#smutwithplot

Xavier Legette met Zoie Brooks in seventh grade, right after she knocked out Jamal Simmons with her Lisa Frank binder.

It was after lunch, the hallways sticky with South Carolina heat, and Zoie, skinny, awkward, always with her nose in a book, had just been bumped into for the third time that day. Jamal called her “Library Bitch” and snatched her glasses clean off her face. She didn’t say a word. Just swung that binder, glittery dolphins and all, and dropped his ass by the lockers like a sack of dirty laundry.

Xavier had been across the hall when it happened. Already six feet tall at twelve, football-bound and full of mischief. He’d heard the crack of plastic against jaw, turned, and saw her standing over Jamal with one hand shaking and the other holding a copy of A Wrinkle in Time like a weapon.

He’d walked up to her after the principal dragged Jamal away and said, “You swing like my uncle Darius after three beers.”

Zoie just blinked at him. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Hell yeah,” he grinned, dimples and all. “Unc got hands.”

She’d stared at him a second longer before cracking the smallest smile he’d ever seen. From that day forward, she was Z, and he was the only one allowed to call her that. They were inseparable after that. Study sessions, cafeteria lunches, Friday night games where she brought flashcards and earplugs to drown out the crowd.

She read books on the bleachers while he racked up touchdowns. He walked her home with her backpack hanging off one shoulder like he was guarding national treasure.

When he got drafted into the league, she sent him off with a custom leather-bound journal and a soft hug he never forgot. When her first apartment flooded, he paid for the repairs without telling her. When his mama died, she held his hand through the funeral and never let go.

Every relationship they’d ever tried outside of each other eventually crumbled under the weight of what they were, which, for years, had been just best friends. Until the night that wasn’t.

It was a Friday. He’d just wrapped a brutal practice and texted her without thinking: “You cookin tonight?”

She always was.

He pulled up to her house just after eight, still in his sweats and a muscle tee, sweat drying in patches on his back. Her porch light was on. Her windows were cracked. Inside smelled like garlic butter and cornbread.

The same as always.

Except nothing about that night would stay the same.

—

Xavier didn’t bother knocking. He never had to. Not since high school. He just opened the screen door and stepped inside like he paid bills, his keys jingling in his hand as he kicked off his slides and called out, “Z, I know that’s cornbread I smell. Don’t lie to me.”

Zoie’s voice floated from the kitchen, soft and teasing. “You barely even closed the door and you already beggin. At least act like you got manners.”

“I said hi, didn’t I?” he called back, walking toward the kitchen.

She was standing at the stove in one of those soft, oversized tees she always wore around the house. The kind that stopped right below her hips and looked like it belonged to someone else, except he knew it didn’t. She had on little cotton shorts underneath, he was sure, but the way the shirt hung off her shoulder and hugged her waist made his throat dry.

He looked away.

The kitchen smelled like heaven. Butter and garlic and roasted chicken. Candles burning in the corner. One of her little 90s playlists humming low from the Bluetooth speaker by the fridge.

Zoie turned, holding a wooden spoon and an arched brow. “That practice must’ve beat your ass. You look like a man who just crawled out the ocean.”

He wiped his forehead dramatically with the bottom of his tee. “It was hell. Coach out there actin like we ain’t got bodies to protect. My knees said ‘bitch please’ before we even hit red zone drills.”

She laughed, handed him a glass of lemonade, and nodded toward the bathroom. “Go rinse off. I’ll plate the food.”

“You an angel,” he muttered, already walking off. “I don’t care what your little book club says about you.”

“Book club thinks you’re loud,” she called back. “And always ashy.”

“Lies. I’m glistening.”

She was still smiling when she heard the shower start. Still smiling when she caught herself staring at the hallway too long.

It was familiar. That was the thing. Him being here. His voice in her house. His sweat drying in her guest bathroom. It didn’t feel new. It felt old, worn in, like something borrowed that had never really left.

Zoie plated the food, set it on the small table in her nook, and tried not to think about how good he always smelled after a shower. Or how her heart did this dumb little skip every time he walked into a room with his sleeves rolled up.

Xavier came back in wearing one of the spare tees he kept at her place, hair still wet, skin clean and warm from the steam. He dropped into the chair across from her like he hadn’t just made the whole kitchen shrink a little with his presence.

They ate in easy silence for a while. Between bites, he talked about training camp, she talked about the book she was editing for her freelance client. He teased her about the love scenes. She teased him about the way he said “route” like it was spelled r-o-w-t.

It was easy. Comfortable.

Until the show started.

They ended up on the couch, feet up, plate of brownies between them, watching some nonsense true crime series he picked on a dare.

“You’re just mad the killer was the librarian,” he said, mouth full of brownie.

“She had motive,” Zoie argued, poking him with her sock-covered foot. “He stole her research.”

“Still wild. I ain’t trusting you around my notebooks no more.”

She grinned, leaning her head back on the cushion, eyes lazy. “I been around your notes since you wrote them on your hand in algebra.”

“And you still here. That’s loyalty.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

She wasn’t dressed up. No makeup. Just glasses slightly fogged and legs tucked under her. But something about her expression caught him off guard. Maybe it was the way she smiled without trying. Or how the soft light from the TV flickered across her skin.

His hand shifted, brushing against hers.

She didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

And in that moment, with the sound of the credits rolling and the taste of brownie still sweet in his mouth, Xavier leaned in.

So did Zoie.

