Damson Idris. Franklin Saint. Idgaf which one I just need a REAL toe curling smut of this mannn! I swear he makes me wish I could do backflips on the D and ride his face every time I watch Snowfall like why is this man so so fucking fineee 😩😩😩
I'm watching the Snowfall again and wanted to post this real bad
warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of a gun
A sliver of moonlight shines through your curtains, the strip landing at the foot of your bed. Its not bright enough to keep you awake, but you’re having trouble falling asleep anyway. You feel worried, like something is wrong. You’ve been tossing and turning for the past hour, heart rate increased with a bout of anxiety. The source, you’re unsure of. It just feels like something is wrong.
And then you hear it, a faint knock at your door despite it being past midnight. You sit up and wait, listening. Two more soft knocks at your front door and you’re slipping out of bed. You’re not expecting visitors, but you know who it is deep down. If not, you’ll just try to go back to bed.
Checking the peep hole, your heart only beats faster as you recognize his silhouette illuminated only by your tiny porch light. You wet your lips and unlock your front door, pulling it open just as his fist is raised to deliver another set of knocks. “Franklin,” you breathe out.
He’s stepping into your apartment before you get the chance to invite him. You close and lock the door behind him, reaching for the light switch. “Don’t,” he murmurs, a rough and calloused hand gently grabbing your arm. His comment raises concern in you and you furrow your eyebrows.
“I want to see you,” you say, flicking the switch and immediately squinting against the intensity of light. A bruised and bloodied Franklin greets you when your eyes adjust and you can’t help but flinch at the split lip that is accompanied by a cut on his cheek. “Franklin…” you frown at him, taking the hand that’s on your arm and tugging him closer to you by the wrist.
“I said ‘don’t’” he grumbles, mild irritation in his voice. Everything hurts right now, and it’s not just the bright lights above him. His ribs are definitely bruised, his right hand aches, and his back is sore. All he wants to do is sleep.
Scoffing, your frown deepens. “This is my house and you came here covered in blood. I’ll do as I please,” you fire back, the lack of sleep seeping already affecting your attitude. Franklin tried to match your frown but it’s hard to tell with a swollen eye, to witch he lets out a quiet groan. “Come on.” You sigh, flicking off the light and pulling him down the hallway into the bathroom.
Depositing his gun on the counter, Franklin takes a seat on the toilet lid and hunches over, putting his head in his hands and closing his eyes. “What hurts?”
“Everything,” he mumbles, wincing at the feeling of his lip being stretched where the cut is. “My eye, my back, my mouth. Everything.”
Rather than replying or taking another look at his battered face, you keep digging under the sink until find peroxide and bandaids, as well as an instant ice pack. Crushing up the ice pack, you hand it to him once it starts to feel cold. “Here,” Franklin accepts it and presses it against his face, sighing at the coolness. “Sit up.” You command after drenching a few cotton balls in peroxide.
Obliging, Franklin straightens up and lets you start to clean up the dried blood on his face. He can’t help but watch you, feeling grateful for your care especially since he decided to show up unannounced and late. “Who did this?” You ask quietly, rather than asking what happened. You’d rather not know. Franklin opens his mouth, and you stop him before he can get a word out. “And don’t lie, Franklin.”
He can’t help but chuckle, though he quickly stops when he feels it in his ribs. The person is on the tip of his tongue, though he debates telling you for he knows how you’ll react. “Franklin,” you press, lifting the cotton ball from his face and softly pushing his jaw to look up at you.
When you meet his eyes, something inside of you softens despite the state he’s in. You hate what he chooses to do for work, you hate the danger he’s constantly in. You hate when he comes by looking like this, blood all over his face and clothes like it’s nothing. You cast a glance at the gun on the counter and pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your thumb gently strokes the soft skin of his cheek. Franklin follows your gaze and grabs ahold of your free hand. “Jerome.”
A look of confusion crosses your features. “Jerome? Your uncle?” Franklin only nods, and your confusion shifts to frustration and anger. “What the fuck, Franklin?” You drop your hand from his face and place it on your hip, slipping the other one out of his grip; the groove between your eyebrows deepening. Franklin waves off your anger with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head.
“It’s handled, baby. Don’t worry about it,” scoffing, you shake your head at him in proper disbelief. You want to argue with him, want to yell and scream. You want to fight; him, his uncle, everyone that had something to do with it. But above it all, you want to understand why these things happen to Franklin, why he chooses this life everyday over another one.
Instead you just shake your head, too tired to fight and yell, and go back to taking care of him. Maybe you apply a little too much pressure when you clean his cuts, and maybe his hisses more than before, but neither of you say anything. You just frown and tend to him, spending extra time on his split lip. These lips, you think, and almost sigh.
“You’re going to get wrinkles,” Franklin quips, making your eyes snap to his in a glare. He gives you a slight smirk and you roll your eyes.
“I’m done, smartass,” you grumble and toss the soiled supplies in the trash. Franklin stands up and groans, all of his muscles feeling tight. There’s still an ache in his ribs, but as long as he can breathe he considers himself lucky.
