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You wake up on your side at the burning stretch of his cock inside you, gasping with no time to comprehend the fact that he’s probably didn’t just start fucking you. Out of instinct, you trying pulling him out of you. It’s not that you don’t want him. You want him in your dreams, so this is fitting, but you just woke up after all.
You can feel how he only used spit for lubricant.
He pulls you back to him, the sweat of his chest gluing your bodies together. He only stops fucking you with his pulsing cock to steady himself back inside.
His breaths are hot at your ear when he gives your ass a smack in the second after.
You wonder with how he’s breathing so heavily, like it’s a challenge not to pop…how didn’t you wake up sooner?
You cry out. He nuzzled his forehead into the back of your neck.
You don’t think he was playing with your pussy before he stuffed himself in between walls long enough this time, it’s gonna take a little while to get yourself leaking on his cock.
“Don’t whine. You’re okay. You’re safe. She wants me.”
He holds you in this hug that’s nearly wholesome, his forearms tucked underneath your breast with the force that gives you no chance to move an inch away from him again.
“It’s okay, baby. I got you.”
With the low, moanish grunts at your neck, he doesn’t give you room to not believe him.
And maybe that was his mistake — loving something soft in a world that demanded hardness.
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I met Franklin Saint when he was still wearing cracked Nikes held together with duct tape and superglue prayers. When his mama still made him sit down for dinner every night at six sharp, when he still flinched at the sound of sirens instead of causing them. He used to smile back then. Not that tight-lipped grimace he wears now — sharp as a blade, cold as the steel he keeps pressed against his ribs — but real smiles. The kind that started in his eyes and spread like sunrise across his face. The kind that made my knees buckle and my heart clutch like a prayer in a burning church.
Back then, he used to whisper dreams into my skin like we were both invincible. Like the bullets couldn't find us if we just loved hard enough. Like the streets would part for us like the Red Sea if we just believed in tomorrow with enough conviction.
"We gon' get out of here, baby," he'd murmur against my collarbone, his voice thick with sleep and possibility. "Build something real. Something clean. Something that don't smell like desperation and broken promises."
I believed him. God help me, I believed every word that fell from his lips like gospel. I saw the way he looked at me — like I was salvation wrapped in brown skin and Sunday morning light. Like I was the answer to every prayer he'd whispered into his pillow since he was old enough to understand that some neighbourhoods were graveyards and some dreams were obituaries waiting to be written.
But dreams turn to nightmares when money starts talking. When power whispers sweet poison in your ear. When the streets start calling your name like a siren song, and the only way to silence them is to become the very thing you swore you'd never be.
He changed.
Piece by piece. Day by day. Year by year.
Like watching someone die in slow motion, except they're still breathing, still walking, still saying my name. But the person behind their eyes? That person started disappearing the moment the first brick touched his hands. The moment he realized that respect came at the barrel of a gun and love was a luxury he couldn't afford.
First, it was the way he walked. Shoulders broader, chin higher, eyes scanning every room like he was calculating exit strategies and body counts. Then it was the way he talked — clipped, efficient, like words were bullets and he couldn't afford to waste ammunition on tenderness.
The laughter died next. Replaced by calculated smiles that never reached his eyes. The boyish wonder that used to light up his face when I'd talk about the future? Gone. Replaced by the cold mathematics of survival.
"You don't understand the game, baby," he'd say when I'd beg him to come home before the sun went down. "You don't understand what it takes to win."
But I understood. I understood that winning meant losing everything that made victory worth having. I understood that building an empire meant burning down the boy I fell in love with, brick by brick, until there was nothing left but the hollow shell of a king ruling over a kingdom of ghosts.
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The mansion was a mausoleum. All marble and mahogany and the kind of silence that pressed against my eardrums like deep water. He'd won, hadn't he? This was what victory looked like — Persian rugs that cost more than most people's houses, chandeliers that threw rainbows across walls lined with original art, a bed big enough to sleep a family but cold enough to freeze my soul.
I became just another piece of the furniture in that cold monument to his success. Beautiful, expensive, and ultimately ignored.
He'd come home reeking of other women and gunpowder, his clothes carrying the scent of decisions that would haunt him in his sleep. If he still slept. If he still dreamed. If there was still enough of the boy left in him to remember what dreams felt like.
I tried. God, I tried.
Stayed silent when he'd stumble through the door at three in the morning, his eyes hollow and his hands shaking from things I didn't want to know about. Swallowed my tears when he'd sit across from me at breakfast, reading reports instead of asking how I slept. When he'd answer phone calls during dinner, his voice dropping to the tone reserved for men who spoke in code and measured their words in body counts.
I bit my tongue when he started missing things. Small things at first — dinner reservations, date nights, the anniversary of the first time he said he loved me. Then bigger things. Doctor's appointments. The day I found out I was pregnant. The day I picked out names for the baby growing inside me, whispering possibilities into my belly while he counted money in the next room.
"Franklin," I'd whisper, standing in the doorway of his office, my hand curved protectively over my stomach. "The baby kicked today. Want to feel?"
He'd look up from his ledgers, his eyes taking a moment to focus on me, like he was trying to remember who I was. Like I was a stranger who'd wandered into his castle by mistake.
"Not now, baby. I'm busy."
Always busy. Always one more deal, one more territory, one more problem to solve with violence and intimidation. The baby became secondary to the business. I became secondary to the empire.
When he forgot the name I'd picked out for our son — David, after his grandfather, the one who used to tell him stories about a time when Black men could dream without looking over their shoulders — I knew I was losing him completely.
"David?" he'd said, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a complex equation. "Nah, that's too soft. If it's a boy, we'll call him Franklin Junior. Continue the legacy."
Legacy. Like my baby was just another asset in his portfolio. Another piece on his chessboard. Another way to ensure his empire would outlive him.
I didn't say anything. Just nodded and let him turn back to his phone call, his voice dropping to discuss shipments and territories and the kind of business that required burner phones and coded language.
That night, I lay in bed beside him, listening to him breathe. His sleep was restless, punctuated by murmurs and sudden movements, like he was fighting battles even in his dreams. I wondered if he ever dreamed about the boy he used to be. If somewhere in his subconscious, he still remembered what it felt like to love without calculating the cost.
The violence started seeping into everything. Into the way he gripped my arm when he was frustrated. Into the way he'd slam doors when deals went wrong. Into the way he'd look at me when I asked too many questions about where he'd been, who he'd been with, why he smelled like smoke and fear.
"You chose this life," he'd say, his voice cold as winter mornings. "Don't act brand new now."
But I hadn't chosen this. I'd chosen the boy with cracked Nikes and impossible dreams. I'd chosen Sunday morning laughter and whispered promises. I'd chosen love, not this hollowed-out shell of a man who measured everything in profit margins and body counts.
I lost the baby at seven months.
Stress, the doctor said. Isolation. My body finally giving up under the weight of loving a ghost. But I knew the truth. I knew it was the night Franklin came home covered in blood — not his own — and shoved me aside when I tried to help him wash it off.
"Don't touch me," he'd snarled, his eyes wild with whatever demons he'd been dancing with. "You don't know what these hands have done."
The shove wasn't that serious. Just enough to make me stumble, to make me catch myself against the marble countertop. Just enough to remind me that I was fragile and he was not. Just enough to start the bleeding that wouldn't stop.
The silence in the hospital room was louder than any gunshot I'd ever heard echoing through South Central. Louder than the sirens that sang the neighbourhood to sleep every night. Louder than the screaming match I'd had with Franklin three days earlier when he'd missed another appointment, another chance to see his son's face on the ultrasound screen.
The nurse brought in a tiny blanket — soft blue with little elephants, the kind of thing that should have wrapped around new life and new possibilities. Instead, it wrapped around silence. Around the weight of what would never be.
Franklin stared at it for exactly three seconds. Then he walked out of the room and never looked back.
I held that blanket for hours. Held it like it was still warm with the promise of tomorrow. Like it could somehow bring back the flutter of tiny feet against my ribs. Like it could somehow resurrect the future I'd been building in my mind — bedtime stories and first steps and the sound of laughter filling up all the empty spaces in that cold mansion.
But the blanket was just cotton and thread. And my baby was just a dream that had died before it could take its first breath.
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It took me a year to leave. Another year to learn how to breathe again.
The leaving was quiet. No dramatic confrontations, no thrown dishes, no screaming matches in the driveway. Just the slow, methodical process of erasing myself from his life piece by piece. Taking back my name, my dignity, my right to grieve without an audience.
I moved out while he was handling business. Left behind everything he'd bought me — the clothes, the jewellery, the car with the bulletproof windows. Took nothing but my name and the ghost of the child that should've called me Mama.
The apartment I found was small. One bedroom, thin walls, the kind of place where I could hear my neighbours' lives playing out in real time. But it was mine. Clean. Quiet. Free from the weight of empire and the smell of other women's perfume.
I learned to sleep without listening for his footsteps. Learned to eat without wondering if he was coming home. Learned to breathe without measuring each inhale against the possibility that this might be the day someone put a bullet in him and made me a widow to a man who'd died long before his body caught up.
The healing was slower than the hurting. Some days I'd wake up and forget, for just a moment, that I wasn't carrying a child anymore. Some days I'd catch myself buying two coffees at the corner store, forgetting that I was just one person now, just one heartbeat in a world that had forgotten my name.
