Listening to Acid Bath and getting... Ideas.
Meeting DILF Frank Iero outside a concert venue. He's sweaty and achy from dancing, his aging body making itself apparent, (he's a total loser manfailure in my au). But he can't resist a pretty face, no matter how much his guilty conscious wants him to. He hates how young I look, he probably has tattoos older than me. But, as much as he tries to explain that the age difference is too much, he can't help it. It starts off with just kissing, enough to make him dizzy, pliable. So when I finally pop the question he's barely thinking. He comes back to reality a bit when I ask him to put his cigarette out on me. His eyes widening and his blinking slowing. But after a bit of confirmation that I'm serious, he reluctantly agrees. Pressing the red hot tip of his cig to my neck. Its sick, but he can feel how much tighter his pants are afterwards. Seeing me moan in pain turns him on. -🤖 (Also again, your writing is amazing. I couldn't be happier with how the PW SH ask was handled).
ohhhhhhhh my god. this is so. robot anon you’re so amazing this is great. also i’m projecting bc i met frank and it was. fucking amazing. AND i’m seeing mcr this year, which means potentially i could meet frank again????
i’m so sorry this took so long. life and a few other projects i’ve been working on got in the way, my tumblr drafts fucked into the void for a bit, etc.
you can also read this on ao3
The heavy, humid East Coast summer had finally relented by the time the show ended, the thick air softening into something almost pleasant. The last night of tour always felt like a strange sort of exhale—Dunes had wrapped things up in Jersey, and Frank had nowhere else to be. No looming drives, no soundchecks, no schedule.
It should’ve been a night to unwind. A cigarette beneath the stars, maybe a cheap beer cracked open beside the van. Silence for once, or just the muffled sound of traffic in the distance. That’s what it should’ve been.
But then there was you.
He hadn’t meant to pick up a fan. That was never the plan—especially not one as young as you. Nineteen. Christ. He had tattoos older than you. You still had a baby face, soft and wide-eyed and far too trusting. He wasn’t supposed to flirt back when girls like you came giggling and slinking around him. Wasn’t supposed to notice the way your eyes lingered or how your hands shook a little when you asked for a picture.
He wasn’t supposed to do any of this. He’d sworn he wouldn’t become that guy—another washed-up asshole playing out the sleazy rockstar cliché, dragging some barely-legal girl behind a venue for a quick fuck.
And yet.
Here you were. Here he was.
It would’ve been easy to end it politely. He could’ve said goodnight, given you a hug and maybe a grin you’d remember, then sent you on your way. Left things mostly innocent. Mostly harmless.
But Frank had never been good at doing what he was supposed to do.
Instead, he had you pressed against the coarse brick wall behind the venue, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist like he needed to remind himself you were real. His hips pressed flush to yours. His mouth—hot and desperate—found your throat, teeth occasionally teasing the skin there.
You whimpered his name, breath hitching, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. “Frank, oh—”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough and low. He finally pulled back just a little, enough to meet your eyes.
“Can we, um… can we go somewhere more private?”
There was a beat of hesitation.
The words hung there—delicate, dangerous. Somewhere more private meant crossing a line he’d already tiptoed over. It meant intimacy. Consequences. It meant no longer pretending this was just harmless fun behind a venue under dim parking lot lights.
But getting caught—like this, with you—wasn’t an option either. Not when his divorce wasn’t public yet. Not when the last thing he needed was some fan snapping a photo of him with a girl too young and too pretty to be explained away.
He dragged a hand through his hair, heart pounding, every instinct warring with every impulse.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Yeah, let’s go.”
It felt stupid—humiliating, even—booking a hotel room forty minutes from his own damn house.
But not as stupid as the baseball cap and sunglasses he wore pulled low over his face, skulking through the lobby like some D-list celebrity. Not as stupid as giving the front desk a fake name—Anthony Lero, of all things—mumbling it like a teenager trying to buy booze with a fake ID.
The whole thing was absurd. And if Frank had been capable of thinking clearly, he would’ve walked away the second you touched his arm.
But you were clinging to him now, all starry-eyed and trusting, your whole body pressing into his like you belonged there. Like you had any idea what you were doing. Like he wasn’t twice your age and rotting from the inside out.
