I can't remember if it was K or you S but one of you talked about Steve and Bucky being mistaken for father and son and... please 😵💫😵💫
Oh that was ABSOLUTELY K. You know why I fucking know that? Because it's been seared into my fucking brain. Goddamn.
Everyone. needs. to. read. this.
And I cannot resist taking a stab at it myself, so... have a little bit of art gallery date night debauchery where an older, silver-er Daddy Steve and younger, softer Baby Bucky indulge in a bathroom quickie with moans of daddy melting into moaning for dad 👀
One after another, the charged comments roll in, all evening long. On and on they slip from other onlookers'—gawkers—mouths until Bucky swears he's going to pull his own hair out. Or, at the very least, run his fingers through it until it's lost all of it's smoothed back style.
“Welcome in—oh, how nice, we never get father-son duos here!” The undeniably stylish woman with creamy, dark brown skin welcomes them, tittering at them as they step inside, “the closest is father-daughter or mother-daughter, of course. Are you two having a nice evening out?”
“Here you are, sir, your wine. And,” there's a brief pause in the waitstaff's clear speech, even dressed in all black like the other gallery staff, they are also overwhelmingly sharp and sleek looking. They eye Bucky suddenly, subtly searching him from head to toe, “can I see your ID, young man?” a polite smile.
“More wine?” Another, different staff member echoes the first, skin so pale that Bucky sees the veins around her mouth, as she speaks to Steve, turning her body toward him. Then, then, to Bucky, “another hors d'oeuvre?” She doesn't even attempt to offer him wine from her delicately, coolly balanced platter of stemware, just the platter of finger foods.
“Anything catch your eye, sir?” A second just as handsome, beautiful stranger propositions them—Steve first. “These pieces would work wonderfully in an isolated home gallery or a few together carrying across the space, don't you think?” A wink, thrown at Steve, politely ignoring Bucky until… “they would also make a beautiful housewarming gift—your son looks about that age to have his first starter home, yes?” Both Steve's and the other man's eyes slide to Bucky. He struggles not to blush under the attention or embarrassing-invigorating mistake. Bucky doesn't hear any of the rest of the conversation, instead, he's staring at the man, unseeing him. Just seeing Steve—thinking of Steve.
Steve. Steve. Steve.
“You know,” an admiring potential-patron-of-the-arts approaches Steve, an older woman with age lining her face and her arm looped around her presumable husband's, “I just have to say,” she touches Steve's broad shoulder, “your son reminds me so much of my elder daughter's child. He got his mother's dark hair and his father's light eyes, it's a very striking combination, isn't it?” She smiles secretively toward Bucky, just barely managing to slide her eyes off of Bucky's catch—not his father.
“I must ask,” as they're leaving, just making one last lap around, another politely conversational staff member catches them, bribing them with wine and cheese, mostly, but lots of other little treats too, “which of you heard of this artist? I know she's well established but she's quite young, too. Was it you, young man?”
Bucky. is. going. to. pull. his. hair. out.
It's not annoyance. Not really. More than anything else, it's straight-up sexual frustration. What the fuck?
What the fuck is this doing to him?
On some level, he knows he should've expected this with him and his lover's age gap. On another level, he's pretty sure he should be offended, maybe a little grossed out, thinking of his actual father and how much he's never want that, maybe scoffing at how ignorant some people can be when they are quite obvious about being a couple and displaying their intimate connection. But…
This is, mortifyingly, doing it for him.
Stranger after stranger, repeatedly and unmistakably, keep assuming without hesitation that Steve is his father.
Bucky was pretty fucking sure that he had lost his baby face by now but maybe that freshen-up at the salon before coming out with Daddy tonight wasn't a good idea if he wanted to continue the illusion that his age was finally showing on his face. The attendants at the over-the-top spa and salon combo that Daddy's money can afford, shaved his face and trimmed his hair but kept it longer and tousled (he's been enjoying giving Steve more to pull on lately, and has been toying with the idea of growing it out entirely). Plus, admittedly, the way he's been scarfing down all the little treats—hors d'oeuvres, the fancy, upscale word for this fine art environment is hors d'oeuvres—probably isn't helping. He's still got puppy fat clinging to his cheeks and jaw (more than that, too, his hips and little belly have never gone away after all), and stuffing his face must only mean his face looks rounder—younger.