But slowly, carefully, I started to remember who I was before I became his. Before I became the woman who waited by windows and swallowed tears like communion wine. Before I became the mother of a child who would never learn to walk.
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Franklin showed up at my doorstep eight months later, drunk and desperate and looking like the ghost of the boy I used to love.
It was three in the morning. I knew it was him before I even looked through the peephole — could feel his presence like a storm approaching, heavy and electric and dangerous. He was leaning against my door frame, his expensive suit wrinkled and stained, his eyes red with exhaustion and something that might have been tears if I squinted hard enough.
"Baby," he said, his voice cracking like he was seventeen again, like he was still the boy who believed in forever. "Baby, I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry."
I looked at him through the chain lock — this broken man in a thousand-dollar coat, this king of a crumbling empire, this stranger wearing my lover's face. He was shaking. Actually shaking, like a leaf in a hurricane, like a child who'd lost his way in the dark.
"I fucked up," he continued, his words slurring together like prayer and confession. "I lost everything. Lost you. Lost our baby. Lost my damn self. And for what? For what, baby? For some streets that don't even know my name? For some money that can't buy back what I threw away?"
The tears were real. Sliding down his cheeks like rainwater, like he was finally allowing himself to feel everything he'd been running from. Like the dam had finally broken and all the grief and regret and self-hatred was pouring out of him in waves.
"I need you," he whispered, his forehead pressed against my door. "I need you like I need air. Like I need my heartbeat. Please, baby. Please don't leave me here alone. I can't... I can't do this without you."
And for a moment — just a moment — I felt my resolve wavering. Because this was the boy I'd fallen in love with. This was the vulnerability I'd been waiting for, the crack in his armour that proved he was still human underneath all that steel and stone.
But then I remembered the hospital room. The tiny blanket. The way he'd looked right through me like I was optional. The way he'd chosen his empire over his family, his pride over his love, his fear over his future.
"I don't forgive you," I whispered, my voice barely audible through the door. "And I never will."
The words hit him like bullets. I watched him drop to his knees, his hands pressed against my door like he was trying to push his way back into my life through sheer force of will. Like he could somehow undo all the damage with enough desperation and tears.
"Please," he begged, his voice breaking completely. "Please, baby. I'll change. I'll walk away from all of it. I'll burn it all down if you just... if you just give me another chance. One more chance to be the man you fell in love with."
But I was already closing the door. Already turning away from the sound of his heartbreak, from the sight of his empire crumbling at my feet. Already choosing myself over the love that had nearly killed me.
"Goodbye, Franklin," I said, my hand on the deadbolt. "I hope you find what you're looking for."
The After
I don't know if he's still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting battles in a war that has no winners.
Sometimes I catch glimpses of him on the news — another arrest, another investigation, another empire built on bones and blood being picked apart by federal agents and rival dealers. But the face in the mugshots doesn't look like the boy I knew. Doesn't look like the man who used to trace constellations on my skin and promise me the world.
Sometimes I wonder if he ever thinks about the baby. If he ever wonders what David would have looked like, sounded like, felt like in his arms. If he ever regrets choosing power over parenthood, fear over love, the streets over the woman who would have followed him anywhere.
But mostly, I try not to think about him at all.
I've built a new life. Small but real. A job that pays the bills, friends who know my name, a therapist who helps me untangle the knots of loving someone who forgot how to love me back. I volunteer at a community centre, teaching kids to read, showing them that there are worlds beyond the ones they were born into.
Sometimes, when I'm reading to the children, I see flashes of the boy Franklin used to be. The wonder in their eyes when they discover a new word, the way they light up when they realize they can create magic with nothing but letters and imagination. I think about what might have been. What my son might have been if he'd lived, if he'd grown up in a world where his father chose love over legacy.
But then I remember that some dreams are too dangerous to keep. That sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let go. That sometimes salvation looks like walking away from the person you'd die for, because staying would kill you both.
I am healing. Slowly, carefully, like a bone that was broken but is learning to bear weight again. I am learning to love myself with the same intensity I once loved him. Learning to build dreams that don't require anyone else's permission or participation.
And late at night, when the city is quiet and the ghosts are sleeping, I sometimes whisper a prayer for the boy with cracked Nikes and impossible dreams. For the man who lost himself in the pursuit of power. For the baby who never got to choose between love and legacy.
I hope he finds peace. I hope he finds himself. I hope he learns that true power isn't about controlling others, but about controlling yourself. That true wealth isn't measured in dollars and territories, but in the depth of your connections and the weight of your integrity.
But mostly, I hope he understands that some bridges, once burned, can never be rebuilt. That some love, once betrayed, can never be restored. That some choices, once made, echo through eternity like gunshots in an empty cathedral.
I was the only thing in his life that ever felt real. And maybe that was enough. Maybe being loved purely, completely, desperately by someone who forgot how to love himself was its own kind of victory.
Damson had always been like this — unpredictable, intense, and incredibly romantic when no one expected it. After weeks apart due to both your busy schedules, he decided to flip the script.
And now you were here. France.
As you walked through the arrival gate, your heart raced. You looked around, searching for him. For a moment, you thought maybe it had been a joke — a spontaneous gesture he’d forgotten to follow through on.
Until you heard:
— “I’m right here. Thought you changed your mind.”
You turned, and there he was, leaning against one of the pillars, wearing a black coat and that smile.
Damson walked toward you, slowly, with that look that made the whole world disappear. When he reached you, he pulled you into a hug so naturally, like you’d just seen each other yesterday.
— “I missed you,” he whispered.
— “I missed you too,” you replied, resting your forehead against his.
— “Ready?”
— “Ready for what?”
He pulled back just enough to show you two train tickets.
— “We’re going to enjoy our week. No social media, no obligations, no paparazzi. Just you, me, cheap wine, and a ridiculously beautiful sunset.”
You laughed, surprised.
— “Is this a romantic kidnapping?”
— “Absolutely. No right to an attorney.”
Damson took your suitcase, laced his fingers with yours, and you two headed toward the platform. On the way, you laughed, shared earbuds, made silly plans, and argued over who would choose the weekend's soundtrack.
And there, on that train going nowhere and everywhere at once, you realized that real love lived in moments like these: the unexpected gesture, the quiet touch, the thrill of living alongside someone who makes the whole world feel lighter.
.
— “This isn’t a hill, Damson. This is a test from the universe,” you say, out of breath as you pedal, the handlebars wobbling dangerously.
— “Drama, babe. This is just a charming little bump with a premium view on top,” he replies, pedaling with one hand, smiling like he’s in a cologne commercial.
— “Charming? I’m about to see my life flash before my eyes.”
Damson laughs out loud ahead of you. His helmet is crooked, his white T-shirt clings to his sweaty chest, and somehow he still has the audacity to look… handsome. And annoyingly cheerful.
— “Come on, champ. If we survived that risotto I cooked last month, this is nothing.”
You groan but smile. The village you're in is far too beautiful to stay mad for long: houses with flower-covered windows, kids running around, the scent of lavender in the air. Even with the killer climb, there’s something magical about it all.
When you finally reach the top, you throw the bike down and flop onto the grass, arms spread wide.
— “Bury me here. Tell people I died happy.”
Damson lies down beside you, propped up on one elbow, facing you.
— “Can’t believe you’re missing this view with all your drama.”
You open one eye — and yes, the view is worth it. From up here, you can see the sea in the distance, endless green fields, and the little town below like a living postcard.
He leans closer, plucks a leaf from your hair, and smiles with that look that melts you.
— “Did you know this place is called the ‘Terrace of Love’?”
You squint at him.
— “Is that true, or another one of your Damson-style lines?”
— “Thirty percent true, seventy percent charm.”
You laugh, used to his poetic math by now. Damson leans in more, one hand on your waist, and kisses you — slow, like time really is slower up here.
— “You’re forgiven for the hill,” you say against his lips.
— “Phew. Because tomorrow there’s a boat ride… and I can’t really swim.”
— “What?!”
He jumps up.
— “Kidding! Just kidding!” he yells, running off with his hands in the air.
Later, sitting side by side watching the sunset, you feel that special kind of silence. The kind that only exists with someone who makes you feel exactly where you’re meant to be.
— “Ready?” Damson asks, adjusting his helmet with a confident grin.
— “To ride down a mountain on a beat-up bike, with you leading the way?” you raise an eyebrow. “I’m not just ready. I’m praying.”
— “Hey, this bike is vintage, okay? Romantic, charming… like me.”
— “This bike makes noises like my grandma with arthritis, Damson.”
Still, you hop on the bike. The wind is starting to cool and the village below looks even farther away now.
You start pedaling behind him, quickly gaining speed. The hill that once felt endless now turns into a makeshift rollercoaster, with gentle curves… and not-so-gentle ones.
— “Damson, brake!”
— “I’m trying!” he shouts, laughing like he’s at an amusement park.
Your bike bounces over a rock and nearly flies off the trail. You let out a muffled scream as you struggle to keep your balance. Damson glances back and yells:
— “Still alive?”
With every turn, you both laugh more — that kind of nervous laughter that only happens when fear mixes with joy. An old woman appears with a bag of bread and shouts something in French as you zoom past.
— “I think she cursed us!” you shout.
— “I think she called us ‘two crazy romantics’!” Damson replies.