He kept his hand on your waist as the elevator dinged upward, swallowing the nausea building in his throat. The city spread out beyond the glass walls—Newark glittering below like it wasn’t already rotted, too. He scanned the keycard and opened the door to the suite he’d shelled out for (because of course he had—he wasn’t a total fucking monster, right? He could at least pay a little extra for the bed he was about to ruin you in).
The room was quiet, sterile, impersonal. It smelled faintly of lemon scented cleaner and someone else’s cologne. You stepped inside like you owned the place, shedding your jacket, turning toward him with that smile that knocked the breath out of his chest. Your lips found his, warm and pliant and so fucking soft. Everything about you was soft. Soft skin, soft sighs, soft hands tangled in the hem of his shirt.
Too soft for him. Too good.
And what was he? A burned-out musician with aching knees and a reputation he didn’t deserve anymore. He was someone who lived out of suitcases, whose divorce papers were still sitting on the kitchen counter because he couldn’t bring himself to sign the final page. Someone who knew better.
He shouldn’t have even kissed you.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling back from your lips.
“Yeah?” you breathed, eager, your mouth a little swollen, still shiny from the kiss.
He reached up and brushed a curl from your cheek, his fingertips trembling more than he liked. Guilt twisted sharp in his chest, hot and thick and undeniable.
“I…” He hesitated. Swallowed hard. “We don’t have to do anything, okay? If you want, this room’s yours for the night. I just—”
Your smile faded so fast it almost made him flinch.
“You don’t want me?” you asked quietly, your voice tight and small, eyes wide with something that looked an awful lot like heartbreak.
His stomach turned.
God, he was such an asshole.
“You’re so young,” he said softly, as if saying it out loud might make it less true. “Fuck, I’m old enough to be your dad…”
“I don’t care,” you whispered, reaching for him again. “Please, Frank. I’ve wanted this forever. I need you. Please.”
And that was it. That was all it took.
He hated himself for how fast he folded. For how easily he let you back into his arms, how fast the shame got swallowed by the heat pooling low in his gut. You batted those big, beautiful eyes and begged for him like he was something worthy, and suddenly he wasn’t thinking about age gaps or bad decisions—he was thinking about how sweet you tasted, how good you felt pressed against him.
He should’ve been sick with himself.
Instead, he kissed you again like a man starved.
Frank felt like he was losing track of himself. Every brush of your mouth, every soft noise you made, dragged him deeper under. It made him dizzy. Pliable. Like maybe this could be okay if he just didn’t think too hard.
You tugged his shirt off at some point—he didn’t even remember when—and climbed onto his lap, straddling him on the edge of the bed. His hands gripped your thighs like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. Your body felt so small in his hands. So warm. So real.
Then you pulled back.
“Wait,” you whispered, breathless, your lips kiss-bitten and eyes glassy. You stood up slowly, like you wanted to make sure he watched.
And he did. God, he watched.
You peeled your clothes off piece by piece, deliberate, languid. Skirt first, then that too-small top, until you were standing in front of him in a matching set of pale lingerie. Pink, lacy, delicate. Pretty and girlish in a way that made his heart ache and his stomach turn.
He reached for the cigarettes in his bag with shaking fingers, lighting one like it might settle him, calm the rush of blood that had nowhere good to go. The glow of the red cherry lit your skin as you moved back toward him, casting soft shadows across your collarbones and the swell of your chest.
You crawled back onto the bed and smiled, that same sweet smile that made him feel twenty again and seventy at once. And then—casually, like you were asking if he wanted to change the music—you said:
“Will you put it out on me?”
He blinked.
“What?”
You tilted your head, your tone still light, playful. “Your cigarette. I want you to put it out on me.”
Silence.
The room went cold, like all the heat had been vacuumed out in an instant. Frank stared at you, cigarette paused halfway to his lips. His eyes widened, and he blinked slowly, like maybe he’d misheard.
“You’re not serious,” he said finally, voice low and hoarse.
You didn’t waver. “I am.”
He looked at you for a long time, heart thudding uneven in his chest. You looked so calm. So sure.
