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Blacksmith's Hands

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“Birth date?”

Steve bit back a groan, eyes sliding shut as Mr. Stark's voice carried down the bar. When he opened them he saw Ms. Maximoff biting back a grin at him from behind the counter. She shrugged apologetically, and Steve sighed, turning to his deputy Mr. Wilson.

“You had to speak so damn loud?” Steve grumbled.

Mr. Wilson snorted and shrugged. “Did not know birth dates were such carefully-guarded commodities, Sheriff.”

“Birth date?”

Steve tipped his hat down low over his eyes, glowering through the shade. “Around certain folk, they are.”

“Birth date?”

The voice was right in his ear now. Sighing deeply to himself, Steve turned to his right, where the town blacksmith had slithered his way down the bar until he was on top of Steve's elbow. Steve nudged him away, putting some distance between them.

“I share it with the nation,” Steve mumbled, kind of hoping it would put Mr. Stark off somehow.

If anything, the admission only piqued Mr. Stark's interest more. His eyes glimmered bright as he looked Steve up and down. Steve pushed himself up from the bar, straightening to his full, impressive height. Mr. Stark only imitated him, lazily pulling himself upright until their eyes were only an inch off level. Steve frowned, hoping it was a fearsome scowl.

“Well, that is a damned good cause for celebration, Sheriff,” Mr. Stark declared. “What can I get you for the occasion?”

Steve shook his head. “Not asking for any favors, Mr. Stark. A quiet Fourth is all I need, for my day. All I ever ask for. Keep the peace that night, Mr. Stark, and that is the best present money can not buy.”

Mr. Stark looked him up and down, those too-damned-smart eyes considering him long and hard. Mr. Stark was the town blacksmith, but to call him that was like calling a horse a big dog. He did so much more than that for the town, he was so much more brilliance than just the shoeing horses and pounding out nails that his title implied. He had built the irrigation system for the whole town, water pipes running through to damn near every building, even the houses. Something called an ach-we-duct and letting nature's own gravity do the work. Ancient Roman secrets, pounded out and improved upon by Mr. Stark's brilliant mind and hands. Gas lamplights ran on a daisy chain through the town, making their little outpost one of the safest in the west. Hell, even the occasional explosion that Steve had to run out and investigate in Mr. Stark's strange home a mile outside of town was worth it, considering the doo-dads that came pouring out of that selfsame home like clockwork.

“I'm renting you a room.”

Steve blinked. Of all the things he had expected Mr. Stark to offer him—a new pistol, perhaps, one which reloaded itself through some mysterious mechanism—a rented room hadn't been one of them.

“I'm sorry?”

But Mr. Stark was smiling, nodding to himself like he had some great plan figured out in that big brain of his. “Above Ms. Van Dyne's place. You know.”

Steve flushed. Oh. That kind of a room.

“Mr. Stark, I do not-”

“I'm renting you a room.”

Steve's scowl deepened. “Mr. Stark, I must insist-”

But Mr. Stark was throwing greenbacks at Ms. Maximoff—Steve had not even noticed him take a drink—and pushing himself away from the bar. “It's already done, Sheriff. Think of it as a thank-you from all the fine citizens of our town. And happy birthday.”

With that, Mr. Stark was gone. Steve sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. He needed a shave. Turning to Mr. Wilson, Steve looked at him helplessly.

Mr. Wilson snorted and shrugged. “Don't ask me, Sheriff. You know how Mr. Stark is. Better just take the gift graciously, you want my opinion.”

Steve shook his head. “Not interested in the company, to be honest.” He smiled at Ms. Maximoff, who only raised a knowing eyebrow at him. He sighed and watched her wink at him before she picked up a glass to scrub. Yeah, he knew: he was not too subtle with where his interest lay. And where it did not. Surprisingly, for as observant as he was, Mr. Stark hadn't seemed to pick up on that.

“You should go,” Mr. Wilson told him, leaning his forearms on the bar. Steve glanced over at him, confused. Mr. Wilson shrugged. “At least make sure the girl gets paid. I'd think Stark would arrange that before, but...”

Steve sighed. Pulled on his gloves. “You're right.” He threw coins down on the bar and tipped his hat at Ms. Maximoff, who curtsied at him. Maybe a little sarcastically. He snorted and started out of the saloon, Mr. Wilson at his side. “Happy birthday to me,” he grumbled.

Steve stomped up the steps of Ms. Van Dyne's brothel—excuse him, burlesque show—spurs rattling with every step. Fireworks were starting above his head, the town festivities well under-way. He should be out there patrolling. But first, to take care of Mr. Stark's present. He hoped he had enough coin in his pocket to pay the girl.