The kiss was slow. Barely a kiss at all at first. Just lips touching, testing. Then she tilted her head. He caught her bottom lip. And it was real.

He pulled back, just enough to search her eyes. “We don’t do that,” he said, voice low.

Her breathing was shallow. “We just did.”

Neither moved.

And then they did.

His thumb brushed along her jaw, light and warm. She was still looking at him like the world had tilted under her couch, and maybe it had. Nothing about that kiss had been planned. Nothing about the way her chest was rising told him it was something she regretted.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Zoie nodded, slow. “Yeah. Are you?”

He exhaled through his nose, then leaned in and kissed her again. This time wasn’t questioning. This one landed full. Lips soft, open, a hum low in his throat when she kissed him back with just enough heat to make his pulse jump.

She shifted, turned on the couch to face him, and his hands found her waist like they always knew how. Her fingers slid up his arms, then down to rest on his thighs. He was solid under her touch, warm and still damp at the nape of his neck.

When they pulled apart again, she was already breathless.

“Been wonderin about that,” Xavier said, eyes still on her mouth.

“What?” she asked, voice soft.

“What it’d feel like.”

She smiled a little, nerves starting to rise in her chest. “You thinkin you want more?”

His eyes searched hers. There was no game there. Just curiosity. Just years of quiet ache that finally had space to breathe.

“I think I don’t want to stop,” he said.

He stood, tugging her gently by the hand. She followed, letting him guide her toward the hallway, heart pounding harder with every step. They passed the bathroom, the office, until they got to her bedroom. She stepped in first, turning on the small lamp beside the bed. The room filled with soft gold light.

Xavier stood in the doorway for a second. Just looking.

“You nervous?” she asked.

“A little,” he said honestly. “This ain’t like before.”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”

She stepped to him and kissed him again, deeper this time. His hands found her hips again, then slid down to the backs of her thighs. When he picked her up, it felt natural, her arms winding around his neck, her legs around his waist. He carried her to the bed, set her down gently, then knelt in front of her.

His fingers found the hem of her tee. She nodded.

He peeled it off slow, eyes locked on hers. Her breasts sat high under the lace of her bra, skin glowing, chest rising with each breath. She wasn’t model-thin, never had been. But Xavier looked at her like she was art.

“You so damn pretty,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss between the swell of her breasts.

Zoie shivered. Her hands slid into his curls as he kissed down her belly, slow, lips soft, tongue tracing small paths across her skin.

When he reached for her shorts, she lifted her hips.

He pulled them down, kissing each new inch of her thigh as it appeared. She wasn’t wearing anything under them. He paused when he realized that, then looked up at her with the faintest grin.

“You knew I was comin.”

“I always know,” she whispered.

He ran a hand down her thigh, then lifted one leg onto his shoulder.

“You sure?” he asked, voice already thick with heat.

Zoie nodded. “I want this.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed her again, lower this time. A long, slow lick between her folds that made her arch off the bed with a gasp.

“Fuck,” she whispered, grabbing the sheets.

Xavier groaned against her. “Still sweet,” he muttered. “Damn.”

He licked her slow, steady. Not fast, not greedy. He was learning her all over again. Tongue dragging from her entrance to her clit, circling it with patience. His mouth sealed over it and sucked, gentle, just enough pressure to make her thighs shake.

She moaned, fingers slipping into his curls.

“Right there,” she breathed. “Just like that.”

He didn’t stop. One hand held her hip steady, the other slipped under her thigh, anchoring her as she started to move against his face.

He pulled back once to breathe, lips wet, eyes dark. “You taste like I remember.”

“You never tasted me before,” she said through a moan.

“I know,” he smiled. “But I dreamed it just like this.”

He dove back in and made her come hard, her body shaking, voice cracking as she said his name like a prayer and a warning.

When she opened her eyes again, he was already crawling up the bed, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her neck.

“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt.

He did. The shirt hit the floor and her fingers went to the waistband of his sweats. She slid them down, then paused when she saw him.

Thick. Heavy. Already dripping.

Her eyes went wide.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, grinning.

“You’re not even trying to be humble.”

He leaned in close. “You tryna ride or you want me to lay you down?”

She bit her lip. “Lay me down.”

He kissed her again, then reached down and lined himself up.

“You ready?” he asked, voice shaking now.

She nodded. “I been ready.”

He pushed in slow, the stretch enough to make her gasp, her fingers digging into his arms. He went slow, so slow, until he was all the way in and both of them were breathless.

“God,” she whispered, nails in his back.

“You feel like heaven,” he groaned, forehead pressed to hers.

He started to move, hips rolling in deep, slow strokes. Every thrust made her chest rise, her lips part, her breath catch. Their eyes never left each other.

Zoie moaned his name again, softer this time. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper.

He kissed her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “You feel so good, Z,” he whispered. “So fuckin good.”

She cupped his face and kissed him again, moaning into his mouth as he fucked her slow, like they had all night.

Like they’d waited years for this.

Because they had.

Their bodies moved together in that rhythm only closeness could create. There wasn’t any rush in how he fucked her, no frantic need to prove anything, no fumbling hands or misplaced kisses. Just warmth. Just weight. Just the sound of her breath quickening every time he angled his hips a little deeper, a little slower, letting her feel every inch like a promise pressed into her skin.

Zoie held on to him like her body had always known his. Arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, thighs locked around his waist, her heel digging into the small of his back every time he hit that spot that made her cry out without shame.