At the bottom of the trail, his bike finally stops. Yours… doesn’t.
You scream and jump off mid-motion, landing right in his arms like a perfectly clumsy rom-com scene.
You both tumble into the grass. He’s got you in his lap. The world spins a little, you’re both breathless, hair messy, clothes dusty, and… laughing. Laughing so much.
— “You okay?” he asks, eyes watery from laughing.
— “Pretty sure I left my soul on the second-to-last curve, but yeah.”
Damson pulls you closer, still lying in the grass.
— “Best ride ever.”
— “If we survive till dinner, I might kiss you again.”
He smiles — sweaty, gorgeous, happy.
— “I don’t need a promise. You’re already my favorite adventure.”
You kiss him right there, covered in dust, adrenaline, and love, with the golden sky as your witness.
Pairing: Franklin Saint x Black!Bratty!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Smut, PWP, cursing, PIV, fingering (female receiving), size kink, some dirty talk, all consensual. Daddy kink. Toxic smut. Mention of jail, drug use, and drinking. Angst if you squint. Established relationship.
Summary: While Franklin feels mounting pressure from setting up new business, he has to track you down and set you right.
Word Count: 3,673k
A/N: Hello brainrot, my old friend. Who needs sleep when there's smut to be had? I had TOO much fun writing this. It was written in a daze so all mistakes are mine. I just need some act right from Franklin!!! Enjoy if you do too! Thank you for so much love on my Franklin fics! I love yall. Please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers!
You were shaking your ass like there was no tomorrow. The music was thumping through the floors like a live beast. You felt it in your chest. Alcohol was coursing through your system. It gave everything a hazy, bright glow. It was too loud to think and yet all roads lead to Franklin Saint.
You had been cooped up in an empty house by yourself. What use was all the shit Franklin brought in if he wasn’t there to enjoy it with you? He would leave early in the morning and not return until long after you’d gone to sleep. Your initial reaction was that he was cheating, but you knew that wasn’t the case.
You’d see Franklin dead before he cheated on you. And he’d see hell freeze over before the thought crossed his mind. You knew he loved you. He wasn’t the greatest at showing it and dammit, it hurt.
Did that mean that you had to suffer? No. No, it did not. You called up your girl and went to her place to get dressed. The hardest part about dating Franklin was all the secrets. All the lies. They sometimes got twisted in the careful web you weaved. Over time, it became easier to not leave the house at all.
Franklin was turning you into a hermit and you wanted to hate him for it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a cell in your body that could hate that man. So you took your anger out on him in other ways. It was an insidious need gnawing in the back of your mind.
Sometimes he’d walk in with that tired grin. Too tired to give you a proper hug and a kiss. Like you weren’t worth the effort it took to check in and ask about your day. You knew that he was in the middle of important business dealings. But lately, you were feeling neglected.
Not today.
At your girl’s house, she told you she missed you and your wild days at wild parties, living it up, gone off of the weed, and having real fun. She reminded you that you were still young and you were one of the lucky ones. You didn’t have a baby to look after.
“You mu’fuckin’ right,” you said. You nodded your head, the idea taking shape the longer you sat with it. Thirty minutes later, you were both dressed like you didn’t have a man. You wore a very short skirt and off the shoulder top. Your coarse hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Your makeup was flawless.
It was practically gone now. Still you danced. Still you partied like there was no tomorrow. You left your pager at home. You didn’t care what Franklin had to say. So you shook and danced and waved off try-too-hard niggas with grabby hands.
You clasped your friend’s hand and pulled her away from yet another man in your business. Damn, couldn’t you just go out and dance? Let loose?
“I see you havin’ real fun,” you heard above you.
You gasped and straightened out. You hadn’t seen him. Felt him. Or heard as he approached. One minute, your eyes were closed dancing to Flashlight. The next minute, Franklin was staring down at you with his nose slightly flared.
“How’d you find me?” You asked.
You looked around him and noticed Leon standing by the door looking sullen. “I can get to you any time I want,” he said.
You folded your arms. The night’s festivities were catching up with you. Sweat pasted your shirt to your body. Little frizzes of hair escaped your ponytail. Your feet ached from spending hours on the makeshift dance floor. You were out of breath, staring at Franklin and wondering where his state of mind was at.
“I’m here trying to handle bidness and this is how you act?”
You sucked your teeth and rolled your eyes. “The hell was I supposed to do?” You had to yell to be heard over the funk music. “Sit at home and wait for yo Black ass to come around?”
Franklin rolled his neck. He was stressed out. You took a step forward. You longed to wrap your arms around him to hug and kiss him. To make it all better. But fuck that. Your anger was a familiar coat you threw on.
“Let’s go,” he said. He dismissed your comments altogether. He turned and you faced the wide expanse of his broad back. His black polo shirt highlighted the slope of his shoulders, his sexy walk. The length of his legs were their own turn on.
You didn’t follow him. He moved behind a dancing couple. He half turned and inclined his head. You turned around yourself. Two can play that game. You headed towards the back of the party.
You were gaining attention. Those who weren’t smoking weed, were looking at you over the tops of cups. Others were smokin’ that stupid ass crack pipe. Franklin grabbed your hand and stopped you in your tracks.
“Don’t fuckin’ embarass me. Let’s go,” he said, his whispered baritone fanning across your ear. You took a deep breath to steady yourself. Your body always reacted to him. Right now, your clit was throbbing thinking of what he was planning on doing to you. He hadn’t touched you in a week and it was driving you insane.
“You can’t tell me what to do, Franklin,” you said.
Franklin stopped looking around and fixed you with a glare so severe, it’d hurt less if he slapped you. “The fuck you just say to me?”
“You can’t tell me what to fuckin’ do, Franklin.” You emphasized his name, drawing out the syllables.
“Man, get yo ass in the car,” he said.
“Fuck you, nigga!” The rage that you cloaked yourself in was comforting in its heat. Spurned on by the alcohol, you poked at his chest. “Fuck you! Fuck you!” You slapped at his chest.
“I’m only going to say this one more time, get in the fuckin’ car,” he said. He leaned in close to you, that calm demeanor slipping back behind his eyes. He kissed you on the cheek. A quick, dispassionate kiss that only served to piss you off even more.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Franklin gripped your upper arm. He pushed you forward, around dancing people giving you the stink eye, past Leon with a little smirk on his face, and outside. The brutal LA night was cold and unforgiving against your damp skin.
“Get off me, nigga!” You yanked your arm out of his grip. He talked about you embarrassing him. But he was the one who dragged you out of the party like some baby.
Leon snickered. “Damn, you let her talk to you like that?”
Franklin took a deep breath, looking towards the sky. “For one fuckin’ day, can any of ya’ll act right? I’m sick of this shit.”
“I know you ain’t talkin’, Leon,” you said. Alcohol emboldened you. You felt invincible. Like you could hang onto a star and fly through the universe. You were ready with a scathing remark.
Franklin stood in front of you, blocking your view of Leon who had squared up, ready to pop off. Franklin’s nose flared, his mouth stuck in a grimace. “Car, now,” he said.
Oh shit. Maybe you went a little too far. “Sure thing, Franklin,” you said with a sweet smile.
You heard Franklin blow out a deep breath. “You got a way to get home?” You heard Franklin ask Leon as you walked away. You folded your arms and trudged the short distance to the curb.
You reached the car, sliding in and putting your head against the headrest. You glared at Franklin as he said goodbye to Leon. Leon was smirking. You bet they were laughing it up at your expense. At your feelings.
It paled in comparison to the lust you felt for Franklin. He walked towards the car. He was so different after he got out of jail. Tougher. Harder. There were moments where you would catch the Franklin you first fell in love with. The optimistic boy you would follow anywhere.
Franklin was a man after jail. He picked up an edginess. A shorter temper. You couldn’t tell him what to do and that made him sexier to you. He was never a weak man. But now, he was strength personified.
He climbed into the car in silence. He turned the car on and peeled out of the projects. “Not gon’ say shit?” You asked.
Franklin didn’t look at you. He kept his eyes on the road, obeying all of the traffic lights. There was no reason to give LAPD an excuse to pull you over. Not that they always needed one. Driving while Black was practically an invitation to the cops to fuck with you.
Franklin turned into his garage. You watched and listened as he closed the garage door behind you. He turned the car off and hopped out of the car. He came around to your side and opened the door.
You hated the silent treatment. It was like he had ice water in his veins. You got out of the car and stood in the open door. Arms folded. Staring across a chasm at Franklin that you couldn’t cross. Couldn’t access. You weren’t welcome.
“Sick of this shit,” you muttered.
“Get yo ass in the room and I’ll deal with you in a minute,” he said.
“No, fuck you,” you said.
That vindictive streak in you wanted to push him. To push him past the point of breaking him.
“I don’t need this fuckin’ shit! I got enough shit to deal with than hearin’ my girl shakin’ her ass for anyone to see!” His voice rose from a deadly calm to outright yelling.
“I was just dancin’,” you said with a shrug.
“Yo ass don’t listen too good, huh?” Franklin grinned cruelly and laughed. He grabbed you by the arm and tugged you inside the house. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree, as if he’d searched every room for you.
You didn’t have a chance to appreciate the sentiment as he tugged you through the house, towards your room. He pushed you onto the bed and watched you flop.
