Hansel & Gretel fic: The Sky's Gone Out
Title: The Sky's Gone Out
Pairing: Hansel/Gretel
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,800
Summary: They've been hunting witches together for close to twenty years, and Hansel still cannot stomach watching his sister bleed.
Notes: Written for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tommygirl and ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandom_stocking 2013. Set before the movie, absolutely no plot whatsoever.
[@AO3]
The Sky's Gone Out
This part of the forest is denser than the rest, the trees darker and older, clustered close together as they reach for the colorless sky, the humus settling under Hansel's boots with less than whisper. Movement flickers in the corner of his eye, cold shadows dancing between the trunks. Gretel is behind him and slightly to his left; he can hear the steady cadence of her breathing, sense the familiar shape of her over his shoulder.
"Careful," she says, her voice cutting the forest's silence like a knife. "The old girl has nowhere else to go. She might be cooking up a surprise for us."
Gretel is right; they destroyed the witch's broom when they burned her cottage two days ago, and this end of the forest butts a mountain peak so sudden and sheer the witch would need spikes and axes to climb it. Hansel turns in a close circle, wishing that the failing sunlight was brighter, that the press of the branches was thinner. At his side, Gretel does the same; she peers first at the shadow of the mountain, then back toward the thinning pillar of smoke that marks what's left of the witch's cottage. Her hair is dirty and escaping its braid in heavy strands that frame her face, and a bright red scratch scores the curve of her cheek.
Hansel's hand curls into a tight fist at his side; they've fought witches together for close to twenty years, and he still cannot stomach watching his sister bleed. Jittery heat twists into his gut and settles like a stone, anger at this witch, at all witches, at their parents, at every fat mayor and dimwitted village that has failed to clean up its own mess.
Something chitters and squeaks above their heads, and Gretel jerks around, huffing in irritation when she finds her gun trained on a squirrel scuttling between two trees. Hansel snorts out a laugh, watching it for a moment as it jumps from one branch to another, but with his next breath he tastes a subtle change in the wind, a dark and sour tang of magic that prickles across his tongue.
"Down," he hisses, yanking on Gretel's sleeve as a bolt of white-hot fire crackles through the air. They roll sideways across the humus, finding their feet beneath the canopy of a huge tree; Gretel ducks away, disappearing into the shadows before Hansel can blink, and he circles around the other way, stopping short when a branch splinters behind him with a noise like as thunderclap.
The witch is ugly and old, her body shrunken and her shoulders stooped, her face mottled with the purple-brown spots that come with age, her lips bloodless and her teeth little more than grayish stubs. She tips her head to the side, holding her gnarled wand level with Hansel's heart. A gust of wind pushes between the trees with a low whistle; it does not stir the witch's hair or cloak, but it carries the thick smell of her, fetid and rotten and dark. Hansel nearly gags from it.
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AscendedFanboy
A tight silence spreads between them; she glances at the gun waiting at Hansel's side and her mouth twists with a horrid smile.
"You are mine, now."
Hansel can't argue with that, not with her wand less than four paces from his chest. His knife is still in his belt, and she could burn a spell into his throat before he pulls his gun above his hip. "Killing me won't save you. I didn't come alone."
"Killing you would kill you, and I believe your friend would mourn your loss." She studies him for a moment, wetting her mouth with a tongue the color of raw liver. "She is hiding now, but if I hurt you enough, she will come. She will come, and then you will both be mine."
The forest rustles around them -- another gust of wind, another squirrel -- and the witch dares a quick glance at the branch curving above her head. Hansel steps closer, hefting his gun, but the witch is there to meet him, snarling under her rancid breath as she digs her wand into the soft skin beneath Hansel's chin.
"I will roast you alive and eat the flesh from your bones."
The forest rustles again, the sound louder this time, more deliberate. Hansel eases his free hand toward his knife, and Gretel drops out of the trees and onto the witch's shoulders while the witch's spell is still half-formed in her mouth. They land face down in the humus, Gretel sprawled across the witch's back and the witch shrieking as she reaches for the wand snapping under Hansel's boot; Gretel twists her hand into the witch's hair and yanks, baring enough of her throat for Hansel to behead her with one swing. Gretel rolls away from the corpse, making a soft, disgusted sound and she hooks her fingers in Hansel's sleeve and pulls herself to her feet.
