Theories.

Touch {twenty-three}

A/N: this has barely anything to do with the plot; most of it is just smut. I would advise reading the first six paragraphs and then stopping if sexual content makes you uncomfortable. Thanks for reading!

Two Days Later

Frasier makes it damn hard not to praise some kind of god for his quintessential beauty.

He's drawing while he watches the television. Delicate fingers manipulating the pencil into creating stunning sketches on the plain paper, he sits there without a care in the world.

After he let me know about Adam, it was like a rush of communication came out of both of us. I didn't tell him everything, just about the things at home. I let it all out.

When I was too young to defend myself, Mom took advantage of that. I've always been bigger than Loren, so I'd end up shoving him behind me when she went on a drunken tirade. I took the belts for him, the electrical cords, the punches, the pans, whatever she was feeling up to that day. I still have the remains of a scar from a hot iron burn on my chest.

Frasier's father made him play the piano for hours until his hands cramped and his fingernails turned blue with bruises. When he wanted to take a break, his dad whacked his knuckles with a ruler. When Frasier had just moved to the US, he was four. His father stopped talking to him until he learned English. Frasier's sisters didn't talk to him either. He couldn't read until he was nine.

I think I'll stop saying his life is easy.

"Stop staring at me," Frasier mumbles.

"Why?" I ask, moving to the floor from my position and crawling up toward him.

"Because I can't think when you stare at me."

"Funny; I can't think when I'm not staring at you," I tease. Frasier only wears one of my ridiculously large button-ups with some boxer-briefs. Hair tied up in a bun and glasses on his nose, he looks like a mid-nineties model for some kind of new "trend".

"You're impossible," Frasier mumbles, sifting through his notebook.

I'm in between his legs at this point, resting my palms on his kneecaps and drumming my fingers along the crests of his knees.

"Not right now, Quinn."

"I'm not doing anything," I tease.

Frasier pushes me away. "I'm fucking serious. Stop. I just want to draw," he complains. I jerk him into me, holding his legs still as I settle between them.
"I'm going to punch you." His hands shove at my shoulders, but he can't move me.

"Do it. I might be into that," I whisper. Frasier slaps me, not hard, but it's enough to get me hard.

"Fuck off," he snaps.

I wrestle him down with ease, climbing on top of him while he barely makes the effort to fight back.

"No, Quinn—"

"No, what?" I whisper in his mouth, licking at his bottom lip and trailing my fingers down to the semi in his briefs. I palm at him gently, causing a brief shiver to exude throughout his body.

"Stop, Quinn," he whispers softly, eyes closed and heart beating so hard I can feel it in my own chest.

I don't listen, instead kissing down his neck while I hold him down. I hold onto his wrists, being wary of the one he sprained a few months ago, and latch my mouth in rough kisses from the inside of his thigh all the way to his growing bulge. Another 'Stop, Quinn' later and I'm kissing at the swell in his underwear. Stop, Quinn means keep going. That's not what they teach you in schools when it comes to consent (just kidding, they don't teach consent in schools), but I know Frasier's body. I let his hands go to swiftly yank down his briefs. He's tossed the sketches by now, entangling his fingers in my hair and gasping softly while I keep him in my mouth.

I close my eyes, taking as much of him in as I can. His cock is warm in my mouth. I look up at him; he keeps his eyes closed. I can see his long eyelashes from here.

"God, yeah. Fuck yeah, fuck yeah—please—" Frasier tugs at my hair. "Fuck me. Fuck me." He begins to take off the button up but I stop him.

"Keep it on," I demand. He's like an androgynous sculpture: wavy, commercial hair in a high bun and skin clear like he's fucking wearing makeup. He looks like a model beneath me, mouth parted slightly and light, celestial skin only slightly flushed at his collarbone and cheekbones.

The deep, strong hazel of his eyes captures my gaze as I work him open. He's like a pornographical dream. Frasier moans and begs as I kiss on his neck just to hear those beautiful sounds fill the room.

Still half-dressed, hair tied up and glasses on, Frasier graciously accepts all I have to give him. Articulately, I thrust into his slender physique every way he likes it.

Fingernails digging into my skin, Frasier mumbles something in Polish—kocham cię, kocham cię, kocham cię— before he full on whines my name and rolls over onto his stomach. "Pull my hair," he demands.

I fuck into him slowly, rolling my hips leisurely as I keep his head pulled back with a handful of soft hair in my fist. "Tell me you want me," I growl.

"Tak, chcę cię tak bardzo . Prosimy prosimy—Quinn, harder," Frasier moans.

Within a few minutes, we're both gasping for air like we've been absolutely drowning in each other. I kiss him with more fervor than I have in a long time, and he gives me that look again; the look that lets me know I'm worth it all to him. I'm worth the sometimes sleepless nights and the bickering. I am worth a risk to him.

Maybe that thought will scare me later. Right now, Frasier and I are sucking face like lovesick teens while someone knocks on the door. I heard we got a new RA. He isn't used to all the ruckus coming from our room like our other monitors. I quickly slip on some sweatpants and attempt to wipe all the sweat from my forehead.

Pierce Whitehead is certainly surprised to see me at the door with a definitely sexed-out Frasier on my shoulder.

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Note: author is definitely troye trash ur welcome. tell me what you think :3