“Xavier,” she whispered, voice catching.

He lifted his head, forehead damp, eyes locked on hers like the world could burn around them and he’d still only see her. “I got you,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “You feelin it?”

She nodded, but her voice failed. Her body answered for her. She clenched around him hard, her whole frame twitching under the pressure building in her belly.

“Say it,” he murmured against her jaw. “Let me hear it.”

“I feel you,” she finally managed. “It’s so much, but… don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He just moved slower. Deeper. One hand slipping between them, fingers finding her clit again like he was guiding her toward something only he knew how to give her.

She came with a cry that cracked in the middle. Her back arched, hands scrabbling at his arms, nails dragging down his skin as her body locked down around him in a grip that pulled a deep, low groan out of his chest.

“Fuck,” he bit out, hips jerking as he tried to hold on through the way she gripped him. “Zoie… baby—”

His voice cracked too, and then he was gone. His thrusts stuttered as he came, deep inside her, forehead against hers, lips parting around a moan that sounded more like relief than release.

Neither of them moved for a long time.

His weight stayed on her, heavy but comforting. Her fingers curled at the nape of his neck, her body still twitching with aftershocks.

“You okay?” he finally asked, his voice a little rough now.

She gave a soft hum, turned her face to kiss his cheek.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m okay.”

He pulled out slowly, gently, like he didn’t want to hurt her. She winced a little and he paused, looking down at her with nothing but softness.

“You need anything?” he asked.

She blinked at him, eyes a little glassy. “A warm rag and a nap.”

He laughed, low and tired. “Say less.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard the water running, the cabinet open. When he came back with the towel and cleaned her up, he didn’t make it clinical. He didn’t make it awkward. He did it like he wanted to take care of her, and that nearly made her tear up more than the orgasm had.

He climbed into bed beside her a minute later, pulling the covers up over both of them.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just laid there, facing each other in the low light, breathing in sync.

Then she whispered, “That wasn’t just sex, was it?”

Xavier shook his head, his hand sliding along her hip. “Not even close.”

She nodded once. “Good. I didn’t want it to be.”

He leaned in, kissed her once more—soft, no tongue, no heat. Just lips and quiet understanding.

“You still hungry?” he asked against her mouth.

“For food?”

He grinned. “Or more of me. Whichever.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “Let me nap first.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I know.”

And she did. Always had.

Your father had been your role model almost your whole life, someone you admired and looked up to. That was until he lost his job and began drinking, heavily. Over the year before moving, he had become an alcoholic, depending on it daily. He had become violent and aggressive. Just before you guys moved here, your mother threatened to leave with your little sister, she couldn't handle the abuse anymore. He was destroyed after she left. You had agreed to stay, to watch over your father. But when you arrived at your new home for a fresh start, that's when you noticed the change in him. Alcohol didn't seem to quench his thirst anymore and he turned to drugs. Which was why you would crash at Fez's most nights, needing an escape but not actually telling anyone of your struggles. For fear, they would see you differently.

After about a year after moving here, you had noticed a change in your relationship with Fez. You had both become more touchy, not sexually, just simply cuddling more and subtly little touches. You would blush at each other's complements and slight jealousy on both parts began to rear its head. That's when you had realised your crush on Fez. You were sure that he didn't feel the same way but Ash continued to insist that you were both idiots and should just get together already. Your crush continued to blossom until you were two years into friendship and madly in love with him, without him seemingly knowing.

It was late, 11pm it read on your phone. You had spent the past hour on the phone with Fez, talking about nonsense. You had agreed to go to theirs tomorrow and watch a movie, luckily it was Friday. You were aware that your father was downstairs, he had been drinking and taking drugs all day. You never knew what mood he would be in, sometimes he was happy and loving, other times you'd be crying as he tried to break down your bathroom door. You made your way downstairs to get a drink, feeling thirsty.

Walking past the living room, seeing your dad on the couch passed out, you tried to be as quiet as possible. You grabbed a glass from the cupboard and got some water from the tap. You looked through the fridge for something to snack on, but you didn't find anything you wanted. You turned around to go back upstairs when you noticed your father standing silently in the door frame of the kitchen. Screaming in fright, you accidentally dropped your glass, cursing as it shattered all over the floor. Would he be pissed? Probably. As if on cue, your father walked towards you seemingly calm.

You nervously bent down to pick up the shards of glass, not wanting him to stand on them barefoot. You looked down, not wanting to be yelled at or worse, hit. You collected the glass quickly, your father stood in front of you, not doing anything. You disposed of the glass in the bin and let out a shaky breath, turning to face him. "I'm sorry.." you whispered, your body beginning to shake on its own, fearing his wrath.

"You are fucking useless, can't do anything right!" He screamed, getting in your face. There it is. You instinctively took a step back, to put as much space between you both. "I didn't mean to! I said I was sorry, you scared me." You yelled, angry that he was blaming you for an accident. That's when the glass started being thrown at you, you screamed, barely dodging each dirty plate and cup being thrown towards your head. You screamed, the sobs choking as they escaped, you were terrified.

He stormed towards you and gripped your neck, pushing you against the fridge behind you. You yelled in pain, the back of your head thronging in pain. His nose was almost touching yours, his breathing erratic. "No wonder your mother and sister left us, because you can't do anything right!" He screamed, spit landing on your cheek at the sheer force of his voice.