Knocking once on the door Ms. Van Dyne had directed him to, Steve entered when he heard no protest from the other side. And the he stopped, and almost started right back out the damned door.

“Come on, Sheriff. Don't be like that. It's your birth date, after all.”

Staring at the doorframe, Steve counted to ten. Then twenty.

“At least shut the door. Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

Realizing Mr. Stark had a point, Steve hurriedly closed the door with himself on the inside. Just in time for Mr. Stark to follow up with: “Or the right one.”

Bracing himself, Steve turned back to face the room, scowl firmly in place. Mr. Stark was there, sprawled across the bed. And naked as the damned day he was born, saving for a thick coating of black hair chin-to-toes, and his standard bowler hat positioned over his groin. Steve kept his eyes away from that.

“What right idea would that be?” Steve grumbled. So maybe Mr. Stark was exactly as brilliantly observant as past experience had already proven time and time again. Why couldn't he have just made Steve a new sidearm?

“Happy birthday, Sheriff Rogers,” Tony purred. He stroked one hand down his chest, resting it on his thigh at the end. Steve shivered. “I'm all yours, as long as you want me.”

Well, damn it. Steve was only a man. And Mr. Stark... “This isn't appropriate, Mr. Stark,” Steve pointed out. His protests were belied by the fact that he was unbuttoning his vest as he spoke.

Mr. Stark knew he had won—Steve could tell by the glimmer in his eyes. He stretched, and that hat covered even less. Steve let his eyes be drawn to it. No use dissembling now.

“You going to arrest me, Sheriff?” Mr. Stark purred.

Setting his hat on the hall-post and vest over the dresser, Steve approached the bed. As he bent down, shadow covering Mr. Stark's face, he heard Mr. Stark's breath hitch. Saw his tongue dart out to wet his lips. Steve eyed up that mustache, pondering the beard-burn he'd have for the next few days if he gave in. Then he let his eyes drift lower, over the dark hair covering Mr. Stark's chest, the thicker trail of it disappearing beneath that damned hat. Steve brought his eyes back up to Mr. Stark's, pleased in the way Mr. Stark's shoulders seemed to tremble, just a touch. His lips were parted. Steve kicked off his boots, spurs rattling loud in the silence.

“I do have a pair of handcuffs that sure seemed sized just for you,” Steve pondered out loud.

Tony's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed noisily.

“Would you care to-”

Steve shook his head and closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Tony's. His mustache tickled. “Quiet yourself, Stark,” Steve grumbled into his mouth.

Mr. Stark's response was as enthusiastic as it was instantaneous. His arm reached up to pull Steve in, twining around Steve's neck and tugging until Steve gave in, allowing himself to be drawn onto the mattress with Mr. Stark. Their bodies rolled together, bowler hat crumpling before being kicked aside. Steve gasped into Mr. Stark's mouth, hands clutching to him as he hardened inside his trousers. He could feel Mr. Stark's answering hardness, no cloth or hat left to cover it.

“Tony,” Mr. Stark gasped. Steve pulled back, eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“I've been with many an egotistical lot before, but I don't think I've ever heard someone call out their own name during the act,” Steve pointed out, wryly.

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. His thumb rubbed along Steve's jaw, where his hand still clutched at his neck. Steve shivered.

“I meant: no more of this 'Stark' business. Call me Tony.”

Steve nodded, leaning back down. “Well alright then, Tony. If you insist.”

“Mm, Sheriff,” Tony moaned as he licked his way into Steve's mouth. Steve shivered again. Tony was so... wanton, so... uninhibited. His body was everywhere, his hands and legs and thighs, oh... Steve's eyes squeezed closed tight as he pressed down against Tony's thigh, rutting shamefully. Tony was holding him tight, encouraging him, mouth taking and taking and taking. Steve trembled and grabbed at Tony's arm, pushing him away.

“Wait, I'm... I'm still dressed.”

Tony smirked, even as his hands went to work. Blacksmith's hands. Steve's mouth went dry as he watched those long, scarred fingers flickering over his laces, over his buttons, tearing open his trousers like they were wet paper. Steve trembled and tensed as those fingers dipped inside, reaching for his hardness. He pushed at them, shaking his head.

