#and especially bucky's short hair!!!! was bullying me omg

[hoozoo]

just wanted to practice drawing kisses and have some soft pre-war stucky 😌💘

[boxofbonesfic]

I wanna write a fic about a comedian!reader just making jokes at the expense of Cap and she gets some good burns in and the reader doesn’t realise that he’s there with Sam or Bucky in the back and he’s just fuming. And then when her set is over, he confronts her either by following her home or just in the dressing room 🤤 also this is totally free for anyone willing to write it btw, I never see comedian!reader fics.

Title: Last Laugh

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Comedian!Reader

Summary: Your jokes land you in some hot water with their subject–Captain America. Turns out, America’s golden boy’s a bit of a bully–and you kind of like it. 

Warnings: Mean Steve, Sub!Reader, Smut, Light BDSM, Semi-public sex, MINORS DNI

A/N: omg i wasn't expecting all of this to come from the relatively short idea i had in my head, but uh. things happen lol. i hope you all enjoy! divider by @firefly-graphics!

“Capscicle is definitely the right way to describe him,” you say conspiratorially, like you’re whispering to the audience through the microphone. They laugh, of course. They’re eating it up, the audience erupting into low laughter right on cue. Even that is appropriate, it’s not the big laugh, the one that’s meant to buy you time to take a drink of water, maybe a few breaths between jokes if you’re lucky.

“They defrosted that guy what, like five, six years ago now, right?” 

Steve clenches his fists.

This is the third show of yours he’s seen. The first was at a benefit–he doesn’t remember for what, something Tony organized–and he’d laughed along good naturedly and thought no more about it. Until Sam showed him the youtube video of your latest cold open for a larger comedian. You’d ribbed all of the Avengers, sure; they were hot gossip, always a crowd pleaser. But you seemed to enjoy digging at him especially, dropping hit after hit, and all of them at his expense. 

“Captain white America.” You say, rolling your eyes. “No, no, I like, him, I do, he’s a nice guy. I met him, you know.” 

He’s made sure to wear a hat, glasses. Still no facial hair, but it’s enough that no one recognizes him. No one’s expecting the butt of your jokes to be sitting in the audience, jaw clenched and lips pursed. Steve can take a joke–he can take a lot of jokes–but your lighthearted ribbing doesn’t feel so lighthearted, not when–

“So like… between you and me, guys… how many women d’you think have gotten, like, to see the shield up close, you know what I mean?” You wink, and the audience erupts into laughter. You hold the mic out towards the audience, and to Steve’s chagrin, people actually begin answering. 

“Ten!”

“Twelve!”

“Five!”

You nod along encouragingly for a few seconds before you shake your head and screw your pretty face into a disbelieving scowl. 

“Y’all buggin’, you know it’s none.” 

There’s only a single beat of complete silence before raucous laughter erupts across the crowd, their disbelief, your delivery–it’s perfect. They laugh for a few minutes, and you, on cue, walk over to the stool that your glass of water rests on and take a deep sip. 

“No, no, you know it’s none! Mister straight laced? Fucking? I can’t see it, I’m sorry. No, you know who fucks? The guy with the metal arm. I know he fucks.” This one earns you another loud round of laughter as Steve fumes silently. He’s taken great care to maintain a good reputation since he’s been back. There had been a time when standing up for one’s country was an unimpeachable act–now, apparently, it is fodder for the drivel that passes for comedy these days. 

“The guy with the metal wings? Oh my god.” You stumble dramatically, and hold your hand tightly to your chest like you’re going to pass out. “He lays it down. I know it.” You look out over the audience and shake your head one last time. “But Cap? I’m not buying it. That man wears tightie whities. That is a man who is in the gym not because he wants to be, but because he needs to be. There’s nothing. Else.” You blow out a breath. 

“I rest my case.” 

The audience laughs again, and you give them a cheerful salute, your plump lips turning up into a bright smile.

“Thank you guys, it’s been a blast! Stay tuned for the main event, I hope you all have a good night!” They clap loudly and readily for you, and you give another little bow before slipping backstage. Steve is already standing up from his seat, shuffling over to the bar to keep you in sight. There’s a door behind the curtains, and with the flurry of activity on set, he manages to slip behind it, stepping into the long concrete hallway. There are a couple of doors, one clearly meant for the main act, closed, though he spies shapes moving under the door and hears the low murmur of speech when he presses his ear to it.

The other door is slightly ajar, and when he peers through the crack, he sees you sitting in an armchair as you toe off the red sneakers on your feet. You’re holding a phone to your ear, chatting in a quiet voice to someone on the other line. 

“No, no, I think it actually went really well. Yeah, I’m excited to see you guys too, mom.” 

Steve knocks on the doorframe, rapping his knuckles against it hard. He’s had weeks to stew in it, watching clips of your shows online as you dig at him. Tony and Sam tell him to take it all in good stride, and he’d certainly given it the old college try. But there was just something he couldn’t abide; maybe it was your smug fucking attitude, or the shit eating grin that graces your pouty lips after every jab–he doesn’t know. What he does know, is that it makes him want to put you in your place. 