“I want it,” you said softly. “Right here.” You traced a fingertip across your neck, just beneath the jaw. “Just once.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. His stomach turned. This was fucked up. He should tell you no. He should pull his shirt back on, walk out of this hotel, and forget tonight ever happened.
But your eyes were still on him, big and shining, and your chest was rising and falling just a little faster than before. Your thighs squeezed together like you were nervous. Or turned on. Or both.
“You’re sure?” he asked, quieter now. Not challenging. Just… checking.
You nodded.
He exhaled smoke and guilt and the last ounce of good judgment he had left.
“Alright,” he murmured.
His hand trembled a little as he reached for you. You tilted your head back, lips parting in anticipation, and he hated how beautiful you looked like that.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, even though he already knew you wouldn’t.
You didn’t.
When he pressed the glowing tip of the cigarette to your neck, your breath caught hard in your throat—but you didn’t pull away. You moaned, sharp and pained, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets behind you.
Frank’s stomach flipped. He should’ve been horrified.
Instead, his jeans felt suddenly tighter.
It was disgusting. He knew that. But watching your body tense beneath his touch, hearing the way you whimpered for him even through the pain—something about it lit a fuse in him he hadn’t even known was still wired to anything.
When he pulled the cigarette away, the little burn mark on your neck hissed faintly.
You looked at him with wet lashes and parted lips, still panting.
Fuck.
The word barely made it out of his mouth—half a breath, half a confession—as he dropped the cigarette into the half-empty pitcher of water on the nightstand. It hissed out with a soft sizzle, a pathetic little sound that couldn’t compete with the pounding in his chest.
His hands found your forearms before he even realized he was moving, fingers wrapping around your soft skin as he pulled you into him—close, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies. He didn’t deserve to touch you like this, didn’t deserve to breathe the same air, but God, he was so fucking hungry. Starved. Depraved.
He needed you.
Not just your body—though every inch of you made his head spin—but the way you looked at him. Like he was wanted. Like he was worth something. Like you didn’t see the mess he really was.
Frank pushed you gently back onto the bed, crawling over you on his knees, one hand braced beside your head. Your breath hitched, and then you let out a soft, breathy giggle—smug and warm and pleased with yourself. It made something low in his gut twist. You were so confident, so self-satisfied, and it drove him insane.
His fingers dipped to the waistband of your panties, toying with the lace there.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice cracked on the last word, rough and low, like he couldn’t believe this was really happening. “You know that?”
You arched your back a little, eyes fluttering as his lips found your jaw again—hot and insistent, teeth scraping just enough to leave a mark. You sighed, hands drifting up into his hair, tugging gently.
“I want you,” you whispered.
Frank groaned, forehead pressing to your shoulder for a moment like he was trying to collect himself, but it was no use. He was already gone.
“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he said against your skin.
He was already hooking his fingers into the sides of your panties, already dragging them down your hips with shaky hands and a mouth still pressed to your throat. You tilted your chin up like you were offering yourself to him completely. And Frank, sinner that he was, took what you gave.
He trailed sloppy kisses down your sternum, mouth hot and wet, leaving a glistening trail across your flushed skin. His stubble scraped softly with every press of his lips, and he felt your whole body react—hips twitching, breath catching, fingers tightening in the sheets like you couldn’t take it.
You moaned—loud, lascivious, desperate—and arched into his mouth like you were starving for him. Like he was the only thing that could satisfy the ache curling hot and electric in your belly.
You were so pretty like this. So needy for him. It made Frank dizzy. Made it hard to breathe.
He kept going lower, licking a stripe down past your navel, mouthing hungrily at your stomach, your hips. You shivered under him, thighs trembling already, and when he dipped further, your legs opened like it was instinct. Like you were made for this. Made for him.
So fucking easy. Too easy.
And he knew—he knew—he didn’t deserve you like this. But that knowledge faded every time you looked at him like he was something precious. Every time you begged for more.
His fingers grazed your inner thighs, feather-light, barely there, just enough to make you shiver again. His eyes flicked up, drinking you in.
You were soaked.
