The forest was a moody tangle of mist and moonlight, where shadows flirted with your senses and every rustle hinted at a bad decision. Hansel, a strapping woodcarver with biceps like split logs, trudged through the underbrush, his leather apron smudged with sawdust and clinging to his chest like a lover’s promise. His jaw was square, his hazel eyes sharp, but his stomach growled louder than a tavern brawl, betraying his hunger.

Beside him, Gretel, a curvaceous herbalist with a smirk that could curdle milk, moved with a fox’s grace. Her auburn hair spilled in wild curls, barely tamed by a green velvet ribbon—mirroring the unrest beneath her smirk. Her corset, laced just tight enough to make breathing an adventure, hinted at curves that could start wars. She clutched a satchel of herbs, muttering about the lack of decent thyme in this “godforsaken thicket.”

“Lost again, brother dearest?” Gretel teased, nudging Hansel’s ribs. “Your sense of direction’s worse than a drunk squirrel.”

Hansel snorted, hefting his axe. “Keep sassing, and I’ll carve you a map on a tree stump. Smell that? Something’s ... sweet.”

The air turned syrupy, thick with the scent of caramel and warm sugar. They pushed through a curtain of vines and froze. Before them stood a cottage straight out of a fever dream: walls of glistening gingerbread, studded with candy canes that shimmered like wet lips in the moonlight. The roof was frosted with icing, dripping in slow, suggestive rivulets, and gumdrop shingles winked under the stars. Windows of spun sugar glowed amber, casting a warm, beckoning light, and a chimney puffed out clouds of cotton-candy smoke. The whole place screamed “eat me,” and not in a wholesome way.

“Either we’ve found dessert heaven,” Gretel said, arching a brow, “or this is the tackiest trap since that bard tried to serenade me with a lute and no pants.”

Before Hansel could retort, the door swung open, and out slinked the witch. She was a vision of sin wrapped in velvet, her hourglass figure poured into a crimson gown that plunged lower than a noble’s morals. Her raven hair cascaded in waves, framing a face with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and lips painted the color of forbidden fruit. Her eyes, a smoldering emerald, locked onto Hansel like he was the main course. When she spoke, her voice was a husky purr, dripping with honey and bad intentions. “Well, well, what tasty morsels have wandered to my door? Hungry, my darlings?”

Hansel’s jaw dropped, his axe nearly slipping from his grip. “Uh ... is that gingerbread load-bearing, or just for show?”

The witch laughed, a throaty sound that made Gretel’s skin prickle. She sauntered closer, her hips swaying like a pendulum, and leaned toward Hansel, her cleavage practically declaring war on decency. “Taste my sweets, handsome,” she cooed, holding out a sugar-dusted toffee that smelled like lust and poor choices. “They melt in your mouth.”

Gretel coughed, stepping between them with a grin sharp as a blade. “Easy, lady, he’s not a lollipop. Got anything less ... enchanted? My brother’s got a weak stomach and worse judgment.”

The witch’s smile tightened, but her eyes glinted with amusement, sizing Gretel up like a cat eyeing a particularly saucy mouse. The air hummed with tension, sweet as the cottage and twice as dangerous.

Inside, the candy-walled cottage was outrageous: a table carved from chocolate, chairs cushioned with marshmallow fluff, and a chandelier of glittering rock candy casting prismatic flecks across the room. A cauldron bubbled in the corner, its steam curling like a lover’s whisper. Gretel’s nose twitched at the faint whiff of mandrake and moonwort—definitely not dessert ingredients. Hansel, still clutching his axe like a security blanket, eyed the spread of confections: toffees that glistened like amber, cupcakes piled high with frosting, and a suspiciously phallic éclair that made him blush.

The witch, all curves and cunning, glided toward Hansel, her crimson gown swishing like a taunt. “Try this, my strapping lad,” she purred, holding a toffee between her fingers. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear, the candy brushing his lips. “It’s positively ... sinful.”

Hansel’s throat bobbed. His eyes flicked to Gretel, pleading.

Gretel, lounging against the chocolate table with a smirk, decided it was time to play. “Oh, darling,” she drawled, sauntering toward the witch, “you’re wasting those bedroom eyes on my brother. He’s more wood than brains.” She peeled the wrapper from a cupcake with slow fingers, undressing it like a lover—lingering on the edges, teasing sweetness free with the same measured touch she’d later use to unlace the witch’s gown. “Now, me? I appreciate a woman who knows her ... flavors.”

The witch’s gaze snapped to Gretel, her lips curling into a delighted, dangerous smile. “Bold little thing, aren’t you?” she murmured, stepping closer.

Gretel met her halfway. “Bold’s my middle name,” she purred. “But you can call me Trouble.”

Their lips met—soft, testing, then fiercely hungry. The witch’s hand gripped Gretel’s waist. Gretel’s fingers slid into raven hair, tugging her close. The wall behind them crackled with heat as Gretel moaned, pressed against it, the witch’s thigh between her legs.

“You’re soaked,” the witch breathed. “You came here looking for trouble, didn’t you?”

“I came here looking for thyme,” Gretel gasped, grinding against her. “But I’m very open to surprises.”

The witch’s hand slipped down, fingers parting the damp lace between Gretel’s thighs—

Until Hansel, behind her, looped a rope around her wrists and yanked her back with sudden strength.

“Oops,” Gretel chirped, panting, lips swollen. “Looks like someone got too handsy.”

The witch snarled, but her eyes blazed with something hotter than anger. “Clever brat.”

Gretel stepped close, brushing the witch’s cheek. “You like it.”

They bound her to the candy table—hands tied high, legs spread just enough to tease. Her gown torn, her breath ragged.

“We could curse you,” Gretel said. “But I think this is more fun.” She leaned in, grazed her thigh, whispered, “Taste me next time, when I let you.”

A sugared kiss sealed the deal.

“Let’s go,” Gretel said, and they left the witch panting in the ruins.

The forest swallowed them. Hansel’s boots pounded the earth. Gretel laughed, flushed, her corset askew.

“Tied her with your rope?” she teased. “What’s next, carving her a love letter?”

“Shut it,” Hansel muttered. “You were halfway to marrying her.”

They stumbled into a moonlit grove. Then—a rustle. A forager stepped into view.