Now, polite company after polite company, from the staff working this high end art gallery to the socialites climbing all over every wall and corner of these oversized, blindingly white rooms are all assuming not that Steve is Bucky's sugar daddy (like he's always a little self-conscious about, especially early on on their relationship) but that Steve is Bucky's father.
Biological father.
Bucky's Daddy with his blonde hair mixed so thoroughly throughout his head with silver that it's become almost impossible to tell, unless you really stare, that his natural, younger color is blonde. He looks almost entirely silver these days. Plus, his more grey-than-not beard and the handsome crow's feet around his eyes don't help in a lower estimation of his age. Then, there's Bucky's… self with his chocolate brown hair, silky and thick, styled younger and trendier than his years, his round cheeks, and his bare, dimpled jaw, shaven, with skin that's perhaps overly moisturized and manicured. So, it's not hard to tell why everyone has reached the same conclusion. Just. That conclusion is reaching inside Bucky, through his skin, muscle, and bone to claim Bucky inside.
Within himself, Bucky is stumbling and shivering, almost vibrating, as his fingers clumsily paw at and cling to Steve's arm. He needs the older man to prop him up and guide him through the crowds. Please. Bucky's tripping over his own feet like he's a fucking toddler (and he doesn't even have the excuse of being drunk, he has certainly been served more hors d'oeuvres than wine). His face is on fire, surely bright red from his low, square hairline over his round cheeks past his puppy-fat-padded chin, to his soft neck, only disappearing from view beneath the suit Daddy picked out for him. And so, Bucky's so fucking relieved to discover, as Steve steers them toward the bathrooms, that each of them is in their own isolated stall.
Maybe god does exist and god wants him to get fucked tonight. Thank god.
Bucky is feeling it. Unsteady, embarrassed, and so inexcusably aroused. There is no way he'd be able to take the drive home. His hands would be all over his Daddy before he's even put the car in gear—if they made it into the car. Being pressed up against the car and letting Daddy have his way with him sounds pretty fucking good right now, too.
Jesus.
The bathrooms all being individual little rooms does, however, mean there is no excuse for them to go in together. But who the fuck cares?
Daddy sure doesn't and Daddy is the one who matters most.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
He shoves him inside the first open bathroom he finds, snapping the moment he can't take it anymore, having lost all his long accumulated patience to expose the same raw, frantic nerves that Bucky is shot through with.
Need.
They are both wrecked with so much built up need it's making their blood boil.
And once Daddy has him there—wrestling him inside the little, private room, Bucky all uncoordinated limbs and weak neck, head hanging back, melting and drunk on nothing—Daddy tells him he better fuckin’ hold onto the counter tight.
Bucky's hands, more of Daddy's volition than his own, are immediately white at the knuckles and achy in his tendons. He is holding on. Whatever ride Daddy wants to take him on, he's fucking in.
Yes.
Yes, please.
Daddy, on a fucking mission, reaches around shamelessly, flirting with Bucky's shaking body, bent over the bathroom counter, and becoming yet again acquainted with his fucking erection. First, he palms him hot through his once-smooth slacks, weighing out his heavy, rapidly fattening-up dick. Then, when he grows bored of such simple torture, he flicks and undoes his belt with nothing more than a self-satisfied groan. Daddy loves the feel of his boy's naked body in his hands. So, Bucky's pants and underwear are ripped down to his knees. Exposing him. He could cry in relief.
He needed Daddy inside him yesterday, before everyone started calling him ‘dad’ and it started winding him up like crazy.
“You better still be wet enough from earlier,” Daddy's voice has gone deliciously gruff. There is no patience left in his tone. He is ready.
Shivering, Bucky can feel his body shaking side to side, tip to tail, and deepening pinker—redder. It's impossible to lift his head and find his own gaze in the mirror. He doesn't want to know how destroyed he looks already. They've barely begun! He, he—
He doesn't weigh that much less than Steve. They're the same height, sure, and Steve's got a little shoulder width on him, Steve's muscle is a little denser, too, but they're not that different. Right now, though? Beneath Daddy, dick and balls and hole out, Daddy talking down to him like he's disciplining a little boy, fully-clothed? Bucky feels minuscule.
