The thick, syrupy smell of cheap bourbon was strong on Ironwood's hot, wet breath. It was always strong on his breath. Weiss wasn't sure if she wished that it wasn't.

Her mind wandered, struggling to delay acknowledging the sensations of Ironwood's mouth suckling on her neck, and his teeth sinking in to her flesh, and the jolts that she felt run straight to her clit when he gently pinched and teased her pert nipples.

Weiss remembered her father gloating so proudly about switching out some liquor. Gloating about dumping bottom-shelf garbage into a vintage bottle; gloating about "successfully" masquerading practical moonshine as a fine, prestigious single malt scotch.

She remembered Jacques' bitter, mocking laugh as he gloated to his flock of fellow elites. All of them laughing, so eager to presume Ironwood an idiot.

The General was just too polite to call Jacques out on his petty bullshit.

He was always too polite.

He was always too grateful that Jacques was willing to share a drink with him.

He never showed it, but Weiss knew. She could see the ache in his unfocused, tired eyes - he was always so desperately eager to lie to himself, and pretend that Jacques was his friend.

He was always so lonely.

Weiss whines when Ironwood's breath hitches in his throat, and when he pauses, and when his hands begin quaking and recoiling from Weiss' damp, pale skin.

She whines harder when he stops sliding and rubbing and grinding his hard, ribbed erection against the folds of her slick and throbbing pussy.

They both know that this is sick. That this is wrong.

Weiss doesn't rationalize it; it's just something that... Happened, one night. One night where they were both happy, and laughing, and relatively alone. Something that keeps happening. Something that she keeps letting happen. A few hours spent breaking a numb wind-up doll routine; a few hours where they're both able to feel so good, and so much less lonely.

Ironwood- He won't speak to her about this, about them. About the shame and revulsion and guilt that's always so plain on his face. He's strange; a paradox. He wants it, and then abhors it, and then cries as he eagerly succumbs.

All Weiss knows is that he drinks to keep up his nerve, and to forget his conscious.

That he can't so much as look at her anymore if he isn't black-out drunk.

That he was the one who leaned close, on that strange night so long ago. That he was the one who had kissed her first, and then embraced her with a desire that she had never known.

"You should have another drink," Weiss whispers to him, taking his trembling hands in hers as she smiles at him with gentle eyes, and kisses the tip of his nose. His cheeks are always salty with tears, and she's come to loathe their taste.

Ironwood numbly nods, and clumsily contorts to flounder and reach her nightstand; his flask almost empty already.

It kills Weiss to encourage him. It kills her to be flawlessly emulating Jacques' control over her mother. It kills her, and she can feel it rotting her heart.

But, he needs it.

She needs it.

Ironwood's flask has real, single malt vintage. He shared it with Jacques, once. And through his smile and canned and rehearsed retorts, Weiss could tell that he was genuinely sad when Jacques wasn't impressed.

He finishes the last fourth or so of the scotch that was left in his flask in a series of fast, aggressive swallows. The fine flavor is lost on him; hundreds of dollars inhaled solely to forget.

Maybe, some day, Weiss could tell her father that Ironwood's preferred poison tasted so much better when it was fresh on Ironwood's lips. Tasted so much better when it was mixed with his saliva, and pressed against her tongue with his.

He takes a moment, lingering with his empty flask in his hand, and Weiss is on him in a heartbeat.

She kisses and massages the length of his waning erection; a collapsing half-steel structure that she, as a huntress, feels very obligated to save.

Ironwood whines as Weiss' mouth migrates and moves and she licks the head of his dick, sliding the whole length of her tongue against the underside of his glans.

His body trembles and his back arches when the wisp ends of her long ponytail dance and caress the flesh of his inner thigh.

He's rock hard again, and squirming against her - whimpering, biting his bottom lip to stifle his cries. He is always so emotive for her. So breathy, and so vocal.

A bit of time spent sucking his cock and fondling his balls, Weiss so aggressively miking him for his salty precum, the last of his liquor hits - and Ironwood's lost his coordination, and his sense of where he is. His mechanical arm twitching on its own and going half-limp, he can't prop himself up anymore.

