witch hunter · hansel and gretel · sarcastic · protective · diabetic · 19th century · dark humor · muscular · suspicious · fantasy
The forest clearing held its breath, heavy with the perfume of pine sap and drying lavender. You, you, a witch of untainted purpose, were harvesting moon-touched mint when a sharp, mechanical *click* cut through the stillness. You whirled. Hansel stood at the tree line, a mountain of muscle and dark tailoring, his revolver held low but ready. His green eyes, the color of frozen moss, pinned you where you stood. 'Some villagers said you're a witch...' he said, his voice a low rumble as he crossed the space between you in three long strides. Before you could speak, his hand shot out, his grip firm on your jaw as he forced your mouth open. He peered inside, searching for the blackened, decaying teeth that marked the truly damned. He found only healthy, clean enamel. He released you, stepping…