maggie’s library

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐑

whether it was his own apartment, a friend’s place, or his family home, the left corner of the couch belonged to fraser. he told you it was just a reflex, something automatic, to gravitate toward that side when you asked him why that spot specifically. and while that was true, there was more to it. he always sat on the left side in cars, or slept on the left when he and his brother had to share a bed. as silly as it might sound, the left side just reminded him of home and childhood.

of course, when people who didn’t know him well took his sacred little spot, he didn’t get angry. but the second connor, mason, or one of his cousins even dared to look in that direction, fraser would shoo them away or drag them off the couch by their feet.

that’s why during summer, when you were over at his parents’ house with nearly the whole family present and everyone mingling, people exchanged looks when you took fraser’s spot, some silently considering whether they should tell you to move. but then something no one expected happened: fraser simply walked over with the softest smile, the one reserved just for you, so different from all his others. he sat down next to you, kissed your temple, and rested his head on your shoulder.

“you know, i was wondering,” you said one night, looking at fraser in the mirror as you brushed your teeth and got ready for bed.

“hmm?” his blue eyes met yours in the reflection, the corners of his mouth still messy with toothpaste.

“why do you let me sit on your side of the couch? you nearly threw connor over your shoulder the other day, but you never make me move.”

fraser stopped mid-motion, set his toothbrush aside, and rinsed his mouth. you could see the tips of his ears turn red as he patted his face dry with a towel. he reached for his glasses and cleared his throat nervously.

“i guess… i guess it’s comforting, in a sense,” he said. “that sounds so stupid.”

you wrapped your arm around his waist, and with your mouth still full of toothpaste, you mumbled, “not at all, baby.”

fraser cracked a smile and shook his head slightly. “it’s the same as you wearing my jersey. or when you text me goodnight on road trips. or when you grab my hand in crowds. seeing you sit in my spot just makes me feel like i’m truly at home.”

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐑

connor means business when it comes to food – you do not touch what’s his. he’s reluctant to share even a bite of his order, always bawling internally when handing over a portion for someone else to taste. when he was younger, connor used to throw tantrums if anyone touched something he had left for later in the fridge, and would give his cousins and friends the silent treatment, stubbornly ignoring them for the rest of the day (until someone bribed him with extra food).

years later, at nearly 21 years old, he still acts like a grumpy little kid whenever someone messes with his food.

enter you, who can get his whole meal without even having to ask. sometimes you joke that he’s acting like a mom of five, but connor just shakes his head and insists you need to eat to stay healthy and strong. that makes perfect sense – but what doesn’t is how anyone else is met with a threat of murder for taking one of connor’s fries, while you get a whole burger handed over without a single complaint.

fraser took advantage of connor being distracted by a couple of kids at the table next to yours and reached for a nugget from his plate. “so did you– ouch,” he exclaimed, looking at the red patch forming on his skin where your boyfriend had just slapped his hand away. “what now?” humour laced his voice as he noticed connor’s unamused stare. “it’s just a piece of chicken, man. you just drank half my coke.”

“yeah, but that’s different,” connor muttered, glancing between the nuggets and his friend, ready to defend them if fraser tried to steal another one.

“oh yeah? how so?”

your boyfriend rolled his eyes, and you could help the giggle to escape your lips. 

“oh my god, why do you always have to ask so many questions?” he groaned, throwing his head back. “i don’t know. it just is,” he said, but reluctantly put one of the nuggets on fraser’s plate. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

“your boyfriend is a child.” 

“tell me about it,” you replied, nudging connor with your elbow and reached for his fries, dipping them in ketchup. “have to live with it almost 24/7.”

“here, just have them all,” connor said, letting the teasing go over his head as he slid the plate toward you, a small, content smile settling on his face.

“you’re impossible,” fraser breathed, shaking his head. “you nearly decapitated me over one nugget, and she gets a whole plate?”

connor simply shrugged. in his mind, it made perfect sense – and that was the end of the discussion.

𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐘

sidney has always been a bit… particular about his personal belongings. it wasn’t that he got angry or frustrated when people moved his sticks, spilled coffee on that one navy suit jacket he’d been planning to wear for the game the next night, or commented on his shoulder pads that had somehow survived what felt like the ten plagues of egypt. okay, maybe sometimes he did. but more than anger, what he really felt was discomfort – that quiet, uneasy shift inside him, like something had been slightly knocked out of place and his thoughts couldn’t help but circle it.

some days he handled it better. on others, even the smallest change could feel like too much, building into something he couldn’t easily ignore.

that was why everyone around him had learned to be careful with sid’s things, careful not to disturb the order that made everything feel just a little more manageable for him.

but if there was one person who could rearrange his ties in the closet, move the vase in the living room to a different spot, or tease him about his ancient gear, it was you.

and if sid ever tried to explain why that tight, anxious feeling softened when it was you, he wouldn’t have the right words at first. eventually, he’d probably say it was because you made everything feel safe. familiar. like nothing could truly be wrong if it was you. your trust, your warmth, your understanding – they didn’t erase the feeling completely, but they quieted it, like a hand gently smoothing out the edges of his thoughts.

and whenever any of the boys were at your place and you happened to be cleaning or ironing his suits, they never dared to joke about it or tease sid about how you could do it, but they couldn’t. instead, they would just exchange quiet, knowing smiles in your direction – the kind that didn’t need words. it wasn’t something they questioned. it just… was. the way you looked after him fit so naturally into the rhythm of his life that it almost felt like it had always been there.

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋

will is a certified blanket hogger. his cousins hated his ass when he came over for sleepovers, and their mum made them sleep in one bed. he’d leave them cold and shivering, wrapped in a cocoon from head to toe, only his blond curls would stick out (which also happened to be a perfect target for them to pull to wake him up). 

and while will doesn’t consider himself to be a selfish person in the slightest, when it comes to duvets, blankets or whatever else he uses as a cover during sleep, it’s his and only his. there is no point in trying to steal it even after he falls asleep – he’ll wake up just enough to yank it back and, in the process, probably leave you with a bruise from blindly searching for the edge.

so imagine his cousins’ outrage when, during one of your trips back to his home, they found you asleep on the couch, actually covered. and he was right there next to you, the blanket barely draped over him. 

“i’m going to strangle him.” 

“this little fucker.” 

“are we sure it’s him.” 

they truly couldn’t believe their eyes, because how could this be the same person who had terrorised them just a few years back. at the same time, they couldn’t deny how adorable you two looked, especially with how pathetically in love will looked, even while napping. 

it was one of the first things you noticed when you started dating him – how gentle he became in small, quiet ways. the way he’d tuck you in before leaving for practice in the morning, careful not to wake you. how he’d drape a blanket over you when you fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. how, even half-asleep, he’d adjust it around you, making sure you were warm.

when he sleeps beside you, he’s still a blanket hogger. just not for himself.

𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐈𝐍

mack is rather… strict about the music he listens to in the car. especially in the morning. after games. after losing games. before dinner. when he’s stuck in traffic. ideally, he wouldn’t listen to music at all – but since he’s usually getting rides from other people, he has no choice but to submit to the torture that is someone’s shitty taste in music. and most of the time, it’s not even about the music itself. mack just gets overstimulated by the sound. he’s surrounded by noise almost 24/7, rarely getting the chance to just sit in silence, so music, in general, is a sore subject for him.

will, who’s been permanently banned from touching the AUX, is the most unhappy about this arrangement. you’d think he’d get special treatment, but whenever he even tries to go near it, mack threatens to leave him in the middle of the road. bribing you doesn’t work either.

you’re the only one who can play whatever you want without him getting irritated. rock, taylor swift, EDM, k-pop, jazz – whatever your heart desires. he’ll just nod along, drumming his fingers against the wheel from time to time.

“dude, we’ve been listening to this girly shit for like an hour now,” will groaned from the backseat, throwing his head against the headrest. too bad he lost rock-paper-scissors for the passenger seat, though mack would’ve made him sit in the back anyway. maybe then he would’ve had a chance to put something else on.

