Work Text:
DECEMBER 22ND
“... Make my wish come true. Baby, all I want for Christmas... is—”
You quickly shut off the radio with a heavy sigh. Sick to death of the constant deluge of Christmas songs filling up every station you switch to, you wish you had taken up your father’s offer to replace your banged up old Buick with something newer. You would’ve taken anything that had a Bluetooth connection at this point, just so you don’t have to spend the next four and a half hours sitting in silence as you reluctantly drive home for the holidays. You don’t need to be in a foul mood before you even arrive.
Spending three secluded weeks holed up with your father and stepmom is bad enough. With the usual no-holds barred questioning about your love life that they expected you to respond to with no hesitation, you can deal with their overwhelming interest in your life. The worst thing of all would be having to spend those same three weeks in the presence of your elusive step-brother.
Steve Rogers is a real piece of work. An asshole right to the root, his cocksure attitude and poor treatment of women poisons him all the way to rotting petals that are on the verge of wilting. He’s half the reason you always make excuses to avoid Brooklyn when your father asks you when you’ll be visiting, not wanting to sour your trip or free time with Steve’s venomous personality.
Ever since you got accepted as an intern at a subsidiary of Stark Industries based in Ithaca, you did everything you could to get out of making the arduous trip home— birthdays, anniversaries, thanksgivings, even last Christmas became a battle between you, your father and his attempts of wanting to celebrate any special occasion with his only child. Phone calls would often end with him threatening to drive to Ithaca and bring you home himself, but he never did. The stubbornness you inherited came from him, and while it came in handy sometimes, you would often bash heads because of it.
This year however, you’ve run out of excuses. No more, “working overtime,” or, “my roommate went through a bad break up,” to get them off your case. You had well and truly exhausted every feasible lie, and ever since you agreed to spend the holiday season with them, you’ve ha an overwhelming case of nausea idling in your gut.
And when you pull up into the grand driveway leading up to your father’s estate, the weight in your stomach feels heavier than lead.
-
CHRISTMAS EVE
“Well, well my little thorn is back for the holidays.”
There it is. That deep, Brooklyn drawl you’ve spent trying to drown out with all nighters, tequila shots and some incredibly bad decisions.
“This is certainly gonna be a Christmas to remember.” And again.
You thought your luck had changed when you arrived late on Tuesday night. With no sight of Steve’s flashy Porsche in the driveway, you believed you might’ve escaped having to spend time with your conceited step-brother after all. Yesterday was spent happily reacquainting yourself with your parents without Steve’s scathing remarks and flirty stares across the room.
But when you wake up this morning, a casual glance out of the window reveals Steve’s car parked up next to yours, and it changes your mood instantly. You do your best to avoid him, sneaking around the house while you try to make breakfast as quietly as you can, but clearly his mission was to find you in this unofficial game of Hide and Seek.
You turn away from the sink, leaving your dirty plate to soak, and catch sight of Steve leaning against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed over his broad chest. The black t-shirt he’s wearing is far too tight and his biceps bulge beneath the fabric straining over his muscles.
Has he been working out?
“Hello Steven,” you mutter. A sadistic swell of amusement toys with the corners of your lips as you watch him stiffen at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue like bitter lemon. He hates that you always call him Steven, but that’s why you do it. To prove to him that his charms no longer work on you. That ship sailed years ago.
“How’s Mr. Stark treating you?” Hope he’s not working you too hard,” he asks, but there’s a distinct lack of genuine interest in your career.
“I don’t report to h— y’know, never mind,” you sigh. “Since when do you care?”
“C’mon, I gotta make sure my little sister is taken care of, y’know?” He grins wide. “Make sure someone sees to the stick stuck up your ass.”
Your jaw tightens at his words, muttering “fuck you,” under your breath as you stalk past him, hoping he won’t follow. No such luck.
Steve’s aftershave catches up to you before he does— the woody, leather scent burrowing into your veins like a parasite. “You know I happily would,” he teases, “again.”
