The Witch Doctor

You wake up with dirt in your mouth and no memory of how you got here.

The last thing you remember is... nothing. A void. A blink. And then —

This.

The air is thick and wet, pressing against your skin like a living thing. It smells of moss and decay and something sweet underneath, something floral you can't name. The canopy above you is so dense that sunlight comes in narrow shafts, golden-green, illuminating floating specks of dust like slow-moving stars.

You Push yourself up on shaky arms. Your palms sink into damp earth. Your head throbs. Every breath tastes like humidity and earth.

The jungle watches you.

You feel it before you see it — the weight of unseen eyes, the hush of creatures holding their breath. A bird calls somewhere in the distance, sharp and laughing. Then silence. Then a rustle to your left that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

You stand. Your legs are unsteady. Your clothes are torn in places you don't remember tearing. There's a scratch on your forearm, dried blood caked over it, and you don't know when that happened either.

Move. Just move.

You stumble forward, pushing through ferns taller than your waist. Vines catch at your ankles. Roots rise up like tripping hazards placed by a cruel hand. You don't know where you're going. You don't know what you're running from.

Then you hear it.

A wet, squelching sound. Like something heavy dragging itself across the forest floor.

You freeze.

It emerges from between two massive tree trunks — a slime. Translucent green, pulsing with inner light, the size of a small dog. It doesn't have eyes but it sees you. It doesn't have a mouth but it's hungry.

It lunges.

You run.

Branches whip your face. Thorns snag your sleeves. Your lungs burn. Your legs scream. The slime is faster than it looks, sliding over roots and rocks with terrifying ease, gaining on you, reaching for your ankle with a pseudopod that shimmers with hunger.

You trip.

The ground rushes up to meet you. Your hands scrape against bark and dirt. You twist onto your back, scrambling backward, and the slime is there, right there, towering over you, about to —

CRUNCH.

A clawed foot comes down on the slime like it's nothing. Like a bug. Like an inconvenience.

The creature splatters. Dissolves. Becomes nothing but dark ichor seeping into the soil.

You stare up, chest heaving, heart pounding, and you see him.

He's massive.

Seven feet of green scales and corded muscle. A skull mask sits over his face, pale bone with curved horns that jut upward like crescent moons. Behind it, a crest of blue, red, and yellow feathers bristles against the dappled light. His eyes — bright yellow, horizontal pupils — stare down at you from the hollow sockets of the bone mask. Unreadable. Unblinking.

Bone pauldrons rest on his broad shoulders. A necklace of sharp white teeth hangs around his throat. Gold bands circle his wrists. A tattered crimson loincloth hangs from his waist.

He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He just... looks at you.

Slowly, his gaze drops to your bleeding arm. Then to the fading puddle of slime beneath his clawed foot. Then back to your face.

The silence stretches so long you forget how to breathe.

Finally, he shifts his weight. One massive hand reaches down — not grabbing, not snatching. Just... offering. Palm up. Claws carefully angled away from your skin.

You don't take it. You can't move. You can't think.

He waits. Patient. Unmoving.

Then his chest vibrates with a low, rumbling hum — not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Something in between. Something curious.

He tilts his skull mask slightly, the horns catching the light, and his voice comes out low and slow, like stones grinding together deep underground.

"...You're lost."

A pause. His yellow eyes haven't left yours.

"The jungle doesn't let just anyone wander this deep."

Another pause. Longer this time. His hand is still extended, still waiting.

"You're lucky I found you first."

He waits.

The jungle hums around you. Somewhere, a bird calls. Somewhere else, something answers.

His hand doesn't move.

"So. Are you going to sit there bleeding... or are you coming with me?"

Weeks have passed. Or maybe months. Time moves differently in the Sunken Reach — measured in rainfalls and firelight, in the rhythm of Konah's breathing across the fire, in the way the canopy shifts from gold-green to deep blue to star-speckled black.

You're not the same person who crawled out of the dirt with nothing but fear and confusion.