You pushed up onto your elbows but Franklin grabbed your hips and yanked your body down the bed to the edge. Your ass hung off of it. He used his leg to push yours further apart.
“Franklin?” You asked. Your voice wobbled but not with fear. You were so turned on, you didn’t trust your voice.
A sharp slap rung throughout the room. You cried out and clutched at the bed spread. Heat blossomed on your nearly exposed ass. One sharp jerk later, and it was over your hips, pushed up.
“This what you wanted right? Why yo ass was actin’ up?” He asked.
He rubbed the area that he slapped and you hissed. You were at an awkward angle. Half hanging off of the bed like you were, your heels were the only thing sort of keeping you upright. You stood on your tiptoes to brace yourself. Franklin standing in between your legs threw your balance off slightly.
Franklin ran his hands down the crack of your ass, down towards your pussy. He moved your skimpy panties aside and pressed his thumb into your entrance. You cooed and collapsed onto the bed.
“This pussy right there? Mine,” he said. He slapped your ass with his free hand and you gasped. The dichotomy of him slipping his fingers inside of you and the heat of the slap was too much already.
“Baby…”
“Naw, don’t baby me. It was Franklin earlier, wasn’t it?” He asked. He removed his thumb and quickly replaced it with his index finger. He grunted and pushed a second finger in.
“Oh, baby,” you moaned. He widened his fingers, preparing you for him.
“What happened to all that shit you was talkin’?” He asked. He leaned over over, driving his fingers in deeper. You moaned and clutched the bedspread past the point of your fingers cramping.
“I’m sorry,” you said. You moved your ass in a circle, in tune with how Franklin pumped his fingers in and out of you. As long as he kept doing that, you’d give him any answer he was looking for.
“I don’t believe you,” he whispered against your ear. He leaned back and added a third finger.
“Oh, fuck!” You moaned. Your body jerked and twitched as if you ate a live wire. Your orgasm ripped through you. Each wave hit you harder and faster, dragging you under its sweet release.
Franklin withdrew his fingers and you heard him licking each one. You huffed. This man was going to be the death of you.
Franklin massaged your ass, bringing attention back to the lingering pain. “I just missed you, baby,” you said.
“Mhmm,” he said. He took a few deep breaths. His hands grabbed a handful of your ass. He made quick work of his pants, shedding it in nearly one fell swoop. He rubbed his thick, hardening dick along your slick slit.
You bit your lip and moaned. “Pleasepleaseplease,” you said and wiggled your ass against him.
He grabbed your left wrist and pulled it behind your back. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. You twisted your wrist but Franklin didn’t give you much room. He learned forward, his polo shirt rustling against your shirt.
He brought his lips down to your ear. He licked the shell of it. Placed kisses behind your ear, into that sensitive spot. You shivered. Your desperate pussy clenched around nothing. He wrapped your hair around his fingers and pulled your head to the side for better access.
You ached. You were so empty, you could cry. Literally, tears gathered behind your closed eyelids. You needed to be filled up by him. Consumed by him. You wanted to end where he began and begin where he ended.
“The next time you need some dick, you come fuckin’ find me,” he said. He pushed into you slowly, stopping every so often so that you could get acclimated to him.
“Oh, yes, Daddy,” you whined as he fulfilled your silent request. “Pleaseplease,” you muttered over and over.
“Do you know my heart stopped comin’ here, callin’ for you like a mu’fuckin’ idiot? I called your pager. Shit was beepin’ by our bed. Anythin’ could’ve happened to you!”
He seemed to forget his plan because he started to increase his thrusts. Whatever he gave, you took. You bounced back on him, matching his rhythm. He fucked you into the bed, pushing down on your arm behind your back.
You were shoved ever more onto your tiptoes. Your right hand searched for purchase on the bed. Anything to brace you against his savage thrusts. It felt like he was pouring all of his frustration out into you. You gripped the bed spread and chewed on a piece of it.
There was a low, delicious burn inching up your legs. You shook violently, crying out as he hit that spot that only he could reach. Only he could touch. Only him.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you choked out. He pushed the very air from your lungs. Each thrust knocked a little more loose. You panted against him.
“Oh fuck, right there,” you whined. Your ass clapped against his hips and the wet slap surprised another orgasm out of you. You stuttered over his name as you came, your pussy contracting and flooding his dick.
“Look at you, can’t even hold on to that fucked up attitude,” he said. He licked your neck and nibbled at a sensitive bit. You shuddered and tried to curl in on yourself.
“Naw,” he breathed.
He slipped out of you and you cried in earnest. Tears slid down your cheeks. You groaned. Words weren’t working right for you.
Franklin manhandled you. He flipped you onto your back and pulled you by your arms. You sat up and flopped against his body. He gripped your chin and made you look at him.
“Talk a big game, no follow through, huh?” He asked. Bastard. But you got what you wanted.
“I’ll do better, Daddy,” you said. You gave him puppy dog eyes.
Franklin grinned and pecked your lips. “I know you will,” he whispered.
He tugged your shirt off, revealing your bra. Franklin sucked your nipple through the lacy material and you bucked off of the bed. “Shit!”
The sensation was both there and wasn’t there. You registered a barrier between his mouth and your nipple but you didn’t really feel it.
Franklin thrusted into you, hard. You gasped, your mouth hanging open. He climbed onto the bed, getting into a better position. He tore off his polo shirt and tossed it onto the floor.
He laid over you, crushing your body to the bed. He used one hand to spread you completely open for him. The other hand, grabbed your right hand and held it above you. Your fingers intertwined with his. He ground his hips into you, his dick disappearing inside of you.
His strokes were deep, brutal, and punishing. He wasn’t done being pissed at you. The thought should scare you. It should drive you right out of his bed. But no one else fucked you so completely. Made you feel so wanted and adored and like he needed to fuck you like a person needed air.
Every stroke hit that deep spot inside of you. Your knees closed around his hips. Your left hand scratched his back.
“That attitude shit stops,” he said as he made out with your titties. He pulled your cups down until they were under your breasts, pushing them up and into his eager mouth.
“Yes, Daddy,” you moaned.
You felt the muscles in his back working as he pushed in and out of you. His dick stretched you right to the edge of pain. That fine line was delicate and he walked it well. Your hand traveled the length of his back, feeling all of the additional muscles and the dip of his back. The top of his ass that you couldn’t reach.
You closed your eyes as he rolled a nipple around his mouth.
“The last thing I need to fuckin’ worry about is you,” he said.
“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry,” your breath was failing you. Hell, you didn’t even know what he was saying at this point. You’d agree to just about anything at the moment. As long as he kept his strokes nice and deep like that.
You felt him in your chest. He pushed up and you couldn’t barely breathe. He was stuffing you full of him, feeding you his dick.
“You think this shit is cute and it ain’t! How the fuck it look that I can’t control my girl?”
You contracted against him. Another orgasm was building. His voice was so deep and raspy. And when he yelled, it was like unlocking a switch inside of you. You began to twitch again. Tears streamed down your face.
“I’m sorry! I hate being here without you,” you managed to croak out.
Fuck, you were so damn close. “Please Daddy, I’m so sorry. I’ll do better,” you said.
Franklin lifted his head from your titty. He stared into your eyes.
“Don’t you fuckin’ know how much I love you? Why do I have to prove it to you?” He asked, softly. So at odds with his pounding dick.
“You don’t!” You yelled. Your orgasm was just out of reach. So, so, sososososo close.
“Then why you like makin’ me mad?” He asked, his voice raised. Your jaw went slack as the orgasm finally tore through you like a tidal wave. You flopped and twitched, unable to hear or see anything as stars danced behind your eyelids.
Your convulsing pussy triggered Franklin’s orgasm. He pushed into you further, his cum splashing inside of you. You felt his dick twitch and pulse.
“Fuuuuuck,” he groaned. “You feel what you do to me?” He asked. He placed his head into the crook of your neck and panted.
“Yes, oh fuck yes,” you murmured.
“You do that to me,” he said. He kissed your jaw, your cheek. Your lips lazily found his and you kissed him with the last remaining breath in you. You felt light headed. You wanted to curl up like a cat at his feet. He rubbed your arms and kissed you as you floated back to your body.
As he softened, he pulled out of you. His thick cum eased out of you. Franklin rolled over onto his back with a contented sigh. He placed one hand behind his head. You rolled and tucked your body into his. He rubbed your back. You spread your right arm across his chest. A possessiveness taking over you.
He kissed your temple and looked at you. “Don’t you ever call me by my first name again,” he said. He turned to stare at the ceiling. His fingers never gave up their glide and and down your back.
You giggled sleepily. “Keep fuckin’ me like that and I won’t have to,” you said.
Franklin grabbed your right hand and brought it to his lips. “I gotta fuck you to keep you in line, is that it?” He asked.
“Somethin’ like that,” you said with a small giggle.
You were dragged kicking and screaming to sleep. You wanted to stay up and talk to him. Anything to keep hearing that sexy voice. Anything to keep him here with you longer. You were beyond worried that the moment you opened your eyes, he’d be gone again. Like a puff of smoke you couldn’t hold on to. He’d just slip through your fingers.
You were so blessedly fucked out, that your head emptied. You fell asleep to the thump of his heart. And you prayed. Prayed that he’d be there when you woke up.