“No, let me...” Steve lifted himself off Tony, suddenly embarrassed. Not meeting the other man's eyes, he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it, before shucking his undershirt as well. The cool air hit his chest and made Steve feel all the more vulnerable. His blonde chest hair was a stark contrast to Tony's black, and Steve wondered how they would look, tangled together. What kind of picture they would paint. If he might paint Tony, one lazy afternoon, with the light pouring into Steve's private cabin and no work waiting to be done. Steve pushed down his pants as he did the same to such thoughts. Fantasies.

Tony spit into his hand, something that had Steve wrinkling his nose until Tony reached between them and gripped Steve's hardness again. Then Steve's nice manners were put aside, because damn it all, but that felt good.

“How you want this, birthday boy?” Tony asked, even as he stroked Steve's hardness with sure, strong hands.

Steve braced himself above Tony, panting through the pleasure. Damned, but Tony hadn't even touched himself yet, and Steve hadn't touched him. He reached out to correct the discourtesy, only to have his hand slapped away.

“Your birth date. Your show,” Tony told him.

Steve flushed with the possibilities. Had to press his face into his shoulder as he thought, to hide what was surely too much in his expression. Tony, too-smart, too-observant Tony, seemed to catch enough though, no matter how hard Steve tried to hide it.

“I got you, Sheriff,” Tony promised. And Steve found himself being manhandled, being wrestled down to the bed, trapped against Tony's chest. Tony's hardness pressed against him as they rolled onto their sides, hips rutting against each other. Steve flushed with embarrassment as he pressed his rear against Tony's groin, but it felt so damned good that he found himself doing it again and again. Tony was eager to follow his lead, rolling his hips smoothly against Steve's, falling into an easy rhythm with him. For a few minutes it was good, it was great, and Steve thought maybe if Tony would bring a hand down and stroke him off, it'd be damn near perfect.

But Tony apparently had more plans. Gears inside gears, that was blacksmith Stark. One arm tightened around Steve's chest, holding him in place. Not enough that Steve couldn't break free if he wanted to, but enough to make him feel trapped. Steve didn't struggle. Tony's other hand worked down between them, between Steve's thighs.

“Going to fuck your thighs,” Tony told him. Steve jumped. There was something cool and slick between his thighs. Some sort of oil. Steve glanced down, struggling to catch a glance at what Tony was doing.

“Brought some oil,” Tony told him, whispering into his ear. He then lowered his mouth, nipping gently at Steve's jaw before working his way down his neck. Steve trembled, Tony's ticklish mustache a stark contrast to the little pinpricks of pain that were his sharp bites. Steve's thighs were slick with Tony's oil, those smart, beautiful fingers rubbing at his sack, slipping over his hardness, before sliding back again. Steve's member leaked seed, aching for Tony's strong touch.

True to his word, Tony slipped himself in between Steve's thighs, settling in just for a second before he began rocking his hips in a steady motion. Steve's hardness jerked, thick shaft bobbing as Tony's answering hardness pressed between his thighs, against his balls. Steve grunted, biting down something like a womanly moan as Tony fucked against him, pace quickening. His arm tightened around Steve's chest and Steve's body curled, need to spilling already spiraling tight and fast inside him.

“Come here,” Tony murmured, tugging at Steve's jaw with one hand. Steve gasped, mouth falling open on accident at Tony's touch. Turns out that was just about perfect, since Tony's tongue was in his mouth the next second, licking sloppy kisses against his tongue, his lips, his teeth. Steve found it in himself to focus just enough to kiss back, but when Tony sucked all gentle at his lips Steve lost what little focus he had gained and moaned. His body trembled in Tony's arms.

Tony grunted as he rutted between Steve's thighs. The sound of their skin slapping filled the room, sweat slicking their skins' slide against each other. It was a hot, still night: the kind of night made for lying apart in bed together, not joining together. But there was nothing Steve wanted more than to make this last forever, for his and Tony's heat and sweat and building, building pressure to keep going until there was nothing left, till it filled Steve like a hot air balloon and he was buoyed away with the mysterious currents of the wind.

“How you doing?” Tony asked him.

“Swell,” Steve gritted out, seed too-ready to spill. “Ready,” Steve admitted.

“Well just hold on there a little longer,” Tony grumbled, fucking hard against Steve. Steve's body jerked with every thrust. Tony might be a smaller man, but not by much. His muscles might be leaner than Steve's bulk, but he was a strong man, with strong arms. Blacksmith's arms. Steve fell back into those arms, shoulders shaking as Tony gripped him tight, held their chests close together even as his hips brutalized Steve's thighs. Steve's eyes slipped closed as his hardness leaked, not eager to wait any longer.

“Going to spill...” Steve told Tony.

