Scent, a "Poser"

Copyright March 25-26, 2006 by Matthew Haldeman-Time

Rating: NC-17, just because it's "Sucker"-related

Pairings: AJ/Joey, Brian/Chris, Howie/Lance, Kevin/Justin, Nick/JC

Disclaimer: The young men who comprise the Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC are their own people.  The author has not met anyone here described, nor does the author mean to suggest that these people act this way in real life. This writing is a work of fiction. I make no money from this venture.

Notice: This story is a "Poser," which means that it's a short story set in and around the "Sucker" universe.  Please read "Sucker" to understand what's happening here.

Much thanks to Diamond, for talking this out when I first got the idea; the Drewboarders, for adding their two cents; and ElizabethK, for providing terrific inspiration.

          After Chris had first noticed it, he’d thought that it was a little strange.  Vanilla was a woman’s scent, in his opinion - - guys weren’t supposed to smell like cooking products.  Then it had become familiar, comforting, even homey.

          The faint scent was of unknown origin.  Chris still didn’t know why Brian smelled like vanilla.  He’d never found any kind of cologne or lotion or other vanilla-scented hygiene product among Brian’s possessions.  The hints of it simply clung to Brian’s skin, teasing Chris’s nose, making his mouth water.

          Brian had lit vanilla candles a few times, for romantic moments.  They’d eaten dinner by that light.  Conversed by it.  Made love by it, the flame flickering, light and shadow playing over their rhythmically thrusting bodies, sweat beading over Brian’s flesh, that soft scent in the air.

          Chris had licked vanilla ice cream from Brian’s mouth and sucked it from his fingers.

          One day, after Brian, he’d bought some vanilla ice cream at the store and brought it home.  He’d scooped himself a nice big bowl of it.  He hadn’t eaten any of it, had just watched it melt until there was nothing left but vanilla soup.  Then he’d tipped the bowl over and watched it spread and puddle across his kitchen table, vanilla dripping down onto the floor, silent destruction.  He’d remembered Brian licking it from his chin and whispering about how sticky he was and kissing him.

          Sometimes he craved the taste of vanilla, hungered for the sweet smoothness of it in his mouth, panted for the rich scent of it.  He’d light candles and spray colognes and consume gallons of ice cream and never have enough.

          And sometimes he couldn’t tolerate even a hint of it.  Once an assistant had added vanilla flavoring to his coffee and he’d spent the next few hours with his head in the toilet.  A date had lit five candles in her apartment and one of them had been vanilla and he’d run out of there with barely a word, sweating and trembling and gasping for breath.

          No one would ever feel as right and as real and as perfect and as pure as Brian in his arms.

          No color could ever compare to Brian blue.

          And no scent could ever make his heart pound like vanilla, faint as Brian’s Kentucky drawl, smooth as Brian’s cool, pale skin.

          The first was cypress.

          It was a sharp smell.  A masculine smell.  Like fir trees.  It was an active, outdoorsy kind of scent.  After years of dating girls who smelled like fruit and flowers, being turned on by such a male scent had taken Justin’s breath away.

          It also made him fidget oddly and wear loose pants during Christmastime.

          The second scent was also active, outdoorsy, and masculine.  It was another huge turn-on, but in a different way.

          Riding crop.

          Kevin smelled like a riding crop.

          Once, Lance had invited Justin and JC to go riding with him.  Stepping into the stables, Justin had caught wind of a particular odor and had tried to discover its source; while JC rambled about something-or-other and Lance found the saddles, Justin traced the scent to the tack hanging on one wall.

          He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of the riding crop.  His trembling fingers had traced it with awe.  Swallowing, he’d taken it down from the wall, bringing it closer.

          It had smelled like Kevin.

          Kevin had smelled like that.

          Already hard, Justin had closed his eyes with an orgasmic moan.  The images flickering behind his eyelids made him sweat with fear and need: himself, pulling off clothes, baring his body, dropping back against the hay as Kevin approached, crop in hand, ready to-

          He’d asked Kevin, later, if he owned a riding crop.

          Kevin had said yes, and had shown it to him.

          Then Kevin had…touched him with it.

          Justin hadn’t gone riding with Lance since then.

          But that wasn’t the last time he saw the crop.

          That was what he tasted like, too.

