"...I haven't felt it yet, today." James couldn't stand to stare out of the massive panes of glass that composed the balcony's door; couldn't stand to take in the same, tired, disgusting sight of the poisoned horizon. Instead, he focused on the ornate curves and black finish of the door's wrought iron frame peeling away, and yielding to rust. He nearly had each chip, and each rotting pivot, memorized, too - but not yet, at least.
"I'm glad to hear it, Sir." Winter approached him from behind, laying a hand on "his" shoulder - the jagged lumps and tarnished gunmetal of Ironwood's cracked and broken prosthetics still keenly visible beneath the woven, sinuey strips of ghostly white and translucent flesh. "It's been so long since you've had a good day. You deserve it."
After so long, in this terrible place, enduring these terrible things- Winter still had such strength. Such strength in her words, in her voice, in her movements...
She somehow still had the strength to actually gaze out; to take in the hazy, bloodstained landscape. To accept the horizon as a thick soup of volcanic miasma; its burning, toxic mist obscuring the hulking, monstrous shadows of towering, unfathomable Grimm.
Her unyielding strength was so painful to witness, somehow.
"It was in my right thigh two days ago. And yesterday, it was in the back of my neck." Ironwood pressed both of his hands flat against the clouded, murky glass of the door. It was so hot, against both of his palms; and he shuddered. "It's been acting erratic, lately."
"I know. I could see it moving in your neck." Winter trailed her hand down the distorted skin of his side, before wrapping her arms around his waist. "I didn't want... To say anything. I didn't want you to panic, and have me try to cut it out again." She pressed her face to the nape of his neck, kissing and suckling his twisted, reconstructed flesh. "I'm sorry, Sir."
Ironwood exhaled a soft, breathy sigh, leaning into her ministrations. "It's alright, Winter. You made the right choice, and I appreciate your attentiveness and concern. I'm sure it will settle back down into my chest, eventually." He moved to place his hand over hers, the other still propped firm against the hot glass. He moved and slid Winter's lithe hand further down, pressing her palm over and into the fabric of his crotch. His cock was already plump with blood, blunt and thick and half-erect. "Is this what you want, though? Again?"
Winter answered with a firm grab, and a bite to his neck.
Their first time had been so tender, he remembered; it had been so intense, so panicked, and so nervous. He had wanted to know sexual release so desperately, and for so long- but he was so afraid.
Afraid of whatever poison was running through his mockery of flesh, now- Afraid of the parasitic Grimm that was so actively burrowing and tunneling within him-
He was afraid of the guilt.
But, nothing came of it.
Nothing came of their first time, nor their second- And Ironwood had lost track, now. He had lost track of just how long they were here, in this hellscape. He had lost track of how many times and in how many ways Salem had ripped him apart, and how she had raped him, and how many times she had regrown his skin and his limbs and his-
They both came so hard, the first time. It was so gentle, so passionate - and he remembered so fondly waking up beneath the covers, his head resting on Winter's soft and warm navel.
He remembered how tranquil her breaths were, and how the slow, repetitious rise and fall of her stomach lulled him back to sleep.
She had saved him, that night.
But now- He didn't know what this was, now.
Ironwood turned and grabbed her; his movements a numb blur. A mechanical fumble, where he held her neck too tightly and kissed her and bit her- and he threw her onto the bed.
Did he do the same yesterday? Or an hour before?
He split the closure on the front of his pants, still not wanting to give Winter full audience to his malformed, translucent erection that sat against twisted, flesh-veined steel.
He forced and held Winter's legs up beside her head, and she cried out - the prolonged lack of combat leaving the tendons in her legs stiff, and yearning.
He forced himself into her swollen, weeping pussy in one deep, smooth push; and Winter cried out from the pain of being filled so forcefully, so suddenly. They had managed to enjoy foreplay, once.
Ironwood wasted no time- and he savored the numb, familiar sound of the the heavy, ornately carved wooden headboard slamming so precariously against the wall as he viciously railed her, pounding against Winter's soft, bruised rear with fast, heavy, violently thrusts.
He could feel her juices run down his thick shaft, and soak the fabric of his thighs- She was always so wet; so excited for him, even like this.
"G-General Ironwood!" Winter screamed between loud moans and yelps, unrestrained. She reached and grabbed for his head - bowed in shame - and she grabbed at his damp hair, as he mechanically fucked her; each thrust still rocking the bed and causing it to creak and buckle.
Ironwood's eyes were closed, and his mind was vacant - he focused on the feeling of his own rapid heartbeat, and his own quick, shallow breaths- Before he felt Winter's body tremble around him, and he felt her familiar tight, rhythmic contractions around his length.
"Cum inside me, James." Winter pleaded, her voice small and cracking. "Please."
How many times had he heard this? How many times did Winter breathe this to him, hot and desperate? Why did it still gut him hollow and break his heart, but drive him wild?
He opened his eyes, and his lips trembled. Winter's smile was so gentle, and her eyes so pleading. Somehow, despite this awful place, she was still so strong. So beautiful.
Ironwood stared her down as he kept his speed, hilting her over and over- and he pressed himself deeper still within her as he came, losing himself to sweet feeling; arching his back, and once again filling Winter to the absolute brim with spurt after spurt of hot, thick semen. Filling her womb with some wicked seed wrought from black magic; the milk of some strange flesh, from which they both knew no origin. He filled her, so shamelessly, with an agape mouth and a choked, stifled cry.
He collapsed onto her, panting, covered in sweat - trembling, he gripped Winter's hand tightly in his; and Winter, her legs finally free, wrapped them lazily around his waist.
James murmured something, incoherent and slurred. Winter looked down in a tranquil, doting concern- and she took a shocked pause, her eyes widening in a familiar horror.
She could see a mass of tendrils splay out beneath his flesh- thick, raised black veins wriggling, and worming their way across his skin. And again, it was within the back of his neck- but this atrocity was a far cry from the small lump that the parasitic Grimm typically manifested as.
The disgusting tentacles were visibly burrowing their way into the base of his skull, and into the top of what little remained of his fragmented and breaching steel spine.
Ironwood looked up; his head movement irregular, and unnaturally stiff. The black tendrils had made quick work of his anatomy, and swirled, now, within his right eye. They worked their way across the surface of his sclera, causing it to bleed- And Winter looked on in a terrified panic as the creeping lengths forced themselves out of his eye, and into the blanching skin of his face. They lapped and squirmed, so very thirsty, against the metal plate still embedded in his forehead.
"It- It's telling me that I- I was once the leader of a great, proud army." He whispered, pitifully; his voice cracking. "Was I really?"
"J-James-" Winter struggled halfheartedly against him, and his grip on her hand tightened. He was violently shaking, now, as blood dripped from his face and collected in the corners of his mouth.
"Winter, it's telling me that- That if I fight alongside them- If I lead them- She'll- Let you go-"