“Thank you,” he says, bracing himself against the counter. You turn and face him, shoulders dropping when you look up at him. Though you don’t agree with his lifestyle completely, you’d do this again in a heartbeat. As long as he comes back to you each day and night, you’ll gladly step in and play nurse, even if it’s delivered with an attitude.
Franklin leans down a bit and your hands come up to cup his jaw. His eyes flutter closed when you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, not yet ready to meet his swollen bottom lip. “Let’s go to bed.”
The two of you shuffle back to your bedroom and you slip under the covers while Franklin gets undressed in the dark. Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you watch him with the small amount of light the moon allows. His muscles flex in his back when he pulls his shirt over his head, accompanied by a wince that pulls at your heart strings.
Feeling your stare, Franklin looks over his shoulder at you as he unbuttons his pants. “What?” You only shake your head, and you know if his lip didn’t hurt that he’d be giving you that infamous smirk. Rather than that, he pulls of his pants and then crawls into bed next to you. “C’mere.” He pulls you back towards his chest, a heavy arm slipping over your midsection.
It’s only a few minutes later, when his breathing becomes more even and you feel him relax into sleep that you realize your anxious feeling has been lifted and replaced with something more personal and intimate, more tangible. You’re sure it’s love.
(something short and sweet bc i just started snowfall! also kinda my 400 follower special)
you had known franklin’s family pretty well seeing as how his mom and your mom were both really good friends.
you guys were raised to be friends also and for the most part, yall were.
that was until the movie you were watching had gotten boring and he’d looked at you for too long with that stupid smile and pretty brown eyes.
neither of you knew how it happened but, somehow you ended up all over each other. he was so gentle with you. probably because he knew this was new to you.
his hands settled on your hips and his lips found your pulse point causing you to softly moan, “is this okay?” he asked as his nose grazed the curve of your neck.
you nodded and he kept kissing your neck. after a while your lips found his again and you placed your hands on his shoulders.
you were worked up and the fact that he hadn’t been trying to force you to go any further made you want to go further.
you reached down trying to tug at his belt two minutes before ms. saint walked in. you separated looking like a doe in headlights, franklin alike.
“..i just made it home” she muttered in shock mostly.
Between the Lines” — a Joshua Pearce x Reader Imagine
The paddock was quiet for once. The usual chaos of engines, shouting engineers, and buzzing cameras had faded with the setting sun. Only a few distant voices echoed from the far end of the garage as the mechanics packed up. The smell of fuel still hung in the air, sharp and familiar, and the concrete floor reflected streaks of orange light from the open shutters.
(Y/N) sat cross-legged on a stack of tire blankets, helmet beside her, still in her race suit. She’d finished her post-session debrief half an hour ago, but she hadn’t moved. The garage lights above flickered slightly, humming like the only heartbeat left in the place.
Across the room, Joshua Pearce was still there too. He was half bent over his car, fingers tracing along the sidepod like he could read the story of his day in its carbon fiber shell. His race suit hung loose at the waist, undershirt sticking to his chest. His hair was a little damp, curling just slightly at the ends — a detail she hated herself for noticing.
“Still inspecting it like it’s going to whisper your secrets back?” she called softly.
He looked up, that signature smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it will. You never know — she listens better than most people.”
“Better than your teammate?” she asked, feigning a scoff.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, as though he was trying to decide if she was teasing or fishing. “Depends which teammate you’re talking about.”
There it was — the spark. It always happened like this: a conversation too casual to be called flirting, but too charged to be just friendly. It was their thing. Their language. The one the whole team pretended not to notice.
“Funny,” she said, pushing off the tire stack and walking toward him. Her boots echoed on the floor. “You always talk to your car when you’re frustrated. Maybe that’s why she listens. She can’t talk back.”
Joshua chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag. “And what about you? You sulk until someone drags you out of your head.”
She stopped beside him, close enough to see the fine grease smudges on his jawline. “Maybe I just think better in silence.”
He leaned against the side of the car, crossing his arms. “You think too much.”
“And you don’t think enough.”
That made him laugh — the kind of laugh that wasn’t just amusement but acknowledgment. They balanced each other that way. She analyzed. He improvised. Somehow, it worked.
The silence stretched between them again, not awkward — never awkward — just heavy with everything unspoken. They’d been teammates for a year now, partners in one of the most competitive teams on the grid. Everyone said their chemistry was unmatched — on track, at least. Off-track, it was a different story. Too much tension. Too many glances that lingered a second too long.
She sat down on the pit wall, watching him with her chin resting on her hand. “You know, I’m starting to think you purposely understeer into corners just to make me look faster.”
Joshua grinned, turning to face her. “You think I’d risk my lap time just to make you shine?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she murmured, but the way her voice softened at the end betrayed her. She’d seen it before — the small sacrifices, the quiet teamwork no one noticed. The way he’d block an opponent just long enough for her to slip through. The way he’d check on her first after every race, no matter his own result.
Joshua picked up his water bottle, twisted the cap, and leaned back beside her. “You really think I do that?”
“I don’t think,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze. “I know.”
Something flickered in his eyes. A question. A confession held hostage behind a smirk.
He looked away first, laughing under his breath. “You always read too deep into things.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but sometimes the truth is right there — between the lines.”