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Ok but imagine Franklin asking Uncle Jerome for sex advice because he's trying to impress this woman he's interested in. And Jerome tells him how to get her excited, how to touch her, how to make her cum, etc.
And later, Jerome can hear her moaning and the sound of the headboard hitting the wall and he's proud. 🤣
Got Me Daydreamin'
Pairing: Virgin!Franklin Saint x Virgin!Black!Fem!reader / Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Cursing, fluff, smut. PIV, oral (fem receiving), fingering (female receiving). College Franklin, established friendship. Drug use, alcohol use.
Summary: See Ask. Sharing the same math class, you and Franklin were constantly getting into trouble for laughing and talking so much. You developed a system, passing notes through your notebook. One day, you ask Franklin for a favor and he is only too happy to oblige.
Word Count: 5,831k
AO3 Link
A/N: WHEW. Been sitting on that one for a while trying to figure out where I wanted to go with it. This ended up being so damn sweet. I remember getting a bunch of asks for Franklin in like...one night, lmfaoooo. Might be from the same person, who knows. I love you for it. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, reblog, or unhinged ask.
“Do I need to separate you two?” Mrs. Thorne asked.
Franklin looked up from talking to you and smiled sweetly at the old crone. “No, ma’am,” he said.
You smiled next to him, he could feel it from where he sat. Like rays from the sun warming up the whole classroom. It was a wonder that no one else could feel it. Sense it. You tend to make everything seem brighter, more colorful, or overall just better in general.
Franklin was crushing bad. Which still caught his breath sometimes when he thought of it. At first, you were just another girl in his math class. Beautiful. But clearly way out of his league.
The more you sat beside him, smelling like buttery cake, the more you warmed up and started talking to him. Laughing with him. Hell, you were so damn funny and quick. Your smile was fast, genuine, and you were smart as hell. But his favorite feature on you after your smile had to be your ass.
And you didn’t make it any better wearing those shorts of yours. The shorts stopped mid thigh, but it drove him insane. Waking his dick up every time you entered the room. There were times when he was as hard as a brick and had to stall, looking for an excuse to remain sitting while everyone else got up.
“There’s plenty of time outside of class to talk. In my classroom, you pay attention. Understood?” Mrs. Thorne asked. She peered over her cat-style glasses, lips pursed in irritation.
“Won’t happen again, Mrs. Thorne,” you said, just as sweetly.
Mrs. Thorne hummed and turned back to the chalkboard, wielding it like a weapon as she stabbed at the board, writing out an equation.
Franklin looked over to you and you had a mischievous grin on your face. You reached into your backpack, pulled out a clean notebook, and started writing in it. Franklin was too busy watching you, wondering what you were up to, to notice whatever the hell Mrs. Thorne was on about today.
After another minute, you slid the notebook over to him. He read your pretty handwriting, momentarily distracted by the slope of your letters. He reread the message and tried not to grin.
You: This way is much better. Birdy won’t suspect a thing.
Franklin wrote out his own message back, sliding it to you when finished.
Franklin: You are a genius.
And so it began. You and Franklin tossed this notebook back and forth in class for weeks. Telling jokes, talking about everything under the sun. Franklin looked forward to math class. Dreamt of it. Even while awake. He couldn’t get you out of his mind, uplifting his spirits and made doing his homework actually pleasant. Because he knew that your smart ass would look over it with that adorable smile on your face. The way your nose pinched when you found a well placed error.
He liked when you chided him, sucking your teeth, and telling him that you knew he could do better. For now, you hadn’t caught on that he just liked you explaining things to him. At this point, you were his favorite show, book, and place to be all rolled into one.
During the next class, you sat beside him with a weird look on your face. You were biting your lip and refused to look at him.
“What’s wrong?” Franklin asked, settling into his seat as well and pulling out his math textbook. Students filed into the room as well, talking about their weekend plans and exchanging pager numbers.
You looked around at everyone and shook your head. “What are your plans for the weekend?” You asked and smiled.
He knew you had something on your mind and wished that he could sit and truly talk to you. He wasn’t sure if you’d accept an invite from him to go grab coffee or speak for longer than five minutes before class and a few minutes after.
Franklin shrugged his shoulders. “Probably hang with Leon or Kevin, see what they up to,” Franklin said.
You nodded and smiled. Franklin waited for you to say what you really wanted to say. His heart rate increased, imagining what it could be. Were you going to ask him something important? Like meeting up outside of class? Were you going to suggest studying together? Did you catch him finally, onto his game of intentionally giving the wrong answer? Not knowing was killing him and he wanted to ask.
He also didn’t want to come off as too intense. He had a tendency to take everything seriously, like a dog with a bone that wouldn’t quit. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin this friendship that sprung up between the two of you.
Class started, Franklin’s mind drifted as he paid attention to everything you did. The tap of your blue pen against your paper. The way you bit your nail. Fiddled with your gold hoop earrings.
Midway through class, you slid the notebook you shared over to Franklin. You kept your eyes faced forward, odd for you. Franklin grabbed the notebook, opening it when the old bird turned to the chalkboard, chalk dust on the back of her sweater.
His eyes glazed over as he read your message but he did his best to keep his features calm. He rubbed the tips of his fingers however, leg itching to bounce. He needed an outward release, something to release the pent up anxiety in his veins.
You: Have you ever had sex?
Shit. The hell was he supposed to say? Franklin was a virgin but men didn’t fess up to things like that. He told Kevin and Leon that he lost it back in high school, some random girl he met at the mall. They bought it, pumping his head up, and fessed up to their own hook ups. For sure, they all knew they were full of shit, but what else were they to do?
Franklin swallowed around the huge lump in his throat. The pulsing beat of his heart in his neck as he wrote back to you.
Franklin: Of course, why?
He slid the notebook to you. You looked at his message for a second before you began writing. When done, Franklin took the notebook.
You: I haven’t. Wanna hang Saturday and fix that?
Franklin’s dick twitched. This couldn’t be real. Thank god he was sitting down, because that twitch was turning into a full blown erection, causing his jeans to stretch tight. He licked his lips, trying to think of anything boring. Nothing worked.
With that one sentence, you brought to the surface every filthy, nasty, disgusting thing he’d thought about doing to you. He’s had vivid fantasies of you bouncing on his dick, riding him, arching your back, and the way you’d look when he’d slide in. He’s thought about how you would sound, screaming his name. He’s fucked his hand often enough, picturing it sliding into you. He’s wanted your nails on his back, your toes curling because of him.
Franklin: Can’t wait to show you a good time.
When you received the notebook and read his message, you sighed, finally turning those honeyed brown eyes towards him. You smiled wide, doing a little dance in your seat. Franklin tore off a piece of paper and wrote down Uncle Jerome’s house. No way was he bringing you to his mom’s house. The last thing he needed was his mom coming in, causing a ruckus, or making you feel uncomfortable.
There were too many emotions running through him. He was elated and scared and confused and excited. He needed to figure out what to do. He’d never done this before. He wanted your first time to be special and wonderful. Would you know if he was terrible?
Now, questions multiplied through his mind. Was his dick big enough? Would you like the way he stroked? How would he be able to tell if you came or not? Fuck. He was unsure, panicking, while you went on in the notebook, being extra adorable as you admitted you were nervous but confessed to liking him for some time.
He was distracted, still not over the thought of getting to see you naked. Getting to see you beneath him. He wrote back that he liked you too, liked how smart and sweet you were. He’d never get over the way you smiled at him now. Letting your feelings play out all over your pretty face.
After class, his dick calmed down to not be an issue when he stood up. You patted his hand and smiled at him, promising that you couldn’t wait until Saturday came around. Shit, him neither.
For the next few days, Franklin did all the research he could. He had a few porn mags but what did that really tell him about fucking? He went to the porn store, looking for videos to research. He watched with the volume turned low in his dorm, watching what to do.
He bought a pack of condoms, practicing putting it on so that he wouldn’t seem like a loser in front of you. He’d never survive if you laughed at him for something like that. The thought of it sent him into a fit of hyperventilating. He needed more help. He needed an expert.
Friday night rolled around and Franklin arrived at his uncle’s house. He walked up a few steps, the area quiet for once. There was still the background hood noises, cars passing, faint music, helicopters circling. But it was a still night. Franklin knocked on the screen door.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps and then Jerome’s face came into view. “Nephew!” He exclaimed, a cloud of weed smoke erupting through the screen door. Franklin waved it and smiled.
“Hey, Unc,” he said.
Jerome opened the door wearing a white tank top and black sweatpants. His jheri curl was well intact, shaking with movement as Jerome opened the door. Franklin walked past, inside, where music played and there was an ashtray in the living room. The TV was on to something Franklin couldn’t see.
“Where’s Louie?” Franklin asked, turning around.
Jerome waved his hand. “She down visiting her sister. Said she was getting tired of seeing my face,” Jerome laughed, like he was remembering a private joke.
“Good. I got a favor to ask,” Franklin said.
Jerome laughed, leaning over the couch to get rid of his ashes. “Sounds serious, nephew,” he said. He grabbed the ashtray and his beer from the table and waved Franklin into the dining room. The wood table was large, covered in scattered papers, mail, or random water bottles.
Jerome had the side wooden door open, letting in a subtle breeze through the screen door. Jerome sat down with his ashtray and beer, still chuckling.
