tim,” he says suddenly. “It’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?” His jaw drops for the millionth time. “I can’t believe this is how you woke me! You fucking creep, Tim.”

This time, Tim’s mouth falls open, protests starting in his throat when Conor bursts out laughing, curling in on himself. Tim lunges at him, threatening death and castration and abstinence while Conor laughs on and on. Finally he catches hold of Tim’s shoulders and pulls him down on top of him in such a tight, loving hug that Tim actually stops fighting.

“Now, um,” says Conor, catching his breath, “wasn’t I promised coffee?”

Ne Me Quitte Pas

2008-01-15T03:07:48Z

Gerard takes a last drag of his cigarette before he crushes it in the ashtray, watching the last embers try to hang on to their color before they give up and are sucked away by the wind. He smiles and shakes his head and puts his hands in his pocket. He opens the door to the café and smiles again because there’s nobody in line. He orders a drink and pays and then a smiling young girl with dyed black hair puts a latte in his hand. He goes, “Hey thanks,” and he even adds, “Have a nice day!” before he shoulders out again and starts walking.

He’s drinking this latte, and it’s sweet enough, just enough. It’s really nice. It burns his throat just slightly when he swallows and he clutches his neck, sharp contrast to the cold outside. It hurts him a little and he thinks of Mikey. This doesn’t surprise him. There’s not much that he can think of that won’t bring him back to Mikey somehow. This time, it’s an image of Mikey packing up his suitcase, bouncing up and down on it.

|||

He’s laughing, and he beckons for Gerard. “Okay, now, now,” he wheezes.

Gerard falls forward on his knees and zips the bulging suitcase up the best he can. Mikey swings his skinny legs up so Gerard can work around him, and Gerard does get the damn thing closed, panting dramatically and resting his head on Mikey’s knees. He feels Mikey’s skinny fingers combing through his hair. “Oh, Christ,” he gasps. “Dude, you’d better not open that until you are totally sure you want it so, for all the hard work I put in.” He’s grinning against Mikey’s knees, just bone under the black denim.

“You’re such a fuckin’ drag queen, Gerard,” sighs Mikey. He’s still playing with Gerard’s hair, though, and that’s good enough. Gerard bites his knee, and he jerks away, laughing again. Gerard tries to pin his leg down so he can do it again, but Mikey threatens in a high, strained voice, “I’ll kick your teeth in if you try, dude, I will.”

“I won’t, I won’t, Jesus,” laughs Gerard. He raises his hands in surrender, pressing his lips together to show his good intentions.

Mikey regards him from up on the bed and grins down, softer. “Hey,” he says quietly. “C’mere.”

Gerard watches Mikey’s face. “Okay,” he says, and climbs up.

|||

“Dude, can I bum a cig from you?” asks a guy sitting on the stoop Gerard’s walking past.

Gerard glances down at him and nods. “Hang on just a sec,” he says around the cigarette between his own lips, fishing in his pocket for his Marlboros. The guy on the stoop grins, standing to take it from him. He’s got thick glasses and thin, wispy blond hair, and Gerard tries not to get dragged into Mikey again, but of course he’s going to be reminded. He grins at the guy and the guy grins back, kind of pre-packaged and cool. Gerard doesn’t mind. “Here,” he says, holding a new cigarette between his fingers.

“Thanks so much. Hey, um.” He glances down. “You got a light?”

Gerard chuckles. “Needy,” he says, pulling out his lighter and beckoning the guy to move in a little closer. He does, and their hands brush when he lights him up. The guy’s face is red from cold but it kind of looks like he’s blushing.

“Relying on the kindness of strangers, always,” he says dryly. It makes Gerard smile, but he can’t think up a witty retort, and then there’s a pause that’s probably awkward. “So, um,” the guy says, and for a minute Gerard’s curiosity is piqued and he’s not sure where he’s going, but then he says “Thanks,” and turns and sits back down on the steps.

“Oh,” says Gerard. “Yeah, no problem.”

It’s winter in New York City, and it’s cold. He breathes in nicotine and exhales slow. He looks at the guy for a second but he doesn’t want to bother him. He turns away and thinks about his brother, off with his wife and her family for Christmas. He’s lonely, a little bit. He thinks about Mikey’s suitcase, lying on his bed, and he feels a little warmer and he smiles.

|||

“What are you gonna do without me when I’m away?” sighs Mikey, resting his head on Gerard’s chest. He nudges up, silently asking him to pet his hair, which Gerard does. It’s a little stiff from product, but Gerard doesn’t mind. He stretches his legs. They nudge the suitcase, and Gerard pushes it away with his feet. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Suffer, I guess? I just want you to have a good time.”