Their eyes met again, and this time neither of them looked away. His stare was steady, but there was something uncertain in it, like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name. She felt her pulse in her throat. The air between them shifted — heavier, softer, full of everything they hadn’t said for months.
Then a distant voice called from outside the garage. One of the engineers. “Pearce! You heading out soon?”
Joshua blinked, and the moment broke. He exhaled slowly. “Yeah. In a bit.”
The door slid halfway shut after the engineer left, leaving them in dim amber light. The silence returned — but this time, it wasn’t peaceful. It was charged.
“You staying for long?” he asked, still looking at her.
She shrugged. “Didn’t feel like going back home yet.”
He hesitated, then nodded toward the car. “I was going to do a few laps on the sim before we call it a night. Want to join?”
She smiled faintly. “You mean lose to you? Again?”
His grin widened. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
—
The simulator room was dimly lit, screens casting bluish light on their faces. She sat in one rig, Joshua in the other, both strapped in like it was a real cockpit. The air hummed with soft mechanical sounds — the motors of the pedals, the faint buzz of cooling fans.
They raced side by side, monitors glowing with the virtual track. Every now and then, she’d hear him mutter under his breath when she overtook him, and she’d bite back a grin.
“Still think you’re faster?” she teased, voice light but trembling with adrenaline.
He turned slightly, eyes darting to her. “You’re only ahead because I let you.”
“You can’t even let yourself brake on time,” she shot back.
They went silent again, focused. The fake engine noise filled the room, but under it all, there was laughter — unspoken, mutual. Their teamwork wasn’t about winning. It was about knowing. Understanding. Sharing something that existed only in those seconds where their cars — or sims — were inches apart.
After the race ended, she leaned her head back, breathing hard but smiling. “Okay,” she panted, “I’ll admit. That was fun.”
Joshua’s laugh came low, warm. “You were actually trying this time.”
She glanced at him, catching that faint shimmer in his eyes again — playful but sincere. “So were you.”
Their laughter faded into quiet. The kind that stretches, turns slow and intimate. Joshua unclipped his harness, standing up and moving closer. She watched him in the blue light, every line of his face softened by the shadows.
He crouched beside her sim seat, forearms resting on his knees. “You’ve got a habit,” he said quietly. “When you’re focused, you bite your lip.”
Her brows lifted, surprised. “You notice that?”
“I notice a lot of things,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like how you tap your fingers before every launch start. Or how you always hum under your breath when you’re nervous.”
Her throat went dry. “You… pay attention.”
He smiled faintly. “Of course I do. You’re my teammate.”
But the way he said it — soft, deliberate — didn’t sound like just that. The word teammate carried weight. Like it wasn’t enough.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured.
He tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her heart felt like it was doing a full lap around the circuit inside her chest. She reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face — mostly to have something to do with her hands. “You’re staring again,” she said.
“Am I?” His tone was all mock innocence, but his eyes didn’t move. “Can’t help it. You’re easier to look at than a timing screen.”
She laughed, but it came out soft, almost breathless. “Joshua…”
He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could see the faint sheen of sweat on his jaw, the way his lashes caught the light. “You’re the one who said we should read between the lines,” he whispered.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then, as if drawn by something inevitable, she reached up and rested her hand against his cheek. He stilled under her touch, eyes flicking from her lips to her eyes.
She smiled — small, trembling, genuine. “Then read this.”
And she kissed him.
It wasn’t dramatic, not the kind of cinematic kiss you’d expect from a movie scene. It was soft, hesitant — the quiet confession of two people who’d been circling each other for too long. He exhaled against her mouth, one hand rising to cup her jaw, the other brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It deepened for just a moment — a question answered, a line finally crossed.
When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his. She could feel his smile against her skin.
“Took you long enough,” he murmured.
She let out a shaky laugh. “Me? You’re the one who kept pretending it was all about the team.”
He chuckled, voice warm and low. “Maybe I needed you to win that race first.”
She rolled her eyes, though she was still smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, “but you love that about me.”
The words hung there — unintentional, unguarded. But instead of pulling back, she just smiled wider.
“Maybe I do.”
They sat there for a moment longer, the world outside forgotten. Just two drivers, still in their suits, surrounded by the faint hum of machines and the glow of screens. The smell of fuel and rubber clung to them, but so did something sweeter — something that had been waiting quietly all season.
Eventually, he stood and offered her a hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before someone walks in and sees the team’s ‘professional duo’ being very unprofessional.”
She laughed, taking his hand. “Right. Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”
“Oh, that’s already gone,” he said with a grin. “You ruined it the first time you beat me in qualifying.”
“Worth it,” she said, bumping his shoulder as they walked out.
“Definitely worth it,” he echoed, and when she looked at him, that familiar spark — the one everyone on the grid saw but never understood — had changed. It wasn’t just teasing anymore. It was something solid. Real.
Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the faint sounds of crickets and the distant hum of city lights. They walked side by side, helmets swinging loosely in their hands.
He looked over at her one more time, smile soft and knowing. “So… tomorrow’s race?”
She smirked. “Try to keep up.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “After tonight? Not a chance.”
