Your love burns within me
with fire and fury.
-- Fire and Fury, Skillet
Hansel's not much for reading - he can, of course, because his mother made sure of it before their father abandoned them in the forest. But he's more of a practical, hands-on kind of guy. He can read and write and do arithmetic, but he's more about the bullet and the blade, the fists and the fury, not the rhyme and verse.
But Gretel? Gretel is poetry in motion, the way she moves, the way she fights. She's hard where he's soft, strong where he's weak, and sometimes he likes to think he returns the favour.
He's sixteen and Gretel fifteen the first time that he kisses the blood of battle from her lips, so terrified of losing her that he loses his mind instead. She punches him in the face and doesn't speak to him for three days, which he figures is pretty much what he deserves.
Gretel is sixteen and Hansel seventeen the first time she returns that kiss, and if his mouth wasn't bloody before she started, it sure as hell is by the time she finishes.
But then Gretel has never done things by halves - she's never pulled a punch, bitten back an insult, or taken anyone else's crap - and Hansel isn't quite stupid enough to think that he's the exception, not even in this. Gretel's the exception. Gretel has always been the exception, the exceptional one, fierce in black leather and with a 'fuck you, too' attitude that has Hansel's libido pretty much sitting up and begging.
So she's his sister. That isn't even the weirdest thing about their lives, and at least it means that no matter what, they'll have each other.
His Gretel is still poetry in motion, even if he's not the kind of guy to spill his guts with a quill. He prefers spilling guts for real - not his own, but those of the witches they hunt, and that's only if Gretel doesn't get there first. She's grown into her body over the years, taller than she was at fifteen, sixteen, with curves that the leather corsets she wears don't hide.
That's not why she wears them, of course, but it certainly doesn't hurt.
There's blood on her mouth tonight as she stalks towards him, and blood on her leathers that isn't hers. The blood on her clothes is black as night, darkened with sin, but her mouth is ruby red when she kisses him, straddling him and pinning him down to the floor. Hansel is happy to stay there - the serpent witch they've fought tonight - that they've killed - was a fucking mean bitch and his head is still ringing from the blows she struck before she fell to Gretel's fury.
His ears are ringing now, but it's the feel of Gretel's mouth that's sending his head spinning. She takes no prisoners, not even him, and she kisses him like she kills - without mercy, all fire and fury, consuming him.
He kisses her back, tasting the iron of her blood, the ice of her fear. Kisses her back and slides his hand underneath the edges of her corset, stroking rough callused fingers over her warm, scarred skin.
They're marked, he and Gretel, their lives carved into their flesh, and he traces the scars that are scattered like spring blossom over the curve of Gretel's hip, the bow of her spine. She breathes into his mouth, her body arching into his as his fingers press into her flesh, not soft and gentle because Gretel isn't. Her eyes are dark when she pulls back, her brows lowered and her mouth a tense, tight line. He's not surprised when her strong fingers dig into his scalp, jerking his head back so that she can stare down at him.
She isn't surprised when he submits.
When she kisses him this time, it's slower but not softer, her tongue demanding as it slides into his mouth. He parts his lips, letting her explore to her heart's content, his fingers busy with the laces of her corset. It takes them like this, sometimes, the sweet thrill of victory. The harder the fight, the harder the fuck.
There's no better way of celebrating that they're still alive.
Tonight Gretel's impatient; her fingers slide between them, already tugging at the laces of Hansel's breeches as he finally rips open the fastening of her corset. It's easier to tug it down now, to bury his face between his sister's breasts, to listen to her moan as he finds one taut nipple with his tongue. He sucks hard, a hint of teeth behind it, and she bucks into him, her breath leaving her in a rasping gasp, as harsh as the fingers that finally find his dick.
He groans against her skin as she strokes him roughly, fast, frantic movements that have him hard and aching in the time it takes him to find her other breast, to nip and suck as her heated mouth presses against his scalp. Her fingers tighten around him, forcing an oath from him, and he retaliates, sucking at the sweet curve of one breast hard enough to bruise.
Not all of the marks on their bodies have been left by witches.
She rises up onto her knees, releasing her grip on him to struggle with the laces of her own breeches. At times like these he's so fucking glad she's gone for practicality, choosing to have the fastenings go back far enough that she can piss in the forest without having to have to take them off. It means he can slide his fingers in as soon as she's undone them, curling them and pushing them inside her body as she braces herself against his shoulder and lets out a curse of her own.