“I will,” Mikey assures him. He pauses, then he leans up. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey, hi.”

“Hi,” says Gerard back, amused. “Can I help you with something there?”

Mikey nods, shifting on the bed so he and Gerard are eye-to-eye. He presses his long nose against Gerard’s. Gerard feels his whole face go warm. “’m gonna miss you,” he says softly. “I am.”

“I know you are.” Gerard nudges his nose against Mikey’s, but it’s really Mikey who makes the next move, closing the distance to kiss Gerard, slow and warm, like they’ve got plenty of time.

|||

Gerard passes by this little tea garden behind a café, and he’s stricken with the wild urge to hop the fence and walk through it. The bushes are covered in snow. Ice coats the branches and it’s the sort of delicate thing that makes him wish he had paints with him, a bit of paper for sketching at least. On the other hand, his fingers are nearly frozen from cold, and he knows he should probably focus on just getting someplace warm.

He looks back at the little tea garden again. Mikey’d pull his hand and insist they hop the fence. Then his long legs’d get tangled in it, and he’d fall over the other side and blow their cover laughing shrill and stupid. Gerard grins just at the thought, knowing that next, he’d shut Mikey up by kissing him until his breath was gone.

|||

“Gee,” says Mikey quietly when they finally pull apart, lips red and a little sore.

“Mikes,” says Gerard back, grabbing his brother’s hips and pulling them to his own. Mikey giggles, pressing his face into Gerard’s neck, but then he stops laughing and just sighs.

“Gee, I’ve gotta get to the airport soon.”

Gerard closes his eyes. “Yeah, I know. ‘m driving you,” he mumbles.

Mikey looks him in the eyes, pressing their foreheads together again. His eyes merge, and Gerard grins despite feeling sadder than ever. “I’m coming back,” he says clearly. “I’m still—you’re still my favorite, more than anybody.”

“You’re mine, too,” says Gerard softly. He kisses him again. “I know you’re coming back.”

“Good.” Mikey laughs and rolls off the bed sideways. He grabs his suitcase with a huff of effort. “You’re not allowed to get melodramatic about this, okay?”

“I’m not! Jesus!” Gerard follows him and helps him carry the suitcase out the door. “You don’t matter to me that much, egomaniac.”

“Right, yeah,” says Mikey dryly, heaving the suitcase into the backseat. They get in the car and Gerard puts the key in the ignition. Mikey pulls him close and kisses him hard, catching Gerard off-guard. He swoons forward and nearly knocks them both into the window. “This isn’t forever,” he says. “It’s just a few weeks.”

Gerard nods.

“You and me, though, ‘re forever,” says Mikey quietly.

Gerard nods.

|||

He finishes his latte and his cigarette and throws away the trash. He wants to be held by someone. He’s thinking of his brother’s skinny arms. He’s wondering about that guy sitting on the steps. He sticks his hands in his pockets and thinks about spring, when Mikey will come back and they’ll unpack his suitcase and rejoice in being infinite.

Always Be a Light

2007-12-24T08:28:10Z

"No, no," cries Tim. "For God's sake, Conor! Would you get back here?"

"Do you even see this, Tim?" Conor yells, shuffling out deeper into the snow. Tim watches Conor grab a handful of snow, awkward with his thick gloves, and toss it into the air. He considers it as it falls around him, landing wet and crystalline in his hair. "It's beautiful. First snow's the best one."

"Yeah, well, I'll tell you what's not so nice," retorts Tim, "hypothermia. Which you are going to get if you don't come back here, because you're tiny and you're not wearing a coat, sorry!"

Conor keeps his feet firmly planted in the snow but swivels his body to give Tim a withering look. Tim's staring at the curve of his back as it becomes his ass. "Justin's going to be mad if I tell him you're bullying me, Tim." He bends down, grabs another lump of snow, and shoves it defiantly into his mouth. He's trying to glare, but the obvious aggravation in Tim's face makes him break it, spitting slush everywhere as he bursts out laughing.

"Brat," huffs Tim, getting his jeans soaked as he trudges out into the middle of the yard to retrieve the boy. "Justin's going to be even madder if I tell him you died."

Conor resists, mewling as Tim tries to tug him back indoors. "I won't die!" he protests. "You'll nurse me back to health."

"Not the way you're going," threatens Tim as Conor practically pirouettes away from him, gracefully ducking to roll a snowball. He holds it proudly in his hands and grins at Tim, a smile too wide to be safe. "Conor," warns Tim. "Conor, I would have no problem strangling you with my bare hands."

