Sense of You

By:  Julie

 

Sound

 

I love the way you sound. More than a few times, the choreographers have caught me staring and yelled at me to pay attention. I know they get mad when I’m just standing there, watching like I don’t get it, listening to you sing.

I have to set myself so that I don’t do it during concerts. But I can’t help it sometimes, and I know that I’ve dropped more than a few chords on my guitar during "Love Should Be A Crime" on more than one occasion. Or missed a few words, flattened a few harmonies.

But that’s okay, because sometimes, when we’re in the house, you’ll sing just for me.

"Jake?" I’ll ask. And then you’ll look up, and smile at me.

"Yeah," you’ll say, knocking your dreads away from your face so that you can see. See me, of all people.

"Will you sing with me?" I always say. And you smile, because you know that I’m embarrassed to ask you to sing JUST for me, when thousands of people listen to your voice every day.

"Of course," you always tell me, picking up your guitar.

And I always sit next to you on the couch, and you play, and you look at me and sing.

Afterwards, if the guys don’t come in and ruin it, you grab my hands and pull me into the bedroom and, amidst laughter and shouting, wrestle with me on the bed to see who gets the top.

If you win, it’s wild and loud, my cries and your moans, our bodies grinding together until we’re both spent and exhausted. Then we lay there and sometimes you fall asleep, and I can listen to you breathe, and hear the soft noises you make while you’re asleep, until the other guys come home and I have to rush to get back into my own bed before they come in and see us.

If I win, it’s slow and almost melodic, and you cry out my name when you come. I enjoy that sound, and I’ll tell you so, after I’ve moaned your name as I’ve climaxed. Then we can lay there and talk, and not care that we fall asleep tangled around each other, hot, sweaty and covered in your love and the other guys come in.

Because really, they don’t matter. You’re all that matters. The way you sound, and the way you love me.

XxXxXx

Props to ‘number two’ for making me more romantic.

Foreword: I don’t know them, don’t own them. *clears throat* Due to a surplus of NSYNC slash—SWEET NSYNC slash—I will now offend you all with my own sort of sweet sappy slash. Thank you and goodnight.

Sight

It’s no big secret that I think he’s beautiful.

The guys know. Everyone around us knows. Ashley seems to be totally unaware of the fact that I think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

I love to watch him. The way he walks, the way his mouth moves when he talks, his hips when he dances, love to watch him while he sleeps.

I always call him Angel. No one thinks anything of it, because it’s his name, but he and I know that it’s more than a name to me. Almost a pet name—or as close as I can get to one without someone noticing and rumors flying in every direction.

To the world, Jacob Underwood is not gay. To Ashley Angel, I’m nothing more than his lover, his friend, maybe even his boyfriend.

He’s beautiful when he sleeps. Childlike—okay, so that’s ALL the time—and innocent.

He sleeps on his stomach a lot, with one arm thrown across my stomach, the other stretched up underneath the pillow, or bent at the elbow, head resting on the forearm. His lashes are long for a guy, and I can’t count the times I’ve lain awake and watched them flutter against his sleep-flushed cheeks while he dreams.

When I came here, I didn’t have any intentions of falling in love, much less with this beautiful boy. I didn’t know that I’d take one look at that baby face, those blue eyes and fall so hard so fast that there was no hope of anyone ever saving me from him.

I’ve always adored the way his lips part when he’s about to kiss me. I love the way his eyes close while he’s singing, the way they half-lid just the same as he slides down my body. I love the way he looks up at me through those thick lashes as he slides me into his mouth.

I’ll never forget the way he looked the first time we came together, the look of surprise and shock on his face, how beautiful he was when his head tilted back against the pillows and that look of pleasure flowed over his face. I’ll always remember the way he smiled afterward, and said "Damn, Jake, can we do that again?" because he’d never done THAT in particular before.

The guys always watch us like we’re crazy. Trevor’s always saying that we look like a couple, and that anyone should be able to tell that we ARE a couple.

But really, that doesn’t matter. He’s all that matters. The way he looks while we’re in bed, and the way he loves me.

Scent

I guess I could go on for days about how I love him.

I love the way he smells. I don’t know what it is, the cologne, but it’s HIM. That scent that is so him I’d recognize it anywhere.

It’s the best when we’ve been between the sheets, and he’s sweaty—I know that sounds disgusting, but it’s the scent of sex that’s so strong on him, when I’m lying there with my head resting on his chest. It’s just him, the way he smells when he’s turned on, or after he’s spilled all over the two of us.