He slides his hand over the curve of her shoulder, strokes his thumb over the hollow of her throat. "Are you hurt?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. The scratch on her cheek is bleeding again, and a bruise is starting to darken the corner of her jaw. "Are you?"
"No." He'll have a bruise of his own under his chin tomorrow, from the hard jab of the witch's wand, but it's nothing that won't heal in two or three day's time. They both turn their attention back to the corpse; Hansel remembers a clearing less than a league back that will be suitable for a fire. "I'll get the cart."
He only makes it two steps; Gretel catches his arm in an iron grip, her fingers biting into his wrist hard enough to bruise, then tugs him back around to face her, her mouth open and her eyes dark. She kisses him hard and fast, all tongue and teeth, one hand curling into his hair and the other twisting into the front of his shirt. He stumbles a little as she crowds him back against the nearest tree, grunts as the trunk digs into the stretch between his shoulders; she drags her mouth up the line of his jaw, sucking an achy mark into the skin below his ear, and she presses in close against him, nudging a leg between his until her thigh is rubbing roughly against his cock. His blood is still humming from the fight, and his hands shake as he fumbles with her belt and the placket of her trousers.
"She wanted to eat you," Gretel says quietly.
"They always want to eat me," he replies. It's the truth, a basic part of the job they do, but Gretel makes a dark, angry noise in the back of her throat, her teeth scraping over the sore spot underneath his chin, and Hansel hears all the things she cannot say out loud. He has lived this way so long that he rarely gives his own life a second thought, but Gretel's death would kill him, the very idea of it enough to leave him shivering with cold and crawling with a sickly itch.
He works his hand into her trousers, pushing it down between her legs, where she is hot and wet and perfect; he slides two fingers inside her, hitching her closer with his arm around her waist, lets his thumb slip over her nub as she clutches at his shoulders and kisses his neck. He badly wants to fuck her, to spread her out and touch every inch of her, to sink inside her slowly, to roll them over and watch her ride him, her breasts swaying with the arch of her back and her cunt tight around his cock, but what little sun there is will be setting in the next hour, and it's cold, the ground stiff in places with patches of frost and the crisp air hinting at snow. He buries his face in her hair instead, shifting his hand until the angle of his fingers and the press of this thumb makes her gasp his name. She smells like the forest, like two nights sleeping rough, both of them curled together in the back of the cart or under a hedge.
"There," she murmurs, breathless, her head tipping back, her foot hooking around his calf as she rolls her hips. "There, there -- just, oh, oh."
She shudders out her release in a long, beautiful wave, her cheeks flushing pink as her thighs shake and her cunt flutters around his fingers. He feathers his thumb over her numb until she hisses and bites his chin and twitches away from it, then holds her against his chest until she settles, sliding his free hand up her back and tangling it in the thick mess of her braid. His cock his harder than stone, aching as it curves against the placket of his trousers; he ruts it against her hip, easy and slow, nosing at her cheek until she turns enough to kiss him, until he can suck her tongue into his mouth, his fingers still tucked inside her because he's unwilling to give up the heat of her.
He does eventually, only because she pulls back enough palm the hard line of his cock, rubbing it with the heel of her hand before tugging at his laces, before crouching down and letting a slow, hot breath fan over the head. She sucks him into her mouth all at once, all slick heat and the clever curl of her tongue, and he arches away from the trunk of the tree, moaning, sucking his wet fingers into his mouth to muffle the noise. All he can taste is her, earthy and sharp and familiar. He looks down at her, at her wide eyes and her dark cloud of hair, at her flushed lips and hollowed cheeks. The tension in his gut shifts and twists, curling tighter and tighter until it finally snaps; he comes in a warm, furious rush, his hand cradling her jaw and his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Gretel rests against him for a moment, her face tucked against his hip, then stands, kissing him long and slow as she straightens their clothing. The forest is silent; Hansel can hear his heart beating under the soft sound of their lips and tongue. They kiss until he is half-hard again and her hips are restless under his hands, but then a gust of wind threads around them and Hansel abruptly remembers the witch. Gretel must smell it too, because she wrinkles her nose as she pulls away.