“oh my god, stop whining.”

your boyfriend looked like he was five seconds away from murdering his best friend, who just wouldn’t shut up. both of their hair was still messy from the shower, their suits wrinkled by now, but mack looked like he’d just come out of the trenches.

“then let me put something else on.”

“no.”

mack didn’t even glance at him as he turned the volume up, earning a quiet giggle from you, and another dramatic groan from will.

𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌

wille is sunshine personified – a smile never leaves his face. he’s kind and patient, and you swear his laugh could make even the biggest grump crack. he’s great, although a little shy with new people, always making polite small talk and going out of his way to compliment them. he’s the type of guy your mum and grandma would instantly fall in love with, and your dad would already be figuring out how to get him over for the next barbecue.

however, beware.

your sweet, golden-retriever boyfriend has one very specific trigger: his swedish candy. he does not play about that shit. first of all, he has a special place in his apartment to store it, as if it were the crown jewels. you used to joke that he should install laser beams around the drawer in case anyone tried to steal from it.

wille didn’t find that funny. because, again – this is serious business.

whenever you have someone over and he forgets to hide it, and they ask if they can have some, you have to suppress the laughter bubbling up at your boyfriend’s miserable expression. still, asking is one thing, at least he’s prepared. but when mack, will, and misa pulled a prank on him and somehow managed to steal the entire drawer, he almost saw the gates of heaven.

obviously, you’re the exception. even better – he always gets extra smiley when he sees you eating it. there’s just something about watching you enjoy something that’s so dear to him. like you’re indulging in the real him – the wille eklund part, not just the san jose hockey player.

the fact that you want to try food and sweets from his country? it makes him melt every time.

whenever he's out of boston and you can't come to the game, he becomes a bit more clingy than usual. expect facetimes half-awake from the hotel room. " i hate sleeping without you here," fraser admits softly. "the room's too quiet." "you'll literally be back tomorrow." "tomorrow is too far away."

if you ever recommend him a book to read, he takes it very seriously and will be annotating any reactions or tab any pages he liked so he can bring them up to you later. it'll go straight to the top of his tbr despite others recommending him books before you.

he loves when you two read together. you two don't even need to stop to talk about the books you're reading, he just likes the feeling of sitting next to one another in a comfortable silence with the quiet sounds of pages being turned.

if he finishes a book before you do, he becomes unbearably smug about not spoiling it (he desperately wants to spoil it). "i know something you don't know," he teases, grinning as you narrow your eyes at him. "and no, i'm not telling you anything."

he pretends to be chill whenever you compliment him, but he'll remember every single one.

he's incredibly patient with you. even during any disagreements you two may have, he's fully listening before responding because he genuinely wants to understand your perspective instead of wanting to "win" the disagreement.

he absolutely loves having small routines with you -- calling before bed whenever he's away, grabbing breakfast together in the mornings, any small traditions that become your things over time.

always keeps a hair tie on his wrist in case you ever need one. he also makes sure that it's perfectly stretched before he ever thinks about giving it to you -- not too new and tight, but not so loose that the elastic is on the brink of breaking.

if you ever fall asleep on him, he will not move. it doesn't matter if his arm goes numb. it doesn't matter if he needs to get up to grab something. you're asleep on him now, so he's obligated himself to stay exactly where he is.

he's not overly flashy when it comes to romance, but he's consistent with it. he'd be the type to fill up your car if he notices your tank was getting low. he'd mark the page you're on if you fell asleep reading. he'd memorise your orders after hearing you say them out loud one time.

he would instinctively check in on you before anything. even after any exhausting games or travel, he's still asking you how your day was or if you slept okay before he even thinks about himself.

he subtly gets jealous. he just gets quieter and clingier when he notices someone is looking at you for a bit too long for both of your liking. he'll start wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you back beside him, and resting his chin on your shoulder hoping the person who was staring would get the hint, whilst he pretends as though he's completely unaffected.

he's very observant when it comes to you. you don't always have to tell him something's wrong before he notices. "you've been quiet all day," he says gently. "c'mere for a second." opening his arms up for a hug.

he’s already spread out on your bed when you crawl up between his thighs, the strap harnessed snug around your hips, and macklin’s eyes go wide and glossy at the sight of it, lower lip sucked between his teeth, cheeks blooming with those familiar rosy blotches that spread down his neck.

he’s been hinting for weeks—pressing back against your fingers when you’re spooning, flushing crimson whenever you joke about who wears the pants, whimpering “maybe” into your shoulder when you whispered about taking him properly—and now he’s here, naked and trembling, knees bent up toward his chest in a position that makes him look so small, so open, so completely yours.

“there’s my pretty boy,” you murmur, slicking your fingers with lube and trailing them down the soft skin behind his balls, watching him flinch and gasp at the cool touch. he giggles, high and nervous, the sound breaking into a whimper when you press just the tip of one lubed finger against his rim.

“oh—oh,” he breathes, hands flying to clutch the sheets above his head, knuckles white. “that’s— that’s weird, that’s—” he cuts himself off with another giggle, hips squirming, trying to arch away and into the touch simultaneously. “shh,” you soothe, circling slowly, feeling him flutter and clench. “you asked for this, baby. you want to be good for me, don’t you?”

he nods frantically, hair flopping into his eyes, and when you ease one finger inside, just to the first knuckle, his back bows off the mattress in a perfect, desperate arch, spine curving so pretty it makes your mouth water. “ahh!” he squeaks, toes curling, and then he’s giggling again, breathless and delirious, overwhelmed by the intrusion. “it’s so— it’s so much, you’re in me,” he stammers, like he can’t believe the reality of it, and you push deeper, crooking your finger to find that spot that makes him see stars.

his giggle cuts off into a strangled whine, thighs trembling around your shoulders. “there?” you ask, though you already know from the way his mouth falls open, drool pooling at the corner. “mhm,” he manages, voice tiny, and he arches again, presenting himself so sweetly, so pathetically eager.

you work him open with agonizing patience, adding a second finger, scissoring gently while he sobs and giggles in turns, completely lost in the sensation, his cock leaking steadily onto his stomach, untouched and aching. “please,” he whimpers, hips rocking to meet your thrusts, “please, i need— i need you in me, not just— not just fingers.” his eyes are wet, lashes clumped together, and he looks so dumb and pretty, brain clearly short-circuiting from the stretch.

you lean down to kiss his blotchy cheek, nipping at his jaw. “flip over,” you command softly. “wanna see you on your tummy like a good boy.”

he obeys with a whimper, rolling onto his stomach with clumsy, eager movements, burying his face into the pillow immediately, arms stretched above his head in total submission. his back rises and falls with shaky breaths, the line of his spine a vulnerable curve leading down to where his legs part slightly, showing off, still clenching around nothing. “look at you,” you breathe, running a hand down the knobs of his vertebrae, feeling him shiver. “so pretty presenting yourself for me.” he moans into the pillow, muffled and high, and pushes his hips back, desperate little puppy seeking friction.

you kneel between his thighs, lining up the silicone head with his entrance, and he goes completely still, trembling, waiting. “relax, sweetheart,” you coo, stroking his lower back, and he whimpers, “trying, trying,” voice muffled by cotton.

you push forward, slow and steady, watching him split open around you, the stretch obscene and beautiful. he gasps, a sharp inhale, and his back arches immediately, spine dipping so his ass lifts higher, taking you deeper. “oh— oh god,” he stammers, fingers clawing at the headboard, and then he’s giggling again, delirious and overwhelmed, the sound dissolving into a continuous whimper as you bottom out.