          The scent of leather came from his clothing.  He wore mostly jeans now, but he’d used to wear leather more often, especially when he and Joey went out.  Joey remembered running his hands over AJ’s ass and thighs through leather, squeezing until AJ growled, peeling those pants down and kneeling, smelling leather on AJ’s thighs, tasting it there.

          Joey lusted after AJ, and AJ lusted after sex, after orgasm, after fierce, sensual experience.  AJ’s sex drive had three gears: off, humming, and all systems go.  When AJ wasn’t in the mood, then there was zero chance of anything happening.  When AJ was ready to go, AJ was ready, ready like a steam engine going a hundred miles an hour.  There was, in between those extremes - - and with AJ, there were a lot of extremes - - the times when AJ’s sex drive was at a low yet constant hum, a steady but low-key interest in sexual possibility.  If played just right, that hum could be turned up into a full roar of go-go-go.  If mishandled, that hum could become a cold, cold silence.

          Joey had put a lot of effort into learning how to strike just the right chord.

          There was an undeniable feral quality to AJ.  A primal, carnal, animal quality.  It was in the watchfulness of his eyes, in his casual grace.  AJ was a predator.

          And those sounds.  There were dozens of them.  Joey had them all catalogued.

          Low, threatening growls were a warning.  They meant that if something didn’t change, AJ was about to be very pissed off.  Sometimes, with a less threatening edge, they meant that AJ was feeling even more intense than usual and just needed to growl to relieve some of that intensity.

          If he growled during sex, it usually meant that things were going well and Joey had damned well better not stop.

          Soft, pleased purrs meant that AJ was feeling especially satisfied.  Joey usually heard them just after sex, sometimes accompanied by a warm, indulgent smile.  They were a treat to be savored.

          Demanding snarls meant that AJ was pissed off and someone was in trouble.  During sex, that often meant that Joey had been fucking AJ a little too long and he was frustrated about not reaching orgasm; outside of sex, that often meant that Joey should duck.

          Any time AJ hissed, Joey got hard.  Any time AJ made any primal sounds, Joey got hard.  Or scared.  Or a little of both.

          The scent of blood in and of itself wasn’t a turn-on for Joey.  But there was something about AJ’s feral growls and bared teeth, something about AJ’s black-tipped nails, something about getting out of bed and seeing a few drops on the sheets where a tiny trickle of blood had dried, seeing tell-tale scratches on his body, knowing that AJ had marked his flesh…

          Before AJ, he’d taken being cat-scratched as part of good sex, a sign that he’d fucked a woman just right.  After AJ, he’d tolerated it, but it had been almost irritating; they never scratched hard enough.  On the other hand, if they scratched too hard, he got pissed off that anyone who wasn’t AJ would dare to try that shit with him.

          He’d worried, at first, about marking AJ.  He’d never gone so far as to scratch or bite anyone before, and he hadn’t been entirely willing to take those steps.  It had been clear, early on, that AJ liked his size and his masculinity, so he’d brought more and more of that into play, manhandling AJ, even becoming what he would’ve considered rough.

          But that hadn’t been enough.  He’d tried half-assing it, dragging his teeth across AJ’s skin, but that hadn’t been enough, either.  AJ had wanted more, had insisted, had demanded, had pushed and provoked until, finally, Joey had done it, had given in, had given what AJ wanted.

          Twisting beneath him, AJ had made a new sound, half-cry, half-growl, clawing his upper arms, grinding up against him and climaxing.  That immediate, intense reaction, coupled with the fact that AJ had from that moment doubled the length and frequency of their sexual encounters, had cemented in Joey’s mind that biting AJ was a good thing.

          Scratching wasn’t bad, either.

          After things went south, and especially after AJ left him for good and then returned under very different circumstances, Joey was a lot more careful.  He still bit and scratched AJ, but with much more calculation, more respect.  More awareness that yes, this was something that AJ wanted, but Joey had no right in the world to cause AJ pain.

          In a sense…  Loving AJ meant hurting AJ.

          In another sense…  Hurting AJ meant losing AJ.

          Being with AJ meant getting hurt.

          Joey had never loved the sight of his own blood more.

          Not like sex, exactly.  Not like sex, in and of itself.  Like almost-sex, the anticipation of sex, the promise of sex.  Like seduction and foreplay and need.

          To JC, Nick smelled like he was constantly in heat.