And as they disappeared into the night — teammates, rivals, and something more — the paddock lights flickered out behind them, leaving only the soft echo of laughter and the quiet promise of everything that would come next.
i'm writing a snowfall one shot (just a short character study on franklin), but i need someone to beta read cause idk if it makes any sense. ik this fandom is dead but still ughhhh someone save me
She didn’t bother with the strawberry this time—her smile crooked as if she’d made a sudden decision. Mireille leaned forward, closing the space between them, and pressed her lips to his.
It wasn’t a quick taste. No, she kissed him slow, lips parting until her tongue slid against his, coaxing, teasing. It was lazy in tempo but deep enough to pull him under. Franklin froze for a second—not because he didn’t want it, but because of the way she kissed him. It was unhurried, intentional, like she was claiming a piece of him back.
His chest tightened, and the man in him—the one that had been restless for her, fighting himself and every shadow in his past—answered right back. Franklin leaned into her, hand curling along her jaw, thumb brushing under her chin, tilting her where he wanted her. He let her taste him, then pressed back, his tongue sliding with hers in a rhythm that made his breath catch.
She sighed into it, her whole body easing like she’d forgotten to hold herself up, fingers curling at his shoulder, nails faint against the cotton of his tee. That soft sound from her undid him more than any words could.
By the time she drew back, lips swollen, her chest rose and fell quick. She stayed close though, foreheads brushing, her eyes half-lidded but searching him.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” Franklin murmured, voice low, rougher than he meant, “I’m not gon’ be able to let you go.”
Her smile was faint but trembling, lips still inches from his. “Maybe that’s the point,” she whispered back, and before he could answer, she pulled him in again, kissing him deeper, wetter, like she wanted to feel every ounce of what he’d just said.
This time, Franklin didn’t hesitate. He stood, chair scraping back, dragging her with him by the hips until she was half-in his arms, half-on her feet, the kiss still locked between them. The breakfast could wait—she was all he wanted to taste.
95
Her fingers, soft but steady, slid up from his chest to his jaw, tilting his chin so he had no choice but to look at her. The motion stopped him cold, the weight of her gaze sobering even as his body pressed hers tighter to the counter.
“I do love you, Franklin,” Mireille whispered, her voice thick but clear. “Even if it’s only been a little bit of time. Even if—technically—we’re still strangers aside from…” her lips curved, teasing despite the vulnerability in her eyes, “…the bed or whatever emotional connection we’re fumbling through.”
Franklin stilled, staring down at her like the words were hitting deeper than any touch ever had. His breath slipped out slow, rough. “Strangers don’t feel like this,” he said low, thumb brushing across the dip of her waist, his eyes locked on hers like he was daring her to argue.
She tilted her head, lips quirking again, though her lashes fluttered at the truth pressing in around them. “You sound so sure of yourself.”
“That’s ‘cause I am,” Franklin shot back, but softer than his usual edge, like he was handling something delicate. He leaned in, their noses brushing. “You think I’d be standin’ here, lettin’ food burn, lettin’ business wait… if you ain’t already mine?”
Her laugh cracked in the middle, half disbelief, half caught breath, because his hands slid lower, pulling her closer at the hips until there was no space left. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to gather herself, but when she opened them again he was still staring at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
“Franklin…” she breathed, hands sliding into his curls, tugging just slightly to ground herself. “You’re trouble. I know it. But you feel—” she stopped, swallowing hard as his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. “—you feel like peace right now.”
He smiled against her skin, small and unguarded, before capturing her lips again. This time, the kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slow and consuming, the kind that unraveled her piece by piece while his palms pressed firm at her back, holding her steady against the counter like he had no plans of letting go.
Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer without thinking, and Franklin groaned low in his chest, breaking only long enough to mutter against her lips, “Ain’t lettin’ nobody call us strangers again.”
96
Mireille’s mouth trailed heat up the strong line of his throat, slow and unhurried, like she wanted to taste every inch of him before she reached his ear. Her breath ghosted over his skin, and then the softest nip caught his lobe.
Her voice lingered there, low and tempting.
“If we not strangers…” she murmured, lips brushing him again, “…what are they gonna call us then, Saint?”
The question sent a sharp shiver down his spine. Franklin’s jaw flexed as he turned his face just enough to catch her in his sights, his hand sliding up her thigh with a deliberate grip. “They gon’ call us what we are,” he said, voice rough, eyes locked on hers. “You mine. I’m yours. Ain’t no halfway in that.”
Her lips curved, playful but shaky at the same time. She tilted her head back, giving him room, teasing and testing. “Mmm, bold claim for a man who used to disappear at sunrise.”
That made him pause just long enough to shake his head, a shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth. He leaned closer until his nose brushed her scarf-covered curls, breathing her in. “Used to,” he repeated, like he wanted her to hear the finality in it. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere now. Not after last night. Not after you told me what you did.”
Her chest tightened, breath catching because he said it with the kind of certainty that left little room for retreat. She bit down on her lip, but he caught her chin, coaxing it free with a thumb.
“You askin’ what they gon’ call us?” Franklin said, low, steady. “They gon’ call us somethin’ real. Somethin’ that lasts. Somethin’ bigger than me, bigger than you. That’s what.”