Bent over, Steve's hands demanding on his hips, Daddy is telling him he better be wet and stretched from their drawn-out afternoon fuck that turned into melted, molten hours of pleasure and it's awful. It's torture. It's making him relive every moment from earlier, delicious and overwhelming—slow, deep, raw fucking turned to a marathon where Bucky was sitting in Daddy's lap, eating a light dinner before Daddy remorsefully slid out of him, orgasms from earlier still messy inside him, cleaned him… a little bit…, dressed him up, and took his boy to some way too expensive art gallery.
Bucky feels wet.
Bucky would be soaked if his hole could get there on its own—it's trying. He's sweating terribly, the flames and fire and fever inside him melting him from the inside out, liquid lust pushing through his veins, coating him. He shines.
The air of the bathroom is cold on his feverish hole, and it's not until he hears Steve chuckling, “atta boy,” that he realizes he's frantically nodding.
He is wet.
He's so wet.
He's so stretched.
And it had better be enough because he wants Daddy in him now. He wanted him in him earlier. The faster the better.
Just stick it in!
Crazed and trembling, his need must be spilling from more than just his skin—sweating—because all of a sudden, Daddy's big paws are gripping and grabbing their way up his body. From his plush ass, soft hips and soft sides, braced arms, to his chin—Daddy touches him. Handfuls. He is greedy.
Impatiently, three of his thick fingers invade his mouth, barely warning Bucky by cupping his chin before those fingers are pressing down unforgivingly on his tongue. They're so strong, putting pressure on the wet muscle that abruptly feels much too large for his mouth, that Bucky just has to drool. An involuntary response. Press down on his tongue and Bucky hears an angel choir while his body drools—talk about self-lubricating.
Guh.
He doesn't need Daddy to order, “spit,” but it doesn't hurt. (Not unless you count the ache between his legs.) “Good,” Daddy's voice is rich, so much more intoxicating than any wine or liquor, “gimme some more now, don't skimp, kid.”
Kid.
The way that pet name falls off his lips.
Oh, god.
Bucky could get off thinking about that alone. Just this side of too harsh. Stinging and mean yet so affectionate. It's got so much meaning and it hits like a punch to the gut.
“Yeah, yeah,” Daddy urges him on, Bucky didn't realize how badly he was drooling, spitting and drooling, “that's it, baby boy. That's what I wanna see.”
Bucky wants to bite back, ‘that's nasty.’ But he's too busy arching his back at the sound of Steve taking his now spit-wet (spit-soaked) palm and spitting himself onto it too before lewdly fisting his cock.
The sound it makes.
Jesus fuck.
The thought, in what of Bucky's brain is left, is, impossibly, even more trouble. Their spit, mixing in Steve's dirty hands, both being used to rub and stroke and coat Daddy's cock. Daddy owns his hole; Bucky owns his cock. His spit is on that cock. His hole is guh—gonna be squeezing his cock. He's gonna be good.
He will.
He has to be.
Bucky craves it.
He wants it.
He aches.
He's already sore from all the fucking and cockwarming earlier and he's gonna hate himself tomorrow when he can't walk but for now—
“Ohhh, oh,” oh, there's the head of that fucking huge thing he's packing, “Daddy, da-AH!” and there's the rest of it, “Dad—”
Nothing else comes out of Bucky.
Bucky.
Bucky meant—
He. He meant to—
His voice wasn't supposed to stop and get choked out there! Like. They both know what this is about. Why they got so handsy and hot. They know what this quickie is about but—there's a difference between knowing and admitting.
Fuuuck.
Bucky is beyond mortified.
He is—
He's squirming on Daddy's cock like he's trying to get away. It's so much. He might fucking squeal. What noises are even coming out of him? He needs to be gagged.
But, at least—
Steve groans behind him, sounding like he's fighting for his life, trying not to immediately slam home, bottoming out, balls deep inside him. They can't do that. Spit and a little still-leaking-from-inside-him lube and cum won't let that happen. But.
He wants. He—both. Both of them.
They want it so bad.
They're gonna spontaneously combust in this fucking bathroom and leave every other sorry soul to clean up their horny, sticky mess.
“Oh, that how it's gonna be, champ?” Steve rumbles, pressing inside, inside, inside. Deep, deeper, and deeper. He's trying to be quiet. Bucky remembers where they are all over again. He mewls. Helpless.
Bucky can't respond, not with words. Not anymore. He has no thoughts, nothing to string together into coherence. His body, however, clenches tight. His insides are so sensitive after so much use that it nearly makes his eyes roll back. Just that. He feels every inch, every vein of Daddy—Dad.
