multi-fandom oneshots

chin up (steve rogers)

summary: it's a shoddy deal made in a shitty diner much too late at night: when you call, he will pick up.

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 14k

genre: enemies to lovers, vampire!au, the mandalorian tings bc steve has to help raise a child hehe

warnings: mentions of death and actual death, abandonment, racism and prejudice on both sides, alexander pierce being creepy asf, people drinking blood, babies lmao

A glass of something deep, deep red is placed in front of him. The glass fits perfectly in hand when he picks it up; he twists it back and forth, eyes so clouded with thought that he doesn't even appreciate how it glints golden in the low, evening light. His nose twitches as he brings it up towards his mouth – O+, with something deeper. Dry, rounded, oak-like. Chateau Margaux.

"Are you trying to butter me up?" Steve asks, only slightly amused as he takes the first sip. He's had many types of blood, many types of wine. He'd lived in Italy for a few centuries, lived in France for many more. Wine was on the brink of losing its novelty. "I'm getting sick of wine. Might move onto whiskey."

"Don't act like you didn't have a whiskey phase a few years back." Anthony Stark – Tony, rather, as the vampire is adamant on being called – reclines in the booth opposite Steve with a smirk on his face, nursing his own glass of something-or-other. Some nights it was human blood, some nights it was Fae. If he was feeling particularly reckless he'd have some witches blood simmering in his glass, though tonight it seems that he's satisfied with an AB+. "And don't say that! I broke open a Margaux for you."

Steve hums, lets his eyes drift over the interior of Tony's pride and joy: The Tower. Settled in the alleyways of Brooklyn, thrumming with dark magic and jazz and life. Faeries and werepeople and banshees and everyone, just coexisting under the same lights. Times like this – with the low crooning of blues drifting through the air, the red velvet booths, the dazzling, shimmering jewelry of every woman that passed – he felt like he was back in the 20s. He spent that era flitting between Chicago and New York – doesn't know how he remembers most of it, if he's being honest, because he was high off his head most of the time. How simple things had been.

As if sensing where Steve's head had gone off to, Tony's eyes soften just a fraction. "We're worried about you. Bucky says–"

"Bucky says a lot of things," Steve interrupts. The drink takes on a more bitter note. "Since when are you two on good terms, anyway?"

Tony waves a hand. "You know how it is, Steve. I held my grudge for one hundred years; I'm over it now." More silence. Tony clears his throat then, and after a large gulp of his drink he speaks. "You work too much, y'know that?"

"Do I, now?" How many times has he had this conversation? You work too much, Steve. You should take a break, Steve. You've still got so much of the world to see, Steve. It was all the same babble from all the same people.

And he understands it, don't get him wrong. His clan – his family – they care about him. That's what a few hundred years together will do to you, but he knows himself better than they do. He's seen all there is to be seen. He's done all there needs to be done. Work is all he has left. Everything else has lost its appeal; the wine, the dancing, the sex. Life goes on, and on, and on, and it doesn't stop.

"I know we've had this conversation a lot–"

"We have. So you know I won't change my mind."

"Steve–"