Her smile flickered, softer this time, dimples flashing faint as she searched his face. She kissed him again, slower now, lips moving like she wanted to memorize the shape of his mouth. Pulling back just enough to whisper against him, she teased, “That sounds a lot like you tryna say we somethin’ like love.”
Franklin’s hands tightened on her waist, pulling her flush to him, his eyes dark but sure. “Nah,” he corrected, brushing her mouth again. “Ain’t somethin’ like love. It is love. And I’m done actin’ like it ain’t.”
Her laugh trembled through her, soft and breathless, and she pressed her forehead to his, whispering, “You sound dangerous when you talk like that, Saint.”
But this time, she didn’t try to push him away.
97
Her smile softened, dimples flickering as she looked at him with her head tilted just so, curls brushing her cheek. Her voice dropped lower, teasing but threaded with something vulnerable under it.
“If you’re done acting, Saint…” she let the pause stretch, her finger tracing idle circles against his chest, “…what am I? You gonna ask me nicely, huh?”
The challenge was wrapped in sweetness, but Franklin heard the weight tucked in between her words. His hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb brushing her jaw, guiding her to look at him dead-on. His voice came out quieter, steady but full of heat.
“You already know what you are to me, Ray.”
She arched a brow, lips pressing together like she was holding back a laugh, like she wasn’t about to give him anything easy. “Mmm, no… see, I wanna hear you say it. Not assume. Not hide behind that Franklin Saint swagger you wear like a coat. I want the words. From you.”
Franklin studied her, that softness in her eyes matched with the dare in her tone. He leaned in close, his forehead brushing hers, making sure she couldn’t look anywhere but him. His hand slid down her side to rest firm on her hip, steadying her where she straddled him.
“You my woman,” he said simply, the words heavy, grounded. “Ain’t no title, no past, no man from before touchin’ that. You mine, Mireille. And I’m yours.”
Her breath hitched, lashes fluttering like she didn’t expect him to cut through the dance so direct. She bit her lip, then tried to cover the tremor in her voice with a scoff. “That supposed to be you asking me nicely?”
His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. He tilted her chin again, brushing a thumb over her bottom lip where she’d bitten. “Nah. That’s me telling you how it is. But if you need me to ask—” his voice softened, dropping to something rawer— “then let me ask. Be mine, Ray. Not halfway. Not in secret. Be mine, all the way.”
The air between them went still. Her throat worked like she was swallowing words she couldn’t get out quick enough. She finally whispered, almost breaking, “And you’ll be mine?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Already am.”
Her chest rose sharp, eyes glistening as her smile wobbled, caught between relief and disbelief. She leaned in, lips brushing his as she whispered back, “Then ask me again, Saint. Ask me so I can say yes.”
And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t teasing or testing. It was an answer.
98
Mireille tugged on the collar of his shirt, her smile sharp, teasing, but her eyes daring him to play along. “And what is your woman—ya lil’ girlfriend? Exclusive bed privileges?”
Franklin chuckled low, leaning forward so their foreheads touched. “Nah,” he said, voice a little rough with amusement and something hotter beneath it. “My woman? She’s my woman. Ain’t no qualifier, ain’t no limit. You get all of me, Ray. You hear me? All of me. Bed, heart, mind… everything.”
Her lips twitched, fighting a laugh, but there was a spark in her eyes, that mischievous glint that had him hooked from the start. “Mmm, I like how that sounds… but you better mean it, Saint.”
“I mean it,” he said, tightening his hand around her hip, letting his thumb brush along the curve, grounding her to him. “No games, no running, no letting anyone else even look your way like they could claim you. You’re mine.”
She tilted her head, lips brushing his as she whispered against him, “And if I say yes… you gon’ remember this promise when life comes tryin’ to test you?”
Franklin pressed his lips to hers, slow at first, letting the words sink in through the heat of the kiss. “Every damn time. I don’t forget the woman I love, Ray. And you already know—I love you.”
Her hands moved from his collar down his chest, gripping him lightly, teasing him like a spark waiting to ignite. “Good… ‘cause my man better be able to hold me down,” she said with a smirk, letting the teasing edge roll off into something softer, something more intimate.
He laughed against her mouth, brushing her curls back, low growl threading his words. “Hold you down? Baby, I ain’t just holdin’ you down—I’m keeping you, always.”
Her smile softened, eyes glinting, and she leaned in closer, letting him feel how completely she was there with him, her body and her words syncing in perfect defiance of everything else around them.
99
Ray’s teeth tugged at her bottom lip, her smile blooming slow and a little shy before she finally nodded, voice soft but steady. “Then yeah… I’m your girl, Saint.”
Franklin’s chest tightened at the words—like he’d been waiting a lifetime for them. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, one hand sliding up to cup her jaw, his thumb grazing her skin with a reverence that had nothing to do with his usual swagger.
“My girl,” he repeated, almost to himself, like he was tasting it on his tongue. Then his eyes locked on hers, sharp and unwavering. “You don’t know what you just did to me sayin’ that.”
Her laugh slipped out, light and musical, though her gaze lingered serious as she studied him. “Oh, I think I do.” She tilted her chin up, brushing her nose against his. “Look at you. The Franklin Saint, lookin’ like somebody just handed him the whole damn world.”