"No, they left because you're a piece of shit and can't get your crap together! You abuse and destroy every good thing in your life!" You screamed, angry he would even try to blame you. He released your neck, only for his hand to collide with your cheek instead. The force of the slap caused you to fall to the ground, your face colliding with the ground.

You looked up at him in fear, he had never laid his hands on you before. He was usually too off his face to care, he must be on some new shit. You quickly scrambled your way off the floor, running upstairs. Luckily he didn't follow. You slammed your bedroom door shut and began to grab your stuff, pulling your phone out to dial Fez's number. Your sobs wouldn't stop, clouding your vision as you packed all the belongings you wanted to take with you. Fuck dealing with this shit anymore.

"Hey ma, was' up?" His sleepy voice announced from the other side of the line. You couldn't speak, only continued to break down. "Hey, what's wrong?" He sounded alarmed.

"I'm done Fez! I'm moving out of my house. I can't be here anymore! He's gone too far this time.." you whispered the last part, terrified of facing him again when you went downstairs.

"Me n' Ash on our way." You heard rustling on the other line, signs he was getting dressed. He didn't even need a proper explanation of who you were talking about or what was going on. He just knew he needed to get to you. Grabbing your five bags of belongings, all the important bits needed, you vouched to collect other bits at another time. You kept Fez on the line, needing to hear his voice right now. "We on our way 'k? Just stay on the call wit' me." You agreed, not wanting to hang up anyways.

You reached the end of the stairs, placing your bags on the floor by the door. "Where are you going?" Boomed your father's voice from behind you, you turned around quickly. You put your phone in your back pocket, to not alert him of the other ears listening. "I'm leaving dad, I can't do this anymore-" you tried but was grabbed harshly, being thrown on the floor. "You ungrateful fucking bitch! Go then, see if I care!" He screamed, glass being thrown at you again. Your screams and cries were piercing. You weren't sure how long he continued to throw things in your direction before he screamed something about needing a fix. Once you knew he was gone, you sat up and hugged your knees to your chest, waiting for your boys.

You heard the screeching of tires outside the front of your home. You didn't bother to move, knowing it was them. The door was opened with such force, you thought it would come off its hinges. Silent tears were still flowing down your cheeks, you felt numb. "Y/n!" Screamed Fez, realising you weren't far. They both came towards you, taking in the scene in front of them. Glass shattered all over the floor, your bags full of belongings by the door, your body slumped on the floor as you cradled yourself in comfort.

Kneeling in front of you, Fez pulled you into his arms, "I'm here ma, 's okay now." The second his arms wrapped around you, you lost it. Your sobs violent, fisting his t-shirt so hard he thought the material would rip. He rocked you back and forth, whispering comforting words into your ears. His lips peppering kisses. Ash came and knelt on the other side of you, hugging you also. You used your free hand to pull him closer to you, wanting them both close. "Thank you for coming." You chocked out, as your tears slowed down.

"You should know we come whenever you need help ma, always. Let's take you home." He kissed your head and they both helped you get up. You looked at him confused, "I don't have anywhere to go.." you whimpered, not knowing where you would live now.

"Do yuh really think you wouldn' have somewher' to go?" Fez questioned, chuckling. "You come live wit' us." He confirmed as they helped you out of the house, grabbing your bags on the way out. "Are you sure?" You asked, your voice so small. It broke Fez's heart, to see you so deflated and broken. He wanted to hurt your father for doing this to you. "Cours' I'm sure!" He smiled, you gave him a small smile in return and nodded your head.

Arriving at Fez's, you all collected your belongings and made your way inside. Dumping them in Fez's bedroom for now. Ash waited for you to come back to the living room, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist. You smiled, your arms going around the boy, bending down to place a kiss on his head. "No one will hurt you anymore y/n." He let you go, making his way to his room. You and Fez went to his room, you figured he would want to know what happened.

You sat on his bed, wondering about how your mum and sister were doing. You would have to let them know that you weren't living at home anymore. Fez sat down next to you, getting himself comfy. You explained what had happened in detail, but you also told him everything. About before moving here and after moving here, everything. He stayed silent, simply nodding to show he was listening and holding your hand for support. When you were finished telling him, a few stray tears left your eyes. His thumb rubbed them away. You lifted your hand to place on top of his on your face, leaning into his touch.

"Damn ma, I ain't realise you been thru so much." He pulled you into him, your face burying into the crook of his neck. You inhaled his cologne, feeling extremely comforted by his presence. You lifted your head to meet his eyes, gazing into each other's eyes. "How you still so beautiful while crying?" He whispered, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You bit your lip and blushed, wanting to kiss him so badly. "Can I kiss you?" He asked, surprising you. You nodded, hell yes!

His lips slowly connected with yours, moulding perfectly against yours. Your arms wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to you. Your lips moved against one another's, the passion and want evident as your tongues fought for dominance. As the kiss became more heated, your hands explored each other's bodies like your life depended on it. Fez grabbed onto your waist, pulled you towards him and hooked his arms under your legs. You wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to him. You tugged on his shirt, indicating you wanted it gone. He removed it, throwing it somewhere on the floor. You pulled your shirt off, exposing your breasts to him.

Flipping you around and laying you on the bed, his mouth moved down to your neck, placing kisses all over. He sucked and licked your neck, leaving small marks in his path, claiming you as his own. He had wanted you to be his for so long but never had the courage to tell you or express it until now. Seeing you in danger and scared, made him realise how important to him you were, and he didn't want to waste another second. "Can I?" Fez asked as his fingers ghosted over your sweats. You nodded, lifting your hips off the bed to help him remove them.