His Dad inside him, fucking him like he fucked him earlier because he can't keep his dirty paws off of him.
He is a pervert.
A dirty, old man.
Bucky is being torn apart by his arousal. All teeth. Merciless.
“That what you want, Buck?” Steve's voice is a harsh whisper pressed against his skin, “you want your old man to fucking give it to you? You wanna get dirty with ‘im—a fuckin’ pervert. You and me both, bud.”
Bucky almost knocks his forehead on the counter with how his arms give out from under him. Crumbling. Shaking. Whatever. But—
Daddy, of course, steadies him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, kiddo.” He grips his hips so mean, inside him, around him, overwhelming him, “you gotta be careful there, bud.” Yet as he says it, he is not careful. No. He starts to rock in and out of him, unsteadying and undoing him.
Bucky's head is gone, it's spun dizzyingly right off his shoulders. His throat, his chest, his gut are tight—a burning, molten knot of need. Sweating hard, blushing harder; nipples tight, hole tighter; more and more-er.
It never stops.
An onslaught.
“You think any of those nice people knows your old man can move like this?” His hips roll. Pure sin. “Ya’think they know you take it from me? Squirming on my cock, champ, moaning all sweet and shit for me. Takin' it from your dad.”
Bucky. will. cry.
“You're gonna put me in my grave, boy—” well, at least Daddy's got him, he's right there with him “—this tight, hot little body. Too much for an old timer like me, hmm? Gonna make my heart give out,” he chuckles guttingly.
It. never. stops.
Daddy's making him feel insane. He's barely moving but that's enough to make sparks shoot up his spine. Somehow, without lube, just too much spit, it feels closer, like the layer of slick between them is thinner, or maybe Bucky's body feels thinner—worn thin. Used up. Fucked to bits.
Oh, god.
Bucky's teeth clench tight. He wants to scream. But he can't. They can't be found out! They can't be kicked out. They're not done. He needs to finish. Please, please, pleeease. Besides, what would all those high-class, politely-well-mannered people think? Bucky knows. He knows they already think his Dad is in the bathroom with him; they already think his Dad and he are inappropriately close and they don't know even a fraction of the filthy truth. None of that is good for his arousal.
Daddy, dad, dad—dad.
Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.
"Ohhhh, Dad!" His eyes burn with tears, blurred to shit. He couldn't see his mortifying reflection in the mirror right in front of his dumb, fucked-out face if he tried.
He's so fucking dirty. Depraved. Himself and his Daddy. His Dad.
Disgusting.
His Dad, more grinding deep into him without pulling out rather than fucking, rumbling into his shoulder, mouthing sloppily at his tailored suit jacket, breath hot even through the jacket and shirt and undershirt, surely wetting the fabric with his spit—it won't dry before they walk out of here. Marking him right down to his skin without even having to pull back his plush lips to reveal those pearly whites.
It's written all over Bucky—Daddy's Boy.
Dad's Favorite.
“That's it, yeah—” Steve pants into his shoulder, rocking in and in and in him, filling him until he's garbling on dick, gasping for air “—that's it. Take it, Champ.”
His orgasm is right there.
If they were at home, in bed, where he can make as much noise as possible, he'd be wailing into his pillow rather than biting his lip savagely, muffling his whiny cries into the finest kind of marble.
“God, you're so fuckin’ tight, kid. I can't believe it. How does your Dad's cock even fit in that lil hole?” Steve's voice in constricted—he's that tight. He's squeezed.
Bucky convulses.
Closer, closer, closer.
“Oh, lookit you, baby boy, you're shaking. Is it hard? Does it hurt? Is it hard to take Dad's cock? You want Dad to kiss it better? You want more of his spit, would that help, champ?”
‘Jesus Fuck, Steve.’ Bucky almost breaks. How does a man dirty talk so good? Jesus FUCK, Steven.
“Mmm, god, buddy, lookit you, such a big kid, taking Dad's pipe, thick in your lil hole. Such a good little man. Good boy. Good fuckin’ boy.”
Exactly then, Bucky can. not. stop himself, rushing, surging, barreling, and immediately crashing over the ragged edge. It's been no time at all, Dad just got into him, and yet, he's cumming. Already. Dad isn't even fucking him! He's, he's—he's just rocking inside him. Teasing him. And it burns worse than the humiliation of Steve pretending he's his father and ruining him. It's worse, just how quickly he's orgasming.
