#wildmaven prompts

[intheorangebedroom]

Road Trippin’

Summary: you take a road trip along the west coast with your boyfriend.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Can be read as a stand-alone. This said, I respect you all far too much to try and make you believe this isn’t my two PTMY filthy puppies. Let’s say, for the sake of suspense, that it might be them OR it might be an AU in which they get a happy ending…

ETA (July 22nd 2023): Now that PTMY is complete, I can finally move that baby up to a brand new Drabbles section of its masterlist, because it's always been Frankie & Gabrielle, Gabrielle & Frankie 🧡

Rating: Explicit 🔞 Fluff and filth with a dash of angst because hey, it’s me 😏

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: @wildemaven here it is! Again, thank you so much for sharing your incredible talent with us, for this wonderful idea, and for showing me a different way 🧡 I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

As in 99% of what I write, the story is titled after a song, another source of inspiration for me, here RHCP’s Road Trippin’.

Warning: contains some very self-indulging reference to a certain line of dialogue from TF…

Drabble: Road Trippin’

“Frankie, it’s beautiful,” you breathe out, your words immediately engulfed by the deafening noise of the waves crashing on the rocks below.

He nudges your shoulder, letting you know he heard you, and you chase the heat of his body, leaning against his arm and resting your head against the firm slope of his shoulder. The soft, cottony fabric of his hoodie caresses your cheek when you brush against it. You look up at him and it’s another vision that has your breath hitching in your chest. Locks of luscious brown curls perk out from under the hood of his sweater, swept soft and tempting by the ocean breeze over the landscape of his sharp profile .

Your heart leaps out of your rib cage and you quickly return your gaze to the tumult of the ocean. You don’t think you can withstand so much beauty.

“The weather could be better,” he says about the thin drizzle that surrounds you like misty drapes, but you shake your head no.

The subtle pink and blue pastels of his sweater stand out under the overcast sky, the pearl gray clouds highlighting the colours of the nature that surrounds you. Shadows play across the surface of the ocean, deepening its many shades of green, the soft slopes of the mountains evocative of the curves of a sleeping figure draped in emerald velvet.

“Oh no, this is perfect. Everything is perfect,” you murmur, breathing in his scent, woody and musky, with a faint, clean note of your laundry detergent. He smells like home.

Frankie smiles at the clouds, and his swelling heart feels cramped in his chest. He doesn’t think he can withstand so much happiness.

The large, white wagon you’re traveling with is parked behind you, where you screamed at Frankie to stop just before driving over Bixby Bridge. You got so caught up in the scenery you forgot your camera on the passenger seat.

You had always wanted to see Big Sur, and the trip had moved up to the top of your bucket list since you’d come to America. You had told him about this life-long dream of yours in passing, but of course, he had remembered.

And the idea had slowly taken root in his mind as you kept asking him for tales of his childhood and the place where he grew up.

One evening back in January, he had come home from work to find you sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, fiddling with a bottle of British lager, weary and defeated by a particularly rough day of icy cold weather and dealing with unpleasant customers.

The tired but sincere smile you had greeted him with had swept away the last of his doubts, and he had presented you with a half formed plan: flying to San Diego, and road tripping up north along the coast to Monterey. Perhaps even to Yosemite, if you’d like to.

You' ha'd risen up from your chair and jumped up and down excitedly like a kid who’s been told they’re going to Disneyland, and his face brightened up with a dimpled smile, which prompted you to sit on his lap, wrapping yourself around his body and pecking his pretty face with so many kisses he couldn’t open his eyes, his broad shoulders shaking with a breathy chuckle.

You’d agreed to travel in April, to avoid the crushing heat of Southern California, and the two of you had started drawing lists of everything you wanted to see.

Later that night, as you lied in bed naked, tucked in against his warm body with your legs intertwined, you’d ask him, encouraged by the friendly obscurity.

“Will it be ok, for you, Frankie? Going back there?”

He’d kissed the crown of your head, breathing in your scent briefly, before offering a reassuring answer. When in truth, he had no idea how he would feel about it. He hadn't set foot in San Diego, or even California for that matter, since he’d moved to Brooklyn with his sister after their mother’s passing, some twenty-three years ago.

