take another drink, it could be alright
older!frank x reader
a/n: this turned out 10x longer than i meant it to and with way less smut than i meant it to! oh well. no beta reader we die like men.
tags: intoxication, dubious consent, probably dddne, degradation, emetophilia, sub reader, dom frank, throat fucking, afab fem reader
You met him on your 21st birthday. Your friends brought you out to the local punk bar to celebrate. Not that this place ever IDed anyway, they didn’t have a liquor license to lose in the first place. But you still wanted to celebrate. And to you that meant getting shitfaced while fighting off guys who would probably slip something into your drink if you let them get close enough.
Inside, the air was thick with sweat, stale beer, and the sour undertone of piss baked into the floorboards. It was dark and grimy, Old flyers peeled off graffiti-covered walls in layers, bands that had broken up months or years ago. Your boots stuck to the floor with every step. You arrived just as the band that was playing tonight was packing up. They looked too old to still be playing music like this, still dressed like it was the 2000s, beat up converse with skinny jeans and faded band tees that looked handmade. You didn’t recognize any of the band names. This place had probably seen hundreds of bands that faded into obscurity. They were no different.
Your gaze landed on the guitarist. He was short, heavily tattooed, with wavy hair that fell past his eyes. You could picture him younger, standing outside venues after shows, cigarette in hand, telling girls he was in a band and swearing they were about to make it big. Just as you were about to turn away, he glanced up. He pushed his hair back, exposing a face that looked younger than he was, cheeks round and flushed, hazel eyes soft beneath thick eyelashes that made him look almost doe-like despite the tattoos crawling up his neck. He smirked and winked at you which made you scoff. As if you would ever go for an aging punk sleazebag still playing dive bars on a Thursday night.
You turned towards the bartender to give him your order and joined your friends at a table in the corner. As you nursed your drink, you couldn’t stop your gaze from returning to the stage. The guitarist had his back turned towards you now, crouched down beside his amp while unplugging cables. His shirt rode up slightly, exposing a tramp stamp across the curve of his lower back. Two crossed pistols in black ink beginning to fade and blur from age. You held back a giggle at the sight.
As the night dragged on you continued drinking, a pleasant buzz finally taking over and numbing your senses. Eventually your friends abandoned the table for karaoke, already halfway to the stage before you could protest.
“Come on!” one of them shouted, waving towards the stage.
“Hell no,” you yelled back, “I’m not humiliating myself on my birthday.”
They shrugged and continued towards the stage, leaving you behind. As you watched them sing off key to some cheesy pop-punk song, you felt the seat beside you shift.
“So,” a voice said, “do you always show up just in time to miss the band's entire set?”
You looked over, seeing the guitarist from before. You rolled your eyes. You could smell the sweat and booze wafting off of him.
“I don’t know, do you always talk to girls half your age?” you replied, leaning back. He barked out a laugh, loud enough that the table beside you glanced over.
“Not always, only the ones staring at my ass while I’m packing my gear,” he said, winking. You sighed. At least it was a break from the 20-somethings who could barely hold a conversation with a woman.
“Doesn’t look like we missed much,” you said, eyeing him up and down. Another laugh, warmer this time.
“Can’t say that’s much of a lie,” he admitted, “Our drummer can barely keep the rhythm for a whole song anymore”
“See? We got here just in time, then,”
“Yeah, yeah,” he ran a hand through his hair before looking at you again, “So, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” He asked.
“Not a thing,” you replied coldly, downing the rest of your drink before standing up, “but thanks.”
Before you could walk off, his hand wrapped around your wrist.
“C’mon, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” He let go, hands going up in surrender, “Just meant that you don’t usually see girls like you hanging around places like this.”
“Girls like me?”
“Y’know, clean. Like they’re coming from a college class rather than a drug-fueled bender,” He looked at you sheepishly, almost like he actually felt bad. You sighed dramatically, crossing your arms.
“Fine, I guess I can see your point,” you said, tilting your head,” But that’s strike one.”
He immediately broke out into a grin.
“Let me buy you another drink,” he offered, “As an apology for being an old-washed up man hitting on you,”
“Fine, but only because you said it so beautifully,” you deadpanned, letting out a laugh that you immediately regretted once you saw how pleased he looked with himself.
You followed him toward the bar, weaving through the crowd of people shouting over the music. Up close, you noticed how worn-down he really looked. Fraying sleeves, faded tattoos, chipped black nail polish. You could smell cheap old cologne through the cigarette smoke embedded in the fabric. As you followed him, you noticed your gait becoming a bit unsteady. Downing that last drink so fast was a bad idea.
The bartender slid your drink over after he ordered.
As you reached towards it, the man shot his hand out and grabbed it before you could.