Bucky's so hot for it.
Dada! Dad! Dad!
It's disgustingly slutty and he is dying over it. His rushed-to-the-finish orgasm hurts, squeezing his grinding, deep, deep, deep, cock. Bucky's cumming so hard, no touch to his cock needed. Nothing. It's only Steve's breath against his shoulder, and only Steve's cock wedged in so deep that he can feel it in his throat, all this pressure in him.
It's devastating.
Biting his lip to stifle himself, choking on his tongue to muffle his cries, daddy, daa—dad, dad, dad, daddy, DAD—
Bucky is crashing out.
It's crushing and ruining him brutally especially with the drawn-out, rumbling sigh Steve lets out, feeling him shake around him. It's like his boy's orgasm doesn't even bother him. It's like it's expected. It sounds like he's taking a drag from a cigar more than it sounds like his wet cock is getting milked by his boy's tight hole. And it's not made any better by the lazy drawl that drips like honey from his lips when Bucky's pretty sure he's over the wobbling, devastating orgasm-shakes—
“I thought your old man was supposed to be the one who couldn't keep up?”
Pointedly, he pulls out an inch or two, then sinks heavily back inside. Harder than ever.
Ohh.
“Dad—” Bucky whimpers, the first few of what he's sure are going to be many tears squeezing out of the corner of his eyes.
“Shh,” Steve's big hand presses down against the small of his back, forcing him to arch harder, the side of his face digging into the counter, “you're a good boy, you'll still take it 'cause I said so.”
Forget trying to be subtle and respectful, Bucky's crying-crying now. Oversensitive and obsessed with this harsher, meaner version of his Daddy—Dad.
“Yeah, that's it, shut up and take it, kiddo.” He sounds all groan-y and disappointed. Deep. Like a good Dad should sound and be. “Just let Dad have this.”
Tony and Peter are fucking in the lab, and Dum-E, having watched one too many times, gets the bright idea to pin Peter's wrists all on his own because he's Tonys good little helper and he wants to be useful. It stuns the both of them for a second before it turns Tony on WAY too much to be reasonable.
Something about even his first and most simplistic AI being able to recognize that Peter is his and acted to keep him still for Tony drives him up the fucking wall insane and horny and if he were a worse man he would be programing Friday and Karen to do much worse.
Might I add— Friday monitoring vitals when Peter is close to orgasm while Tony edges him, and tells Tony EXACTLY the worst (best) time to stop touching him 🥰
Tony allows Peter to cum in his mouth on the one condition that he gets to spit it into Peter’s mouth afterwards and watch the boy taste himself as he’s forced to swallow every last drop.
Tony and Peter are fucking in the lab, and Dum-E, having watched one too many times, gets the bright idea to pin Peter's wrists all on his own because he's Tonys good little helper and he wants to be useful. It stuns the both of them for a second before it turns Tony on WAY too much to be reasonable.
Something about even his first and most simplistic AI being able to recognize that Peter is his and acted to keep him still for Tony drives him up the fucking wall insane and horny and if he were a worse man he would be programing Friday and Karen to do much worse.
Tony tying Peter up and hitting him with various objects while Peter has to guess exactly which object just struck him
The first few floggers, belts and whips might have been comparatively easy, but the rawer Peter’s backside felt the harder it was to guess the differences in the objects
I absolutely love Tony and Stephen - their dynamic is complicated, intense, and beautifully raw. That’s why I keep coming back to them, exploring their story in different universes, different circumstances… and somehow, they always find their way back to each other.But here’s the thing - most of these alternate universes, the deeper, more intimate moments, and the stories that push beyond the limits? You won’t find them here. They’re waiting on my Patreon, where I can share the full experience without holding back.
So if you’re as obsessed with them as I am, why miss out?
you must always think about a mentor figure exploiting the power imbalance with their mentee. and you must sexualise it as well. otherwise a gazillion hungry angels are going to hell
the trope I love is Peter doing his typical SI field trip and Tony coming back injured and exhausted from a mission and interrupting the field trip bc he just wants his love and to curl up with Peter and the rest of the class is just “?????” bc why is this billionaire hero just casually stumbling in and going to sleep on orphan nobody Peter Parker’s lap????