He fumbles back, his head immediately lost in Weiss' fat, voluptuous pillows. He stares vacantly at the ceiling - his mouth agape, and his eyes rolling and eyelids fluttering in a vain attempt to focus and regain his bearings.

Weiss smiles, moving her mouth from kissing his cock to kissing his scarred and brutalized naval- to kissing his bulging and twisted abdomen. To kissing his mangled chest, and mischievously biting on his remaining nipple.

"You're... Ready now, right?"

Ironwood hesitates, his mouth agape and quivering in a silent sob- so blissfully out of his mind with drunken incoherence, he gives her a small nod.

They've fucked countless times; but Weiss' tiny body always struggles to take all of his thick, iron cock.

She positions herself on top of him, her legs straddling his waist - and Weiss forces herself down in a violent motion, her drenched and overflowing cunt doing little to soften the harsh sensations of his cock's hard metal ridges and overlapping plates.

Weiss boggled at how Ironwood always made her feel so deliciously tight, and stretched, and so impossibly full. Even after all this time, his dick was still so overwhelming for her.

His right hand still twitching and unreliable, Ironwood did his best to grab Weiss' ass; giving her no time to become accustomed to his length, he lifted up her light, tiny body and slammed it down in succession - and Weiss screamed out; his dick rubbing and pressing so hard against her pussy's most delectably tender and sensitive places.

"Oh, Gen- General Ir- Iron-" Weiss struggled to cry out the perversion of James' name that highlighted their sin, and failed - her cognitive words melting into pleasured moans and screams. He was fucking her too hard, and too fast - and how good it felt was maddening.

She loved these lucky nights, when Ironwood's tender kisses and reassuring hugs didn't lead to a gentle passion, and instead gave way to this violent and mechanical sort of fucking. On these nights when he used her as a toy, it made her feel so much less guilty.

She wasn't sure if she liked the view, Weiss lamented between his powerful thrusts. Ironwood's head was tilted back, and his was mouth slightly agape in a silent, pleasured cry. How utterly exhausted he looked as tears dripped and leaked from the corners of his shut and tired eyes, rolling along the sides of his head until they met his ears.

"C-can you... Fuck me from behind?" Weiss managed to say, panting, lamenting.

Ironwood opened his eyes; and Weiss' heart was broken. He looked so defeated, in this low light; the darkness catching in the hollows of his cheeks, and the bags beneath his eyes. He looked so broken, and so sad.

"I- I can- Try. I'd... Do anything for you..."

Ironwood ripped her from his cock, and Weiss' squeal masked the audible pop that it made.

He laid Weiss beside him, and clumsily rolled over; doing his best to prop himself up again, he wobbled, unsteady; too far gone to force any focus over his prosthetics.

Ironwood positioned himself behind her, and pressed the head of his metal length to Weiss' soft, eager, and dripping opening. Laying his mangled body flush against the entire length of Weiss' back, he completely eclipsed her as he reentered her - and Weiss sighed, once again so deeply satisfied to have her tiny body stuffed with his delicious girth and outrageous texture.

He grabbed and held her wrists, pulling her arms taut against her sides before using them as a means to pull himself, and go back to slamming so furiously into her.

Weiss' hair immediately catches in his metal joints, and it hurts as he aggressively thrusts and rebounds, unaware- But this pain is a winning trade, Weiss thinks, if it means not having to see him cry.

"I'm- I'm close," Ironwood gags, and to her horror, Weiss can feel his tears drip onto her- and she tries so hard to pretend that it's sweat.

But, she can't.

She just can't.

"Please keep going," Weiss begs; her body rocking back against his, and meeting Ironwood's increased momentum; but she knows it's selfish, and that she won't cum. It feels so maddeningly good, but- he can't make her cum, anymore.

Just like she can't make him smile, anymore.

"Oh, Weiss-" Ironwood whimpers as he reaches his climax, spilling his hot seed deep inside Weiss' tight, tense body.

Panting, he trembles as he pulls out; his milky release dragging with suction and his metal plates, spurting and spilling out of her.

"I'm- I'm so sorry..."