"Come on," she says, catching him by the wrist and tugging him away from the tree. "We've got work to do."
Pairing: Hansel/Gretel
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,800
Summary: They've been hunting witches together for close to twenty years, and Hansel still cannot stomach watching his sister bleed.
Notes: Written for
tommygirl and fandom_stocking 2013. Set before the movie, absolutely no plot whatsoever.[@AO3]
This part of the forest is denser than the rest, the trees darker and older, clustered close together as they reach for the colorless sky, the humus settling under Hansel's boots with less than whisper. Movement flickers in the corner of his eye, cold shadows dancing between the trunks. Gretel is behind him and slightly to his left; he can hear the steady cadence of her breathing, sense the familiar shape of her over his shoulder.
"Careful," she says, her voice cutting the forest's silence like a knife. "The old girl has nowhere else to go. She might be cooking up a surprise for us."
Gretel is right; they destroyed the witch's broom when they burned her cottage two days ago, and this end of the forest butts a mountain peak so sudden and sheer the witch would need spikes and axes to climb it. Hansel turns in a close circle, wishing that the failing sunlight was brighter, that the press of the branches was thinner. At his side, Gretel does the same; she peers first at the shadow of the mountain, then back toward the thinning pillar of smoke that marks what's left of the witch's cottage. Her hair is dirty and escaping its braid in heavy strands that frame her face, and a bright red scratch scores the curve of her cheek.
Hansel's hand curls into a tight fist at his side; they've fought witches together for close to twenty years, and he still cannot stomach watching his sister bleed. Jittery heat twists into his gut and settles like a stone, anger at this witch, at all witches, at their parents, at every fat mayor and dimwitted village that has failed to clean up its own mess.
Something chitters and squeaks above their heads, and Gretel jerks around, huffing in irritation when she finds her gun trained on a squirrel scuttling between two trees. Hansel snorts out a laugh, watching it for a moment as it jumps from one branch to another, but with his next breath he tastes a subtle change in the wind, a dark and sour tang of magic that prickles across his tongue.
"Down," he hisses, yanking on Gretel's sleeve as a bolt of white-hot fire crackles through the air. They roll sideways across the humus, finding their feet beneath the canopy of a huge tree; Gretel ducks away, disappearing into the shadows before Hansel can blink, and he circles around the other way, stopping short when a branch splinters behind him with a noise like as thunderclap.
The witch is ugly and old, her body shrunken and her shoulders stooped, her face mottled with the purple-brown spots that come with age, her lips bloodless and her teeth little more than grayish stubs. She tips her head to the side, holding her gnarled wand level with Hansel's heart. A gust of wind pushes between the trees with a low whistle; it does not stir the witch's hair or cloak, but it carries the thick smell of her, fetid and rotten and dark. Hansel nearly gags from it.
http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/AscendedFanboy
A tight silence spreads between them; she glances at the gun waiting at Hansel's side and her mouth twists with a horrid smile.
"You are mine, now."
Hansel can't argue with that, not with her wand less than four paces from his chest. His knife is still in his belt, and she could burn a spell into his throat before he pulls his gun above his hip. "Killing me won't save you. I didn't come alone."
"Killing you would kill you, and I believe your friend would mourn your loss." She studies him for a moment, wetting her mouth with a tongue the color of raw liver. "She is hiding now, but if I hurt you enough, she will come. She will come, and then you will both be mine."
The forest rustles around them -- another gust of wind, another squirrel -- and the witch dares a quick glance at the branch curving above her head. Hansel steps closer, hefting his gun, but the witch is there to meet him, snarling under her rancid breath as she digs her wand into the soft skin beneath Hansel's chin.
"I will roast you alive and eat the flesh from your bones."
The forest rustles again, the sound louder this time, more deliberate. Hansel eases his free hand toward his knife, and Gretel drops out of the trees and onto the witch's shoulders while the witch's spell is still half-formed in her mouth. They land face down in the humus, Gretel sprawled across the witch's back and the witch shrieking as she reaches for the wand snapping under Hansel's boot; Gretel twists her hand into the witch's hair and yanks, baring enough of her throat for Hansel to behead her with one swing. Gretel rolls away from the corpse, making a soft, disgusted sound and she hooks her fingers in Hansel's sleeve and pulls herself to her feet.
