Theories.

A Foreign Smile {fifteen >>smut<<}

{a/n} ^^FRASIER IN A BUN¡!¡! THE GLORY.

there's some smut after the series of asterisks; skipping over it does not change the plot of the story. p.s. author's note at the end, too. Enjoy!

Frasier grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl beside us. His head is in my lap, and his laptop parked on his stomach. Maybe I should've taken a photography course like him. Studying pictures all day and writing about them later.

"When will you tell your dad you're not aiming to be a neurosurgeon?" I speak up, running my fingers through his soft hair.

"Ha," Frasier adjusts his glasses, and I set down my book. "The word 'photojournalism' means nothing to my dad."

"It means something to you," I counter. I've done everything I can to avoid asking Frasier what my little sister said to him earlier today. Listening to Frasier complain is one of those things I don't necessarily want to do, but will do just to avoid something else.

"So, he doesn't check up on you or anything? To make sure you're taking the right classes?" I take three small locks of hair to make a braid on his left side. I learned how to braid Lailani's hair right about when she started elementary school. Mom wasn't going to do it, and Loren was frequently running away from our house. He finally got his act together his freshman year of high school.

"Nope. Last time he brought it up, he said he trusts me to do the right thing." Frasier closes his laptop and lazily rubs at his eyes. "I think its bullshit, though. He probably already knows I'm not shooting for a medical degree but is letting me get far enough that it'll hurt when he takes it away from me. Hashtag-typical-dad-stuff."

I have no way of responding. If anything, my mom tried everything in her power to stop me from being successful. She made me miss my ACT registration; I ended up taking it so late, I thought I'd have to wait a year to apply to UNC.

After I finish the braid in Frasier's hair, he sits up, shoving everything aside and straddling me on the bed. "I wish my siblings were like yours," he whispers. I tuck the tiny braid behind his ear and sigh. I guess it's inevitable now.

"What did Lani say to you?" I ask, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my face in his chest.

He runs his fingers through my hair, gently easing out the knots, before responding. "She just reminds me of you. Feisty, brave... a little hostile—in a good way, of course—I mean, she threatened to carve her own name in my chest if I ever hurt you," Frasier chuckles. "She said, and I quote, 'Quinn can be difficult, but I will carve all twenty-four letters of my name in your chest if you ever break his heart'. She obviously takes after you. I like her."

"Very funny," I scoff.

"No, seriously. She didn't say too much, but she gave me some insight. I think she's lovely." Frasier, I'm guessing subconsciously, rolls his hips into mine. "My sisters either tell me to listen to my dad or mouse around me, as if I'm some time-bomb. I wish I was like you with awesome siblings."

Frasier's tone tugs at my emotions, bringing a foreign smile to my lips; I don't know if I really like it or not. "No more studying, I'm guessing?" I sigh, changing the subject. I guess this means Lani didn't spill about what happened when I was sixteen. Frasier isn't a good actor... he wouldn't be hiding his confliction if he knew. He'd be shying away from me, avoiding my touch. He's definitely not.

Instead, it's like his body is molding into mine, craving it. Every time I shift, he shifts with me.

"I had something else in mind," Frasier whispers. He still runs one hand through my hair, the other flits around the drawer of the bedside table until he can find a condom. "Shower?"

Oh god, yes.

*****

Frasier multitasks: with one hand, he works on unravelling the now wet braid, and with the other hand, he keeps a firm hold on my cock, making sure he can steadily bob his head almost in a rhythm. He looks up at me with his big hazel eyes, as he usually does.

The last time we had sex in the shower, he almost slipped. It wasn't a pretty thing. We'll be more careful this time.

Pretty soon, his hair is in my fist, and he closes his eyes. Water dots his forehead and coats his long eyelashes— damn, if he isn't beautiful. Frasier drops his right hand, letting his mouth do all the work and trusting me to move him along with my hand on the back of his head.

People who say good oral sex isn't a blessing have never had good oral sex.

My boyfriend is talented in many ways, but right now, the only skill that matters is the magical way his mouth works at my dick with that possessive edge that says 'mine'.

Within a span of five minutes, I have one arm wrapped around his waist and the other hand holding tight grip to his hand, our fingers interlaced. He's facing the shower wall, desperately trying to steady his breath while also doing all he can to keep his left foot up on the ledge of the tub. It's a complicated position, but we've done it before. At this angle, we're both still in the stream of water, not to mention I can hit his sweet spot pretty frequently this way.

Frasier makes a protesting noise in his throat, I'm guessing in response to the leisure pace in which I'm rolling my hips. "We have all the time in the world, Baby," I whisper.

I can always tell when Frasier rolls his eyes, even when I don't see his face. His neck crooks the tiniest bit and he takes a deep breath.

"If you don't make me come in the next ten minutes I'm doing it myself," Frasier bites back.

"Oh, it's like that?" I chuckle.

"It's like that," Frasier breathes. "You know I—"

He stops talking. His breath is caught in his throat and he throws his head back onto my shoulder. I know exactly the pace— the precise way to fuck him— to get that wordless, breathless, jaw-dropped reaction.

It's the sexiest thing every. Single. Time.

I tighten the hold around his waist and listen intently for the moment he lets out that loud, desperate ahhh, giving me the cue to put more force behind each thrust.

Soon enough, Frasier is barely forming any words, just gasping and crying out as usual, while I get on that high just from listening to the wet rhythm of our bodies combined with the magical cries of pleasure escaping his lips. I hope the people in the dorm next to us can hear him scream my name and cry out in desire. I hope they know that it's my hands, my body, my cock that makes Frasier Rybinski's voice hoarse from begging and screaming.

Why do we ever bother fighting when the fuck is this good?

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{a/n} yikes i totally forgot today was sunday?? update is late i'm sorry >.>

how do you guys think frasier and quinn's relationship is going? is it going to stay this good/bad? let me know in the comments! (a vote would be nicey-nice as well :3)

qotc (question of the chapter) how do you think quinn acts from frasier's perspective??