You stop in your tracks, hand already poised on the banister, and turn to face him before you ascend the stairs. His bright blue eyes shine up at you, and you can feel the knot in your lower belly begin to tighten.
-
The voluptuous redhead dangling off of Steve’s arm looks like she’s been plucked right out of his wet dreams. Her dress clings to every curve her body has to offer, and the plunging neckline leaves nothing to the imagination as she follows him around the room, smiling wide when he introduces her to the slew of guests there at her parents’ behest.
You spend half the night with your lips wrapped around the rim of a champagne glass, the crisp bubbles numbing your tongue as you follow the servers from person to person, grabbing a fresh glass before you’ve even finished with your previous one. Your father catches you in the act from time to time, giving you a wary glance before flashing you a kind smile, just thankful to have you home for Christmas.
After an hour spent listening to your step-mom trying to set you up with Bucky, Steve’s equally egotistical best friend, you retreat to the bar in the hopes that being hidden in the corner of the room will keep you away from more potential awkwardness trying to make small talk with someone you have very little interest in.
But as if on cue, you make eye contact with Steve across the room and you watch your step brother lean towards his date, and whisper something in her ear before leaving the redhead to sip on her wine alone.
You do what you can to keep your gaze fixed elsewhere as Steve heads towards you, his lips quirked permanently into a sly grin.
Reaching you, he taunts casually, “where’s your date?” as he leans over the bar next to you.
He’s too close for your liking, the brush of his arm against yours making small bolts of electricity spark in your veins.
“Whiskey neat,” he mutters quietly to the bartender before turning his attention back to you. You can feel his stare hot on your skin, his eyes no doubt on the sweetheart neckline of your dress, giving him the perfect view of your cleavage.
“Didn’t want one.” You shift on your stool, changing positions. “Unlike you, I don’t need to keep my reputation afloat by fucking my way through Manhattan.”
Steve scoffs. “It’s more of a lifestyle than a reputation.”
“Ass,” you grumble into the rim of your glass, the sweetness of the rosé cleansing the back of your throat of champagne bitterness.
“I remember there was a time you loved my ass,” he retorts. “And those scratch marks you left on it.”
You feel your body twitch at the mention of the night you foolishly spent together three years ago. Steve has never let it go. Loves bringing it up at every available opportunity. You thought once you had slept together, he would back off— instantly bored of you once he’d got his dick inside you, but somehow it has just fuelled him even more.
“I wonder,” Steve shifts, using his elbow to prop himself against the bar to face you, “does your pussy still do that amazing fluttering thing when you come?”
Your face flushes hot at his words, your cunt clenching around nothing as you fight to keep your stare elsewhere, knowing if you look at him you might not be able to control yourself. Wetness gathers between the apex of your thighs and you have to swallow down the increased moisture clinging to the back of your throat.
Quickly, you slip off your stool, muttering, “I need the bathroom,” without so much as glancing back at him.
-
You have no idea how long you spend in the bathroom, staring at your clammy brow in the mirror while trying to convince yourself to leave the facilities. This is exactly why you don’t want to be here— despising the way Steve constantly and so easily gets under your skin.
The door clicks gently closed behind you as you exit, the soft sound of orchestral music floating up from the floor below and over the balcony in front of you. You slump against the mahogany, letting out a heavy sigh as you attempt to psych yourself up to make your way back downstairs, and hopefully avoid Steve for the rest of the night.
A deep, “The appetisers not agree with you?” cuts through your trance.
Christmas miracles don’t happen, after all. You close your eyes for a brief moment, breathing out deeply through your nose before opening them again.
“Don’t be so crass,” you eventually rebuke, giving the blue-eyed devil a side glance. Casually leaning against the wall with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a wide smirk pulls at his lips.
God, I hate him.
You quickly push yourself off of the expensive wood, and almost run past him to head back towards the stairs, but Steve quickly follows behind.