          Maybe that was at least in part because Nick kept JC constantly in heat.

          There was something very basically, fundamentally, overwhelmingly sexual about Nick.  JC couldn’t think about him without wanting to be tumbled across a bed somewhere.  Couldn’t look at him without being gripped anew by ever-present, insatiable desire.  Couldn’t inhale around him without moaning and coming apart inside.

          Nick smelled like JC felt when he was aroused and breathless and rock-hard and weak in the knees.  Nick smelled like JC had felt that first night on that hotel sofa when Nick had stroked him to climax from the inside out.  Nick smelled like JC had felt that very first day, on that basketball court, under that bright sun, when JC’s world had changed all around him and he’d learned how to want more powerfully than he’d ever wanted in his life.

          One of the most enjoyable challenges of Lance’s life was finding out what Howie smelled like on any given day.

          Sometimes it was a more exotic scent.  Sometimes it was an intoxicating, heady fragrance.  Sometimes it was neat and sharp and clean.  Sometimes it was light and airy.  It was always delicious, and being close enough to inhale it always turned Lance on.

          Howie took very good care of himself, and used a variety of personal products.  The elusive scent of him had a different source from day to day.  Sometimes it was Howie’s soap.  Sometimes it was his shampoo.  Sometimes it was his conditioner, or his cologne, or his aftershave, or any combination of the above, or some mysterious scent that he chose to emit from his pores that afternoon.

          He didn’t often have an obviously masculine, oh-so-macho scent; Howie wasn’t a traditionally, aggressively masculine kind of guy.  He didn’t often wear traditionally feminine scents, either.  He tended toward androgynous, asexual scents.  But when he did, here and there, smell like a cowboy one day and like gardenias the next, Lance only wanted him more.

          Because that was the perfect treasure of Howie.  The true and pure Howie, the real, raw essence of him, was his mystery.  What he smelled like changed on a daily basis.  What he said changed, too.  What he claimed to want changed.  Everything about Howie was an illusion.  His emotions, when he pretended to have them, were smoke and mirrors.  There was no reason for the way he smelled to be constant when he dropped emotions as easily as he took off his clothes.

          Just like Howie’s too-smooth veneer enchanted (and endlessly frustrated) Lance, his fragrance intoxicated.  Lance had used to love sweeping aside the silk curtain of his hair to inhale the scent of him right against his neck, drinking him in.

          Howie lured Lance in with his lovely eyes, distracted with his smiles, intoxicated with his scent.  Charmed, seduced.  Even knowing what a hideous trap it was, Lance always fell for it.  Even knowing that this time, it would be no different, Lance couldn’t resist.  Couldn’t say no.  He always had to try just one more time.

          Maybe this time, Howie would smell the same as he had before.

          Maybe this time, what Howie said would sound the same as before.

          Maybe this time, Howie’s emotions would be real.

          He smelled like fear.  Need.  Love.  Devotion.  Desperation.

          The fear…  He stank with it.  He was afraid of Kevin.  Afraid of himself.  Afraid of what other people would think if they knew.  Afraid of the truth.

          Justin needed Kevin.  He was possessed by an overwhelming need to be with Kevin, to be near Kevin, to get Kevin’s attention, to strive for Kevin’s love.  He needed Kevin’s validation.  He absolutely needed Kevin to fuck him.  It was in his eyes, in his voice, in the need pouring off of him in waves.

          Justin loved Kevin.  There was so much awe and fear and respect and humility in that love, that it almost wasn’t love at all.  It was more like reverence.  Fealty.  Worship.  Devotion.

          Desperation rolled off of him, too.  Justin was desperate, desperately afraid, desperately in need, desperately confused.  In desperate need of being rescued from himself.

          The scent of fear rarely subsided.  Even when Justin was at his happiest with Kevin, he was still afraid.  Afraid of being in love like that.  Afraid of himself.  Afraid of admitting that something that wrong could feel that good.

          Man-sweat, masculine sweat.  The sweat that came from being an active guy.

          Fear-sweat.  The sweat that rose when he was anxious, when he was worried, when the situation spun out of his control.  The sweat that rose when he could see AJ walking out of his life; the sweat that rose when he submitted to something he didn’t want to keep AJ in his life.