“Tsk tsk,” he said, waving his finger at you, “ID first, miss thing.”
You stared at him blankly. He literally saw you drinking less than 5 minutes ago.
“Is this your way of asking if it’s age appropriate for you to be hitting on me?”
“Of course not! I just want to make sure you’re not an undercover cop sent to bust me for giving drinks to minors,”
“I think there’s worse things going on in this place than underaged drinking,” you said.
“Fair point,” he replied, still holding out his hand expectantly. You scoffed and reached for your wallet, realizing he’s not handing the drink over until you comply. It took you slightly longer than it should have to find your ID, fingers clumsy against the cards stuffed inside.
You handed him your ID and stared at him impatiently. You could see him doing the math in his head when his eyes went wide.
“Happy birthday!”
Somehow you had forgotten that before you handed over your ID. You tried to snatch it out of his hands, but he held it above his head, just out of reach.
“Twenty-one, that’s a big milestone,” He continued.
“Yeah?” You tried jumping to reach your ID but misjudged the distance, almost knocking into him, “I bet you can barely remember yours, what are you, forty?”
“Forty-four, actually,” he replied, barking out another laugh. You stared at him for a moment before realizing he’s actually serious.
“Wow, that’s ancient,” You said, finally snatching your ID back.
“That’s cruel,” He said, clutching his chest dramatically.
“Don’t have a heart attack about it, old man,”
“I don’t know if you even deserve your present anymore,” He said through a grin, but slid the drink towards you anyway. You took a sip immediately, the liquor burning your throat.
“I thought this was supposed to be an apology,” you said, “I expect something better as my present.”
“Hm,” he said, feeling around in his pockets before pulling out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. “How about a cigarette?”
“I suppose that will do,” you said, “Lead the way,”
“That’s what I like to hear,”
He grabbed his beer from the bar and nodded his head towards the back of the bar, leading you towards the back exit near the stage. You followed him through the crowd again, even more unsteady now that you were paying attention to it. The room felt warmer than before, lights bleeding softly together while someone was massacring a Fall Out Boy song on the stage. You found yourself holding lightly to the back of the man’s shirt, partly not to lose him in the sea of people but also to steady yourself. You saw him look back at you quickly, a smirk flashing across his face.
He pushed open the back door, cold air slapping you in the face.
“Jesus,” you muttered, shivering.
“Told you this place was a dump.”
Outside, the alley behind the bar was narrow and dark, faded graffiti barely visible on the crumbling brick walls. He leaned against the brick beside the door and pulled a cigarette loose from the pack before offering it to you.
You took it from his fingers, callouses scraping against your soft skin.
“You smoke often?” he asked while digging around for a lighter.
“Only when I’m drunk,” you replied, taking another sip of your drink. He hummed softly at that, finally flicking the lighter open and holding it up toward your face.
For a second, the flame lit up his face in warm orange light. You noticed smudged eyeliner around his eyes, reminding you again that this was just an old punk trying to live out his golden years.
You leaned in automatically, cigarette between your lips, one hand shielding the flame from the wind. You inhaled deep enough to feel it burn before leaning back against the brick wall and exhaling a slow cloud of smoke into the cold air.
“Atta girl,” he said with a grin. “Knew you had a little self-destructive streak in you.”
You scoffed, “Please, smoking one cigarette outside a bar isn’t exactly rock bottom.”
He tipped out another cigarette from the pack and lifted it to his lips.
“C’mere,” he said, leaning towards you with the cigarette hanging from his mouth.
You frowned but leaned towards him anyway.
Instead of reaching for the lighter again, he pressed the tip of his unlit cigarette to yours. Your faces were only inches apart. You could smell the beer on his breath and that same cologne. No doubt something he picked up from the drug store. You could see a tiny crease at the corner of his eye from years of laughing or squinting under stage lights. You could see the old scar on the side of his nose from what must have been a nostril piercing. You could feel the warmth radiating off him despite the cold night air.
He inhaled gently.
The tip of his cigarette flared orange from yours.
“There,” he said softly after pulling back. “Look at that. We make a good team.”
You scoffed and leaned back, exhaling and looking up at the sky to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
“Does that trick usually work for you?” You said, shaking your head.
“Hm,” He hummed, eyes flickering towards you as he took a drag, “Nah.”
You sat in silence for a moment, finishing the rest of your drink, and focusing your attention on the cigarette between your fingers instead of the man standing too close beside you. You eyed the tattoos covering his hands, crawling up his arms, and disappearing under the sleeves of his shirt before resurfacing up his neck. Nearly every inch of skin was covered except his face.
Your gaze landed on a scorpion beneath his ear, threatening to spill over onto his jaw..
“So, what’s the story with the scorpion?” You asked, breaking the silence. He laughed softly.