It’s him when we’ve been out partying all night, and drinks have been spilled on him, the smokes in his clothes, and he’s warms and tired and just a little drunk, and he’s holding me against him and I can smell the liquor he’s been drinking, or the beer. Sometimes we’re so close I can smell whatever that stuff is he washes that mess of hair with—what’s he calling that, anyway?

I can’t explain it in so many words. It’s just the scent that I inhale when he’s holding me close, when he’s inside of me. While we’re working to get to that amazing high that we get when we come together that way.

It feels good when I can lay there next to him, and breathe in that scent, and KNOW that he’s lying there next to me, because I can smell his cologne and his sex and I feel safe knowing that he’s there.

And the guys, of course, think that we’re insane for the way that we just snuggle up close like that, and we just breathe and it feels good.

But really, that doesn’t matter. He’s all that matters. The way he smells after we’ve made love—and I’m not afraid to say that-- and the way he loves me.

Touch

I love the way Ashley touches me.

I love the way his fingers slide over my skin. I love how he can silence me with a tiny little touch, and keep me from saying or doing something I’ll regret. His warm hand on mine has stopped me multiple times from throwing a punch at one of the other guys, or at Lou. He kept me from killing Ikaika once, with just a soft brush of those fingers.

I can’t ever seem to forget the way his mouth feels on mine, his lips soft and his mouth hot, his tongue searching through my mouth. I’m always thinking about the way it feels to be inside him, to feel him tight and hot closed around me. And I love the way it feels to have his fingers digging into my shoulders, urging me to go harder or faster, the way his breath feels hot on my neck, and the way he’s hot and sticky all over me after the ecstasy of his climax.

He makes me feel like I’d do anything to see just a little smile, or to hear just a little cry of pleasure. For that, I’d do anything he wanted me to.

I’d to anything to feel his hips pressed against mine, to feel his hands holding me down onto the bed while his mouth closes over me, tongue rubbing and mouth sucking. Whatever he wanted, I’d do, just to feel him press into me, to feel him fill me up, hard inside me, to feel the pain that it always brings before he makes a move and I scream with pleasure.

I love the way it feels when he presses me into the bed from behind, when he’s feeling rough, the way it hurts then, when he fills me. And the way his body’s slick on mine, and his hand tightens around me and then he squeezes when he comes, and then he’s shaking against me and I explode myself…

I love how it makes me feel to have him moaning and writhing beneath me, like a sense of power washes over me when I’m inside him. And he’s moaning and gasping and his and is moving mine along his own hard shaft until I come and he squirms, trying to bring himself to that point, and then he’s all over us, hot and sticky. And I can always feel it making our bodies slick as we move together, preparing to go again.

I can’t imagine how he makes me feel the way he does, with the gentle touches, or the rough, passionate sex.

But really, it doesn’t matter how he does it. He’s all that matters. The way he touches me, the way his body feels against mine, inside mine. And the way he loves me.

XxXxXx

Taste

 

Of all the things that I could love about him, I particularly love the way that he tastes.

Yeah. The way that he tastes.

I adore the way that the alcohol he drinks when we go out tastes when I run my tongue along the inside of his mouth, or across his lips. I like the sweet mint taste that he has right before we go to bed, or when he kisses me before breakfast. Or even after the occasional morning greeting in the shower.

Not only do I love the way his mouth tastes, but I love the way his skin tastes. His neck, his chest, his stomach, the way his thighs taste. The way that he himself, the part of him that makes Jacob a man, MY man, tastes when I pull it past my lips and into my mouth.

I love the way that he tastes when he’s had me in his mouth, when I’ve exploded inside there, and I can taste myself on his lips and tongue. And the way that his come tastes, salty and hot in my mouth, or on our stomachs after I’ve been inside him and he’s worked himself up to the edge with our hands, then I’ve pushed him over.

I love that, having him in my mouth, tasting him, or kissing him.

Having the opportunities to know how he tastes, to love the way he tastes. To know that he enjoys the way that I taste.

I know that’s a little strange, for one man to love the way that another man tastes on his tongue, parts of another man that most people think another man shouldn’t touch.

But really, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of us. He’s all that matters. The way he tastes when he kisses me, the way that he tastes in my mouth. And the way he loves me.

The End

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