“This for me?” he murmured, low and teasing, letting his breath ghost against where you wanted him most. His lips curled into the faintest, crooked grin—not because he needed to ask, but because he wanted to hear you say it. Wanted the confirmation.
“Yeah,” you gasped, nodding frantically. “Yes—please, Frank, need you to touch me.”
And fuck, that did something to him.
The way you said his name like a plea. Like a prayer. The trust in your voice. The sheer hunger.
He ran his thumb along the edge of your panties—slid them aside just enough. His breath caught at the sight of you glistening, open, aching for him.
He grinned—tight, shaky, fucked-up—and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Gonna give you what you want.”
Seconds later, his mouth was on your clit—lips plush, tongue slow and sure as it traced lazy, deliberate circles. The taste of you bloomed across his tongue like something holy and wrong all at once. He groaned low in his throat like he was starved for you.
You whined, high and breathless, your hips jerking upward to chase more of that pressure. Frank planted one hand firmly on your abdomen, holding you down with practiced ease.
“Easy,” he muttered against you, breath hot. “I’ve got you.”
And God, he did. He could’ve stayed there forever—his face buried between your thighs, surrounded by your scent, your sounds, your warmth. There was something addictive in it, something pure he had no business touching.
But still he touched. Still he took.
You were innocent. At least compared to him. Untouched in the ways that mattered, soft in all the places the world had hardened him. And Frank knew he didn’t deserve this—not the taste of your slick on his tongue, not the feeling of your thighs tightening around his ears, not the sweet cries of “Frank, please, oh my god—” like he was something worth begging for.
You were his undoing.
And he was a sick fuck for loving it.
For wanting to ruin you. To see just how far you’d let him push you. To stain something so good with his mouth and hands and hunger. It was pathetic, the way he fed on your need, how he let your age wrap around his guilt and squeeze until it almost felt good.
He could’ve had someone his own age. Someone with crow’s feet and regrets and an ex-husband she didn’t want to talk about. Someone who wouldn’t have looked at him like he was the most important man on earth.
But then there was you—wide-eyed and perfect and so goddamn willing.
And when you finally shuddered hard, a full-body quake that made your thighs clamp tight around his head, he groaned like it hurt. The sound was muffled against your cunt, swallowed by the wet heat of you, and he didn’t care.
He held you through it, licked you through it, hand flexing on your stomach as you gasped and cried out his name like it was something sacred.
“Frank—”
His cock throbbed in his jeans, painfully hard, his own breath coming shallow now.
He undid his belt with rough hands, shoving his jeans and boxers down. He swore his cock got impossibly harder watching you eye him, your gaze dragging over the faded tattoos littering his skin.
He leaned in close, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You whimpered, soft and wrecked, your lips parting eagerly for his, fingers curling in his hair. You were already half-gone, dazed and pliant beneath him from just his mouth—and if that wasn’t the biggest fucking ego boost he’d ever felt, he didn’t know what was.
“Goddamn,” he whispered into your mouth, barely able to think straight.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, and suddenly you were flush together—chest to chest, heat to heat, so dazzlingly close he could barely breathe.
“Did you bring a condom?” he asked, voice rough. The words burned coming out.
Of course he hadn’t. There was no stash in his wallet anymore, no foil packet hidden in a jacket pocket. That part of his life was supposed to be over. He was a married man until—what? A month ago? Two? He still hadn’t told half his friends. The idea of carrying condoms on the road again felt absurd.
You shook your head, biting your lip. “‘M on the pill. I’m clean. Just—fuck me raw, please.”
You grasped his hand, guiding it to the faintest bump in your arm, barely noticeable under your skin.
“I’ve got the implant. See? You can even cum inside, I want you to.”
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
You didn’t even realize what that did to him—how those words alone nearly had him coming untouched. Your trust in him was absolute. Naive, even. It should’ve made him sick.
Instead, it made him ache.
The idea that he could fill you up, leave something of himself inside your pretty, perfect body—that you wanted him to—felt more intimate than any kiss, any moan, any whispered plea. It floored him.
“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice thick with emotion he couldn’t name. “You really are.”
He shifted his hips, lining himself up, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance. He paused for just a second, eyes flicking up to yours.
“Last chance to tell me no.”