“Oh, this old thing?” He tilted his head to expose it better, “I got it on tour.”
“You had tours?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m picturing you with crazed groupies. How far off am I?”
He grinned around his cigarette.
“We were gonna make it big,” he continued, melodramatically, “I wanted to make sure I would never be able to work a regular job again if the band failed”
“And how did that work out for you?”
“Wonderfully,” He deadpanned.
You laughed quietly before taking another drag from your cigarette.
For a second, something crossed his face. Not embarrassment exactly. Maybe sadness.
“We really thought it was gonna happen,” he admitted after a moment, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke. “When you’re twenty, everybody thinks they’re gonna be the exception.”
You glanced back at the scorpion tattoo again, imagining him younger, standing in some shitty tattoo shop with bleached hair and too much confidence, convinced the whole world was about to open up for him.
“Do you regret it?” You asked.
“The tattoo?”
“No, the band?”
He ashed his cigarette.
“Nah,” he said, “I have a lot of regrets, but that’s not one of them,”
“So I’m assuming the tattoo is one?”
He laughed.
“Definitely not. Do you know how hot the girls get for these tattoos?”
“Now it’s all making sense,” You said.
“What is?”
“You peaked in 2007 and have been emotionally living there ever since.”
He barked out a laugh loud enough to echo down the alley.
“That is oddly specific.”
“I can practically see the Livejournal account. The dramatic poetry,”
“You say that like you wouldn’t have loved it,”
“Oh yes, the spiky dyed hair, the lip ring. Very toxic emo boy energy,”
“You joke,” he said, pointing his cigarette toward you, “but girls were obsessed with me.”
“Mhm,” you said, rolling your eyes.
He narrowed his eyes at you playfully before stepping a little closer, shoulder bumping yours for half a second.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I think you’re full of shit.”
“Maybe I am,” he took another drag before dropping his cigarette and stomping it out.
He glanced at you, licking his lips as he stared at yours as you took a drag as well. The alley suddenly felt very quiet despite the music thumping faintly through the walls behind you. You felt painfully aware of yourself all at once, like a specimen under a microscope. Your flushed face, the warmth in your stomach from the alcohol, the way he was staring at you. You were grateful for the darkness surrounding you.
Before you could exhale, he was on you. One second there was space between you, and the next his hand was against your jaw and his lips crashed into yours. He tasted like smoke and beer. You let out a startled sound against his mouth, smoke escaping between your lips as his other hand found your waist and pulled you closer.
Despite the shit you talked, you kissed back, dropping your cigarette to the ground, forgotten, to lace your fingers through his hair instead. You could feel his stubble scrape against your skin. His body pressed into yours, pinning you against the wall, knee finding the space between your thighs where heat was quickly pooling. You could feel the hardness growing between his legs too as he rutted against your thigh.
He pulled back for a second, breath warm against your skin.
“There,” he smirked. “That one usually works.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
You pulled him back towards you, lips crashing together, teeth scraping with the force of the kiss. It was messy and clumsy but you could tell he was experienced. Your head was spinning. You were way too drunk for this. As he deepened the kiss, tongue pushing past your lips, the awareness suddenly hit you again. You were drunk, in an alleyway with a much older man who wanted to fuck you.
You tried pushing him away but your limbs were heavy.
“Wait, stop,” you mumbled through the kiss. He pulled back for a moment, brows furrowed.
“Shh… It’s okay, I’ve got you. Be a good girl for me,” he said before resuming the kiss, fingers lacing under your shirt. You yelped at the feeling of his cold hands against your skin and he bit your lip to silence you.
His hands found their way to the zipper of your pants, quickly undoing them and shoving his hand down your panties, already soaked through.
“Yeah, you’re just a little fucking slut. You’ve been wet this whole time, haven’t you? Getting hit on by an older man, pretending you weren’t gonna fuck him. But I knew from the second I saw you that this is what you wanted,” he said, calloused fingers finding your clit with ease. You moaned as your thoughts began to blur together as he continued to work your pussy, two fingers slipping inside you. Pleasure began to overtake the panic you were feeling. He was right, you did want this.
His other hand lowered to his belt, unbuckling it and unzipping his pants, his swollen cock springing free, precum leaking from the tip already. His fingers pumped inside you a few times before he took his hand away, licking his fingers clean. Your pussy clenched needily around nothing, desperate for stimulation.
“Delicious,” he said, “Now, come suck this cock before I fuck you.”
He pushed you down to your knees easily, already unsteady from the amount of alcohol in your system. You shifted, staring up at his cock. It was a good size, somewhat girthy and flushed pink. You licked your lips, slightly opening your mouth as you leaned forward to take his length inside you.
