#ip fic

You look up in the mirror to see your friend Mac, already fully dressed in a corset, garter, and a pair of black leather platform heels you’re certain that you’d topple over in. This was Mac’s first year as Dr. Frankenfurter, but you’ve known each other for years from various Rocky Horror screenings around New York.

“How’s the crowd looking tonight?” you ask.

“Good,” he smiles, pearly white teeth glinting mischief against red lipstick. “Lots of virgins.”

You laugh, leaning down to fasten your white kitten heels around your ankles. While you do that, your phone buzzes on the dressing table. 

“Text from Steve,” Mac says, lifting your phone. They gasp. “Y/n, have you still not told this poor man what you get up to in October?”

Your shoulders tense, and you fumble a bit at the clasp on your shoe. 

“I told you, he’s old school,” you grumble, snatching your phone back from Mac’s manicured hands. 

Old school is an understatement. Steve was born in 1918. He’s older than color film, and he can barely say the word sex even when you’re in the middle of having it. On top of that, he’s Captain America, the country’s symbol of wholesome family values and the pinnacle of good men. You can’t even begin to imagine his reaction to you prancing around on stage half naked while the audience calls you a slut and a camp horror musical plays in the background. 

You finish with your shoes, standing up from your chair and stepping back to get a full view of yourself in the mirror.

You sigh. “I just don’t know how he’d react to all this, and I don’t want to scare him off.”

“As if the sight of you in your underwear could scare any man off,” Mac scoffs. 

 You study your appearance in the mirror. You look positively virginal in your white cardigan, pink knee-length blouse and skirt combo and kitten heels. This is the image of Captain America’s perfect girlfriend. Unfortunately, you know that the white lace bra, panties and garters you have on underneath are going to be exposed before the end of the show, all of the innocence ruined. 

“All you sluts need to be backstage in five!” your stage manager calls from the hallway. 

Corset-clad bodies scramble for last looks around you, heels clicking as people make their way out of your dressing zone and into the wings. Mac fluffs his wig in the mirror one last time, and then turns to you.

“I’m just gonna reply to Steve,” you tell him. 

He nods and sashays away, throwing in one more unimpressed glance over his shoulder before he disappears from your sight. 

You sigh, looking in the mirror for confidence once again. You stare down at your phone, the text Steve had sent earlier staring back at you.

STEVE: I just got off of work, can I come see you? We could get a slice of pie at the diner, my treat.

Guilt twists in your gut. 

Here, words like slut and whore are interchangeable with hon, dude, or babe. But outside of the Rocky Horror-sphere, people don’t mean anything good when they direct them at you. You think of the disgust on the face of your first boyfriend, hot shame trickling down your spine as he berates you after discovering that he wasn’t your first. You think of your friend’s parents' comments on the length of your shorts in 5th grade, about getting dress coded over every inch of unapproved skin visible in the hallways of your high school.

Steve’s not the type to judge, but that doesn’t exactly mean he’d stick around after seeing you pretend to do the dirty on stage for a crowd of freaks in leather and crazy makeup. He’s a man of his time after all. And your heart won't be able to take it if he looked at you with disgust, same as your first boyfriend all those years ago. 

You type out a quick response.

YOU: i promised wanda a sitcom night :( that diner pie sounds amazing. next time?

You watch the message go through, a familiar knot of guilt settling in your stomach. 

Delivered.

With that, you turn your phone off and walk into the wings to wait with your castmates for the show to start. 

You’re backstage half-naked, your cardigan and blouse having long since been surrendered to the bizarre inhabitants of Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s castle. The beginning of the show had gone well, the virgin sacrifice as hilarious as it is every year. You watch the stage as your castmates act out the movie playing out on the screen above them, the audience chiming in with their own commentary at every opportunity. 