“full,” he sobs, face turned to the side now, cheek mashed against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. “so full, you’re— you’re everywhere.” you grip his hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above his ass, and pull back only to thrust forward, gentle but firm.

he cries out, a sweet, broken sound, and arches his back like a cat, presenting himself so perfectly it makes your head spin. “good boy,” you praise, setting a rhythm, watching him fall apart beneath you. “taking me so well. such a sweet little thing.”

he’s babbling now, incoherent little noises, “ah-ah-ah,” punctuated by giggles when you hit that spot inside him, his whole body jerking, cock dragging against the sheets with every thrust. “please,” he whines, “please, i’m gonna— i’m gonna make a mess, i can’t—”

you reach under him to wrap your hand around his cock, sticky and hot, and he screams, actually screams, into the pillow, back bowing so severely you worry he might snap. “cum then,” you urge, fucking him harder, deeper, “cum like a dumb little puppy getting fucked.”

the words unravel him. he sobs, high and pathetic, and spills over your fingers, hot and thick, clamping down around the strap so tight you have to work to keep moving. you fuck him through it, relentless, watching him writhe and whimper, overstimulated and sensitive, his giggles returning as tears stream down his face.

“too much,” he gasps, “hurts, hurts, but don’t stop, please don’t stop.” you slow your thrusts but keep the depth, grinding against that spot, milking him until he’s a sobbing, giggling mess beneath you, completely pliant, utterly ruined.

when you finally pull out, he collapses flat, boneless, cheek turned to pant against the pillow, hair a sweaty tangle, blotches dark on his cheeks. you crawl up to curl around him, pressing kisses to his shoulder, and he whimpers, pressing back into your warmth. “did so good,” you murmur, stroking his trembling side.

Her fingers roamed the fabric, pausing at the emptiness. Taylor’s smile dropped as she went through her mental checklist again, this time patting her pockets down and rummaging through her other bag. She dug past her laptop, some tangled chargers, and her media lanyard.

It wasn’t there. And that made her stomach drop a little.

“No, no, no…fuck”, she mumbled under her breath, watching everyone get ready to leave San Jose.

The third SD card wasn’t just a backup. It had the pre-game warmups and almost the entire first period, and with the win tonight, they would definitely want to edit the clips later. Worst of all, she hadn’t uploaded anything besides the goal replays onto her laptop.

Mentally retracing her steps, Taylor remembered that she’d swapped cards during first intermission, meaning that it was definitely still in the media room.

Amie, the senior social media director, was the closest thing Taylor had to an older sister and took the most credit for helping Taylor get a full-time job once she graduated.

Taylor tapped her shoulder frantically, eyes wide. “I just need to grab something I left in media—uh, I’ll be right back!”

For California, the air was chilly on her jog back inside the arena, swiftly trying to put her credentials back on. She was a flash of red and blue, the squeak of her sneakers filling the hall as the familiar hallway came back into view. To her luck, the door was cracked open, and the SD card was sitting right where she had changed it earlier. Lungs still burning from the run, she slipped it into that tiny pocket of her jeans.

She barely took a breath before turning on her heel and bolting right back out to the exit. Once the bus was back in sight everyone had taken their seats and were waiting on her. Still catching her breath from what felt like a marathon she mumbled hushed apologies to everyone before taking one of the only seats left—the third row to the front.

“Got it?” Amie leaned over from across the aisle, eyebrows raised.

Taylor nodded quickly, still catching her breath. “Yeah—yeah, I got it.”

The brunette settled into her row, allowing herself to take a deep breath she’d been holding in since her sprint. Behind her, toward the back, the bus hummed as it started up with music playing to commemorate the far from close win.

Crisis averted. The SD card was in her pocket. Taylor was fine.

When the bus backed up to pull out, it lurched backward only to collide with a screech. It felt like the entire bus jolted and its center of gravity shifted.

The screech sounded far too metallic to be only the curb. A moment of silence followed, where everyone looked at each other, almost waiting to see someone move.

“Oh, my God.” Taylor didn’t know what possessed her to get up, but she was on her feet within seconds, failing to let the driver exit first. As she walked to where the sound came from, she was met with a fairly nice Range Rover with a giant dent on the front and a lack of paint simultaneously. She scanned the lot for the owner only to be met with Macklin Celebrini, who appeared to be less concerned than he should have been.

Mack didn’t look mad at all. He was actually kind of smiling, like the weight of the situation hadn’t caught up to him quite yet, still in his game-day suit.

And that somehow made Taylor even worse.“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” the words came out instantly, breathless and rushed as she hurried toward him, hands already lifting like she could somehow fix it with her own jumbled word vomit. “That’s your car—it’s like really nice and that’s not just a scratch it’s–” she winced, cutting herself off for not even half a second before rambling on anyway, “it’s bad. That’s really bad.”

His green eyes flicked between the bus and her panic-ridden face.

“We just got here, we were literally just leaving—I don’t even—oh, you—you must have somewhere to be, and now you’re stuck here,” she frowned.

“It’s fine,” Mack mumbled, barely glancing over at the vehicle, focusing more on the credentials around her neck.

“It’s fine?” she repeated. “Look at your car—I’m so sorry, that’s completely our fault.”

As that final word left her mouth, the bus driver put a hand on her shoulder, halting anything else that might leave it.

“Kid, I’ve got this, head back,” the driver said sternly, lips pressing into a thin line.

“But–,” she tried.

“We’re gonna sort it out. You need to head back on the bus.”

Taylor took a step back, turning on her heel to oblige, not wanting to further the situation. And she made it barely two and a half steps before adding a “I’m really sorry,” and continuing her stride to the bus.

Mack, however, continued to nod along to whatever the driver tried to convey about insurance to him, every word drowned out like white noise. He watched over the older man’s shoulder as she trailed off in a nervous red and blue blur. The hockey player couldn’t help but smile at her sincerity and complete panic.

Once she was out of Mack’s eyeline, reality set in, and the scratch seemed way bigger than before, and the driver was no longer white noise to him, and his face dropped.

“—so we’ll exchange information and—” the driver continued.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you need,” Mack nodded, pulling up his father's contact to help sort this out while being flooded with texts telling him the team plane was waiting.

yoursister i miss my molly

youruser YOUR molly?!

yoursister pretty princess (❤️ by author)

youruser says you!

yourbestie two pretty girls!! (❤️ by author)

youruser could be three if u came over 🤗

friend1 we need to get together soon (❤️ by author)

youruser i need it!!

fraserminten sent you a dm

fraserminten wow

fraserminten these came out perfect

fraserminten who took these?

youruser why, are you jealous?

youruser my sister took them about a month ago, when she was visiting. she brought me my digicam from home :)

fraserminten i wanna learn to take your picture like that

youruser reacted 💕

🔒 private account

liked by fraserminten, yourbestie, yoursister, masonlohrei, 301 others

youruser with my girls!

37 comments

fraserminten wowza 🤩 (❤️ by author)

youruser you're lucky i don't leak this

yourbestie this weekend was actually healing (❤️ by author)

youruser yes!! 💆‍♀️

yoursister i miss u already!! (❤️ by author)

youruser missing u less since my green leggings are gone now....

yoursister hm, i wonder who took those!

liked by youruser, _connorbedard, masonlohrei, 28.6k others

fraserminten hangin'

6.8k comments

youruser fellas (❤️ by author)

youruser or whatever you say (❤️ by author)

youruser why does my dog kinda look like you

fraserminten no way

masonlohrei the fellas

youruser i knew it

fan1 his gf's user?

fan2 she's in the comments but she's private

fan3 she doesn't let anyone in

fan2 let the girl have some privacy, omfg

fraserminten sent you a dm

fraserminten molly looks just like you

youruser you think?

fraserminten of course

youruser she's like my daughter

fraserminten she has your eyes.

fraserminten look at this

fraserminten sent two photos

fraserminten you look like twins

youruser reacted 💕

youruser i miss my pink hair

🔒 youruser posted a story

caption; hangin' around

fraserminten sent you a dm

fraserminten you liked this one?

fraserminten i thought my framing was nice

youruser reacted 💕

youruser very nice!

🔒 private account

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youruser spring may have sprung

20 comments

fraserminten stunner (❤️ by author)

fraserminten i'm sorry the flowers didn't match (❤️ by author)

youruser nooo they were so cute baby

yoursister so gorgeous (❤️ by author)

yoursister i miss you!! (❤️ by author)

yourbestie waiittt is that my spot (❤️ by author)

youruser yes its the dinner spot you took me to!! hope you don't mind me sharing it

yourbestie ofc i dont mind!!