He didn’t wait, pushing his cock past your lips and down your throat. You gagged around it, trying to adjust to its size. He grabbed your hair and pinned your head against the wall as he fucked your throat mercilessly. Tears welled up in your eyes and you gagged again, drool already dripping down your chin.
“God, such a tight throat. I bet you’ve never had anyone use you like this before,” he murmured, “Such a good girl, taking it so well.”
You gagged uncontrollably, spit foaming around the corners of your mouth as your stomach began to gurgle. You tried to motion to him to stop, tried to slap his thigh and push him away, but your body lagged behind your brain. You wouldn’t have the strength to stop him either way.
“Shh, just look at me while you take it,” He ordered, pulling your face up to look at him. He was sweating, mouth ajar as he used your throat like a fleshlight, eyes half-lidded. Hearing the sound of his moans mixed with the wet sounds your throat was making was making your mind fuzzy. For a brief moment, you felt like you were floating, until your stomach began to churn once more. He continued to pound his cock down your throat, stopping only when he felt your throat begin to spasm around him as you began to heave.
He watched, smirking, as you emptied the contents of your stomach on the pavement before you.
“Bad girl, look at the mess you made,” he scolded you. He grabbed your chin, slick with spit and vomit, and shoved two fingers down your throat, making you gag once more. You coughed and spit on the pavement, mouth sour with the taste of stomach acid and alcohol. At least you didn’t eat tonight.
He took a fistful of your hair and pulled you to your feet, slamming you against the wall facefirst, the rough brick scraping your cheek. He grabbed your hips, pulled your pants down to your knees, and plunged into you.
He fucked you mercilessly, arm wrapped around your neck in a headlock, applying just enough pressure for you to feel completely at his mercy. Your body went limp, only being held up by him and the brick wall. His free hand went to your clit, rubbing ruthlessly as he rutted into you like a dog in heat. You moaned weakly, tightness growing low in your stomach.
“Getting close, baby, can you cum for me? Cum for me like a good girl, please,” he choked out, rhythm becoming irregular as he slammed into you harder, “Gonna make you mine, baby, gonna fill this pussy to the brim with my cum.”
You cried out, pussy spasming around him as you came, but still he pounded into you. He released your neck, gripping your hips with both hands, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you. He panted, pulling out of you and you felt his cum leak out of you, running down the side of your leg.
His arms circled your waist and you felt him place a soft kiss on the side of your neck. He knelt down to tug your clothes back into place, and you heard the clink him re-doing his belt from behind you. He turned you around to face him once again, searching your face for any sign of what you might be thinking.
Neither of you spoke. Your body was sore, your head light, and your limbs heavy with exhaustion. You shivered, the cold selling back into your skin again now that you weren’t pressed against him.
“Hey,” he said, one hand cupping your cheek, reddened from being pressed against the brick, “You okay?”
“I think so,” you managed, though it came out more unsure than you anticipated. He leaned his head back against the wall beside you, lighting up another cigarette.
“You regret it?” he asked. You looked over at him, really looked at him again. Smudged eyeliner. Faded tattoos. Hair falling in his face. And somehow, despite everything, you didn’t feel disgusted looking at him.
“I probably should,” you replied. He smiled at that, exhaling a puff of smoke.
“Probably,”
For a second, you both just stood there.
Then from inside the bar, you heard your name being shouted by one of your friends over the speakers. You groaned, running a hand through your hair.
“I should probably get back to them before they call the police,” You said, glancing towards the door to get back inside.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly.
He took one last drag from his cigarette before crushing it beneath his boot. He looked almost awkward, as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands if he wasn’t holding a drink or a cigarette or you.
“Guess I should probably let you enjoy the rest of your birthday,” He said.
“Wait,” you said, “I never got your name,”
He barked out a laugh loud enough to echo through the alley again, head tipping back against the brick.
“Frank,” he said, reaching out his hand as if for a handshake. You let it hang in the air between you until he lowered it back down to his side.
“Thanks,” you replied quietly.
Then someone inside screamed your name again, followed by drunken laughter.
You groaned immediately. “Okay, yeah, I actually have to go now. See you around, maybe,” You finished.
“Maybe.”
You reached for the door handle before glancing back one last time. He was already leaning against the wall again, lighting another cigarette from the crumpled pack. You pushed back through the door into the heat and noise of the bar. Immediately your friends swarmed you, demanding to know where you were. You waved them off, returning to your place sat beside them.
As you sat you felt something crumple in your pocket. You shoved your hands into your pockets, your fingers brushed against something. You frowned and pulled it out beneath the flashing bar lights.
A receipt. With a number scrawled across it.
Beneath it: - Frank XO
You rolled your eyes and shoved the crumpled paper back into your pocket.