He chuckled low, shaking his head as his hands tightened on her hips, dragging her closer against him on the counter. “Nah. Just handed me mine. That’s what you are, Ray. Mine.”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t shrink from the weight of it this time. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, leaning in until her lips hovered just above his. “Then if I’m yours, Saint… prove you know how to treat what’s yours.”
That playful challenge lit something fierce in his eyes. He kissed her—deep, slow, claiming—and when he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed against hers. “I already started,” he murmured, brushing her lips again. “Cooked for you, held you down, told you the truth. And I ain’t stoppin’, not for nobody.”
Ray bit her lip again, but this time it wasn’t nerves—it was hunger, anticipation, something melting in her chest. She gave a small nod, her voice a whisper against his mouth. “Guess we’ll see if you can keep up with me, then.”
Franklin smirked, low and dangerous, his hands sliding lower along her waist. “Oh, I can keep up. Question is—can you handle me, Ray?”
Her laughter spilled out warm, curling into the air between them as she kissed him again, no hesitation, no defenses left.
100
Ray’s phone buzzed sharp against the counter, slicing through the warmth between them.
She groaned, rolling her eyes and sliding out of Franklin’s grasp. “Merde…” she muttered under her breath, snatching it up. The annoyance in her tone only grew as she answered, unleashing a string of rapid-fire Haitian Creole, her words sharp enough to cut.
Franklin leaned back on the counter, arms crossed, watching her pace the kitchen barefoot, sundress shifting with every turn. He didn’t need to know the language to feel the heat of her irritation. Whoever was on the other end, they weren’t keeping up with her.
Her voice raised, sharper, then she stopped short, pressing her palm to her forehead like she was already past fed up. More Creole, spit fast, clipped. Then—click. She hung up mid-sentence.
Ray slammed the phone down on the counter, cussing again under her breath. She closed her eyes, took a breath, then glanced at Franklin. “I swear you can’t leave boys to do grown women’s shit,” she snapped, her accent thicker from anger.
He smirked low, one eyebrow raised. “That right?”
Her lips twitched despite herself. She shook her head, exhaling through her nose. “You wanna see what I do? Really see it? Then stay close, Saint. Maybe we can talk mergers.”
“Mergers, huh?” Franklin’s tone was amused but his eyes were sharp, calculating. “Sounds like business and pleasure mixin’ to me.”
Ray tilted her head, stepping closer, her irritation shifting into that sly, dangerous energy he was starting to recognize as all hers. “Only way it works, no?” Her gaze locked with his, deliberate. “Oh, and Saint—” she paused, her hand brushing against his chest like she knew just how to distract him before she dropped it— “I got an idea about your colonizer problem.”
That caught him. Franklin straightened, his smirk fading into something cooler, intent. “Yeah? Then you better tell me.”
Ray smiled faint, lips curling like she already knew she had his full attention. “Later. When I got you where I want you.”
101
The ride stretched quiet, just the hum of the road and desert wind. Franklin leaned back in the seat, side-eyeing Mireille when the driver kept pushing further and further out, nothing but sand and heat rippling outside.
He finally let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “So what— you bring me all the way out here just to kill me?”
Mireille turned her head, eyes shining with mischief. Then she laughed, a light, melodic sound that didn’t match the emptiness around them. She tugged him close by his collar, pressing her lips slow and lazy against his until he felt like the world tilted. By the time she pulled away, he was half-drunk on her kiss.
Her whisper ghosted over his lips, soft but sharp: “Non, mon cœur… you’d only be dead if you betray me. And even then…” she smiled, sinful, “I think I’d want you inside me first.”
Before he could come back with something slick, she slid out of the car, heels crunching in the dirt. Franklin followed, eyes narrowed as she tapped the toe of her shoe twice against the barren ground.
Clang.
Metal rang out beneath the sand, the echo carrying. Franklin stiffened when the earth shifted, two massive steel doors parting from underground. Dust kicked up as machinery groaned. Then—stairs. Long, industrial ones, lit faintly below.
Two men with rifles appeared at the top, eyes sharp but heads bowed with respect. “Madame,” they said in unison, stepping aside. More men lined the steps all the way down, weapons in hand, but each nodding politely as she passed.
Franklin followed, jaw tight, every instinct in him on alert. But Mireille? She moved like this was her second home.
The deeper they went, the cooler it got, the hum of machines and faint echoes replacing the dry silence of the desert. And then—at the bottom, Franklin froze.
Rows. Long halls lined with steel-barred cells. The smell of sweat, concrete, and power.
“What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the faces behind the bars.
It wasn’t dope dealers or corner boys. It wasn’t even killers. These were clean men. White shirts, suits wrinkled from days locked up. And faces Franklin recognized—faces from the news, faces with authority.
He turned sharply to her. “This a private prison?”
Mireille let out a sharp scoff, rolling her eyes. “I’m not some Uncle Tom, Franklin.” She gestured grandly with her hand. “No. Look closer.”
He did. And when he did, his stomach flipped.
In one cell—two uniformed cops, badges still clipped to their belts, glaring but silent. In another—a city councilman Franklin had seen shaking hands with mayors. Judges. District Attorneys. CO’s. Even a DEA agent Franklin knew he’d seen tailing him back in the city.