Jeremy, who plays Rocky, walks up next to you in the wings. He smiles at you, all blond and cheeky. You have to admit that he’s your type, in so much as he looks a lot like Steve. (A fact which Jeremy and his boyfriend Ahmed had taken advantage of the year prior, when they’d gone as self-described “slutty Cap and Bucky” for Halloween. You’d sent the pictures to Bucky, who’d only responded that his arm wasn’t silver anymore. You’d never shown them to Steve). He looks even more like Steve now, his golden briefs and gold knee high boots - the only two articles of clothing on his toned body - oddly reminiscent of the USO tour costume your boyfriend had donned back in the way. 

“You ready to get your cherry popped?” Jeremy whispers as he sidles up by your side.

You grin up at him. “Bring it on.”

You hear your cue and the two of you quickly take your positions on the stage. The movie projector’s light streams above you, showing the film in tandem with your performance. You and Jeremy mouth the lines being said on screen to each other, the actors playing Columbia and Magenta chiming in from the opposite side of the stage. And then your song starts. 

I was feeling done in, you pout, lip syncing to Susan Sarandon’s voice. Couldn’t win. I’d only ever kissed before.

I said there’s no use getting into heavy petting. It only leads to trouble and, you pull a grimace, seat-wetting.

The audience laughs, sending an electric warmth through your body as you launch yourself into the next part of the song. 

Now all I want to know is how to go. I’ve tasted blood and I want more, you lip sync to the music.

You move downstage, closer to Jeremy. He staggers back, clumsy, exactly how a man born two hours ago would be. The two of you play up the virginity of your characters, stealing furtive glances and nervously touching your own bodies as the song continues. 

I’ll put up no resistance, I want to stay the distance. You’re almost chest to chest with Jeremy, a scared and confused frown on his face that you nearly want to laugh at. 

I’ve got an itch to scratch. I need assistance.

You throw yourself at Jeremy, and the two of you begin your more complicated sexy choreography. Your skirt disappears. You’re practically on top of him when you catch a sliver of light out of the corner of your eye, coming from the back of the house. The light disappears, but you see a flash of light hair move through the aisles of the theater, until it disappears at the back of the house. You internally roll your eyes, returning your attention to Jeremy. It’s probably just some twink who spent too much time oiling themself up, but still, rude. 

You turn back to Jeremy and grind down. You throw your head back, rocking on top of him while Susan Sarandon does the same on screen. 

This is why you do this every year; in your normal life, you work a normal 9 to 5, and Jeremy is a yoga instructor. Only here do you two get to be harlot and himbo, respectively, having fake sex while people yell at you and yet feeling happy and at home. For the month of October this cast and the audience is your spooky little family, even down to that late-arriving twink. 

You end the song to raucous cheers, panting from your perch on top of Jeremy, behind the colored plastic of Rocky’s tube. Jeremy throws a wink your way, knowing that the audience can’t see him. You grin back. 

You’re still grinning as you walk offstage after bows, the raucous hooting and hollering of the audience ringing in your ears. You run back to your dressing station, hoping to change quickly and head to the alley on the side of the theater where the cast all hang out after the show. 

You find your station as you’d left it, and quickly throw on the corset top, skirt and boots you’d had on earlier in the day. Unfortunately, your jacket is nowhere to be found. You shrug, figuring it’ll turn up by next weekend’s show, and head out the back door of the theater. You round the corner to the alley, spotting your cast immediately. 

“There she is, the supreme slut herself!” Mac calls when he sees you. 

You grin, and give a little bow. Ahmed had clearly found Jeremy after the show, so you join the circle between him and your castmate Jaz as the group hoots and hollers at you.

“Where’s your coat?” Ahmed frowns at you. 

“I’m sexy, Ahmed, I don’t need a coat,” you say, shivering. 

Ahmed is unimpressed. Jeremy snorts. 

“Sexy grandpa over there has a coat,” Jeremy points to your right, where a tall, broad blond is making his way over towards your group. The smile drops from your face. 

“Is that the guy who came in late?” you hear Jaz whisper right as Steve reaches you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. 