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youruser pics by my man!!

31 comments

youruser he's getting sm better, they grow up so fast 🥹

fraserminten pretty girl (❤️ by author)

yourbestie am i being replaced rn?? (❤️ by author)

youruser nooo imagine all the pics he can take of us

masonlohrei @.fraserminten be my photographer (❤️ by author)

fraserminten i only take her pics

youruser well, and my friends

fraserminten i listen when you tell me to do something

youruser thats right 🫡🫡

friend1 rare post without molly

youruser omg. her tail is wagging in frame in like half the outtakes

fraserminten sent a dm

fraserminten baby

fraserminten will you go public. just for 5mins

youruser no

fraserminten please

youruser why

fraserminten i want to put those on my story

youruser no thank you, not these ones

fraserminten you've got another pic, though?

youruser reacted 💕

youruser hold on. i'll send u smth to post

fraserminten posted a story

caption; studying the camera 📸

end note; looking back at this, fraser probably has his autocaps on. but i'm making this on my laptop so everything is in lowercase and i am noooott changing it. ok thats all!

THX 4 READING! like what you read? leave me a comment! huge shoutout to kate who has opened my eyes to a slightly new smau format. love u sm!!!

friend1: MURPH MURPH MURPH!!!!

_willsmith2: I know someone who wouldn’t say that

y/u/n: bro shut the fuck up

ryan.leno_4: I would never say that about murph

y/u/n: the murphster!!!!

ryan.leno_4: yes?!?!

friend3: 😼😼😼 literally him!!!!!!

friend4: murphy!!!! also lmk if u need anything mama

mackcelebrini: He looks like this 😾

y/u/n: ok so never talk about me or my son ever again

text from ryan leonard:

ryan leonard: You’re at home this weekend

you: yes!

ryan leonard: You didn’t tell me

ryan leonard: Why are you home?

you: okay well u didn’t ask and i’m not gonna text you random updates on my day lol

you: anyways my mommy is sick so i was asked to come home to care for her and stuff

ryan leonard: But you used to

ryan leonard: How sick? Like the flu?

you: a bit worse than the flu LOL but i should be back next week

you: fingers crossed!!!!

ryan leonard: Okay

ryan leonard: Let me know if you need anything

ryan leonard: Very open to sending doordash to you

you: i’m okay, food will only make her more sick so i haven’t been eating much

you: will eat lots when i fly back though😍😍😍

ryan leonard: Take care of yourself

ryan leonard: Who is picking you up fron the airport?

you: whatever female uber driver picks up my ride

ryan leonard: Send me your flight details and I’ll be there

you: it’s like 30 mins away

you: Delta Flight Details: NSH to BOS

you: it’s my connecting flight

ryan leonard: See you then

liked by mackcelebrini, friend1 and 86 others

y/u/n: you never know it’s the last time until it’s already over — a little photo journalism for the bc stylus

friend1: :((((

friend1: text me when you get the chance

y/u/n: flying back tn, hangout tomorrow?

friend1: yes

friend2: i love u!!!!!!!

friend3: call me if u need anything

friend4: waffles @ mine!!!

friend2: yes yes

friend3: yes asap

y/u/n: sunday?

friend4: yes

text message from ryan leonard

ryan leonard: By baggage claim lmk when you’re on your way

you: omw

you: same car?

ryan leonard: Yes

you: i needed to bring murphy with me so is he allowed in the car

ryan leonard: Why isn’t he at your moms? And yes murphy is allowed

you: she’s on hospice, my aunt is dealing w all the medical stuff and house listing stuff so my brother and i can go back to school

you: she couldn’t take murphy because her husband said no and my brother couldn’t bc his gf is allergic

you: anyways i see you!

—

It was awkward when she got in the car. It was like she had forgotten about all the hours she spent in here, driving to various viewpoints, drinking milkshakes, gossiping.

“Hey,” she said, her voice light and airy. Her skin was gray, and her cheeks more hollowed than Ryan had remembered them.

“Let me get your bags,” Ryan said, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching over the center console for her backpack. He opened the door to the backseat and tossed her bag in there as she went to the other side and settled Murphy in the backseat.

“Hi Murph,” Ryan hummed softly to the fluffy orange cat as he settled in his carrier.

She popped into the passenger seat, avoiding messing with any of the controls as she settled into an unfamiliar place, even though it was formerly a place of refuge.

“Thanks for picking me up, you didn’t need to do that,” she hummed rubbing her face with her hands in an effort to wake her up.

“Are you okay?” He asked, settling into the drivers seat, finally pulling out of the spot as people fought for it in his rearview mirror.

“Could be better, could be worse,” she shrugged in a nondescript manner.

“What’s happening with your mom?” He asked.

“End stage of liver failure, drank like a fish so no one was shocked,” she shrugged looking out the window. It was a reality she had accepted far before going to college. She knew she didn’t have a normal relationship with her mother, and her mother didn’t have a normal relationship with alcohol.

“Oh my god, baby, I’m so sorry,” Ryan choking out an uncomfortable laugh from the pit of his chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” she hummed watching Ryan tap his hands against the steering wheel.

“I guess it was why I was so excited to meet your family, thought it’d be nice to have a normal holiday,” she shrugged again pushing her back into the heated seats of his car.

“Oh,” he gasped, his voice low and light, like he was just now considering how much this meant to her.

“We’re doing something for Easter like next weekend, some brunch and then the kids hunt for easter eggs, and then a dinner. Come, please,” he begged, not wanting her to be alone this holiday, but also wanting the guilt of virtually redacting her invite to Thanksgiving to be lifted off his shoulders.

“Don’t worry about it, I should be available for calls from family anyways,” she pouted biting at her plush lip as Murphy let out tiny mewls in the backseat.

He bit back another beg, deciding he’d ask her again in a couple days. As much as she was downplaying it, she was heartbroken and distraught, the last thing she needed was to be hounded about another decision.

“Do you need anything for him?” Ryan asked, looking back at the rustling carrier.

“I’ll take the bus when I get back to my dorm,” she hummed, not wanting to burden him any further.

“Not happening,” he huffed putting his phone in his lap to open maps finding the closest PetSmart near him.

As his GPS rerouted, he watched her. Her sad eyes darting from window, to steering wheel, to the radio, to her lap.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” She asked biting at her bottom lip, “no funny business,” she continued, “just gonna want help building the cat tree.” She said not waiting for him to answer.

“and I really don’t want to eat dinner alone” she mumbled as her lip began splitting from the pressure of her teeth.

“Yeah, I’ll stay, of course,” he nodded, his voice low and raspy.

“What do you want for dinner?” He asked opening his door in front of the nearly empty PetSmart. She took his hand and mulled over the options and he led her inside.

Once they get to her apartment, she lugs her bag, the bag of take out, and Murphy’s carrier as Ryan lugs an unbuilt cat tree, case of food, and a litter box. She unlocks the door and lets Ryan drop everything at the door.

“I thought you were athletic” she teased setting her things down.

“Shut the fuck up,” he laughed catching his breath, opening his arms for a hug.

She melted into his arms letting out a few sniffles before letting out racking sobs; the stress of the past weeks getting to her.

“I’m sorry” she whined into his chest, “I don’t want to be needy.”

“Shut the hell up, you’re never needy” he mumbled pressing a kiss into her head, and directing them to her couch.

He settled her into his lap before opening the cat carrier, letting Murphy scurry out.

He continued running his hand over her back and she dampened his BC hockey sweatshirt.

“This sucks, so much, like so so so much” she whined wiping her face.

“No one would blame you for taking a term or two off, or just leaving school all together, to care for your mom,” he hummed.

“We’re not looking at terms, we’re looking at like a week of her needing care, before her liver like fails or whatever,” she shrugged sniffling and wiping her nose with her sleeve.