          Sex-sweat.  The sweat that beaded and rolled when he was fucking, when he was thrusting, when he exerted effort to satisfy AJ’s needs.

          No one could make him sweat like AJ could.

          JC smelled like longing, like hunger, like yearning.

          JC smelled like eroticism, like passion, like the sex Nick wanted to have with him.

          He probably hadn’t, at first.  He’d probably smelled like cologne or something.  But then they’d started to spend more and more time together, and they’d started to have more and more sex together.  And Nick would smell JC on his sheets, on his clothes, on his own body.  And that scent smelled like desire.  Reminded him of the arousal in JC’s eyes.  Reminded him of the arching of JC’s back and the tensing of JC’s muscles and need in JC’s voice.

          After Nick had dumped JC, he’d been at an after-party for some movie premiere, and he’d been mid-conversation with someone when he’d inhaled something familiar.  His mind had flashed back to thrusting, moaning, lean muscles flexing, sinuous undulations, blue eyes.  The scent of desire.  With a knowing smile, he’d turned.

          JC had been right there, gorgeous and uncertain.  Seeing Nick’s smile, he’d blushed red and smiled back.

          Nick liked being wanted.

          Nick liked being wanted by JC.

          At first it had been small things.  Borrowed cologne.  Shared soap during a joint shower.  Then Howie’s hygiene products had made their way into Lance’s collection.  Then Lance had begun to buy Howie’s brand of shampoo, Howie’s favorite aftershave.

          Howie made it a habit to take care of himself, not wanting to be caught with rumpled clothes and unwashed hair, so he had an extensive set of products that he used in different combinations on different days.  After a while, Lance’s bathroom cabinets began to look as cluttered as Howie’s.

          He’d discovered that Lance smelled like he did.  He’d be up close and personal with Lance’s body, and he’d smell distinctly familiar scents of powder and soap and deodorant and cologne.

          It was an odd personal tribute.  A form of devotion.  To test it, Howie had begun to invest in more and more exotic, rare, and expensive products.  And, one by one, they’d each appeared in Lance’s bathroom.

          Then, Howie deliberately gave Lance a bottle of cologne that he, personally, had never worn.

          Lance had sniffed it and immediately said, “You don’t use this.”  From the look on his face, Howie had guessed that Lance hadn’t intended to say that aloud.

          “I’ve never tried it,” Howie had admitted, waiting to see how Lance would react.

          Lance had thanked him for it, but hadn’t worn it.  It stayed right there in his bedroom, prominently placed but never sprayed, until one morning, after having spent the night, Howie showered and dressed in Lance’s house and used that cologne.

          He caught Lance sniffing around him more than usual that day.

          It had been a carefully chosen scent.  Light, but masculine, with a clean edge.

          After that day, Lance wore it exclusively.  All of the other colognes in his collection gathered dust for a while before being thrown out entirely.  He tended toward soaps, shampoos, and deodorants with much lighter scents so that nothing would interfere with his cologne.

          A few well-placed, “Mmm, you smell good,” comments from Howie had ensured the choice.  Even after they’d parted ways, when they saw each other again much later, a discreet inhalation during a deliberately brief hug had assured Howie that Lance still wore his cologne.

          Howie wore it, sometimes, too.  When Lance was states or continents away.  He certainly wasn’t going to be caught with it.

          Chris was one of Brian’s favorite scents.  It was a certain, Chris-only blend of deodorant, hair gel, fabric softener, and anxiety.  Soap and Chris-sweat.

          Brian loved it.  His pet smelled just right.  No one else smelled like Chris did.  Before Chris had accepted their love for what it was, back when they’d only been friends, they’d borrowed each other’s clothes a few times.  They’d go out to play basketball and they’d shed layers as they grew warm; then it would get dark and they’d grow colder and Chris would lend Brian his sweatshirt.  They’d visit each other on tour and they’d go out for the night and Chris would borrow Brian’s T-shirt because he was sick of the clothes in his own suitcase.

          Brian loved wearing Chris’s clothes.  It was one of his favorite alternatives to being inside Chris’s skin, and nothing thrilled him like crawling inside Chris.  But he also loved lending Chris his clothes, and getting them back, and slipping them on, and smelling Chris all over himself.  It was a way of letting Chris touch his world, a reminder of Chris, a link.

          He loved being linked to his pet.

          He loved chaining Chris to himself.