He slides his hand over the curve of her shoulder, strokes his thumb over the hollow of her throat. "Are you hurt?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. The scratch on her cheek is bleeding again, and a bruise is starting to darken the corner of her jaw. "Are you?"
"No." He'll have a bruise of his own under his chin tomorrow, from the hard jab of the witch's wand, but it's nothing that won't heal in two or three day's time. They both turn their attention back to the corpse; Hansel remembers a clearing less than a league back that will be suitable for a fire. "I'll get the cart."
He only makes it two steps; Gretel catches his arm in an iron grip, her fingers biting into his wrist hard enough to bruise, then tugs him back around to face her, her mouth open and her eyes dark. She kisses him hard and fast, all tongue and teeth, one hand curling into his hair and the other twisting into the front of his shirt. He stumbles a little as she crowds him back against the nearest tree, grunts as the trunk digs into the stretch between his shoulders; she drags her mouth up the line of his jaw, sucking an achy mark into the skin below his ear, and she presses in close against him, nudging a leg between his until her thigh is rubbing roughly against his cock. His blood is still humming from the fight, and his hands shake as he fumbles with her belt and the placket of her trousers.
"She wanted to eat you," Gretel says quietly.
"They always want to eat me," he replies. It's the truth, a basic part of the job they do, but Gretel makes a dark, angry noise in the back of her throat, her teeth scraping over the sore spot underneath his chin, and Hansel hears all the things she cannot say out loud. He has lived this way so long that he rarely gives his own life a second thought, but Gretel's death would kill him, the very idea of it enough to leave him shivering with cold and crawling with a sickly itch.
He works his hand into her trousers, pushing it down between her legs, where she is hot and wet and perfect; he slides two fingers inside her, hitching her closer with his arm around her waist, lets his thumb slip over her nub as she clutches at his shoulders and kisses his neck. He badly wants to fuck her, to spread her out and touch every inch of her, to sink inside her slowly, to roll them over and watch her ride him, her breasts swaying with the arch of her back and her cunt tight around his cock, but what little sun there is will be setting in the next hour, and it's cold, the ground stiff in places with patches of frost and the crisp air hinting at snow. He buries his face in her hair instead, shifting his hand until the angle of his fingers and the press of this thumb makes her gasp his name. She smells like the forest, like two nights sleeping rough, both of them curled together in the back of the cart or under a hedge.
"There," she murmurs, breathless, her head tipping back, her foot hooking around his calf as she rolls her hips. "There, there -- just, oh, oh."
She shudders out her release in a long, beautiful wave, her cheeks flushing pink as her thighs shake and her cunt flutters around his fingers. He feathers his thumb over her numb until she hisses and bites his chin and twitches away from it, then holds her against his chest until she settles, sliding his free hand up her back and tangling it in the thick mess of her braid. His cock his harder than stone, aching as it curves against the placket of his trousers; he ruts it against her hip, easy and slow, nosing at her cheek until she turns enough to kiss him, until he can suck her tongue into his mouth, his fingers still tucked inside her because he's unwilling to give up the heat of her.
He does eventually, only because she pulls back enough palm the hard line of his cock, rubbing it with the heel of her hand before tugging at his laces, before crouching down and letting a slow, hot breath fan over the head. She sucks him into her mouth all at once, all slick heat and the clever curl of her tongue, and he arches away from the trunk of the tree, moaning, sucking his wet fingers into his mouth to muffle the noise. All he can taste is her, earthy and sharp and familiar. He looks down at her, at her wide eyes and her dark cloud of hair, at her flushed lips and hollowed cheeks. The tension in his gut shifts and twists, curling tighter and tighter until it finally snaps; he comes in a warm, furious rush, his hand cradling her jaw and his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.
Gretel rests against him for a moment, her face tucked against his hip, then stands, kissing him long and slow as she straightens their clothing. The forest is silent; Hansel can hear his heart beating under the soft sound of their lips and tongue. They kiss until he is half-hard again and her hips are restless under his hands, but then a gust of wind threads around them and Hansel abruptly remembers the witch. Gretel must smell it too, because she wrinkles her nose as she pulls away.
"Come on," she says, catching him by the wrist and tugging him away from the tree. "We've got work to do."