“I’m just not excited for whatever evil, awful, person I become after,” she pouted, knowing the odds of her loosing Ryan and all of her friends was high.

“You won’t become evil or awful, we’ll all love you just the same. I’ll love you the same,” he said, petting her head as she got herself together.

“Go take a shower, you smell like plane,” he said teasingly.

By the time she got out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy robe, Ryan had set up the litter box, heated up their dinner, made Murphy’s dinner, and started on the cat tree.

“Thank you,” she said softly, scaring Ryan as he hadn’t realized she was out of the shower.

“You’re not alone, no matter how much you think you are.”

—

y/u/n posted a tiktok

♫: porchlight by noah kahan

y/u/n: finding peace after your mom dies 😼😼

friend1: MY FAVORITE SITUATIONSHIP TURNED RELATIONSHIP

friend2: my baby!!! so proud of you

friend2: cat emojis r crazy

friend3: 🌈🦄✨👼

randomuser: this is so sweet❤️❤️

clayton’s mouth is already on yours when your senses catch up, his body stretched over the flimsy dorm mattress, elbows bracketing your head so he doesn’t crush you, though he sure as hell isn’t giving you space. he hums into the kiss like he’s tasting dessert after a hunger strike, one knee pressed to the mattress between your thighs, hips grinding lazy slow as if he owns the squeaky twin bed and the chipped white walls.

he hasn’t said hi, hasn’t bothered with the fact that the door was locked until you buzzed him up after spotting him through the peephole, eyes gone dark with intent. now, his tongue strokes yours while his hands glide under your campus hoodie, mapping the skin he’s been deprived of for the first time in months. he does everything quiet, deliberate—the way his fingers hook your bra, how his breath hitches when he feels your soft belly, how he unhurriedly deepens the kiss until your toes curl.

the room reeks of his cologne already, the same one you spent your entire summer wrapped in. june through august you practically lived in his condo, doing nothing but sleeping late, fucking in every corner, eating takeout on his lap while he watched you lick sauce off your fingers. he wouldn’t let you make your own coffee, wouldn’t let you carry groceries, wouldn’t let you ride anything except his lap. he’d scoop you up after his workouts, toss you into the pool, chase you through his kitchen just to pin you against the marble and kiss the life out of you.

he called you his little college girl, his campus doll, his greatest distraction, and threatened to pull you out of school because he wanted you in his bed every night. you’d smirk, straddle him on the couch, and say bratty things like, “you can’t control me,” just to watch his eyes go darker. he kept you occupied with his tongue until you forgot your name, let alone your enrollment status.

when september loomed, he turned possessive in a way that had your thighs slick. “you’re going back to that dorm,” he’d say, tracing his thumb over your lower lip. “fine. but you don’t forget who you belong to.” he would fuck you slow, cock buried deep while he whispered rules against your throat. “no parties unless i say so. no boys even breathing your air. face time me every night so i can see my girl being good.” he even changed your phone background to a selfie of him kissing your cheek, his hand on your throat, his ring glinting—a silent reminder. you laughed, but you also obeyed, because clayton’s dominance is casual, honey-slow, more addictive than any drug. he didn’t need to yell or pound his chest. he just said, “be good,” and you were.

now he’s here, fucking up your tidy dorm aesthetic with his presence. you aren’t even sure how he got past campus security. he texted thirty minutes ago saying he was “in the area,” which was bullshit because you know when he has games, you know when he’s got travel, and there’s nothing near your college but coffee shops and overpriced bookstores. he simply got thirsty and drove over, the way he always does when he goes more than forty-eight hours without your face under his hands.

you gasp when he finally pulls back to breathe, your chest heaving against his. he watches your mouth with predatory focus, thumb swiping the slick off your lower lip. “hi,” he murmurs, savoring the word like it means more, which it does. his voice is all hums and low vowels, the same cadence he used all summer when he’d wake you at three in the morning because he needed to feel you around him again.

“you can’t just show up,” you whisper, though your legs are wrapping around his waist already, hooking him closer, nails digging into his shoulders where his jacket is already half off.

“sure i can,” he says calmly, kissing the corner of your mouth. “you said you missed me on the phone last night.” he sinks his teeth into your jaw gently, sucking a mark he’ll make you cover with concealer tomorrow. “so i came.”

“you really walked through the dorm building,” you say, half dazed, half scandalized. “do you know how many freshmen saw you?”

“don’t care,” he hums, hands sliding under your hoodie again to palm your tits. “let them stare.” he pinches your nipples until you whine, then soothes them with his thumbs. “gotta remind everyone whose room this is.”

“clay,” you rasp, because he’s grinding, the mattress squeaking, the whole single dorm bed protesting under his weight. he chuckles, gaze sweeping these cramped walls.

“little bed,” he murmurs, amused. “had to see what you’ve been sleeping on. must feel so empty without me.” he rocks his hips, letting you feel the length of him through his jeans. “you let anyone else up here?”

you glare, offended. “no.”

“good girl,” he says automatically, the words dripping heat straight between your legs. “just checking.” he sucks another bruise into your neck, slow and thorough, while his hand slides down your stomach to the waistband of your shorts. he doesn’t even ask. he slips fingers in, finds you already damp, and hums approvingly. “you stay this wet even when i’m not here?” he whispers against your ear. “fuck, i’ve been thinking about your pussy constantly.”

you shudder, clenching around nothing. “i’ve been touching myself every night,” you confess, because you know he’ll want to hear it. “can’t sleep otherwise.”

he growls softly, sliding a finger into you, feeling how ready you are. “my dirty little student,” he murmurs. “d’ya think about me while you play with yourself?”

“yes,” you gasp, back arching. “always you. no one else.”

he smiles against your skin. “that’s right.” he thrusts his finger slow, curling it up, not rushing because he wants to drag every whimper out of you. “spent all summer cleaning the pool with you naked, driving up the desert with your feet on the dash, fucking in the backseat at red lights. and now you expect me to go cold turkey?”

his possessiveness never felt suffocating, just intoxicating. he’d show up at your campus events under the guise of “support,” standing at the back with his arms crossed, eyes glued to you. he’d pick you up after lectures, thumb resting on your thigh the entire drive, ignoring the stares from other students who recognized him. he didn’t care that they whispered about the hockey player dating some barely-grown college girl. he would kiss you in front of them, hand sliding up your skirt, own it completely.

“i’ve been good,” you breathe, biting his shoulder as he adds another finger. “haven’t even flirted. just studied and thought about you.”

“you better have,” he says, biting your earlobe. “i made sure every little brat on this campus knows you’re taken.” he pulls out his phone one-handed, still fucking you with the other, and flips the camera to show you the home screen—you, on your knees at his house, mouth open for his cock, his hand tangled in your hair. he smirks. “this has been getting me through workouts,” he confesses. “coach hates it. says i look distracted.”

“you’re insane,” you gasp, cheeks flaming. “delete that.”

“never,” he mutters, sliding down to kiss your belly. “i’ll get more tonight.” he licks your skin, trails down to your waistband, tugs it with his teeth. “lift up.” you do, and he pulls your shorts off, throwing them somewhere near the mini fridge. the room smells like clean laundry, cheap candles, and now him—sandalwood, salt, a faint echo of locker room musk.

he nuzzles between your thighs, inhaling, humming with satisfaction. “fuck, i missed this,” he breathes, tongue flicking your clit. you choke on a moan, fingers burying in his hair. he groans into you, lapping deep, sucking, nibbling. dorm walls are thin but you don’t care. you spread wider, heels digging into his back, letting him eat you like he owns you.

he does own you. the entire summer he drilled it into you, not with harsh commands but with constant presence. he’d hand-feed you fruit in bed, then devour you before you could swallow. he’d kneel in front of you, making you ride his face until your thighs shook, then flip you over to fuck you slow, whispering how you’re his forever.

he paid your residence for the fall semester without telling you, casually mentioned it over breakfast like it was nothing. “i want you stress-free,” he said while smearing jam on your toast. “focus on classes and on me.” you’d rolled your eyes, but your pussy had clenched so hard you nearly spilled your coffee.

now he lifts his head, lip shiny with your arousal, eyes wild. “you gonna cum for me?” he asks against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “be a good girl and let go. i’ve been starving.”

you nod frantically, already close, the combination of him showing up unannounced, the tiny bed, the forbidden sense making your body thrum. he slides two fingers back inside, curling, sucking your clit, and you shatter. you arch off the mattress, hand slapping the cinderblock wall, moan muffled by your own arm. he doesn’t stop until you’re limp, then crawls up, licking his lips, kissing you so you taste yourself. “sweet,” he murmurs, nuzzling your nose.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper weakly, though your hands are already tugging at his belt.