“You were in there for quite some time,” he observes.
“Had to powder my cheeks,” you say flippantly over your shoulder.
“Oh, see I figured that after our little chat, you had to excuse yourself for, y’know, personal reasons.”
You stop dead, whirling around on your heels to face him. “Don’t flatter yourself, Steven.”
He takes a step towards you as you shuffle backwards and eventually you collide with the pillar behind you, the smooth marble cold against your back.
“Don’t tell me you never think about that night,” Steve whispers, his icy cerulean stare piercing your soul. His body quickly closes the already narrow gap between you, and slowly swipes his hand down your bare arm, making you shiver. “That you don’t touch yourself thinking about how how good it felt when I was inside you, how hard I made you come—”
“I— I don’t.”
He moves closer still, so close now that his lips are inches from grazing yours. “Don’t lie to yourself, I think about it all the time,” he admits softly. “The way you called my name, that cute little whine when I kissed that special spot on your neck—”
Steve’s fingers smooth softly over the waist of your dress and down to the slit open across your thigh. Heat begins to blossom in the pit of your stomach, the resulting warmth causing your cunt to dampen.
“Stop,” you plead with a whisper.
“Don’t make me stop now,” he says. “I know you don’t want me to.”
He pulls away from you hastily, spinning you around to face the balcony, your eyes on the unassuming crowd below you. From this vantage point, the plush white Christmas garland hanging from the railings conceals you somewhat, knowing that if anyone were to look up, they’d only see as far as your waist for which you’re grateful.
As you grab hold of the balcony in front of you, you spot the redhead being shamelessly hit on by Bucky, and Steve slips his hand under the fabric of your dress, manipulating its way past the hem of your panties. You suck in a sharp breath when his skin finally skims yours, fingers brushing through your damp folds.
“Fuck,” he hisses into your ear. Your thighs instinctively tense as Steve starts working you open— just the tips at first, then as you warm to his touch, he manages to inch them in a little further, but there’s still resistance. “C’mon sis, let me in.”
Shifting your weight, you slowly edge your feet apart, and Steve’s fingers easily slide in right up to the knuckle. The hard pressure of his palm nudging your clit makes you whine under your breath as he places his feet between yours to keep your legs spread.
“There we go,” he praises. “Shit, how’d you always feel so fuckin’ good?”
Steve’s fingers begin to move, your slick soaking his digits each time he drives them back into you. You’re stunned that even though it’s been three years since that drunken mistake— and countless women for him later— he still remembers every dip and ridge inside you that makes your toes curl. It’s almost as if he studied your body with minute precision, determined to pull every strand of ecstasy from you with just his skilled fingertips.
“Oh god, Steve,” you whimper, clutching onto the balcony for stability. Each drive and retreat of his fingers sends you spiralling, and combined with the added pressure against your clit, your core is alight in seconds.
“You gonna come?” he teases over your shoulder. “All over my fingers, in front of all these people?”
His lips graze along the curve of your neck until he reaches the spot he remembers, placing a firm but delicate kiss to your skin. And with a whine, you do just as he predicts. The levee inside you breaks, and you surrender to your climax in a mass of hushed expletives and trembling limbs.
Steve suddenly shifts behind you, lifting the back of your dress with his spare hand before hooking your panties to one side with such fluidity, it’s almost like he’s practised this. Slipping his fingers from your sopping cunt, you huff at the loss before they’re replaced with something much thicker.
“Told ya this was gonna be a Christmas to remember,” he laughs, one hand splayed across your belly while the other is curled around your hip as he prepares to pull you back onto his cock.
You hold your breath as he enters you, only releasing it when you feel the taut muscles of his lower stomach pressing firm against your ass, and the fullness of his length stretches you to your limits. You hate how good he feels, how he was made to be inside you, but for now you’ll push away your disdain for the man behind you, and let him take whatever the hell he wants.