“Sort of,” Franklin said. He rubbed his hands on his khaki colored jeans, palms slick with sweat. This was so damn embarrassing. However, he didn’t have any other choice. Who knew where his father was? And if he was around, he wouldn’t ask that mu’fucker a damn thing.
Franklin sat down and blew air out of his mouth, looking down at the table like it held all of the answers. “I need your help, there’s this girl…”
Jerome laughed and smacked the table. “I know that’s right, nephew,” he said and chuckled, taking a deep hit from the joint. He blew out the smoke and the room grew cloudy.
Franklin told his uncle all about you. How you two started talking, how you’ve bonded the past few weeks. How much he thought about you and wanted to make you his. Jerome’s grin grew wider the more Franklin spoke, his eyes getting big from all of the pride pouring out.
When Franklin finished, he rubbed his head. “I done did everything I can think of. But what if it’s not enough?” Franklin asked. Before, he hadn’t thought it would be this serious for him. When he found a girl that he wanted to have sex with, he thought he’d warm up to the idea. That he’d have a girlfriend and went on a few dates first. That he’d get to make out, touching and feeling first before diving in.
“If this her first time, you ain’t gotta worry about all that. She ain’t got shit to compare it to,” Jerome said and chuckled.
“Unc,” Franklin started.
Jerome smiled. “Alright. How much do you like this girl? Like…you want to keep her or this a one-time thing?” Jerome asked.
“What you mean?” Franklin asked.
“There’s a lot of ways to have sex, nephew. It all depends on what you wanna do with this girl. If you just lookin’ to get your dick wet, best not to blow her mind too much. You don’t want her blowing up your pager or callin’ yo momma house looking for you.”
“That can happen?” Franklin asked. He didn’t think there was nuance to sex. He’s had sex education. At the end of the day, wasn’t it just dick in vagina until both sides climaxed? What else was there?
Jerome nodded, taking another pull of his joint and following it up with a swig of beer. “I once had this girl addicted to my dick. Had her ass screaming outside my momma’s house, threatening to throw herself into traffic unless I came outside,” he said. He howled with laughter, staring off to the side as he presumably re-lived that memory.
“What happened?” Franklin asked. He couldn’t imagine you doing something like that, no matter what he did during sex. Did sex really change people like that?
“Cissy told her to do it,” Jerome said and laughed. At Franklin’s expression, Jerome continued laughing and began choking. He coughed and hacked, putting the joint into the ashtray. “The girl was never going to do it. She was just dramatic. Point is, you can have this girl calling you daddy while you tear it up, or you can show her a good time and let her know that you’re the best she’ll probably ever have.”
There wasn’t even a question. “I want her to be mine,” he said. His voice never sounded more sure, more arrogant even. If this went well, he hoped that you’d want to continue doing it. To continue talking to him outside of class. To spend months, years with him. To call you by his last name. He wanted that more than he wanted anything else.
Jerome nodded, picking up his joint. “Are you sure? ‘Cause once you have an attack plan, you can’t be mad at the results,” Jerome said.
Franklin nodded and folded his hands on the table. He looked Jerome in the eye. “Tell me,” he said.
“Alright, now there’s this thing they have called the clit…” Jerome began. He broke it down. Telling Franklin exactly what he needed to do to have you believing that he was an expert. A professional. The type of loving that was going to make you look at him differently.
Franklin craved that. Needed that. He took in Jerome’s wealth of knowledge like a sponge, treating it like the most important class he’d ever take. Jerome reiterated things he’d seen in porn, but he went more in depth about it. Telling Franklin why certain things were done and what effect they’d have on you. Franklin couldn’t believe his ears. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
Afterward, Franklin thanked Jerome. “And about using your house…?” Franklin asked.
“I’ll get lost tomorrow, nephew. I got you. Clean the sheets when you done. I don’t need Louie thinkin’ it was me,” he said.
“Thanks, Unc.”
Franklin went back to his dorm with thoughts of you on his mind. He was tempted to relieve himself of the ache in his groin as he went to sleep. But he wanted to perform well for you. So he left himself alone and hoped he didn’t cream his pants at his latest wet dream.
Saturday rolled around and Franklin arrived at Jerome’s house too early. He made sure the place was clean and smelled nice, made sure the spare room was free of clothes and trash. He took a shower when he was done, and made sure his teeth were brushed. He couldn’t relax the whole day, checking and rechecking that everything was perfect for you.
Sharply at six, you knocked on the door. Franklin got the record playing working, sweet crooning filling the living room. He went to the door and opened it.
He grinned at your sunshine yellow dress, ties at your shoulders in neat little bows. You smiled shyly at him, coming further inside. He closed and locked the door behind you. “You look beautiful,” he said.
You smiled and grabbed the hem, pulling it away from your thick thighs. “Is it weird I obsessed over what to wear?” You asked.
“Only if it was weird for me too,” he said.
You giggled and shook your head. “I don’t want you think I’m fast or anything,” you said.
Franklin shook his head, gesturing for you to take seat. “I’ll never think that. If you don’t want to anymore, you don’t have to. We can watch TV or go grab some food,” he said.
“No! I want to! I…can’t think of anything else,” you said and smiled. You sat down on the couch and Franklin sat next to you, giving you a healthy amount of space in case you needed it.
“Good,” Franklin said and smiled. He scooted closer and took your hand. “Tell me about your day.”
You laughed. “You don’t want to…?” You asked.
“Let’s get comfortable first,” he said. He stroked the back of your hand with his thumb. He heard the tiny gasp you made, which came back out in a cute sigh. Your shoulders dropped from your ears as you relaxed and began telling him about your day.
How you woke up too early, too sick to eat something. He loved how open you were about what you wanted. That you weren’t ashamed to share these things with him. He knew you were a blunt person, saying what you mean and meaning what you say. Still, it was so rare that people did so that his mind wandered, just enjoying the cadence of your voice.
When you were finished, you were much more relaxed, talking and laughing with him. He moved from stroking your hand to stroking your exposed shoulder. The both of you sat further back on the couch, scooting closer the more you talked.
Franklin’s face got closer to you, leaning in as you continued talking. Your eyes darted from his mouth to his eyes and he felt his heart lurch. It was working. He kinda liked seducing you. It allowed him to catalog every inch of you. Your reactions. He was able to tell that you were interested without even saying a word.
He reached up with his hand, cupping your jaw and bringing your face closer to his. His dick throbbed in his jeans and nothing even happened yet. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said.
You gasped and then grinned, biting your lip. “Okay,” you giggled.
Franklin smiled but took his time, looking into your eyes for as long as he could before he closed them at the last second. He brushed his lips softly against yours, not fully kissing you yet. He waited for a beat, waited for that tiny inhale, before he pressed his lips more firmly. He kissed slowly at first, building up speed as you got into it.
His breaths mingled with yours, your breath fanning across his face, and you gripped onto his shirt, pulling him closer. He went willingly, stroking your cheeks with his thumbs. He held you in place and focused only on kissing you. Making out with you. You still smelled like buttery cake fresh out of the oven. He was obsessed.
He pulled back to give you some air. You gasped, chest falling up and down. Franklin kissed your cheek, jaw, and neck, getting closer to the source of the smell. Was it perfume or lotion? Or body wash? Whatever it was, he wanted to buy you a crate of it. He never wanted to smell anything else on you.
He licked over your vein and you gasped, fist tightening against his shirt. He brought his hands down, grabbing and squeezing your thighs. You moaned, sweet music to his ears, and he squeezed some more.
“Want to go lay down?” He asked.
You nodded, staring into his eyes. Jerome was right, you would look at him differently. He wondered if you’d look at him in a new way once he got going, once the clothes came off. He stood up, holding out his hand to you. You smiled, took his hand, and let him pull you up.
He walked around the couch, heading into the small hallway and then into the spare bedroom. He kept it open a crack so that you could hear the music still chiming from the living room.
You sat down on his bed and he sat beside you, returning to kissing you. He placed his hand to your throat, turning your head to the side so that he could go back to smelling your scent and licking your neck. He knew better than to leave a hickey, but fuck, he wanted to. He wanted to mark you. He wanted you to be his already.
“Take off this dress for me,” he whispered against your neck.
You sighed, reaching behind you to grab the zipper. He watched as you did so, impressed with how easily you did so in this position. You stood up and let the dress fall from your shoulders. You didn’t wear a bra underneath, but you did have on cute yellow panties to match your dress.
Franklin hummed in satisfaction and grinned at you. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he remarked.
You rolled your eyes and bit your lip. “Really?” You asked.
Franklin grabbed both of your hands and pulled you to stand between his legs. “I swear. You’re gorgeous,” he said.
He stood up and turned you around so that your back legs hit the bed and he faced forward. He took a condom out of his pocket, tossing it onto the bed. He removed his shirt and his jeans, smirking at you and your reaction as you stared down his body. He stepped out of his jeans, leaving his boxers on and then stepped forward.
“Lay down on your back.” You blinked at him once and then grinned, climbing onto the bed. Watching your ass shake and jiggle as you faced away from him was too much. Too tempting. His dick throbbed painfully, a tent forming in his boxers. He sang something mundane in his mind, anything to stave off the need to cant his hips, humping the air.