But you only stared back at him, pupils blown wide, lips parted, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other resting on his cheek.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Please.”
He pushed in.
And Jesus fucking Christ—you were so warm. So wet. So tight around him it felt like his body wasn’t built to handle it. He sank in slowly, inch by inch, watching the way your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. You took him like you were made for it.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, nearly shaking from the effort it took not to come right then and there. “You feel—God, you feel so fucking good.”
Frank was gone. Past the point of pretending. He fucked you like he meant it, like it would burn the guilt right out of him. His pace was frantic, almost punishing, hips slamming into you over and over as the headboard thudded softly against the wall.
And still, you were taking it so well.
Crying out for him, eyes half-lidded and teary with pleasure, your lips parted around his name like a prayer. Your tits bounced with every thrust, and when he glanced down at the place where you were joined—slick and swollen and flushed—he nearly lost it then and there.
“You’re so fucking good,” he growled, teeth gritted, breath hot against your cheek. “Takin’ me so easy—like this pussy was made for me.”
“It was,” you gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck. “It’s all yours, Frank—fuck, please—don’t stop—”
That broke him.
He pulled out halfway and slammed back in, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. You cried out, high and helpless. Here he was, balls-deep inside you, fucking you raw, with no protection—just the mindless promise that you were on the pill.
He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, leaned in close so his mouth brushed your ear. He whispered the filthiest shit, barely coherent but still making you blush regardless.
He was going to ruin you, was going to make sure no one else could ever fuck you without you thinking of this—of him. Of what it felt like to be split open and filled, dripping with him, every inch of your body marked by his touch.
And then he felt you clench; tight, fluttering, unbearable. You moaned his name, a broken whimper, and he watched you fall apart for him.
Your orgasm hit like a wave, your body trembling, legs locked around him as you came hard, wet and perfect, your inner walls milking him in aftershocks.
Frank lost it.
He groaned loud and raw, burying his face in your neck as he thrust once, twice more—and then he was spilling inside you, deep and messy, your name a ragged chant on his tongue.
He stayed there, chest heaving, cock still twitching inside your slick heat.
The room was spinning. So were his thoughts.
He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, breath ragged against your skin, your thighs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. The room was quiet now, save for the dull hum of the air conditioner and the faint city noise through the windows. Your body was still twitching with aftershocks beneath him, soft and pliant and perfectly spent.
And then—slowly, gently—he pulled out.
Fuck.
Frank let out a low exhale, his hand dragging down his face as he sat back for a second, just looking at you. Your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, your lips swollen and parted. You looked so peaceful. So trusting.
He should’ve never brought you here in the first place. He should’ve never let it get this far. You were young. And he was old enough to know better. Old enough that the excuses didn’t work anymore. That this wasn’t some reckless fluke—it was a choice.
A choice he kept making, even while knowing just how wrong it was.
You stirred slightly, curling toward him, and without thinking, Frank pulled you into his arms. You fit there too easily. Your skin was still warm, your fingers drifting lazily over the edge of one of his tattoos.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice thick. “Before you fall asleep…”
You murmured something wordless, sleep-drunk and warm, as he reached across the nightstand for a notepad and pen. Scrawled down his number in shaky, barely legible handwriting, and folded the paper into your palm.
“In case you need anything,” he added quietly. “Or if… if the birth control fails. Or—whatever. You just call me, okay?”
You blinked up at him, eyes heavy and unfocused, but you nodded.
“Okay,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “Thank you, Frankie…”
He swallowed hard.
You nestled into his chest a moment later, your breathing slow and steady as sleep pulled you under. And Frank just laid there, staring at the ceiling, one arm wrapped around your bare back like it could make up for any of it.
His heart felt like it was caving in on itself.
You were so beautiful. So trusting. So good.
He was a fucking wreck. A washed-up, half-divorced, morally bankrupt wreck who had no business holding a girl like you while she slept soundly in his arms. Who had no right to feel comforted by the weight of your body against his. Who should’ve been anywhere but here.
But still he stayed.
Still he kissed the top of your head, whispered a quiet apology you didn’t hear, and let you sleep.
While all he could do was lie there and think about how deeply, irreparably fucked up he was.