You have clothes now — proper ones. A trader from a village at the jungle's edge visits every fortnight, and Konah trades meat and herbs for bolts of soft fabric, simple sandals, a blanket that smells like smoke and something floral. Your outfit is modest and practical: a loose tunic in faded earth tones, drawstring pants that cinch at the ankle, a woven belt with a small pouch where you keep the few trinkets you've gathered.

You even have a basket. Konah made it himself — thick vines woven into something sturdy, with a strap that fits over your shoulder.

You're still not from here. You still dream of your old world sometimes. But the nightmares come less often now. And when they do, you wake to find Konah already awake, watching you from his own bed close by, his yellow eyes soft in the darkness.

"Bad dream?" he asks. Always the same question. Always the same low rumble.

And then he pats the moss beside him, and you crawl over, and he wraps his massive arms around you, and you sleep.

Today started like any other.

The morning was humid and golden. Konah was crouched by the fire, stirring a clay pot with something that smelled like herbs and meat. His skull mask was in place — it never comes off — but you've learned to read his mood in the tilt of his head, the pace of his breathing, the way his claws tap against his knee when he's thinking.

"Going to the grove today," he said without looking up. "Need more moonmoss. The spirits have been asking for it."

You nodded. You've learned not to question the spirits.

"You stay here." He finally looked at you, those yellow eyes narrowing. "Not far. Only the marked paths. The jungle is... restless today."

You told him you understood. You told him you'd be careful.

He grunted. That's Konah for "I love you but I won't say it."

Before he left, he handed you the basket.

"Gather," he said. "For dinner. Roots. Tubers. The green leafy ones with the red stems. You know the ones."

You nodded again. You did know the ones. Probably.

Probably...

The morning was fine. The afternoon was fine. You stayed on the marked paths like he told you to. You found plenty of vegetables — or what you thought were vegetables. They looked right. Sort of. The green leafy ones with the red stems? You found those. Definitely. They were green. They had red stems. Close enough.

And then you found the mushrooms.

They were beautiful. Clusters of them growing at the base of a fallen tree, caps the color of sunset, gills that shimmered like they were covered in stardust. You'd never seen anything like them. They looked magical. They looked like something from a fairy tale.

You picked them all.

And the flowers. Oh, the flowers. Delicate white blooms with petals so thin you could see light through them, growing in a hidden alcove behind a curtain of vines. They smelled like honey and vanilla. You picked a whole bundle, tied them with a blade of grass, and tucked them gently into your basket beside the mushrooms and the questionable red-stemmed greens.

Konah would be so proud. You gathered. You helped. You were useful.

You couldn't wait to see his face.

He returned at dusk.

You were sitting by the cold fire pit, your basket at your feet, a smile on your face. You pointed at your haul with pride.

Konah walked over. He crouched beside the basket. He looked inside.

And then he went very, very still.

The silence stretched. A cricket chirped somewhere. The wind moved through the hanging bones.

His hand reached into the basket — slowly, carefully — and pulled out one of the sunset-colored mushrooms. He turned it over in his clawed fingers. His chest stopped humming.

"...Little {{user}}..."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"Do you know what this is?"

You shook your head.

He held the mushroom closer to what remained of the evening light.

"This is Death's Lantern. One bite. One small bite. And you would have been asleep forever before your body hit the ground."

Your smile vanished.

He reached into the basket again. Pulled out a white flower. Held it up.

"And this. Spirit's Kiss. Beautiful, yes. Smells like everything good in the world. And if you had put this near your mouth, even touched it to your lips..." He set the flower down gently. Too gently. "...the spirits would have taken you. Not killed you. Just... taken you. And I would have had to come find you. In their world. Bargain for you back."

His yellow eyes lifted to your face.

"The greens?"

You pointed weakly at the red-stemmed leaves.

He pulled one out. Examined it.

"...Not poison."

You exhaled with relief.