You flipped over onto your back, settling down and looking at him. He grinned and knelt on the bed, pushing and adjusting you until he had you where he wanted. He grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed and placed it under your head. He grabbed the second pillow and placed it under your hips. You sighed as the pressure was taken off of your back.
He grabbed your panties, pulling them off of your hips. He cooed as he got a little look at your pussy. You had hair and he could see it glisten in the low lighting. He licked his lips. Fuck, you smelled even better down here. A scent wholly unique to you.
“Open them legs up,” he said.
You stared at him questioningly as you followed his command. “What are you…?” You asked.
Franklin grinned as he leaned forward onto his elbows. He watched the emotions play out on your face, the adorable pout in your lips, as you stared at him in confusion. He leaned between your legs and softly blew air across your exposed pussy.
You sighed, moving your hips. Franklin grinned. He teased your slit with his nose, trying to commit all of this to memory. If this was to be his last time between your legs, he wanted the memory to sustain him for years.
He grabbed your thighs and held them open, as he rolled his tongue out and licked up your slit. “Oh shit!” You yelled.
He chuckled, not expecting you to have a filthy mouth. He only found it more wonderful that he got to experience new things with you. Find new things you did every single day. He knew he sounded like a love-sick fool, but you were already so important to him.
Franklin did the same thing to your pussy that he did while making out. He started slowly at first, trying to locate your clit like he truly was an expert. When you twitched and cursed, that’s when he knew he found the right spot. He swirled his tongue in circles, sucking on your clit and eliciting so many sounds from you.
You clutched onto his head, pulling him closer while also trying to push him away. He was relentless, not giving you any slack to escape. He kept your thighs trapped, no matter how hard you pushed to trap his head between your thighs.
You grew wetter, juices spilling down his chin. He lapped all of it up. He couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted. He licked and licked, suckled, and slurped up your juices. Your moans were turning choppy.
The tone of your moans changed, went into a panic mode. “Wait, I don’t think–what is–oh fuck, right there, right there. Don’t stop,” you screamed before you tensed up, thighs pushing against his hands.
You screamed loud, hips bucking, as you came on his tongue. He was wrong. This. This was his favorite. Tasting you as you came. Feeling your clit throb against his tongue. He’d happily drown between your legs. If he could eat you out every day he would. He would pay for the privilege to sit between your thighs and bring you pleasure over and over again.
Franklin came up for air long enough to see your dazed face as you looked up to the ceiling. He chuckled as he returned to your pussy. You groaned and pushed at his head, but he continued. He moved his hand from your thigh to your pussy, getting his fingers instantly soaked in your essence.
He pushed one finger inside and you bucked against him. “Oh, baby, gentle? Please. I know, I know you’re a pro but please,” you moaned.
Franklin smiled, flicking his tongue against your clit. He moved his whole head, moaning into your pussy. His dick was about to explode in his shorts, he ground into the bed. He needed friction in the worst way. But he was determined to hold out. Determined for you to cum at least one more time.
“I got you, baby,” he moaned.
He pushed his finger in and out, mimicking fucking you. Your inner walls began to relax, allowing his finger to keep pumping. He eased a second finger in. You groaned, low and deep, as your hands fisted the blue sheets beneath you.
He could study your reactions for the rest of his life and never get enough. You were so expressive. So pliant beneath his fingers. Shit, if sex was like this, he understood his Uncle’s stories now. He understood now why he and Louie sometimes looked at each other like they wanted to go at it right there, regardless of who was around.
“Oh shit, oh shit. This–ah, so, s’good,” you cried out. Franklin smiled, pleased with himself. Though if you didn’t cum soon, he was worried that he might. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you.
Franklin tried to remember all of the tricks Jerome told him about. Tried to remember that there was something else he could do besides suck on your clit. What was it?
Your pussy clenched around his fingers and then it came to him. He flipped his wrist, curling his fingers in a come hither motion. You exploded once more on his tongue, juices spilling out of you and coated his chin. He moaned, lost in the taste of you. The way your thigh shook against his head. He ground into the bed again, moaning into your pussy.
When you came down, Franklin pulled away from you. There was a long spit chain connecting you two. You had trouble looking at him. But fuck. You were so beautiful like this. Heaving heavy sighs and moans, twitching every so often like you were cooked. He wished he had a polaroid camera so he could capture you like this.
Franklin kissed up your body, taking time to lick on your nipples. You squirmed under him, tiny moans escaping your lips. He looked up to see the tortured bliss on your face. Your lips parted, moaning getting a little louder.
Franklin licked up your essence that transferred from his chin to your nipple. “Still with me?” He asked.
Two tiny dips of your chin. “Oh god, that was…”
Franklin chuckled. He climbed up your body, lining himself up between your legs. You groaned when he spread your legs wider. Groaned again when he pushed his knees up, so that your legs hung on the outside of his thighs.
“I ain’t done with you yet,” he growled in your ear.
“Shit,” you moaned. You chuckled, panting for breath, and then looked back at him. “Damn.”
Franklin smiled, leaning down to kiss you. He couldn’t resist how cute you were. He leaned up on his knees, hunted through the sheets to locate the condom he tossed. He opened the package, pushed down his boxers, and rolled it on exactly as he saw in the videos he watched.
He looked at you, at how wide you looked at his dick. He smiled. “I’ll fit, don’t worry,” he said.
“You can’t read my mind!” You said and giggled. He chuckled, settling back between your thighs.
“We’ll go slow, okay?” He asked.
You nodded, bringing your hands to rub at his shoulders. He leaned on his hands, bringing one to his dick so that he could push into you.
He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. Fuck. Just the tip and he wanted to slam home. He would never do anything to hurt you though, so he took his time. You squeezed his arm, nails digging in, as he slid in inch by solid inch.
He watched your face. Your mouth tightened in pain, but your eyes were staring up at the ceiling. You had an adorable crease in your forehead as you concentrated. Once he couldn’t move anymore, he stopped so that you could adjust to his size. You squeezed his dick periodically, melting against the feeling of him being inside.
“Okay?” He asked.
You nodded and licked your lips. “I’m okay. Kinda hurts but you can keep going,” you said.
“Are you sure?” He asked.
You nodded. “I’m sure.” You smiled at him and brought your lips to his, giving him a smacking kiss. He smiled and continued to kiss you, pulling out and then slowly sliding back in. He repeated this as many times as you needed, before you were crying for him to go faster.
He pushed his hips faster, pushing in and out of you and listening to your cries. Your moans. He paid attention to when you dug your nails in and when you let go. When you dug your nails in, he kept hitting that same spot.
Your eyes flew open, staring at him like he stole something from you. You rocked with the force of his hips.
“Franklin! Franklin!” You moaned.
Shit. Could he make you cum once more before he shot his load? He wanted to cum so badly. His balls were heavy and slapped against your entrance. The wet smack of your pussy was driving him insane. His dick throbbed as you squeezed around him, teeth chattering from all the moaning you were doing.
“Don’t stop Ohhh, baby, don’t stop!” You yelled out.
Little did either of you know, Jerome had to swoop by the house for something. He wasn’t sure if you or Franklin were done or not, but hell, it was his goddamn house. He crept inside though, feeling like an asshole for sneaking around his own spot.
Once inside, he figured there was no use for sneaking. Between his nasty record playing, the headboard banging, and your moaning, Franklin was a good student. Jerome retrieved his extra stash of cash in his room, listening to the way you were moaning out Franklin’s name.
Pride made Jerome puff his chest out, shaking with silent laughter. “Get it nephew,” he chuckled as he left the house and hopped back in the car.
You and Franklin were none the wiser as you yelled in Franklin’s face, eyes wide, and body twitching beneath him. No longer able to play it cool, Franklin came with a vengeance. Sweet relief hit him as he came, as his cum shot out of him and into the condom.
He moaned, collapsing against your neck. That buttery cake smell teased his nostrils and he breathed it in deeply. Your skin was damp with sweat and still, he kissed your neck before sliding out of you.
He was sensitive from cumming, back bowing as he slid all the way out. He squeezed the condom as he took it off, a neat drop of cum inside. He tied it off, throwing it into the nearest trash can.
He snuggled back onto the bed with you, kissing your arm and then your cheek. You yawned and turned to him. “Fuck! Franklin! Damn!” You said comically, making him snort with laughter.
“Was it okay for you?” He asked. He still needed that little bit of validation. He needed to hear you say that you enjoyed it, that he interpreted all of your signs correctly.
“Okay? Franklin, that was intense and weird and fuck, I feel amazing! I,” you said and then bit your lip. You got to your elbows and looked quickly at him. “I want to do it again.”
Franklin chuckled. “I do too. But gon’ need a minute,” he said while he caught his breath. Maybe he needed thirty minutes. He was spent and didn’t know how he was going to recover so soon. To give you more. But damn if he didn’t want to try.
He pulled you closer to him, aligning your head into the crook of his arm. “You know I got you girl,” he said and smiled at the ceiling. He’d try to give you anything you asked for. Whether it be another orgasm, food, the moon, or a pencil. He’d give you anything in the world so long as he got to call you his.