“I have an extra jacket in the car,” he whispers to you, letting you know he heard the entire conversation prior. 

“I’m Steve,” he says, waving at your castmates. 

It’s obvious by the looks on their faces that they know who he is, but they have enough tact, at least, not to comment on Steve’s obvious celebrity status. Steve’s appearance on the other hand…

“Damn, Y/n! We thought you had a Brad at home but turns out you were hiding a full on Rocky!” Jeremy hollers. Your cheeks go hot and Steve blushes a furious shade of red. Ahmed smacks Jeremy on the arm, but the himbo just looks down at his boyfriend, confused. 

Mac swoops in to save your ass.“Oh, the famous boyfriend! I didn’t think you were coming tonight.”

Steve gives a tight smile. “It was a surprise for Y/n.”

Your stomach drops at the hurt you hear lurking under his words. 

“Sorry to get here late, I uh,” he looks at you, the threat of a talk to be had later clear in his eyes, “got a little lost on the way.”

Your castmates fawn over Steve for a little while longer and then you quickly make your goodbyes, Steve walking you back to his car. If you were shivering before, you’re shaking now, your nerves and the cold working in tandem. Steve’s eyes fall on you as he climbs into the front seat, concern shining through. He reaches into the back seat, pulling out a navy SHIELD hoodie.

“Here,” he gently places the sweatshirt in your lap. 

His eyes trail over your face for a moment, searching for something. You don’t know what to say. 

Steve sighs, pulling the key out and turning it in the ignition. 

You throw the sweatshirt over your head, fasten your seatbelt. Steve pulls the car away from the curb in total silence. 

Neither of you says anything for the entire drive back to your apartment. Steve keeps looking over at you, expressions shifting through his eyes too quickly for you to catch, and then turning back to the road without a word. You want to say something, but your mind fills with your first boyfriend, with hot shame on your back. He pulls the car up outside of your apartment, parks on the street (which is no small feat in the city). 

“Is it alright if I come in? I think we need to talk.”

You only nod, hands nearly trembling in your lap. 

You can hear the sound of every mechanism as you unlock the front door, Steve’s stoic silence so utterly unnerving that you nearly flinch when you actually get the door open. Steve walks in behind you, clicking the door shut and locking it after you’re both safely inside. 

“That was-” Steve walks to one of the armchairs in your living room and takes a seat. “That was some show you guys put on back there.”

He holds an arm out, gesturing for you to sit down on the couch in front of him. You acquiesce, forcing yourself to take your seat at the very edge of the couch, hands twisting in your lap. 

“How much did you see?” 

“How’d you find out?” you ask, unable to really meet his gaze.

Steve “You weren’t with Wanda. I got worried and then tracked your phone.”

Guilt twists in your gut like you ate something bad. Of course your perfect superhero boyfriend found out you lied about your location and got worried. You glance at Steve, taking in his furrowed brow, his focused gaze trained completely on you. 

“Are you mad at me?” you ask, unable to take the silence anymore. 

Steve sighs.

“I’m not happy that you lied to me,” he says. 

It’s his Captain-America-is-disappointed-in-you voice. Brutally effective. The guilt twists again. 

“But I guess- I want to know why you felt the need to?”

You swallow, trying to find the words. It made so much sense to you before, but now all your insecurity feels so incredibly stupid. 

“I thought you’d think- well, I didn’t know what you’d think. I guess I was scared that you wouldn’t want me if you found out I didn’t fit your image anymore.”

Steve raises a singular self-righteous eyebrow. “Fit my image?”

“You’re Captain America! One of Earth’s mightiest heroes! The embodiment of truth, justice, and the American way!”

“That’s Superman,” Steve deadpans.

You glare at him.“So not the point. The point is, you’re like, this paragon of virtue and I’m with you. I’m supposed to be Cap’s best girl. And what I did tonight… What I do in October… I thought it’d be like, an ‘embarrassing display of perversion’ to you or something. It’s not a good look for you if Mrs. America turns out to be a two-bit floozy.”