You lay naked in front of him and strangely didn't feel embarrassed or scared. You knew he would care for you and look after you. He groaned at the sight of you naked in front of him, spread out on his bed. "Fuck baby, you don' know what you do to me." His lips placed light kisses all down your body, making his way towards your core. He kissed your thighs, teasing you. After a minute of this you became frustrated, "Fez please!" You whimpered, looking down at him. He immediately placed his mouth around your clit, licking and sucking. You moaned loudly, throwing your head back in pleasure as your hands fisted the sheets beneath you. He moaned against your centre, causing you to gasp. He slowly inserted a finger, before adding a second, the sound of your wetness echoing in the otherwise silent room. His fingers pumped in and out of you, causing you immense pleasure. You placed your hand over your mouth to silence yourself but the pleasure he was giving you was amazing. You could feel the knot in your stomach building, pushing you closer and closer to your release.

"Fuck Fez! I'm gonna-" "come for me, baby." He picked up his pace, curling his fingers to hit that perfect spot that sent you over the edge. You threw your hand over your mouth, silent muffled moans leaving you. Fez worked you through your orgasm, collecting all your juices. You grabbed his shoulders, pulled him up to you and connected your lips to his. You both moaned at the contact, tasting yourself on his lips. It was intoxicating. "Fuck ma, you so fucking hot." He groaned. You moved your hands down to his hips, attempting to remove his bottoms. He chuckled and pushed his sweats and boxers off. He pulled away from you and grabbed a condom from the draw.

"This will actually be my first time." You admitted with a blush, his eyes looking at you in shock. "We can stop if you wan'?" He asked, he was fully erect and would happily stop? This man is a god. We love consent. "No, I want this. I want you, I've wanted you for over a year now. I love you Fez." Might as well admit it all now, you felt your confidence rise. His lips crashed down on yours, the kiss was filled with so much love and need, it took your breath away. "I love you too, loved you since you first walked into my store." He put on the condom and gave you one more look to check. You nodded and prepared yourself, God he was big.

He slowly inserted himself, waiting until you adjusted before moving. It only took a few minutes before the pain started to subside. "Move." You breathed. He began pumping in and out slowly, making you moan. Once he realised that it didn't hurt anymore, he began thrusting harder. "Fuck baby." He groaned in your ear, he moved to place his forehead against yours. Your breaths mixed and both heavily breathed. His hand grabbed your thigh, trying to pull you closer to him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, causing him to go deeper in this new angle. You both moaned at this, a whole new feeling of pleasure washing over you.

"Fuck I love you." He groaned, his head moving to your neck. "I love you too." You moaned, your body in pure euphoria. Your head was thrown back in pleasure, his hips thrusting into you. The only sound was your mixed moans and the sound of skin slapping together, it was music to your ears. You could feel your orgasm approaching, "I'm close." You moaned out, your nails scratching his back. "Come for me, baby. Come all over my cock." He pushed you over the edge, his finger rubbing your clit perfectly, making your release hit you. Hard.

If it weren't for Fez's lips on yours, you would have screamed. Moments later Fez was close, his thrust becoming more aggressive. With one last thrust, he groaned aloud and came. He rocked his hips a few more times, riding out his orgasm before stilling. He lay on top of you for a while, his cock inside of you still, but you didn't mind for a second. A moment later he pulled out, making you hiss. A slight ache had set in, but you expected it and didn't regret it for a second. He removed and disposed of the condom in the bathroom bin before returning to bed.

He passed you the t-shirt he had been previously wearing, thanking him you slipped it on. He held his arms out for you, which you gladly snuggled into. You rolled into him, leaning on his chest, the duvet wrapping you both in warmth. "You don' know how long I've wanted to do that. To be with you and tell you how I felt." He gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I've wanted the same thing, for so long but I didn't want to ruin our friendship." You admitted with a smile.

I can’t believe I have Draco sodding Malfoy in my apartment. I thought to myself. Of all people, it just had to be him.

I sighed loudly as I let my hand drop, shoving my glasses back on my face as I turned around to grab a mug from my cabinet. I plucked a teabag from the shelf, setting it in my mug before grabbing the whistling kettle from the stove to pour into my mug.

I walked back over to the living room, standing behind the couch to look down at Malfoy. His long hair was askew, falling all over the brown leather of my couch. His lip looked swollen, the blood on it now drying.

Sighing, I walked around the couch to set my tea on the coffee table. Walking over to the passageway and through the door of my bedroom, I grabbed a pillow from my bed. Returning to the living room, I knelt down next to Malfoy, picking up his head before shoving the pillow underneath it. I stood and made my way to the kitchen, grabbing a rag to run under some warm water. After squeezing out the excess water, I returned to the couch, folding the cloth as I went. 

I nudged Malfoy’s legs to the side to make room for me to sit down, patting his pockets in search of a wand.  The last thing I needed was for him to wake up and hex me before I could explain myself.

I checked and re-checked his pockets, only coming up with a few galleons and knuts. Where was his wand?

I frowned as I gently dabbed at his lip, watching as it lifted the dried blood from his wound. He groaned slightly, intaking a breath sharply. I saw his eyes open just a crack, enough so that he could barely see me. A deep frown spread across his pointy face.

“Get off me, Potter.” He drawled, turning onto his side.