Everywhere he looked—powerful people, stripped down and chained, pacing cages like they were nothing more than animals.
Franklin’s throat went dry. He dragged his hand across his jaw, eyes wide. “…You got mayors. Police. Fuckin’ alphabet boys—” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “You serious? You runnin’ a whole damn… shadow prison?”
Mireille’s smile was cold, faint, almost pleased. “Not shadow. Correction. Balance.”
She looked up at him then, her tone velvet but edged like a knife. “Everybody wants to lock up our people, Franklin. Tell me why we can’t put their monsters in cages, too.”
102
Mireille’s heels clicked against the concrete as she slowed, lifting her hand to gesture at the rows of cells. Her voice dropped to a whisper, the kind that carried anyway, smooth and deliberate.
“We’re head hunters, Franklin. Just like my people were back in Haiti. Sure—” her fingers flicked in dismissal, “we deal with weapons, with shipments, with products we can talk merging on. But this?” Her eyes cut to his, sharp, daring him to keep up. “This is what happens when people are beaten down too far for too long. Someone finally snaps. Someone finally snatches the monsters up.”
She stepped closer to one of the cells. A judge—Franklin knew that face, even remembered a headline about him handing down life sentences like candy—backed up instinctively when her gaze landed on him.
Her lips curved into something soft, dangerous. “And people? They pay a lot of money to see them like this. Even more for… controlled revenge.”
Franklin stood rooted, his shoulders squared but his eyes following every move she made. His stomach flipped as she continued down the row, her hand trailing over cold bars as if she were walking through a gallery.
“You mean—” he started, voice low, still processing. “You lettin’ people… pay to get even?”
Her laugh was soft, almost cruel in how pretty it sounded against the heavy air. “Not lettin’, Franklin. Offering.Structuring. Controlling. There is dignity in organization. Rage without direction is chaos—violence that doesn’t last. But here? Here it’s clean. Precise.”
Franklin dragged his palm over his mouth, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. He glanced at the DEA man caged like a dog, then back to her. “This some… next level shit. You runnin’ more than product—this a whole fuckin’ empire.”
Mireille’s eyes glittered as she turned back to him. “Exactement. And empires don’t last when you play small.”
She tilted her head, stepping back into his space, close enough for the heat of her body to cut through the chill of the underground. Her voice softened, curling into his ear.
“So tell me, mon cœur—do you want to keep fighting to survive someone else’s game, or do you want to start writing the rules with me?”
103
Franklin didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, jaw tight, staring at her like he was trying to read every line of her face and every shadow behind her words. The weight of the underground air pressed heavy on his chest, like the place itself was daring him to admit he understood it—daring him to step in or step out.
His hand rubbed slow across his beard, his eyes darting to the cages again. Politicians. Cops. Judges. Franklin had done time studying the way power bent systems, and now here it was—the same people who built the walls around men like him, locked inside their own.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head with the kind of laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “You mean to tell me… you got judges down here. Police chiefs. Fuckin’ DEA.” His tone dragged, incredulous. “And ain’t nobody sayin’ a word about it? Nobody’s comin’ knockin’?”
Mireille smirked, tilting her chin like the question almost amused her. “You think anyone comes looking for ghosts, Franklin? Monsters don’t get sympathy when they disappear. Their own houses built these cages—ours just flipped the locks.”
He stared at her, really stared. The way she stood with her arms folded soft across her chest but her presence was sharp enough to cut. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t bluff. She believed every syllable she spoke.
“Shit,” Franklin muttered under his breath, shaking his head again, eyes roaming the steel and concrete. “You really different. I thought I’d seen it all—the CIA, Colombians, them greedy-ass white boys tryin’ to eat off us. But this?” He paused, looking back at her. “This the type of thing… they write myths about.”
Her smile curled slow, deliberate, the kind that hinted she’d been waiting for him to say something like that. She stepped close, her voice softening even more as if only meant for him. “Or dynasties.”
Franklin’s throat tightened. He felt the pull in his chest, the hustler in him lighting up at the scope of what she was showing him. He could see it—the weight of it. Not just selling rock on the corners, not just moving bricks through ports. This was structure. This was leverage. This was power that governments feared.
But underneath that fire in his gut, there was something else. Something that made him keep his eyes on hers and not just the money in his mind.
“You know what this mean though, right?” His voice dropped low, serious. “You pull me into this, Ray… there ain’t no turnin’ back. Ain’t no halfway. Folks find out I’m tied to this—” He nodded toward the cages. “—then I’m marked same as you.”
She studied him in silence for a long beat, her lashes lowering before lifting again, eyes dark and steady. “Mon amour, you were marked the moment you put your first dollar into the streets. The difference is…” She slipped her hand against his chest, over his heart, her nails dragging lightly against his shirt. “…with me, you don’t just survive. You build. You own. You lead.”
Franklin’s breath hitched, his eyes narrowing just slightly at her words. He caught her hand, pressing it flat against him, his own thumb grazing her knuckles.
“I hear you,” he said slowly, voice thick with weight. “I hear all of it. And I’m not gon’ lie… part of me? Part of me hungry for this. ‘Cause this is bigger than anything I been dreamin’. Bigger than Teddy, bigger than them white boys who think they puppeteers.”