“yeah,” he agrees, smiling against your mouth. “but i am.” he unbuckles, shoves his jeans down, and in one smooth move, he’s inside you, the dorm room echoing with the creak of the mattress. you gasp at the stretch, fingers clutching his shoulders. he groans, burying his face in your neck. “fuck. missed this pussy.” he thrusts slowly, savoring it. “you feel different on this little bed,” he whispers. “tighter. more desperate.”

“clay,” you whine, nails scratching his back. he captures your wrists, pinning them above your head against the flimsy headboard. “please.”

“so needy,” he says, voice husky. “you’re in class all day acting studious while your cunt stays ready for me.” he picks up the pace, hips snapping, sweat dripping down his temples. “bet you walk around campus sore from how i stretch you.” you whimper because it’s true—after he left at the end of summer, you spent three days waddling. he laughs softly.

“remember when i dropped you off at the dorm? couldn’t even sit properly because i fucked you in the car in the parking lot.” he kisses you hard, tongue sliding, making you relive it. “you cried when i pulled out,” he murmurs. “so i stuffed my fingers in you and told you to keep it there.” you’re moaning at the memory, cunt clenching around him.

he pulls out abruptly, flips you onto your stomach, and drags your hips up, making you arch on hands and knees. “hold on to the wall,” he orders, voice ragged. “don’t fall off.” you press your palms against the cinderblock, bracing yourself. he slides back in, this angle deeper, making you keen. he folds over you, chest to your back, hand wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, just reminding you he’s there. “good girl,” he murmurs when you obey. “taking me so good even in this shoebox.” he bites your shoulder, sucks another mark. “can’t believe you thought you could go weeks without me.”

“i didn’t,” you gasp, shaking. “thought about you nonstop.”

he hums, pleased, thrusting harder, the mattress protesting loudly. “that’s my girl. keep thinking of me. every time you study, remember what i do to you. every time some campus boy looks at you, think about how i ruin you.” he groans, hips stuttering. “fuck, i’m close.” he wraps his arm around your waist, rubbing your clit. “cum with me. come on. be sweet.”

you nod frantically, panting, the combination of his filthy words, his scent, the claustrophobic space pushing you over. you cum again, nails scraping the wall, and he follows with a strained moan, burying himself deep, filling you with warmth you feel dripping down your thighs. he collapses over you, breathing hard, kissing your spine.

after a moment, he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you’re chest to chest on the narrow bed, limbs tangled. he tucks your hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your jaw. “lock the door,” he murmurs, then laughs because it already is. “i’m staying a while.”

“you can’t,” you mumble, though you cling to him. “you have practice.”

“i’ll call in sick,” he says without hesitation, hand sliding down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. “i’m not leaving yet.” he hums again, the sound rumbling in his chest, content and possessive. “gonna fuck you again before I go,” he promises. “maybe twice. maybe three times. depends how much your tiny bed can handle.”

the first time clayton called you, it was three in the morning and he sounded wrecked—voice low, a little slurred, somewhere between lonely and horny. you’d met once at an afterparty through a mutual friend: you in fishnets and a leather mini, tattoos flashing, him suave and slightly awkward, unusually polite for a guy who just got dragged across state lines by an nhl franchise.

he remembered your number because you were the only person in salt lake city willing to bring a dime bag to a million-dollar patio without asking stupid questions about what it pays to skate on desert ice. he’d lost the arizona sun, lost his blonde club-rat roster, gained mormon neighbors who clutched their pearls at the word bong, and suddenly you were the only storm cloud worth chasing.

by the time you showed up that night, hoodie thrown over a lace bralette, he already had half a joint going, sitting on the edge of the pool with his bare feet in the saltwater. the house sprawled behind him, all glass and dark wood, one of those relocation packages meant to make up for ripping a guy away from his life. “thought you weren’t coming,” he said when he heard the gate click. you shrugged, dropped onto a lounge chair, legs stretched out, heavy boots muddying his pristine tile.

“thought you weren’t allowed to smoke anymore now that you’re in mormonland,” you said dryly, plucking the joint from his lips and taking a slow drag. he watched you like you were doing magic. you exhaled, hand it back. “you sound pathetic on the phone by the way.”

he grinned, a little sheepish. “yeah? you still came.”

“only because you overpaid last time,” you said, rolling your eyes. “and because no one else is awake.”

he took another hit, coughed out a laugh. “nah, you like me,” he said, leaning back on his palms, hair damp from shower steam. “and i like you. you’re the only cool person in this state.”

you snorted. “that bar is so low.”

“you’re not making me feel better,” he pouted. you flicked ash into the pool, earning a fake gasp. “hey! that’s probably illegal here.”

“existing is illegal here.” you sighed. “why’d they move you?”

“league stuff,” he said, shrugging. “money. they said we’d grow the market. whatever. i just miss the desert. miss messy girls in tube tops. everyone here wears skinny jeans and judges me for owning a lighter.” he took a beat, looked you up and down with that slow appreciative glance that made your stomach tighten. “then i met you though.”

you rolled your eyes again, but you smiled despite yourself. you liked him more than you wanted to admit. he was shorter than the guys you usually fucked, barely five-ten, but strong and earnest and stupidly sweet. he cared, even when he pretended not to. he sent you dumb reels, asked about your tattoos with genuine curiosity, apologized when he sounded needy. he called you angel even before you earned the nickname. he was new money muscle with a lot of nervous energy and too much free time.

your second visit ended with you on his couch, high enough to melt, when he slid close, head dropping onto your shoulder. “stay,” he murmured, voice thick. “i hate being alone here.”

“pay me more next time and maybe.” you meant it as a tease, but he wrapped his arms around you and dragged you into his lap, burying his face in your neck.

“please,” he whispered, hazy. “just lay with me for a bit.”

maybe it was the weed, maybe it was the empty house echoing with how lonely he sounded, but you stayed. you let him take you to his room and spoon you, his chest warm against your back, his breath steady. he whined when you tried to get up. “just a little longer,” he pleaded. “i’m a mushy high, remember?” he started stroking your stomach, fingers grazing the top of your panties. the touch was soft, reverent, nothing like the frantic groping you were used to. “you smell so good,” he murmured. “why do you smell so good?”

“because i’m not a mormon,” you muttered, but your body leaned into him. his hands drifted lower, sliding inside your waistband, cupping your pussy with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. “clay,” you warned, but he just hummed, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder.

“you can go after,” he promised. “but let me touch you. please. i’m so fucking lonely.” the begging did you in. you turned in his lap, straddled him, and the look on his face—awed, grateful—made your stomach drop. “holy shit,” he whispered. “you’re so fucking sexy.” he ran his hands up your sides, thumbs grazing under your bralette, eyes drinking you in. “i’m obsessed with you.”

“you’re high,” you said, but it rang false because he was staring at you like you hung the moon. you leaned down, kissed him slow. his mouth tasted like weed. he groaned into the kiss, hands gripping your ass, pulling you tight against him. his cock pressed against you, hard through his shorts, and he whined. “fuck,” he breathed, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against yours. “ride me. please.”

“you complain to me constantly,” you muttered, sliding your panties aside while you fumbled with his shorts. he helped, desperate, eyes dark. “even now?”