Always more Franklin to love! The Secret Franklin Saint Files
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can people please stop writing reader like they’re a fucking child🧍🏼? it’s really…idk.
i don’t read stuff if i don’t like it but bro- name like one responsible adult who cries when they don’t get attention for like 0.001 seconds? or who wants to tie ribbons on dicks or whatever.
i totally understand like the bimbo thing (i don’t like it so i don’t read it) but stop making them seem like a CHILD or idk TEENAGER.
make.them.behave.like.an.adult.
especially readers that are paired with simon or price. they won’t settle for a ‘crybaby’ or whatever because it’s fucking cringe if you’re like that when you’re an adult (sorry not sorry). and they’d definitely not settle for a ‘controversially younger partner’.
also please stop writing ‘petite’ military!reader or a military!reader who cries when getting yelled at. that’s not how it works😍.
i know realism sucks sometimes but there are times where it shouldn’t be ignored. thanks.
Simon “she’s the prettiest star of them all” Riley x Model/Star!reader
Simon would tune in every week to watch her own the run way. Watch her hips sway to perfectly and elegantly. Better than all the rest. No doubt.
He’d watch every interview. And when you mentioned him, you couldn’t help but go into detail. How handsome he is. How strong he is, for both you and himself. How care and smart. No doubt, better than all the rest.
The press, as hard they might can never fully see Simon’s handsome face as you proclaim. But there’s no need. All of the girls want him and all of the boy loath him..or also want him, you never know!
No doubt, no matter how much money you bring in. All the lights that shine on you, to Simon you shine the brighest..
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After suffering a gunshot wound, you wake up in a hospital bed with Ghost sitting by your side. Unfortunately, the effects of anaesthesia leave you unable to recognise him and, worse, confuse him with someone else.
A/N: Fluff. Based on a request I received a while ago. Hope you like it, anon!
———————————————————————
A machine on your left beeps rhythmically. The taste of something metallic lingers in your mouth, and the iodine smell stinks your nostrils. Your eyes open slowly, but the bright ceiling light forces them shut again. You lick your lips and attempt to swallow a couple of times. Dry. Your mouth is dry. You need water. Your hand moves towards your face, but a low, raspy voice advises you against it.
“Careful now,” it says, and a hand gently grabs your wrist. “Don’t pull the IV off.”
You turn your head towards the figure beside you and squint. It’s a man, but your blurry vision doesn’t help you identify him. Your eyes travel to your wrist and focus on the closest part of him: a skeleton’s hand.
You try to shake your hand off his grip, but it turns out futile. Frustrated, you give up and raise your middle finger at him.
“Not my time yet,” you declare. “Fuck off.”
“Pardon?” he asks.
“Not ready to go yet,” you reply, tucking your middle finger in your palm and lifting it back up again. “And also, fuck off.”
The man releases your wrist, placing your hand gently beside you. He clears his throat and leans forward. Though your vision remains blurry, you spot what looks like a human skull with a hood over it.
“How are you feeling, love?” he asks, his tone softer.
“How am I feeling, love?” you repeat. “Did Hell improve their customer service?”
“I’m not-” The man begins but pauses. He sighs, shakes his head and rests his elbows on his thighs. “Never mind.”
“Where am I?” You ask.
“Hospital.” He replies. “You took a bullet.”
Directing your attention to your body, you feel a dull throb in your chest. You wince as your fingers brush against the bandages.
“You are joking.” You reply and slap your hand on the bed. “Why? How?”
“Well,” He says and tilts his head to the side. “You exchanged a few shots with the enemy, your gun ran out of bullets, his didn’t, and here we are.”
“My gun?” You ask, shocked. “I have a gun?”
“Several.” He nods.
“SEVERAL?” You shout. “Why would I possibly need several guns?”
“It’s your job, love.” He replies.
“My job is to have several guns?” you ask. “And shooting at people?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he explains, “but it’s mainly for defence.”
“Well,” you shrug and wince at the pain. “Doesn’t look like I’m that good at defence—especially for having several guns.”
“I was really worr—”
“Water,” you interrupt and gesture at your mouth. “I need water.”
“Doctor said it’s not the time for water yet,” he replies.
“Why?” you ask, pretending to check a non-existent wristwatch. “What time is it?”
“No, love,” he replies and muffles a chuckle. “Doctor said you need to wait until you have some water.”
“You throw the ‘love’ thing a little too freely,” you mumble, licking your lips and lifting your index finger. “I’d be really careful if I were you.”
“Really?” he asks, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Why?”
“I,” you say and point at yourself, “got a boyfriend, thank you very much.”
“Oh,” he exclaims and tilts his head. “Is that so.”
“Yup,” you nod. “And he can kill you.”
“Can he?”
“Can?” You say, and a smug smile forms on your dry lips. “He will absolutely, one hundred and a thousand per cent kill you.”
“Is he that good?” He asks.
“I mean,” you shrug, motioning at the bandages on your chest. “He’s much better than I am.”
“Oh wow,” he exclaims and leans forward. “Is he as good of a boyfriend as he is a shooter?”
“Far from it,” you reply, letting your hand fall to your side.
The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t seem that comfortable all of a sudden. He shuffles in his chair, trying to find a better position, and when he does, he clasps his hands together.
“Go on,” he finally says. “Spill it.”
“Ok, so,” you begin, “first things first, he doesn’t listen to me when I want to vent, and whenever he does, all he says is nonsense.”
“The lad gives you solutions,” he snaps, “and you call them nonsense?”
“I don’t want solutions, man,” you reply, shaking your head. “I want him to just listen to me.”
“Even if the solutions he provides are literally the answers to your suffering?”
“Even then.” You confirm.
“Gotcha,” he nods. “What else?”
“Oof,” you sigh, “how much time do you have?”
“I’m immortal,” he reminds you, “plus the next reaping is in five hours.”
“Oh boy,” you reply. “Business not going that well lately, huh?”
“Not many deaths to take care of,” he spits. “I guess some people could use some serious training when it comes to their aim.”
“Speaking of training,” you say, “he’s always at work and never spends much time with me.”
“The guy’s trying to spend as much time with you as he can, for fucks sake!” he shouts, throwing his hands up. “He even lied to get you on his team!”
“How do you know he put me on his team?” You ask.
“I keep a close eye on him.” He replies.
“What did he lie about?”
“Your precision in aiming,” he jokes and motions for you to continue. “Next one.”
“I can’t think of anything else,” you reply. “Other than he doesn’t say how much he loves me.”
“You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you?” He says, and his tone feels almost threatening. “He’s showing it to you daily; offering advice, keeping you close to him, even risking the possibility of being accused of nepotism for crying out loud! He doesn’t need to say it as well for you to know it!”
“It’s just nice to hear it sometimes,” you sigh and twist a thread from the bed sheet. You turn your head slightly toward him, and he lowers his head to the ground.
“How about you?” You ask. “You have a girlfriend?”
“I do,” he confirms.
“Shut up!” You shout, widening your eyes and immediately closing them back again. “Where did you guys meet?”
“Hell,” he replies. “Right in the pits of it.”
“How is she?” You ask.
“Perfect.” He states.
“Bullshit,” you murmur. “No one’s perfect.”
“She is to me.” He says, shrugging.
“Do you love her?” You ask.
“Absolutely,” he replies, nodding slowly. “One hundred and a thousand per cent I do.”
It’s kind of a given that the others (Price, Gaz, Soap, even Laswell) are pretty good with kids, but Ghost is also good with them imho.
Like, he’s great with them in a way that dad that don’t want the pet ends up being the pet’s favorite person.
Kids just feel the grumpy uncle vibes on him and cling onto him as he walks around like they weigh nothing.
Yes, Soap is the most fun (100% the kind to yeet them around while laughing), but Ghost can talk to them in his dry sarcastic way and they eat that shit up 😂
“Oi, get off that before you crack your head open.” He grunts at the little gremlin climbing on a bookshelf as he already makes his way over to grab them and toss them onto the couch.
He’s muttering swears and acting like he’s inconvenienced but he’s not (the kids know, they’re giggling).
Will not sugar coat answers he gives to children, but he’s not going to say things he doesn’t feel the need to mention.
May swear in front of the kids. Oops. He kinda a “bad influence” 😂😂😂
But the kids will learn so much from him and they’re gonna always ask to hang out with Uncle Simon.
So, I may have talked about this before (I think it's buried in my SFW alphabet somewhere??? idk), but I headcanon that Simon terrifies babies but is a complete toddler magnet. They see Simon, say "is anybody gonna crawl on that jungle gym?" and don't wait for an answer.
100% has Grumpy Uncle Vibes. The kind that says "I look like I hate everything but I will also tell you really funny jokes and help you sneak candy before dinner". It's sort of the same principle of "if you ignore a cat they'll like you more".
Children have also learned that they can get him to just pick them up by the scruff of their clothes like a kitten while scolding them if they're getting up to no good. Unfortunately, this leads to them doubling their efforts cause they think it's fun. Also yes, he 100% just throws them onto any soft surface. Couch, bed, beanbag, etc, doesn't matter, they're getting tossed like a sack of potatoes.
He definitely swears in front of kids. Doesn't really mean to, it just. Happens. Those who know him know to keep their eye on him when their kids are in that "mimic everything everybody says" stage, because otherwise the kid will come home and immediately call their dad a motherfucker. This has happened twice.
Also I know I said he usually scares babies, but imagine this w me for a second: one comes toddling up to him, babbling and holding out a little toy phone. Big Masked Man Simon immediately takes it and starts holding a conversation. He is very invested. He is now planning a pretend bank heist with the baby. The baby is also very invested.