I froze, watching his angular face as it relaxed again. Suddenly, he gasped, his eyes flying open. He sat up with such force I thought he was going to hit me in the face with his forehead.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing?” He reached up and felt his lip, which had begun to bleed again. “What did you do to me? What’s going on?” He demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“Lay back down, Malfoy. You were in a fight.” I muttered, pressing back on his shoulder to force him back down on the pillow.

“Me? In a fight? Malfoy’s don’t get in fights, Potter.” He grumbled, wincing as I touched his lip with the damp cloth again. He swatted me away. “Why am I here? How did you find me?” He questioned.

I sighed, realizing he wouldn’t give up until I gave him some answers.

“Like I said, you were in a fight. It was outside a bar, how much did you drink?” I asked.

His face pinched up as if I had said something idiotic.

“I don’t fight, and I don’t drink you imbecile. You must have seen wrong.” He said stubbornly, crossing his arms.

“Well if you don’t drink then why can’t you remember what happened?” I questioned, raising the wet cloth to his mouth again.

He remained silent, glaring at me while I dabbed at his mouth.

“So you were drinking?” I asked after his lip had finally stopped bleeding.

“No, I wasn’t. I’m not allowed t-” He cut himself off. “I don’t drink.” He said sternly. “And I don’t fight.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, tell that to the 7 foot beast I scared away tonight.” I muttered, dropping the wet rag onto the table as I picked up my tea.

“7 foot.. Wait, who are you talking about?” Draco asked, sitting up again. I reached to push him back down, but he clung to my arm. I looked up at his face to find his eyes wide and full of fear. “Harry, who are you talking about? What did he look like?”

Harry?

“Uh- He um..” I stuttered out, taken off guard by Malfoy’s sudden use of my first name. “He had dark hair and a beard. Pretty muscular.”

Malfoy’s grip on my arm had become almost painful, his eyes widening even further.

“I have to g- I have to go. I have to get home. Let me up. Let me up!” He shouted, trying to push me off the couch.

I set my tea on the ground, spilling half of it as Draco pushed against my side to try and make me move.

“Calm down!” I shouted, grabbing his shoulders to make him be still. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, looking around frantically as if someone were going to come around the corner and attack him. “Malfoy!” I yelled, trying to get him to look at me.

“Malfoy!” I screamed, finally grasping his face in my hands.

His grey eyes landed on my face, his hands clutching my wrists, nails digging into my skin.

“What have you done?” He asked quietly. “Oh God, oh God, oh God, what have you done.” He practically sobbed, clutching my wrists even tighter.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, ignoring the pain in my wrists.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, dry sobs coming from his body.

“Let me up.” He said, his hands slackening from around my wrists.

“Why?”

“I have t- to get home.” He said, dropping his hands completely.

“Why?”

He swallowed audibly, his eyebrows pulling together.

“He- he’ll kill me if I don’t. He’ll kill me.” He said, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him.

“Who?”

“Michael. My boyfriend.” He choked out, his eyes finally opening. “The man in the alley.”

Suddenly everything clicked. I dropped my hands from his face, watching as he closed his eyes again.

It was proposed in the dark over a bottle of whiskey. We had been watching an American crime show which often talked of prostitution and I asked Harry how much he would charge per hour of work if he was on the streets. 

“Depends on what I’m doing, I guess,” he said. 

I took another drink because I wasn’t drunk enough for the conversation I had started. He shut his eyes and sighed as if he wouldn’t elaborate, but then he did. 

“Most clients would be men, and I’m not gay, so I don’t know if that would work. I’d probably get fired by my pimp or something.” 

He looked at me and laughed, taking the bottle from my hand. 

“How much would you charge?” He asked. 

“Thousands of pounds.” 

“Really? I was thinking like… twenty quid.” 

I smacked him and took the bottle back. 

“You think I’m so easy?”

“No! I just figured… easy money, right? Since you like men.” 

I shook my head and grunted in disagreement. 

“No way. People who hire prostitutes have got to have something wrong with them, you know? Clingy, aggressive—maybe a weird kink they’re ashamed of. Not to mention the risk of getting an STD—I wouldn’t do it for anything under a grand. That would filter out a lot of the weirdos, and hopefully whoever could afford it would have some decency.” 

He mulled this over as he stared at the blank television screen, shifting the way his glasses sat on his nose. 

“So you’d be, like… an escort, then.”

“I don’t think there’s a difference.” 

“Maybe.” 

He reached over and touched the ends of my blond hair. I took another drink. 

“How much would it cost for you to sleep with a man?” I asked. 

“Why? Interested?” 

“Piss off. We’re talking hypothetically.” 

“Well, I have money, I don’t need more.” 

“So you’d do it for free?” 

“If I met a man I really liked, sure.” 

“No, no—” I groaned. “A stranger! You’re a prostitute, remember?” 

“Right—sorry. Er… I don’t know. Is it safe? Am I an escort like you?” 

“Sure. Clients have been screened and had an STD panel. It’s safe.” 

He rubbed a hand across his face and shrugged. 

“I don’t know. How much would you charge to sleep with a woman?” 

“I don’t think I could. I am really—really—not straight.” 

He laughed and shook his head a little, leaning to set the bottle down in front of us. 

“But women are nice and they smell good and they’re so soft—” 

I made an obnoxious gagging noise and he smiled at me. 

“I’d sleep with a woman who was a stranger for, like…. A hundred quid. If we’re under the assumption that I don’t have any money," he said.

“You could charge more.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Trust me,” I muttered. 