Conor packs his snowball a little tighter. "Tim," he says patiently, "it's not my fault you are devoid of Christmas cheer, okay?" He sighs. "First snow, Christmas Eve Day, and you're busy being all--" Conor scrunches up his face like someone's force-fed him a lemon, and it takes everything Tim's got not to laugh.

"Christmas cheer," he snorts. "I'll stick a sprig of holly through your heart, that's what I'll do."

Conor's eyes go huge in fear, and Tim grins menacingly. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Conor throws the snowball and dashes inside cackling while Tim, spluttering, shakes snow from his beard. "Oh, fuck you, Conor," he growls to no one, following the kid's path inside.

When he's climbed the stairs to his apartment and opened the door, out for blood, he finds Conor already curled up in Tim's favorite fleece blanket. It's Conor's favorite, too. Conor squirms around in it for a minute. "I'm sorry for attempting to force Christmas joy upon you by engaging you in a snowball fight. It was childish of me."

Tim raises an eyebrow at him. The corners of Conor's lips twitch, and Tim sighs deep and shakes his head. "Weird little kid," he mutters. "Gonna start making your brothers pay me to babysit."

"'Babysit,' please, you live for this," scoffs Conor as Tim heads into the kitchen. "Are you making coffee?" He pads after Tim, and it's only then that Tim notices Conor's discarded sweater and damp jeans lying neatly over a chair. Conor's got the fleece wrapped completely over his shoulders, hiding his skinny frame from view. "Can I have coffee?"

Tim turns around abruptly. Conor's right there. They're practically touching. Tim reaches out slowly and shifts the blanket off Conor's shoulders. It pools at his feet and Conor stares up at him in just his faded Solid Jackson t-shirt and boxers. He shrugs. "Clothes were cold," he says quietly. "Bet yours are, too." He looks at Tim's belt and then back up, suggestive and hopeful and somehow sweet. Tim can't. No, can't respond. The air's thick and silent. Conor looks down. "Can I put a record on?" he asks abruptly.

Tim laughs, loud and relieved. Conor's always cleverer than Tim's ready for. "Yes, God," he drones. "Kid with a thousand questions."

"Say the word," says Conor, picking up the blanket and heading into the other room. "Say the word and I'll go. I'll be out of your hair forever." There's shuffling, and Conor coos in pleasure. Tim busies himself with the coffee filter, grinning.

"Might take you up on that," he says. "Take a lot of stress out of my life."

"And leave a toothpick like me out on the street to fend for myself, starving and alone?"Conor clicks his tongue. "That's harsh."

Tim laughs again. "'Toothpick?' That's much. I've pulled out splinters bigger than you."

"Difference is, you want to keep me in your fingers," says Conor smartly.

"Cute," deadpans Tim. Conor doesn't respond, and then suddenly the faint crackle of a record starts in. Cat Stevens croons gently. Conor makes a happy noise from the other room, and Tim leaves the coffee on its own for a minute to go see him.

He's curled into the blanket again, limbs folded in to make himself tiny, smaller than ever. His head is on the arm rest of the couch, and he's smiling faintly, eyes mostly shut. Tim feels like his heart's been caught in one of Conor's snowballs for his entire life, and only now is it finally melting away. "You," murmurs Tim, sitting beside Conor and pulling him, blanket and all, in for a hug. Conor's arms are pinned to his sides, but he nuzzles Tim's sternum, breathes against him softly. Tim likes Conor, loves him so well, loves him best of everything in his life. Conor's always right when he calls Tim's threats as bluffs; they both know Tim would do anything to protect him, keep him from harm, hold him close and against his chest. Because Conor's not the lonely boy his peers think he is, and he's not the tiny strange philosopher his brothers see. Except he is. He's those things, but there's another part that's older than his skin, old enough for Tim and then some. And then there's another part that wants to play in the snow and ask too many questions and be wrapped in a blanket and hugged. And Tim loves all those parts, wants to satisfy them all. Has to. He just does.

Conor leans up for a kiss and Tim still pulls back, just a little. "Tim," he says gently, "we both know I'm not really fifteen." He looks down, touches Tim's leg through the blanket. "Aren't your pants all wet from the snow?"

Tim sighs. Of course they are. "I'm not touching you, Conor."

"I know that." He pauses, moves even closer. "I don't want you to," he whispers. "I just want to be warm. Close."

"I'm gonna get the coffees," Tim says quietly. He stands up and walks back into the kitchen. Conor grumbles something to himself. Tim shakes his head, keeping one coffee black and filling the other one with sugar and milk and a splash of the chocolate syrup he keeps for these occasions. Enough to sweeten, but not enough that Conor will notice.