Tonight’s show especially.

Steve enjoys the surprised squeak you emit when you tug the door open fully, muttering a hushed “gotta go” to your mother, shoving the phone into your pocket. 

“Mr.--”

“Steve.” He replies, taking off the glasses and shoving them into the pocket of his jacket. “Or Capscicle. Whichever you like.” You wince.

“Please. Why don’t you come in,” you say, stepping aside to allow him into the small dressing room. It’s clear you’re a little embarrassed, but it isn’t enough. It isn’t an apology. 

Not yet. 

He doesn’t sit down, leaning against the sparse vanity with his muscular arms crossed. Steve knows he’s big, intimidating. He’s counting on it. You shrink 

“I take it you were, um. In the audience.” 

Steve nods. “Oh yes, sweetheart. The whole time.” He cocks his head at you as his lip curls. “You know, in my day, it was just plain inappropriate to talk about a person in public like that.”

You swallow thickly, and his eyes track the movement. The skin of your throat looks soft, almost as soft as your lips as you sink your teeth anxiously into them.

 “I… I–I know I can make some, er, raunchy jokes, but–”

“You think you’re funny?” He asks, leaning forward. You look like you want to melt into the chair, and you cast a furtive glance up at him.

“S-sir–”

He’s not sure why that sends a jolt through him, his cock throbbing in his pants. Something about the way you’re peering up at him through your lashes nervously as you fidget. He wants to hear it again. 

“Oh look. You can be respectful,” he sneers, and when you look up at him with misty eyes, he has to shift so that you don’t see the outline of his cock beginning to press against the seam of his pants. “Amazing.” He can tell you’ve never been confronted over something you’ve said before, maybe it’s given you false confidence that no one ever would. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, looking down at your hands. You shift subtly, the movement so slight that Steve wouldn’t have seen it if he wasn’t paying such close attention. You squeeze your thighs together, your hands clenching on your jeans, and Steve’s eyes widen just a fraction at the sight. 

Enjoying it. She’s enjoying it. You look away towards the door. And she hates it.

“What was that?” Steve leans forward dramatically, holding his hand up to his ear. “Couldn’t quite hear you, doll.” Fuck, it’s hot to watch you grit your teeth before pouting up at him. “One more time.”

“I’m sorry.” You hiss, pressing yourself further down into the chair. “Happy now?”

“No.” Steve inspects his nails. “I don’t think you really mean it.” You squirm, and he just knows your inner thighs are soaked. He can practically smell it. “Let’s try it again. A little more sincerity, sweetheart. Get on your knees, I think that would be fitting.” 

Your eyes widen, flicking towards the door again. Weighing your options, no doubt. Reluctantly though, you sink to your knees, and Steve’s sardonic smirk grows wider. 

“I’m. Sorry.” You grit out. “Better?”

“How can I accept your apology when you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for, doll? Seems kind of silly when you think about it, doesn’t it?” He wants to touch you–your skin looks butter soft–and he reaches forward cupping your chin as he runs his thumb over the apple of your cheek. 

“I–” You swallow thickly. “I want to a-apologize.” His hand slides down your jaw, and the words stick in your mouth a little as his thumb dips into the hollow at the base of your throat. “I d-didn’t know w-what I was talking about–!” The words die as you inhale sharply, air hissing through your teeth. 

“Keep going,” he says softly. “I’m listening.” Steve hadn’t really been paying all that much attention to your body, but now he can’t help but appreciate how nicely your breasts sit in that tight, white top. He’d been too busy thinking about adjusting your attitude for that, but now…

“I, I sh-should never have, ah–” Your nipples harden to points underneath the soft fabric as Steve drags his finger down your clavicle, between your breasts. Your eyes dart toward the door, and then back to him. “Ste–” His raised eyebrow stops you. “Sir, um, the… the door.” 

“If you move before you’ve finished your apology I’m going to stop.”

The ball is in your court, even if only for a moment. This is it, the time to walk away–and you don’t move. There’s a nervous, excited gleam in your eye as you swallow again. You remain on your knees, your palms flat on your thighs.

“Well then. I’m waiting.” 

The self-righteous little huff that leaves your pouty lips makes him want to shove his cock down your slim throat and hold it there until your eyes roll, but he’ll save that for next time. He doesn’t have to waste time considering if there will be a next time or not, not really. Steve satisfies himself with tugging down the already generous vee of your shirt. No bra. He clears his throat. 

“I shouldn’t have talked about you like that, sir. It…wasn’t my place.” He can tell it’s eating you up, having to grovel, but it’s making you wet too, he’d bet money on it. Steve reluctantly releases your shirt, and urges you to your shaky feet. Dimly, he can hear the murmur of the audience down the hallway, the feedback from the mic—but none of that matters. 

“Better. I like that one. Feels much more honest.” A sly grin spreads across his features as he slides down his zipper. “And honesty is such a praiseworthy trait.” 

You’re already wriggling out of those sinfully tight jeans, the left leg around your ankle when Steve scoops you up easily. You manage to finish kicking them off as he’s resting your ass on the vanity, his eyes dropping eagerly to the scrap of fabric covering your pussy. He was right, wetness glistens on your inner thighs, the crotch dark and slick with your want of him. Your eyes drop eagerly down to his cock, and Steve can’t help the sardonic chuckle that bubbles from his chest. 