She's already wet for him, the fury of the fight translating to this, and it's the work of a moment to undo the rest of her laces, to pull his fingers out and grab hold of her hips.
She guides him into her, sinking down onto him and rocking her hips until he's fully seated in her, ignoring his muffled curse as he buries his face in her neck. She's tight around him, not as wet as she would have been if he'd gone down on her first, buried his face between her legs and made her twist and swear, calling him every name under the sun until he finally took pity on her and let her come. The first few moves are rough, skin catching on skin, the hint of pain in it only serving to ramp up his arousal, and Gretel's too, if the sounds she's making, the look on her face when he finally pulls back to stare at her is anything to go by. His grip on her hips tightens as she braces herself, both hands on his shoulders as her head rocks back on her neck, her expression twisted with pleasure and pain as she moves, up and down, no rhythm to it, just harsh, panting need.
"Gretel." He lets go of one hip, steadying her with his other hand as he catches hold of her chin. "Gretel. Look at me."
He's not the one to give her orders, but she opens her eyes for him anyway, holding his gaze as her movements smooth out, no longer jagged and uneven, but purposeful and deep, taking as much of him into her with each downward stroke as she can. She shakes off the hand on her face, pressing her forehead against his instead, and rolls her hips, pressing their bodies together closely, skin moving against skin.
He grabs at her hips again, content to let her set the pace. He won't come until she does, no matter how much it costs him, and from the way she's biting at her lip, the way that she curls both hands around the back of his neck, it won't be long before she falls.
He helps her on her way, first pulling her hips with each downward stroke so that the firm skin above his cock rubs against her with each slick move and then - when that has her gasping but not coming - sliding his fingers between them, rubbing awkwardly at the small nub between her legs, the one that gives her the most pleasure when he licks and sucks at her sweet pussy.
It's enough. It's enough to have Gretel throwing her head back again, her moves once again losing their rhythm as she strains towards her climax, her thighs tensing, her nipples hard points against his chest. He wraps his free arm around her waist, holding her against him as she jerks and struggles, the fingers her has between her legs moving faster now, with less finesse as he drives her towards the edge.
"Gretel," he murmurs against her hair, into her temple. "Sister."
She shudders, letting out a little cry as her body tightens around him, wetness soaking his fingers as she comes and comes hard.
He lets her breathe it out for a moment, his dick still hard within her as she comes down from that high, until she flexes and then tightens around him experimentally, raising her head to stare down at him. Her cheeks are flushed and her forehead sweaty, her hair sticking to her skin, but the look in her eyes is more focused now, something hard and demanding in their depths as she once more begins to move.
His fingers find her breasts again, harder this time, twisting her nipple until she bites at her lips, and then leans down and bites at his instead. It sends a shudder through him; Gretel's fierceness, the taste of blood in his mouth. His balls are tight against his body, his stomach tensing as he gets closer and closer to finding his own pleasure, buried balls deep in his sister's warm and welcoming cunt.
And Gretel - who knows him so well, better than anyone else - knows it, too.
She leans in, her breasts pressing against his chest with delicious friction, her breath warm against his ear. "I want you to come in me," she says, her tone giving no quarter, allowing for no dissent. "Come for me, Hansel. Make me feel it, brother mine."
He's always been helpless where Gretel is concerned, from first breath until last. He's helpless to resist her now. He buries his face in her neck, his hips jerking and the pleasure consuming him as he fills her with his come.
She stays there, settled in his lap, running her fingers through his hair as his breathing slowly eases, as his cock slowly softens and then finally slips from her body between one breath and the next.
Her expression is indulgent when he finally meets her eyes again, soft in a way that she seldom is, not his Gretel, his sister with her flashing blades and her knife-sharp tongue. God, he fucking loves her, although he's led to understand that God wouldn't approve of the ways in which he does.
But then, he and Gretel were put on this earth to kill evil things. Come judgement day, maybe God will be a little more forgiving of their need for each other, and if not... well, they've spent their lives killing witches and sending them straight to hell. So, they'll spend the afterlife doing the same fucking thing.
Hansel can't find it in himself to give a shit, not as long as Gretel's by his side.