Conor's slumped on his side with his eyes closed when Tim returns. His eyelashes are long and shade his skin, and Tim grins. Conor looks like he's asleep, napping prettily like he was an hour ago when Tim made the mistake of waking him to point out the snow.

Conor kicks under the blanket. Quickly, before he can change his mind, Tim sets down the coffee and shucks off his jeans and his button-down, standing before the resting boy in just an old t-shirt, boxers, and argyle socks.

Conor blinks up, and the tiniest of smiles twists his mouth up as he lifts the blanket for Tim to snuggle under. "Better, right?" he whispers, rubbing his skinny leg between both of Tim's. If Tim didn't know him so well he'd swear it was a suggestion. But this isn't Conor being coy. This is Conor aching for closeness. Tim holds him to his chest - his. His. Conor stays for a minute before squirming up and reaching for his mug. His eyes narrow. "Did you sneak chocolate into this again? Because if you did, I'm having yours."

"I didn't," murmurs Tim into his shoulder. "Try it."

He does, swallowing slowly. His muscles relax. "Okay," he decides. "But I swear, if you did, I'll know."

"I know," agrees Tim. "I know better than to try fooling you."

Conor grins around the rim of his cup as he sips. Tim leans over him and grabs his own coffee, and they drink quietly. "Hey, Tim," Conor murmurs.

"Yeah?" He looks at him. Conor stares back with his big open eyes.

"Can I, please? Once?" he whispers. He sounds so earnest, needful. Tim can deny him nothing. He sighs.

"Close your eyes," he says. Conor's cheeks flush pink immediately, but he does. Tim looks at him, at his perfect, sharp lines, at his soft pink mouth, and he leans forward and kisses him, chaste and gentle. He holds it for a minute, and then pulls away. Conor swoons slightly forward, trying for another one, but Tim stops him, a hand pressed to Conor's chest.

"Tim," says Conor softly.

"Conor, you're not fifteen to me, but to everyone else you are, and I'm twenty, okay?" he says, low and fierce. "We have all the time in the world to kiss, and everything, whatever you'd like."

"Whatever I'd like?" drawls Conor. "Even if I'd like you to bend me over and fuck me?"

"Tough talk for a kid who's blushing as hard as you," says Tim, ignoring the twitch in his boxers. "Turn the sound off on your brothers' pornos, you're picking up all sorts of dirty things."

"Answer me," sings Conor softly.

Tim puts a hand over Conor's mouth. "I know that's not what you want . Not right now. Is it."

Conor shakes his head slowly.

"You," starts Tim again, shutting himself up by kissing Conor's lips just one more time. "We can't now, okay? We can't," he breathes into his mouth. "Someday. Not now. Someday."

"Who're you convincing?" mutters Conor, stealing another kiss from Tim's mouth. "C'mon, Tim."

It's all Tim needs. Conor, always a little cleverer than he knows. He pushes Conor off, wraps his arms around him, and holds him there where he can't kiss him. He knows that if Conor weren't always doing that, subtly making him do the right thing, his mouth would never leave Conor's skin, and Justin and Matt would narrow their eyes whenever they saw them together. "Just. This for now," says Tim. "I'll always be here."

"You'll get tired of me," laments Conor, pushing his head against Tim's collarbone.

"I doubt it," snorts Tim. "Someday, you'll grow out of thinking I'm cool, and you'll find actual interesting people to be around. But until you're bored with me, I'll be here for you."

"Hobbes," says Conor fondly. "You're my imaginary friend, aren't you? When I've grown out of my boyish whims, you'll be just a toy sitting on my childhood bed."

Tim considers it. "Yes," he says slowly, "probably." Conor chuckles against him, shifting between Tim's legs. "I'd rather be the Velveteen Rabbit than Hobbes, though," he says softly. Please love me real, he doesn't say.

Conor turns around and stares at him. "Look," he says, "on the off chance that I did manage to just imagine you, you don't have to worry. I'm never going to grow out of you." He blinks once. "I love you, Tim."

Tim grips him tighter. "Drink your coffee," he urges. "It's going to get cold."

"I don't want to. I want to sleep," Conor says. "And then I want to play in the snow."

"You can play in the snow with your brothers, you little pest," Tim says, pulling Conor down beside him on the couch. "Sleeping, I can do."

They're quiet for a minute, Conor curled up against Tim, chest to chest. "What do you think Matt got me for Christmas?" asks Conor suddenly. "Is it a guitar? Did Justin get me a guitar?"

"They got you guitars," yawns Tim. "A million guitars, and records, and sugarplums and a pony and a stable for the pony. And that's just for the first day."

"Always wanted a pony," mumbles Conor, nosing into Tim's neck. Tim fixes his arms tighter around Conor, and listens as his breath deepens and steadies.