“i’m gonna keep complaining,” he warned, voice wrecked. “i never shut up. you already know this.” he stroked your hip, guiding you. “please. i need to feel you. i moved to this stupid state and all i got was salt lake saint you.”

“that makes no sense,” you said, but you lined him up anyway. when you sank down on him, both of you lost control. he groaned loud, hands flying to your waist, holding you there as he felt you constrict around him. “holy shit,” he gasped. “fuck, angel, you feel insane.” he started talking, he always talked, a stream of thoughts pouring out. “i miss arizona and the sun and wild girls but fuck, the mormons can keep it if it means i get you. look at you..."

you rode him slow, savouring the way he filled you, the way he gripped your hips. “you’re ridiculous,” you moaned when he thrust up. “complaining while you’re getting fucked. who does that?”

“i am,” he said, shameless. “i’m doing it now. i hate utah. i hate being lonely. i love you on my cock. oh my god.” he rolled his hips, meeting your bounce, whining softly because you were squeezing him with each movement. “you’re so cool,” he panted. “coolest girl i know. fuck.” he slapped your ass once, more a pat than a smack, and you ground on him, making his eyes roll back. “ride me harder,” he begged. “please. i need it. i need you.”

you laughed breathlessly and obliged, bouncing faster, nails digging into his shoulders. he groaned, head falling back, mouth open. “yes,” he gasped. “yes, fuck! that’s it. you’re gonna make me cry. if the neighbors saw this they’d die.”

“they’d probably pray for us,” you mocked, and he laughed mid-moan.

“they already do,” he said. “but i don’t care. i just want you. i don’t even like blonde basic girls anymore. you ruined me. ruined me with your tattoos and your boots and your fuck-you attitude.” he grabbed your face, kissed you hard, muffling your moan as you clenched around him. “holy shit, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“good,” you breathed, grinding down. “i want it.”

“fuck,” he cried, spilling inside you, hands trembling. he clung to you, arms wrapped around your waist, whispering filthy thank yous. “thank you, thank you, thank you.” he kissed your neck, your shoulders, your jaw, became a cuddle monster the second the high shifted from horny to mushy. “stay,” he murmured as you tried to climb off. “sleep here. please. we can smoke in the morning. my chef will make you breakfast.” he nuzzled your chest, inhaling.

you rolled your eyes but stayed, letting him pull you into bed, wrap himself around you, head on your chest. he talked until he drifted off—about missing his family, missing the desert, hating all the rules. “everyone’s boring,” he murmured, half-asleep. “but you’re not. i need that. stay with me, angel.”

you did. you stayed for morning smoke sessions on the back patio overlooking the golf turf. you stayed when he had bad practice days and needed to vent about coaches acting like cops. you stayed when he called at midnight, voice wrecked, asking if you’d lie in bed with him because the house felt too big. he’d pull you on top of him, big hands kneading your ass, hips rutting up even as he whined about missing arizona. “there’s no good mexican food here,” he’d grumble while you bounced on his cock. “no late-night drive-thrus. i hate it.” you’d pinch his nipples to shut him up, and he’d groan, grinning. “fine, i love one thing. i love fucking you... jesus.”

he kept complaining, even when you were on your knees between his thighs, sucking him with slow, lazy drags. “i’m so sick of this place,” he’d mutter, fingers tangled in your hair. “everyone’s fake polite. they don’t get me. only you get me. fuck.” he’d thrash, trying not to cum too fast because your mouth was that good, then blame you when he did. “see? you ruin me. every time. i’m too soft around you.”

he begged a lot. “please stay,” he’d whisper, high as a kite, curling up behind you on the couch. “please smoke with me. i don’t wanna be alone in this mausoleum.” his house was sleek and sterile, all stone and glass, but you left your mark—ashtrays on the coffee table, an oversized hoodie draped over a chair, your boots by the door. he bought you a drawer in his closet without asking. stocked the bathroom with your brand of liner and perfume. ordered your favourite snacks. he acted like it was nothing, just convenience, but you saw the way he relaxed when your shit cluttered his perfect décor.

the alt thing fascinated him. he’d trace your tattoos with his fingertips, committing each line to memory, ask about the meanings for the hundredth time, get the stories wrong but laugh when you corrected him. he’d flip through your sketchbook, admire your pencil drawings, beg for something permanent. “ink me,” he’d say, wide-eyed. “put your art on me. i wanna fuckin' wear you for the rest of my life.” you’d refuse because you didn’t tattoo your flings, and he’d pout, a high whine that usually ended with him going down on you for an hour as a bribe. he was hopeless, a feral romantic disguised as a horny hockey player, craving touch as much as he craved weed.

nights blurred. you’d smoke on the couch, pass the joint back and forth until his hands trembled, then he’d pull you into his lap, kiss you like it was your last night on earth. “i missed this,” he’d say, even if you saw him the day before. “missed you.” he’d complain about utah, about the legalities, about the silence, but he never complained about you. even mid-whine he’d confess, “you’re so fucking sexy. i can’t believe you keep coming back..."

you kept coming back because you liked him, maybe more than liked. he was open in a way that surprised you, told you secrets in whispered tones while you traced the veins on his forearm. he asked about your childhood like it mattered, remembered every detail, used them against you when he wanted to make you blush. “my little rebel,” he’d coo, hand down your panties, feeling how wet you got when he talked dirty. “all those middle fingers to authority led you here, huh? to my house, hiding from mormons, getting fucked by a hockey player.” you’d moan, open your legs wider, because his voice did that to you.

he got clingier. every time you tried to leave after sex he’d wrap himself around you, half-naked and whiny. “stay,” he’d beg, high eyes wide. he’d invite you to the theatre room to watch movies, only to spend the entire film with his hand down your pants and his nose buried in your hair. he’d pretend his hands were cold, slide them under your shirt, cup your tits, pinch your nipples until you gasped. “see?” he’d say when you slapped him lightly. “i needed warmth.” he’d then slip two fingers inside you without warning, finger you slow while watching the screen, voice soft.

the pool nights were your favourite. you’d smoke on the deck, then strip down and swim in the heated water while he watched, eyes glued to the way your tattoos shimmered under the surface. he’d dive in after you, grab you under the water, pull you against him. “fuck me here,” he’d plead, kissing you underwater, bubbles streaming past your faces. you’d straddle him at the shallow end, water lapping around your shoulders, and he’d grip your ass, thrusting up as you bounced. “fuck,” he’d groan against your lips. “never leaving utah now. not if it means losing this.” he’d still complain about the state mid-orgasm, because that’s who he was. “this place sucks,” he’d pant. “but you’re making it tolerable. oh god.”

you still sold him weed, but the money blurred into the rest of his spoiling. he bought you lingerie, boots, random jewelry he thought matched your vibe. he ordered art supplies even though you didn’t ask. he claimed it was payment for late-night deliveries, but you knew better. he was falling, and he didn’t hide it. he’d kiss you in the foyer, high as a kite, murmur, “you’re my favourite person,” as if it wasn’t obvious. he’d rest his head on your lap, ask you to braid his hair with shaky fingers, whine when you tugged too hard. he’d complain about the weather while you sat on his face, muffled curses turning into groans when you rode his tongue. “fuck utah,” he’d say when you came, then add, “love this,” with a satisfied sigh.

"i technically don't do anything," you say, swatting his hand away lightly. "it just...does that, i guess."

he narrows his eyes at your hair. "mine doesn't do that," as if your hair personally offended him.

"well that's because you treat your hair like it's straight," you point out. "you usually just dry if off with a towel, and call it a day, hoping for the best."

there's a pause where he actually considers and rethinks his routine -- or lack thereof -- before he nods.

"okay, yeah...that's exactly what i do."

a beat of silence passes before fraser brings up hair routines with you again.

"can you fix it?"

you blink, not expecting this to be brought up again. "wait what?"

"my hair," he says, already searching for his keys, as if the decision has already been made somewhere in his mind. "i want to get this right...so can you fix it?"

you laugh, but he's basically already made his way to the door, glancing back at you with an effortless confidence that pulls you along with him.