“No, wait-”

Gasping, Steve scrambled forward to take his own member in hand. A growl behind him, and then Tony's hand was pushing his away, wrapping around his member and stroking it firmly. Steve's hips bucked, body curling forward around Tony's hand. Those long, strong fingers wrapped tight around his length, wrist flicking expertly, working him like it was pumping the bellows, stoking the fire inside Steve hotter, and hotter, and hotter...

He spilled with a cry unbecoming a sheriff of the law, body shaking apart in Tony's fist. Tony pumped him through it even as he swore in Steve's ear. He was still rutting between his thighs, still seeking after his own release.

“Keep going,” Steve reassured him, reaching one hand back to grip at Tony's rear. “Keep going, go until you're done...”

“Damned tight thighs...” Tony grunted. “Like a trembling maid.”

Steve huffed, head swimming, giddy with his release. He clenched his thighs tighter around Tony, rolling his hips back in tandem with his. “I'm no maid,” he protested.

Tony's breath was hot in his ear. “Maybe, but you are sure trembling.”

Steve proved Tony right by maybe doing exactly that. Tony spilled a moment later, seed spurting between Steve's thighs and making a mess. Steve sighed, relaxing back against Tony, eyes drifting closed. But only for a moment, before the easy contentment of release was replaced by a damned overthinking mind.

They lay there for a long time, Steve hoping if he feigned sleep that Tony would eventually fall asleep as well. And stay. God get him, but he was a soft heart, Steve. Tony had one leg thrown over him still, and his hand was curled in Steve's hair. Steve breathed quietly, eyes wide as he stared at the opposite wall, listening for Tony. Praying he'd stay.

Just as Steve thought he might be getting his wish, Tony groaned and mumbled: “Think I ruined your reputation, Sheriff.”

Steve tensed for Tony to leave. But instead, he pressed his face into Steve's neck, nose snuffling sleepily against Steve's sweaty skin. Steve's face heated, overwhelmed. After a moment he shook the buzzing bees from his skull enough to realize Tony meant for an answer.

“What?” was the best he managed.

“Your hooting and hollering. Think the brothel knows all about the sheriff and the blacksmith by now.”

Heart in his throat and only half listening to the content of Tony's words, Steve pressed back against Tony. His body trembled with delight as Tony pressed forward, rubbing himself and his spoiled penis against Steve.

“Well, they ain't saying nothing about it,” Steve replied absently. With cautious movements he turned to face Tony, one hand on his thigh the whole time like he could keep Tony in place with just that. When he saw Tony smiling at him from beneath that proud mustache of his, Steve felt his heart ease a notch. Tony was just as interested in staying as Steve was in having him stay, it would seem. Steve smiled back, shaky breath finally released. Tony winked at him like he knew exactly what had Steve worrying.

“And, blacksmith and sheriff. Not so strange,” Steve continued, finally taking heed of the conversation as it warranted. “You make the arms and I wield them. Not such a peculiar partnership.”

“Partnership,” Tony mused. His eyes had drifted lower, looking down Steve's chest. His hand—the one not still threading lazy rivers through Steve's hair—came up to stroke down Steve's flank. His eyes were shrewd, like he was assessing a filly for sale. “I wouldn't say no to something like that with you, Sheriff.”

“Steve,” Steve breathed.

Tony didn't need to ask what he meant. He grinned, mustache turning up at the movement. Then he leaned in and pressed those ticklish whiskers to Steve's mouth and kissed him: little light things, that made Steve laugh and tremble. His hands slid through Tony's chest hair, over his flank, whole body light in a way he hadn't known was possible.

“Steve,” Tony whispered as he pulled back. “You interested?”

“In a partnership?” Steve searched Tony's eyes, wondering. Sorting. Strategizing. “What for?” he finally asked, cautiously.

Tony's grip tightened on Steve's flank. Those normally bright blue eyes hardened, almost seemed to go black. After a long moment Tony raised his hand to Steve's jaw, stroked the firm lines.

“There's a war, coming, Steve. You and I both know it. Whether it's from our neighboring countries, our own government, or... something else. The creeping dark. Waiting for us. It's coming. It's in the air.”

“Storm about to break,” Steve said. Agreed. He could smell it. He knew some others could, too.

“Partnership,” Tony repeated. “For the times ahead. Against the creeping dark.”

“I can agree to that,” Steve agreed, seriously. Then he caught Tony's hand, brought it up to his lips. Pressed a lingering kiss to it. Pressed his promise into those scarred blacksmith fingers.