He leaned closer, eyes locked on hers now, a tension pulling tight between them.
“But the other part?” His jaw worked. “The man in me that just laid up with you last night, that just heard you say you love me? He’s thinkin’ about what it mean for you. ‘Cause this?” He gestured wide with his free hand, then back at her. “This ain’t just power, Ray. This is blood. This is war.”
Mireille’s smile softened at the edges, less sharp, more… knowing. She tilted her head, pressing closer until her lips hovered just over his.
“Then maybe it’s good I’ve finally got a man who’s not afraid of either.”
Her words melted into his mouth as she kissed him again, deep and lingering, the echo of chains and heavy doors clashing against the sound of her lips parting his. Franklin’s hands gripped her waist, his body taut, as if every nerve in him was fighting between pulling her deeper into him and pulling away from the empire she was dangling in front of him.
When he finally broke the kiss, he kept his forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard, whispering like he was talking only to her soul.
“…Ray, you gon’ get me in deeper than I ever been before.”
And she smiled like that was exactly the point.
104
Mireille’s hand slipped from his chest, curling around his wrist instead, tugging him gently but with certainty down another long corridor. Franklin followed, the hum of generators and the muffled thuds of boots above them echoing like a pulse through the concrete.
She pushed open a heavy steel door and stepped inside, and Franklin stopped dead in his tracks.
The room was massive—wide as a hotel ballroom, screens mounted wall to wall, each one glowing with grainy surveillance feeds. Rows of desks lined with equipment, radios, switches, thick binders stacked with reports, mugshots, names highlighted and crossed out. It wasn’t some makeshift operation; it was a system.
Franklin’s eyes sharpened as they roamed across the screens. Blocks of cells. Multi-levels. Rows upon rows of concrete and steel stretching further than he realized. Cameras on every corner, angles catching every movement.
“Jesus…” he muttered under his breath, dragging his hand across his beard. “This ain’t no lil’ side hustle. This… this a network.”
Mireille’s smile was calm, almost indulgent as she watched him absorb it. Then she stepped closer to the largest wall of feeds, the glow of the monitors dancing against her skin, and her voice dropped low, intimate but sharp like the edge of a blade.
“I’ve got something for everyone,” she began, her French-Haitian accent lacing each word with a musical sharpness. She lifted a hand, gesturing to the feeds as if presenting trophies. “Supremacists. Alphabet boys. Dirty cops. Other uniforms. The old politicians and police who busted down Panthers in the streets. Confederate fucks and their kin. Cartel lieutenants. Colombians. KGB.” Her eyes flicked toward him, the gleam in them daring him to question her. “Pick your poison, mon amour. I got flavors for everyone of our people.”
Franklin’s jaw ticked as he scanned the footage—faces blurred by distance but clear enough to read the history behind them. Rage and arrogance melted into fear inside those cages, into silence. He leaned forward slightly, his hand bracing the desk as his eyes darted between monitors.
“This some wild shit,” he muttered, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief.
Mireille’s smile widened faintly. She folded her arms, stepping closer, her tone softening into something almost conspiratorial.
“And it’s insured. Each of these people we hunt?” She nodded at the screens. “They got dirt so deep, so wide, that the top dogs don’t want it to trail back to them. They write off the losses—say it was accidents, heart attacks, cartel wars, kidnappings. But really?” Her lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “Really, I get the bodies. And I give our people options.”
She leaned against the desk, her hip brushing against his arm as her gaze lifted up toward the cameras again.
“Controlled revenge, Franklin. A way to balance the scale without burnin’ the whole world down. They took. We take back.”
Franklin was quiet for a long stretch, his chest rising and falling slow but steady. His mind ran back through every deal, every lie, every setup he’d lived through since he started hustling. The CIA, Teddy, the betrayals, the war for corners that never really belonged to him.
And here she was—standing next to him, offering something that wasn’t about scraps or fighting for leftovers. This was bigger. This was a whole different league.
His voice was low when he finally spoke, but there was a sharpness underneath, a weight to it.
“…You really out here runnin’ your own country underground.”
Mireille turned her head to him, her lashes lowering, her smile soft and knowing. “Not yet,” she whispered. “But with you? Maybe.”
Her words hung between them, the hum of machinery filling the silence as Franklin’s pulse thudded in his ears.
She can not possibly know what that snow falling outside her window means to him, or what it means to him that it is falling today of all days, but it has his heart pounding in his chest in a way he can only pray she does not feel against hers.
Sometimes we just need a break from the angst, my dudes. This is short, sweet, and wintery. I might add a Hailey version soon if I can survive the airports over the next couple of days to write it. Happy holidays, everyone! Whatever or however you celebrate, I hope it's a great one.
In honor of Winter Storm Elliott, you absolute bitch.
Listen to Patcho's Podfics | SoundCloud is an audio platform that lets you listen to what you love and share the sounds you create.
Hi everyone !! So recently I recorded a few of my fics as podfics for a friend but figured they might be nice to share, so I started a podfic account on SoundCloud! Right now I only have to fics up, but hopefully you’re still able to enjoy them as I work on making more !!!