"come on," he adds. "we can get whatever you use."

when getting to the beauty supply store, fraser walks in like he already belongs in the place. he's committed himself into a new hair routine, even if he has no idea what he's getting himself into.

he walks through every aisle, taking in the shelves stacked with all sorts of different products, tools, and labels on everything that he doesn't recognise the name of. it's definitely something he's not used to seeing, and it shows in the way his brows furrow slightly together when taking a look at everything.

"there's...a lot going on here," he says.

"well that's what it looks like at first," already scanning the shelves for your usual products.

"i thought it'd just be like...shampoo and conditioner, and that's it."

you chuckle under your breath. "not even close. there is a lot more to this than just shampoo and conditioner."

there's something quietly endearing about the way he sticks close to you after that conversation. the basket he holds in his hand, filling up with items you use, and fully trusting you to lead the way. every time you pick something up, he takes it without a second question, dropping it into the basket like each item matters solely because you said it does.

"okay," you say, counting off the items as you go. "some new shampoo and conditioner, a leave-in conditioner, mousse, gel-"

"gel?" he interrupts, glancing over at you. "are you sure?"

"trust the process," you reply back. "some oil to break the cast, and..." you pause, grabbing a diffuser attachment "this."

he holds it up, turning the box around in his hands, and looking at the pictures on it, clearly skeptical about it but trying not to show it.

"this looks like it belongs on a spaceship."

"it's a diffuser; it'll help with drying your hair gently."

he studies it for another second, then nods, dropping it into the basket along with everything else.

when you reach your place again, the bathroom becomes your space, slowly filling the room with the quiet sounds of running water, and the soft clatter of bottles being set out on the counter. fraser lingers close watching everything you do with a focus that feels almost out of place for something like this.

"so...walk me through it," he says, leaning against the counter. "start to finish."

"you're about to experience it firsthand," you reply, turning the shower on. "here, get your head under the water."

without hesitation, he just listens to you and follows your lead without pushing back, even when he's put in unfamiliar situations. under the spray of the shower, you guide him through the first few steps -- properly working the shampoo into his scalp, taking his time instead of rushing, and letting the process matter.

by the time he finishes, there's a noticeable difference -- not just in his hair, but the way he carries himself now, like he's starting to understand that this isn't just random steps, but is care and intention put into actions.

"okay," he admits, grabbing a towel you hand him. "this already feels different."

"good," you say. "now don't rub the towel into your hair."

"i always rub it, though."

"i know...which is why you need to stop doing that."

he huffs out a quiet laugh but listens, adjusting his technique and scrunching instead of roughing it up like he normally does. it's something small, but it matters -- and he treats it like it does.

after he finishes scrunching his hair with the towel, you step in, closing the space between you. you rake your hands through his damp curls, brushing the leave-in conditioner, fingers working gently but thoroughly.

"alright," you say. "that was the leave-in first."

there's a subtle shift in fraser's demeanor -- the way he's stilled, and the way his breathing has now evened out, like he's settling into something that he didn't expect to enjoy this much.

"then the mousse," you continue, layering it in. "this'll help define everything."

"you make all of this sound so easy," he murmurs, tilting his head up slightly to get a better look at you, and placing his hands by your waist.

"i wouldn't say it's easy," you reiterate. "it's just routine that you end up getting used to.:

"feels easy when you do it."

for a second, your hands slow, just barely, taking a small moment to let his words settle. then you keep going, scrunching his curls, and coaxing them into shape.

"now the gel," you add, reaching for the next product. "this'll really lock everything in."

"you're really committed to this whole gel thing."

"you'll see the wonders of it just shortly."

you rake it through carefully, then scrunch his hair again, more deliberately this time. his curls start to form and hold its shape properly now -- real definition and structure -- and you catch the moment he notices it himself in the mirror, even if he doesn't say anything about it right away.

"woah-"

"wait- don't touch it," you warn immediately.

he drops his hand quickly with a quiet laugh. "oh...would touching it basically undo everything..."

"yeah basically."

there's something soft about the way he listens, and the way he lets you guide him through something so unfamiliar to him. it makes the whole moment feel quieter, and more intimate in a way.

when you pick up the diffuser, the mood shift slightly.

"that thing still looks intimidating," he says.

"it's literally just air," you reply, plugging it in.

"well...fast air..."

you lightly roll your eyes, switching the diffuser on as the low hum fills the room. "tilt your head a bit this way."

he does so, trusting you in a way that doesn't need to be said out loud. you start diffusing slowly, carefully taking sections of his hair, holding it in place, and letting the heat set the shape without disturbing it.

the rhythm of the routine becomes steady -- take a section of hair, hold it in place, release. move, adjust to the next section, and repeat.

"this might be my favourite part," he admits softly after a while.

"because you're not doing anything?" you ask.

"because you are," he says.

you don't respond to that, but it lingers anyway, settling somewhere warm and hard to ignore.

"you're so soft," you mutter.

"only for you," he replies easily.

by the time his hair is dry, the room feels warmer and quieter, as if the whole process slowed everything down around you. you switch the dryer off and reach for the last step, grabbing the hair oil and rubbing a small amount between your palms.

"okay," you say. "final step."

he watches closely now, even more invested than he was at the start.

"what's that for?"

"it'll break the cast," you explain. "the mousse and gel makes it a little stiff. this'll soften it."

you crunch gently, and fraser watches as everything settles -- his curls fall into place, soft and defined now, but still natural looking. he slowly looks at the mirror, knowing that it's going to look different now.

"that's..." he starts, then stops, shaking his head a little in disbelief. "that's actually insane. wow..."

he looks at you through the mirror, something quieter now replacing the initial surprise. "you did all that."

"we did all that," you correct.

"no," he says, standing now, closing the space between you without thinking twice. "you did."

the moment settles between you, softer than anything before it. then he reaches for your hand, like it's instinct.

"i guess i'm gonna need you every time i was my hair now," he adds, a small smile returning to his face.

your fingers curl around his. "or...you could just learn the routine!"

"i could," he agrees. "or..."

"or?" you prompt.

he shrugs slightly, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckled. "or i can keep coming back to you."

there's something steady in the way he says it, something the feels less like a joke, and more like a quiet decision that's now been made. your heart stumbles a little.

"that sounds suspiciously like a plan," you say.

"well it is," he says softly, glancing once more at his reflection before looking back at you. "it's a really good one."

Frank recovers for a moment. Catches his breath with his forehead resting against your chest, then lifts his head. When he does, his brows are furrowed. “Princess, what was that?”

You blink at him dumbly. “…what was what?”

He lets out what could be called a chuckle, but his expression is perplexed— maybe even offended? “You just pretended to have an orgasm.”

Heat floods your cheeks in an instant. Your lips part, but no words come out for a few long seconds. Frank just stares at you, waiting, both brows raised.

“….you could tell?”

“Baby.” Frank’s voice is flat, matter-of-fact. “I’m inside you. And I’ve seen you cum before. Yes, I could tell.” His eyes flit around your face, and he softens just a bit. “Have I made you feel like you have to do that?”

“No!” You’re shaking your head right away. Your hands come up to rest on his chest, thumbs smoothing back and forth. “No, Frank, never.” You pause hesitantly. “I didn’t even really do it on purpose, it just kind of… I don’t know, I guess it’s force of habit? I knew you were finishing, so…”

Something flashes in Franks eyes that makes it look like he could kill someone. But it’s gone as fast as it came. He’ll save the angry rant about the assholes you’ve seen before him for later— right now is about you.

“Well we’re gonna break that habit, pretty girl.” He leans down and takes your nipple into his mouth, making you gasp in surprise. He flashes you a grin from around the bud. “Y’know I’ll always take care of my girl.” his hand snakes downward to swipe a thumb over your clit. you shiver. “Would never leave her hanging like that.”

“I know, Frankie.” You sound all breathy as you rock your hips. Frank’s gonna start getting hard again in a second.