And in the end, it had been just fine. Better, actually, than anything he could have hoped it to be. Seeing you walking these distantly familiar streets, the same ones he had spent hours exploring on his bike as a wandering child, had rewritten the narrative of this past life. Just like you’d done with his time in the army, just like you’d done with his scars, the tangible ones, and the ones only you and him could see.

You wanted a real adventure, you’d said, as real as they come in movies and postcards, camp out in the wild, sleep under the tent, snap a million pictures with your dented Rolleiflex, forget about the GPS and use a roadmap instead, because you were pretty good with these, you’d said. And sure enough, you were. He had had some reservations about the camping part, given how long you spent under the shower every morning, but you’d surprised him with your ability to clean up and get ready in under five minutes in gas station bathrooms.

And with his skills for organisation, a happy occupational hazard of sorts, the road trip was going as smoothly as possible.

Your enthusiasm and candid wonderment were like a drug to him, there was nothing you’d wish he could deny you.

When you’d ask to make a detour to visit Hearst’s castle, he’d immediately agreed. The excitement lit up your eyes as you buoyantly told him of the many tales you’d read about the place. Hearst himself, Marion Davies, Louise Brooks, Buster Keaton, Greta Garbo, Dolores Del Rio, the feud with Orson Welles about Citizen Kane, down to The White Stripes’ Union Forever.

You’d smile at him apologetically for being the most annoying Wikipedia page, but he’d cupped your sweet mug in his large hands and nuzzled your nose, telling you this was the best trip he’d ever been on, after the one you’d taken the previous year in Paris.

“I missed the ocean so much,” you sigh, wrapping both arms around his.

“We don’t live far, we definitely could go more often.”

“Could we fly to Coney Island?” you ask excitedly, tilting your head up.

His laughter rumbles over the waves as he answers, “Right! I can land the chopper on top of the Wonder Wheel, how’s that?”

You push him gently, with a quiet giggle. You know he’s joking but you’re pretty sure he’d try to do it if you kept pressing…

“Did you go often, back when you lived in Paris?” he asks after a pause.

“Any chance I would get. I usually went to Normandie to see the cliffs, by the Channel. It’s my favourite place, it’s really gorgeous. I could spend hours looking at the tide, just get lost in the waves, it’s just so soothing, watching something that existed long before you and that will remain long after you’re gone. Like I could get in the water and drift away, and everything would be fine. But it’s nothing like here. Here is much more… I don’t know, gentle?”

The way you express yourself in sensations triggers something warm within him. He untangles his arm from yours and positions you in front of him, encircling your waist and leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Tomorrow we’ll have a swim, if the weather’s better.”

His warm breath fans the soft hair on your nape and heat flares up in your lower belly. You don’t doubt for a second that this was precisely his intention.

“Did you swim very often, when you lived here?” you ask, and he can hear the arousal in your wavering voice.

“Yea, all the time. I’d ride my bike to the beach and swim for hours. Like you said, the water makes everything better. I would get a thrill swimming as far as I could, until I was exhausted, until I wasn’t sure if I could make it back. But everything would be fine.”

You shiver between his arms at the shared experience and he tightens his hold around you. The two of you get lost in each other’s silence, in the foreign memory of forgotten loneliness.

“That explains the shoulders,” you finally say.

“What’s with the shoulders?” he asks, and his husky tone confirms the mood has shifted.

“You know what’s with the shoulders, Morales. But I’ll show you tonight, anyway.”

—

The night air is cool outside the tent, but inside it’s humid and hot. The blanket scrapes your knees where they rub on it in your swaying movement on top of him, as you try to work in his length, your splayed fingers digging into the plane of his solid chest just like you like it, but it’s useless, Frankie’s restless underneath you, roaming his hands all over your body, cupping your breasts and kneading them greedily, then down to the swell of your ass where he grabs a handful of your flesh and uses it to press you further down on him, but you’re slippery with sweat and he grunts in frustration until you tell him, winded by exertion, “What do you want, baby?”

“Fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back onto the bunched up duvet, and oh god, his neck, his gorgeous neck, the view sends a new wave of slick rushing down your walls, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It’s fine,” you say, “just take what you need, Frankie baby.”

He sits up and flips you on your back before you can even finish your sentence, and the air is punched out of your lungs when you hit the floor with a muffled thud.