Tim waits, and then he squeezes his eyes shut, whispers, "I love you too, I love you I love you so much I love you--"

"Know you do," Conor grumbles. "Now shut up so I can sleep."

Tim feels his neck and behind his ears all heating up. He doesn't say anything else, but he can feel Conor smiling and it's all going to be just fine, and he means it, too. "Brat," he whispers.

"Scrooge," Conor snips back. He bites Tim's collarbone through his shirt, and then they both drop off to sleep.

The storm picks up. Tim holds Conor tight while they sleep, dreaming of rabbits and tigers. The snow piles up around them and coats the windows in pure, silent white.

What to Do After Pressing "Reply": A Guide to Commenting

2007-12-22T21:49:01Z

made for spittingink , and also EVERYONE.

A writer’s favorite thing in the whole world is feedback. A comment from a reader shows that not only did she read and enjoy the story, but that it left enough of an impression on her that she has something to say. Therefore, it’s a nice idea to try to leave good reviews when you can. A good review doesn’t have to be all positive—in fact, some of the best reviews offer constructive criticism as well as praise and love. Here’s a quick review of The Essential Dos and Don’ts of Good Reviewing™. You don’t have to use all of these in one review, but it’s a good idea to at least consider a few of them when crafting a detailed review.
DO:

Be honest. Don’t say you loved the story if you didn’t. Writers don’t want to hear that! They want to know what you thought. Yes, some writers handle criticism better than others, but honesty is always the best policy. They’ll be thankful in the long run, seriously.
Offer details of specific moments, and explain why you felt how you did about them. This could be:

A quote, followed by a quick explanation. “Travis looked at Patrick, eyes full of concern and tears.” I can totally picture the look on William’s face here—great detail!

A recounting of the specific scene. When Travis was looking at Patrick, right after William shot him in the throat, you did a great job describing what his eyes looked like.

Pick up on characterization. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s bad. Either way, in fanfiction it’s one of the most important factors, as it pretty much determines whether or not the piece is successful. Basically, could you or could you not see these people behaving in this way in real life? Even in an AU, this is important - although, you should obviously use your own discretion to determine how much so.

I liked your Conor a lot. The way you managed to blend his bitterness with his real love for Mike was very true to his real character.

I wasn’t entirely convinced by your Brendon. I mean, yeah, he’s kind of small and feminine, but breaking down crying in Ryan’s arms just because he dropped his Popsicle doesn’t seem like normal 19-year-old behavior.

Talk style. Everyone’s style’s a little different. Did it work? Did it not work? As usual, use as applies. If the style wasn’t a big deal, or didn’t particularly stick out to you, don’t make a huge issue of it. It’s just a nice thing to pick up on.

Oh, the shift into Sisky’s perspective was absolutely adorable. I love how he thinks in short, disjointed sentences, kind of like how a gerbil would.

I love your long, complex sentences, but I’m not sure how well they work in smutty Waycest scenes. The tone just didn’t seem to fit the occasion.

Discuss how the story made you feel. Yeah, it’s kind of like the personal connections that they’re always telling you to make in high school, but seriously, this means a lot to a writer. You don’t have to go crazy saying you felt Jesse’s pain when Adam left him because your dog died last week, but if you want to, cool. Writers just like to know they’ve made you feel something.

DON’T:

Just squee. Squeeing is great, fun, and awesome, but please put some substance behind it.
Cross the TMI line. If you just read a PWP that was so hot that your unspoken places are doing unspeakable things, that’s totally cool, but this is a fantastic place to pick up euphemisms. The ever-popular “Wow, I need a cold shower” is a good one. But. There are some things that nobody wants to know, and replying to a comment like that can be super awkward. “Um. Glad I had that effect on you! I mean. Uh? Thanks.”
Hate, unless you also appreciate. Basically, nobody wants to see “OH GOD THIS IS SO BAD THAT I’M GOING TO QUIT WRITING AND DEVOTE THE REST OF MY LIFE TO FINDING AND KILLING YOU D: D: D:”. As stated, if you’ve got a problem with the story, that’s great. Writing is a learning process. Just please, express it politely, and point out goods as well as bads.
AVOID REVIEWING JUST BECAUSE YOU’VE READ THIS LIST AND DONT THINK IT'S WORTH THE TIME/BOTHER. These are guidelines. Not rules. Even a three-word comment is better than no comment! Even if you only include one aspect of the above, or didn’t think these were remotely helpful at all, a short and sweet review is just as loved as a gallant, three-page one, if it tells the writer something. Please don’t be afraid to share. We’re all here to learn.

And we love you for reading, no matter what.