He rolled his eyes. 

“So you’re not going under a thousand? That’s your firm price?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Okay, what if it was just like… messing around, not full-on sex.” 

I felt my cheeks go hot and glanced toward the whiskey bottle. 

“I guess I’d go lower. Maybe five hundred.” 

“Wow, still high, though.” 

“Would you do stuff with a man for five hundred?” 

He pursed his lips in contemplation and then shrugged. 

“I know what it’s like to be desperate for money. If someone was offering five hundred quid and I needed it, I’d probably do whatever they wanted. I’d at least try, but I don’t know if I could be convincing enough if I’m as straight as I think I am.” 

“So you think you could be bi or something?”

He shrugged. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but I’ve never liked a man the way that I like women so I don’t think I am.” 

“That’s very… open-minded of you.” 

He smirked and touched the ends of my hair again, his knuckles brushing against the front of my shoulder. 

“Nothing worse than a closed-minded prostitute,” he muttered. 

I laughed loudly and clamped a hand across my mouth, shaking my head at him. 

“You are so stupid.” 

“You’re the one who started this whole thing, don’t judge me for my hypothetical exploration.” 

“I’m not! Maybe you should go to a gay bar and kiss a couple of men to see how you like it.” 

He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, exhaling. 

“Doesn’t feel right.” 

I paused and looked at the whiskey, chewing on the inside of my cheek. 

“You could kiss me.” 

He looked at me with a smile at first, but his expression turned more serious. 

“Really?” 

“For a hundred quid,” I added with a grin and he crossed his arms, laughing as he rested his head on the back of the couch. “Some of us are desperate for money non-hypothetically. It’s not my fault. I’ve gotta pay rent somehow.” 

“You have a job,” he said, tilting his head to look at me. “I don’t think you’ll get very many customers who are willing to pay a hundred quid just for a snog.” 

“One will do.” 

He snorted and shook his head, propping his heels up on the coffee table. 

“You think you can take advantage of me because I’m rich?” 

“Absolutely. It’s a win-win. I get money and you find out if you’re queer.” 

“You don’t think it's insulting?” 

“Hard to be insulted with rent paid and food on my table.” 

I propped my arm on the back of the couch and turned toward him, smiling suggestively. He laughed again and looked at the ceiling. 

“You are so different when you’re drunk. You’re going to regret this conversation in the morning, I can already tell.” 

“Better kiss me quick, then. Besides, I’m not that drunk. You’ve had more than me.” 

“I’m bigger than you, I can take more.” 

“I’m taller.” 

“I’m stronger.” 

I rolled my eyes and propped my cheek on my fist, sighing. 

“So are we going to do this?” I asked, and he looked at me. 

He fixed his glasses and glanced at my mouth, smiling a little. 

“You won’t be weird about it? No teasing me?” 

“I swear,” I said, reaching up to cross my heart. 

He lifted his hips and dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He flipped through the notes, counting under his breath as my pulse picked up pace. 

“One hundred,” he said, handing me a folded stack of bills. 

I put it on the table and looked at him slowly, my confidence dimming. We stared at each other for a long beat and he smiled at me, extending his hand. I rested my fingers against his palm and he brushed his thumb across the back of my knuckles soothingly. 

“This is nice of you,” he said.

“I haven’t done anything yet.” 

“I know, but it’s nice of you to even offer.” 

“I’m just in it for the money,” I said halfheartedly, watching as his thumb continued to stroke my fingers. 

“I know,” he said, and my eyes jumped to his face as he sat up. 

There’s a place called ‘Potters Bar’ a little bit north of London. You’ve probably never heard of it — I certainly hadn’t until I was kicked out on my arse for being gay. Lame reason, right? Who gives a shit these days? My parents, apparently. So, no house — no trust fund — no more luxuries for me as long as I like dick. They said that once I was ready to marry a woman, I could come back and get my money — I said that was bribery and my father hung up on me. So, now I live here. Close enough to London for it to not be considered the middle of nowhere, but far enough away that it isn’t crowded. 

When I say I live here, what I mean is that I hang out down the pub until someone pulls me and I go home with them. I guess in some ways this is prostitution, but we don’t always have sex. Sometimes it’s just some lonely guy who wants someone to cuddle and warm their bed at night. I have a few of those — ones I can call up and ask to stay if I can’t find anywhere else. Sadly, I think that these men are the closest that I get to having friends. I know I can go to a shelter or put on a ‘straight pride’ badge and crawl back to my family home, but this has been working alright for me so far.

And don’t get me wrong — I have a job. I just don’t make enough to have my application accepted by any of the landlords ‘round here. Or anywhere, for that matter. So, I eat, I drink, I do fun things sometimes, but… admittedly, I’m homeless. Sometimes. I keep all my stuff in a locker at the gym where I also shower if the bloke I was with isn’t courteous enough to let me clean up. I don’t have much, so it works out fine. Being a minimalist is default when you’re poor — I didn’t know that before. 

I should tell you, I used to be a racist. I know — I suck. I can’t believe I used to think the things I thought, but I swear I’m not anymore. Or — well — is any white person truly ‘not racist’? Maybe that’s an excuse. Either way, my best friend is black… does that sound racist? I can’t tell. Either way, she’s been the only consistent thing in my life and she lives in Potters Bar, too. She’s Deaf and beautiful, and she married this ginger guy who’s… alright, I guess. He’s why she moved here — and she’s why I moved here, to be honest. You can ask why I don’t sleep at theirs when I can’t find a bed, but you tell me how well you sleep in a two-bedroom flat with two young children. 