Oh it is fine, you think, as you downright salivate at the sight of his sweaty chest, his golden skin gleaming in the yellow hue from the camping lamp, his dampened locks glued to his forehead and curling around his ears.

He takes hold of your ankles and places them on his shoulders, and you brace yourself on the blanket, knowing what’s to come. Frankie kisses your calf and as he lines himself up, you see how his eyes have gone completely dark, his pupils blown wide with lust and need.

He drives into you suddenly, to the hilt, and you clench your eyes and trash your head back with a hissed “shit”, but he grinds further in, swirling his hips against your ass, rearranging you for him, and for a brief second you recoil, you don’t think you can make it.

He leans down over you, pushing your knees into your chest, folding you in half. Your frowned brow halts his grinding, but the thought remains, he can’t shake it off. He wants to anchor you to his body, fuck his love into you, care for you and pleasure you in all the ways he knows how until you never feel the need to drift away ever again.

Comprehension strikes you when you open your eyes and look at his face. “I’m here, Frankie, I’m here with you, not going anywhere, baby,” you coo, running your thumb over the crease between his brow.

Frankie lets out a deep breath, lets his shoulders sag, softly kisses your palm, and pulls almost all the way out.

It’s passed. The storm has abated.

He leans back a bit, and you can breathe again, and when he resumes his moving, he rocks into you slowly, with shallow thrusts, giving you time to adjust.

You moan with the effort, you don’t think he’s ever been this thick or this hard, and when he places his hands on your forearms for leverage, you grip his back, using the hold to try and control his pacing.

“Alright baby, alright baby, come on now, you know you can take it.”

“It’s a lot, Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea? You’ve taken worse than that,” he smiles cockily and you answer with a soundless laugh because, yes, indeed, he’s made you take far worse than that.

He links your forearms over your belly, holding them with one hand, and brings his other one to your lips, prompting them to open. You take in his fingers, suck on them sloppily, with hunger, and he chuckles.

“That’s it, good girl. Look at you, so fucking filthy, of course you can take it.”

He starts rubbing fast circles on your clit and drives into you a little faster, a little harder.

“This okay, baby?” His voice is hoarse with restraint and you feel the tension shifting in your core as a new rush of slick pools down your folds.

“Tell me how it feels, baby, lemme hear your pretty voice.”

“It feels good, Frankie, fuck I- I’m so full, you feel good, you feel so good,” your voice is waning as your climax draws nearer, your belly pulled taut under your crossed wrists.

He’s pounding into you now, hard and fast and deep, his fingers a steady pressure across your bundle of nerves, and you watch as beads of sweat roll down his neck onto his chest, and you warn him, “Oh god I’m coming, Frankie, I’m coming.”

“I can feel it, baby, I can feel it.”

He presses down on your legs, his hips starting to stutter, but he keeps talking, talks you through it, and you let his voice swipe you and pull you under, let it take you over the edge as pleasure washes over you in violent waves.

The flutter of your cunt tips him over and he comes with a loud curse, and when you feel his body slump over yours, you shift under his weight and he pulls out all of a sudden.

Gently, he takes your limp legs off his shoulders, kisses your scraped knees better, and lowers them on the blanket. When you lift your head to look at him, he is kneeled between your spread thighs, watching his spend leaking out of your swollen folds, heaving, a tired smile curling his plush lips.

Your eyes meet, and he tells you, “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fuck it back in.”

—

Tomorrow you will go swimming together in the ocean. He will gaze in amazement and reverence at your smiling eyes, mirroring the sea and the sky that saw him grow up. He will kiss the burn from the sun off your shoulders and you will lick the salt from the water off his neck. You will sit close to him in the white wagon, tracing the route on the map with your finger, to the north, to the east, to the west, or the south, it doesn’t really matter, because anywhere on earth, with him, will always be the best trip ever.

****

Bonus: some pictures Reader captured along the trip 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

[wildemaven]

Excited for this first go at sharing these prompts and even more excited to see what you all create. I created a separate page where I’ll probably be posting future prompts and reblogs as well (If this isn’t a flop)

@wildemaven-prompts

Tag @wildmaven-prompts or @wildemaven and use the tag #wildemaven prompts so we can find your work. Definitely want to reblog everything too so others can easily find them as well.

Please tag your fics properly too- specific readers/inserts, proper content warning and anything else that might be needed to help reader decide if your fic is right for them.