Amusement curls at the corner of Steve’s lips. Your cheeks burn. 

“Floozy?”

“What, do you prefer ‘hussy’?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest. “Sorry that I don’t know your favorite old-timey word for slut, Steve!”

A laugh bursts out of Steve, one you’d find infectious and charming if it wasn’t aimed at you. Your gut sinks. Maybe he would have forgiven you for being a whore but now you’re a dumb whore. You cross your arms over your chest while Steve sobers, taking a few moments to shake his head and clear his throat before he looks back up at you. 

“Do I get to talk now?”

His voice is a warm mix of stern and gentle. It gives you the distinct impression of being scolded by your favorite teacher in middle school. You steel yourself. 

“Three things,” he says, holding up three fingers. “First off, I don’t think you’re a floozy. Or a hussy, or a loose woman, or whatever it is you think we said back in the day. I’m not some pearl-clutching grandmother at church. I’m not in the habit of judging someone’s character based on how much they have sex, and I wouldn’t assume to know anything about it based on a performance or a costume.”

He fixes you with a gaze that’s all fire but not quite meant to burn you. “I really hated it when people used to make those assumptions about me.”

Shame washes over you. He’d been so open with you about his life before the serum, about all the assumptions people had about his former life. And you, like an idiot, had taken Captain America at face value, just like they had. 

Your mouth falls open, excuses already forming on the tip of your tongue, but Steve holds up a hand. You sag into the couch, but nod for him to continue.

“Two: you’re my partner, not a marketing campaign. I don’t care and have never cared what the optics are. I want to be with you, Y/n. I’m in love with you. I don’t know who put ‘Cap’s best girl’ shit in your head, but I want it gone.”

You sit stock still, shock setting in. Yeah, the other stuff is important and you’re not off the hook but he’s in lo-

“You’re in love with me?” you’re tense, half sure that pointing out his words are the wrong move.

Steve’s brow furrows. Then they go wide. He flushes bright pink, flashing a sheepish smile. 

“That’s not how I wanted it to come out.”

Your heart flutters. You can’t help the little smile that breaks the line of your lips. You quickly school it down, so that you can look him in the eye and deliver your honest apology.

“I’m sorry, Steve. It was shitty to lie to you, especially given what can happen with your job. And it was shitty to make assumptions about what you’d think. I should’ve just talked to you.”

“Yeah, you should’ve,” he repeats, clearly trying to make that stick. “I’m sorry, too, that I didn’t make it clearer how much I love every part of who you are.”

Your lip twitches. You really love hearing him say that. 

Steve’s sharp eyes catch everything, as always. “You like that?”

He stands from the chair, walking over to sit beside you on the couch. You nod furiously. He smiles a little, but then goes serious again.

“There’s no pressure to say it back. If you’re not ready or-”

“I love you,” you rush out.

You don’t give him time for the victory to settle in, instead launching yourself at him so you can press your lips against his. You make out for a while, melting into Steve as you lay him out under you on the couch. When you pull away, it’s abrupt.Steve pouts, his lips bereft from your absence. 

“What was the third thing?” you ask, giving him a quick peck to keep him sated.  

His mind is miles away. “What?”

“Earlier, you said you had three things to say. What was the third one?”

“Oh. Oh.” 

He smiles, a particularly devastating blend of shy and wicked that only Steve could manage to pull off. “The third thing is how unbelievably hot I found that ‘embarrassing display of perversion’ you put on.”

Your cheeks heat in an entirely different way than they had earlier.

“Yeah?”

Steve nods vigorously. You giggle at him, before dropping an assessing gaze over his form. 

“You know, you’d look really hot in a corset and fishnets,” you muse aloud. 

Steve’s eyes go wide as saucers, the color in his cheeks rapidly getting darker. His mouth hangs open.

“I’ll uh- take that into consideration,” he manages.