Anyway — back to me being a racist. Hah, you thought I would skip over that, didn’t you? No… I was a racist, through and through. The worst part is I didn’t even know it until a few years ago. Felt like an idiot, honestly, once I realized. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in a very controlled environment. Both of my parents are racists, too — present tense — and therefore they raised me to be. They must’ve realized I’d be a disappointment to the family when I came home and told them that I made a new friend and that she was black. They forgave me for that — but not the whole gay thing, which I don’t really understand. 

Let’s get back to the point of the story, though. I guess I never really told you to begin with, but — I’ve met someone. Well, kind of. I’ve… seensomeone, more like. Someone that is interesting enough to not be simply a one-night stand, but I’m not yet sure if he’s a ‘cuddle me and stroke my hair’ type of guy, either. I’ve been seeing him for months at this point — ever since I moved here, but we’ve never spoken to each other. 

You see, he’s what people ‘round here would ordinarily call a tosspot — someone who frequents a bar. Sure, the term is used loosely, but no matter what label you come up with, it won’t fit this guy. Barfly, drunkard, tippler, gulch, boozer — it doesn’t apply because there isn’t a term for someone who constantly hangs down the pub and yet is never seen to be drunk. I swear, British slang has about three thousand words for being pissed, but absolutely nothing for a non-drunk bar frequenter. 

That’s what initially caught my attention — well, that’s a lie now I think about it. The first thing to catch my attention was his watch, closely followed by his hands. The watch is about half a million quid alone, but his hands… my God, his hands. I’d give anything to feel those hands on me. I’m usually not a hand person, but there’s something about the way his fingers move — 

Not important. I’ll tell you about his hands later. Let’s circle back. I’ve been seeing him for months and as every day passes, my curiosity about him grows. He doesn’t seem to speak — curiously enough. At first glance, he seems like the type to want all the attention, just by how he holds himself and the posh clothing he wears, but he’s always seen in the dark booths or at the corner of the bar, off to the side where people don’t usually sit. This is where I start to get frustrated, you see, because there’s no way of me inconspicuously getting close to him.

I reached past him to get a cocktail napkin — smelled his expensive cologne — brushed against his arm, but he didn’t so much as look at me. And let me tell you — being someone who is considered to be very handsome — this was a hit to my self-esteem. I got over it, though, when I pulled a guy just a few minutes later and spent all night riding his arse to release my frustration. 

I’m good. If someone put a timer on it, I could pick up a guy in about five minutes and convince him to take me home. Though I usually like to play with my food, it seems like I’m good enough for anyone who comes to the bar. For everyone, except this guy. The half-a-million-pound-watch guy. That’s what gets me. I can hear you saying ‘Well, Draco, maybe he’s just straight’. Shut up. Even the straightest men have melted under my very talented and capable fingers. But him? Not so much as a nod in my direction. Not a single word from his mouth has ever graced my ears. All I know is that he’s rich, he’s hot, and I think he might be married. 

I don’t want to hear it. ‘Oh, Draco, he’s probably so in love with his wife that he doesn’t even notice anyone else’. Again, shut up. Married straight men are no better than single ones. I don’t usually try and climb into bed with married men, but it does occasionally happen if I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep or gagging for a —

Doesn’t matter. This guy is driving me crazy. I’m on the brink of making a fool out of myself just to get a reaction from him. He seems to be absolutely unemotional, stoic, serious, but there’s something about his eyes that make him seem kind. I bet that if he were to smile, it would be nice. 

Who am I? Sitting here thinking of some random bloke’s imaginary smile? Stupid, stupid, stupid, and so incredibly unlike me. I know we just met, but can’t you already tell that I’m not the type of guy who ruminates on things? Piss it. I’m going to pull him — I don’t care what it takes. My best friend says that I haven’t got a chance, and I’m determined to prove her wrong. Mind you, it’s nearly impossible to prove Hermione wrong as she’s one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met. Perhaps the most brilliant, actually. She taught my stubborn arse BSL, for fuck’s sake. 

Whatever. Enough about me. This is about him — the half-a-million-pound watch guy. How, no matter the cost, I’m going to get into his bed and he is going to like it. Maybe it will be the worst shag of my life. Maybe once I crack through that bizarrely intimidating exterior, there won’t be anything underneath. Maybe he’s better left alone, to exist only in my imagination and wet dreams as a fantasy. I, of all people, know that sometimes the real thing isn’t as good as you wish it to be. Maybe I’ll get into that later. 

For now, let’s begin with learning his name. You’d think this wouldn’t be too difficult, but the barkeep said that she’s not allowed to talk about the half-a-million-pound watch guy (as an aside, I want to note that I severely regret my choice of nickname and henceforth will be referring to him as HAM ((half a million)). Yes, I said henceforth, get over it) which I find to be spectacularly frustrating. I mean, who bans other people from talking about them — and most importantly, how? Bribery? Threat? I swear, HAM is doing this because he knows I want to know his name. Maybe that’s conceited of me to think. 

“You remind me of someone,” he murmurs, tilting his head as his fingers sweep under my chin. I look up automatically and my stomach flips because I hope he’s talking about me— the real me, I mean, not this Muggle body.

“Who?” I ask, and I’m frustrated at how breathy my voice has become.

His eyebrows pull together fractionally and then they smooth out as a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.