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They sleep outside a lot.

For all their fame and the children with scrapbooks- with the hell, Hansel thinks- who follow after with visions of romantic ballads in their eyes, the fact is, they're mercenaries. They fight for cash.

Sometimes they run out. Of cash, not witches. More's the pity.

"Bastard's could've paid better," he grumbles as they set up a tiny fire and the bedrolls they're far too familiar with.

"You could have not insulted the mayor," is Gretel's even return.

Hansel glares. Dirty, grimy asshole had been looking and that wasn't okay. Not fucking ever.

He gets a raised eyebrow for his scowl and they both detach into the patterns habit has made easy, seamless. It's a momentary lull in the argument, not a cessation of hostilities. Hansel keeps his grumbles to himself as he digs out a latrine since he's a thick-necked lug of a bastard and he might as well use that ability (his sister's fucking wit), while Gretel goes over their weapons with loving detail.

He'll do his own check, later. Another reality of mercenaries for all they hunt supernatural game: their weapons are their fucking life's blood. Those don't work and they're screwed. They spend more time taking care of the guns and ammunition they always have to scramble to resupply than they do themselves.

Most times.

It's work that needs doing no matter how they cast looks at each other as they work, eat their shitty supper because they'd been too damn exhausted to bother to hunt (or in Hansel's case, pilfer the Mayor's larder, since that fat jackass had to have one and it would've been so easy) and Hansel spends a lot of it glaring at his hardtack rather than glare at his sister. That never goes well. The whole revelation of their parents hasn't done much for him, but she's found some sort of serenity. It hasn't affected their fighting in any way so Hansel can deal with it, mostly, but come on. They're fucking mercenaries. Calm doesn't really match their lifestyle.

After they've finished Hansel does the clean up because somehow that's his shit to handle too.

Then he handles his sister.

And yeah, he means that literally

"Stop it," Gretel says. She's sprawled out on the bedroll now, glaring up at him because there are lines and there are lines and Hansel has fucking had enough of them.

He puts all of that in a smarmy grin. By her face, it comes out more angry than smarmy but fine, he can work with that, too. "Nope."

"Hansel- "

"Shut the fuck up." It's a snap and Hansel's cheeks burn at that. It isn't how siblings should talk. The firelight doesn't reveal it much, although it has more to glimmer over as he slowly undoes the ties of the breaches she wears in defiance of just about every shit hole town they drift through.

They slide off easily, baring the pale length of her thighs. The muscles jump when he runs his hands over her knees, against scars that have knit white and raised to his calloused touch. Further up is pink, the remains of red washed clean but Hansel still goes over them carefully, close enough that he can feel his own breath bouncing warm against his cheeks. His lips are dry and he licks them. Fucking witch week or so back had used something that had looked like a whip and the gashes may be healing, but it's slower than he'd like. He skims over the wounds carefully, examining her, looking for dirt or hints of infection.

As children, they'd run home to show their hurts to their mother, accepting a kiss to make it better. Hansel doesn't know or care if that was magic, but he puts his lips, licked wet once more, against the edges of the worst of the wounds. Then higher. Again and again he kisses, mouth opening to make them wetter, softer as he follows the palest hint of blue up the length of her thigh to a different sort of pink all together.

It isn't Gretel's color. She's black leather and red blood, dark colors to show that she's off limits. Witches may be the danger but Hansel has nothing but contempt for most of the men he meets, callow and greedy, corpulent and entitled to things that other women may allow. Not Gretel, though. She's more a man than any of those fucking assholes, but here she's pink, already swollen as Hansel examines this part of her, too, licking over the slit again and again until he tastes slick.

He buries himself there, tongue flashing the way he knows she likes. He sucks on each fold, pressing in between before he sucks hard on her clit until she bucks up into him, hips jerking. Hansel just eats into her, drowning in the taste, the heady, heavy musk until she starts to arch. Still bound in the leather that marks her his- where she focuses on weapons, it's Hansel who crafts the leather that works best as armor- and gorgeous. Later still the damp heat of her breathing turns to tiny, broken noises, even quieter than the slick wetness of Hansel's tongue lapping at her cunt.

She comes once, a sharp, almost brittle shudder and Hansel doesn't stop. Not yet. That fucking asshole of a Mayor, the one who'd looked at Gretel like she couldn't hold the gun Hansel had handed off (just in case), like she was something to be taken away and kept among the other women who'd flinched whenever he looked their way. He'd laid a hand on Gretel. Nothing violent, no, but Hansel can see it across the vulnerable curve of Gretel's cheek where only his hand should rest, only his thumb should describe the arch of bone and so-soft skin.

So he doesn't stop, and doesn't stop until she comes hard enough that she has to bite her fist to stop the screams.

The jut of his hard cock shows clearly in the firelight when he finally sits up, but it's the gleam of his mouth and chin he likes more. Gretel smiles up at him. She's finally relaxed and lazy against her bedroll. "Mm," she says, and gestures for him.

Hansel settles against her with a little hum of contentment. Yeah, he'd like to get off and eventually he'll pull her over his hips, let her settle down so she can kiss the taste of him off his mouth. Her body will still be slick and warm and always so tight around his cock as they'll rock almost languidly, to her whims. Because that's really what it's all fucking about. Hansel knows it as he lies there with Gretel in his arms, still in a way that doesn't have anything to do with fucking serenity or any of the good witch bullshit that she's starting to play with. It's just satisfaction, satiation, that leaves her heavy against him.

Peaceful. Different god damned word than serenity and Hansel's always known that.

He knows his sister.

When she does start making curious noises, her hand petting against his stomach with interest, Hansel chuckles. Pulls himself up higher against the rock they're sheltered under and lets her take what she wants. Watches as she finds a pace that's leisurely, unconcerned because she's already almost humming with pleasure for all he aches with need. He ignores it, though, in favor of watching that incongruous pink on her cheeks and the smile that glitters, more wicked than any of the weapons they wield. He did that, Hansel, made her finally reach the place where she can fucking ask what she wants or, better still, take it, and let him fulfill those whims for her. Because she's his sister and he'll always be there for her, will always stand by the her side or at her back, and he'll always, always come for her.

When he does this time it's with a short, sharp little groan that makes her smile. It makes Gretel's smile go sharper than any honed piece of steal.

"Better," she says, and it's love the way they never use the word. Hansel kisses her, cock softening inside her body, arms around the only woman who will ever truly matter in his life.

There are times when her whims are less hidden. When she grabs his head for kisses that are rich with blood, fingers digging into his scalp and hair coming free from her tugs, when she'll crouch down and urge him to pound into her. Hansel likes those times, sure, his blood hot with the remains of something dangerous and profoundly dead drying on his skin. There are times when she'll strike him to make him move faster, use the mouth that he can all but lose himself in with the same precision as any of the projectiles she aims.

But it's times like this, when she's all liquid and loose except for where she'll always be tight for him, smiling with a contentment that goes past the drive both of them struggle with, the life they have to lead.

This is what Hansel wants for his sister. And he'll always be there to make sure she has it.