“What was that you said? About seeing the shield up close?” He asks, fisting his cock with one large hand. You suck your lower lip between your teeth, looking away embarrassedly. “At least now you can honestly say he fucks. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” The knowing look on his face inspires a bashful one on yours. He doesn’t let you look away, though, dragging his fingers against the damp fabric covering your core. “You were curious, weren’t you, doll?”

“A-all of America’s curious, Steve.”

He snorts. “All of America didn’t call me frigid.” Your mouth opens as though you’re going to dispute it, but a look from him silences you. This is still a punishment, after all. He hooks his fingers underneath the elastic band, and begins inching your panties down your thighs. His nostrils flare at the scent of you, his tongue drawing itself across his lips in anticipation. 

“I didn’t ah, shit—” Steve cuts off your protests by parting your sticky folds with an insistent finger. He can’t help but bring it to his lips, savoring you right from the source. You’re soaked already, slick, dewy wetness gathering at your entrance, all for him. 

“Doll, you are fucking soaked,” he mutters lowly, enjoying the hiss of air through your teeth. You whine sharply as he circles your clit slowly, hips jerking as he flicks against it with his thumb.  Your plump lips part in a delicate o as he slides a thick finger into the slick, clenching heat of your cunt, and your hands fly up to tangle in his cotton-t-shirt. He groans at the feel of you—hot, wet, tight, sucking eagerly at his fingers. 

Steve isn’t sure if he kissed you, or if you kissed him, but suddenly your, full lips are pressed against his, and he’s devouring every breathy exhalation and raspy plea. Fingers still slick with you, he smears your wetness against the head of his cock, a muffled curse leaving his lips as he slides against you. There’s a lull in the ambient noise from outside, but Steve can’t be bothered to wonder if the two of you have been caught, not when the aching head of his cock is pressing into the velvet tightness of your cunt.

The back of your head lands with a dull thud on the mirror as Steve slides home, the fingers of one hand knotted in his shirt as you brace the other against his massive shoulder. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan, there are tears in your lashes when you look up at him. “Steve, I-, fuck, I can’t—” He draws out slow before slamming home, turning your ragged plea to babble. 

“What d’you mean you can’t, sweetheart?” He pants, fingers digging into your hip as he drags your ass forward, bending your knees around his waist. Your eyes roll and you moan pathetically as he sinks in even deeper. “Isn’t this what you wanted? You were practically fucking begging for it on stage,” he snarls, laying into you with heavy thrusts that make you squeal and squirm against him. 

The mirror on the vanity rattles dangerously in its frame as he fucks you, the wood creaking and groaning underneath your bodies. He doesn’t care about that, though, not when you’re panting his name like a prayer as your pussy squeezes him like a fucking fist—

“Y-yes!” You’re practically sobbing with pleasure, eyes wide and pupils dilated as you stare embarrassedly up at him. 

“Oh doll,” he purrs, sinking into you with another wet squelch; “All you had to do was ask.” 

You’re so perfect inside, like smooth, hot velvet; Steve can’t get enough. He can’t remember what other punishment he had planned—probably more of a stern talking to than anything—but this is much better. You whining underneath him, begging him while he ruts into you is a more perfect ending to this than he could possibly have imagined. Your cunt flutters around him, your ragged, desperate moans ringing in his ears. 

“Come on and cum,” he growls the words against your damp throat, dragging his teeth against the bruise he knows will be there tomorrow. “Make a nice mess on my cock, sweetheart.” Steve reaches between you to press the pad of his thumb hard against your swollen clit. You keen, your legs trembling around his waist as your cunt grips him like a vice. 

Even if he’d wanted to, Steve can’t stop himself from cumming, driving himself in to the hilt as you milk him. Fireworks, supernovas explode behind his shut eyes as he presses his forehead against yours, holding you still while he empties himself into you. It’s almost primal, the need to make sure you get every last drop as his cock spends itself against your womb. 

When he finally does pull away, it’s to the sound of raucous applause echoing down the hallway. You’re panting a little, wiping sweat soaked strands of hair from your forehead with the back of your hand as Steve looks on. 

“I take it back,” you reply hoarsely after a moment. “You, sir, most definitely fuck. Your ability to take a joke however, is going to need some work.” 

Steve’s face heats, even as he quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

You grin. “Yeah. It’s not like you can fuck me backstage at all my shows.” 

“Can’t I?” He asks, stepping forward to brace his hands around your hips. “I’m free most Saturday nights…” he trails off, and warm heat enters his belly at the sight of the slight smile playing at the edges of your lips. It’s a different kind of heat, though. Softer—but more intimate, maybe.

“Unless you’re saving the world,” you reply, cocking your head as you loop your own arms around the back of his neck. 

“Unless I’m saving the world.” He agrees. 

“Well, then, Mr. Rogers,” you say, poking one finger into the hard muscle of his chest. “I guess I’ll see you at curtain.”   

fin