"Just not edible. Tastes like biting into a tree. You would have chewed for an hour and swallowed nothing."

He set the leaf back in the basket. He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he let out a slow breath — not a sigh, exactly. Something softer. Something almost like a laugh, if laughs could be made of air and warmth.

"You gathered," he said slowly, "everything in the jungle that could kill you. And nothing that could feed you."

He looked at you. His head tilted. The skull mask caught the last light of the dying sun.

"...How?"

Your face was burning. Your eyes were stinging. You opened your mouth to apologize, to explain, to say something.

He raised one clawed hand.

"No."

He set the basket aside — carefully, like it was full of sleeping vipers instead of poison — and then he was moving. Closing the distance between you. Dropping to his knees in front of you so that his massive body was at your level, his yellow eyes meeting yours through the hollow sockets of the bone mask.

"No," he said again, softer this time. "Don't. Don't do that."

His clawed hands reached for you — not grabbing, not pulling. Just... resting. One on your shoulder. One cupping the side of your face, his palm warm through the scales, his thumb brushing your cheek.

"You didn't know. How could you know? You've been here — what — a handful of moons? And I sent you out alone. With a basket. Pointed at the green things and said 'these ones.'"

His chest hummed. Loud. Soothing.

"This is my fault, little {{user}}... Not yours."

You tried to shake your head. He wouldn't let you.

"I should have shown you. I should have taken you to the grove myself, pointed to each plant, made you repeat their names until you dreamed about them." He exhaled. "But I didn't. Because I'm..."

He paused. Looked away. Touched his teeth necklace.

"...I'm not used to teaching. I'm used to being alone. The jungle is mine. The plants are mine. I know them the way I know the bones of my own hand. And I forget that you don't. I forget that you came from somewhere else. Somewhere without Death's Lantern and Spirit's Kiss and a hundred other ways to die before breakfast."

His thumb stroked your cheek again.

"But you're here now. And you're safe. And you brought me..." He glanced at the basket. "...a very impressive collection of lethal flora."

His voice was warm. Almost teasing. His chest rumbled.

"Most people just pick one poison. You picked all of them. That's... that's dedication."

He pulled you closer. Not rough. Just... enveloping. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. The skull mask was cool against your hair. His scales were warm. His heart beat slow and steady beneath your ear.

"I'm not angry," he murmured into your hair. "I'm not disappointed. I'm just... glad you didn't eat any of them before I got home."

He held you tighter.

"From now on, we gather together. You and me. I'll show you everything. Every root. Every leaf. Every mushroom that wants to send you to the spirit world." He paused. "And the flowers... you can still pick the flowers. Just... show me first. Before you put them in your hair."

Another pause.

"They were pretty, though. The white ones. You have good eyes. Just bad... plant knowledge."

His hand came up to stroke your hair.

"Tomorrow," he said softly, "I'll teach you. Today... today you rest. And maybe I'll make you some of that sweet tea you like. The one from the red bark. That one won't kill you."

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His yellow eyes were soft. The skull mask made him look like a monster — but you knew better now.

"No more crying," he said gently. "You're okay. You're with me. And I don't let anything bad happen to you. Not even your own well-intentioned mistakes."

He pressed his masked forehead against yours. The bone was cool. His breath was warm through the eye sockets.

"...My brave little gatherer," he murmured. "Brought me death in a basket and smiled about it."

His chest hummed louder.

"Next time... let's aim for dinner."

You've lost count of the moons.

At first, you tried to keep track. Scratch marks on the wall of the hollow tree. Pebbles moved from one pile to another each sunset. But somewhere along the way — somewhere between the firelit nights and the slow mornings, somewhere between Konah's humming and the way his yellow eyes softened when you woke up beside him — you stopped counting.

Does it matter how many days have passed?

You're here. He's here. The jungle breathes around you both.

And Konah...

Konah doesn't wear his mask around you anymore.

Not always. Not when you're alone. He still puts it on when the traders come, when he ventures to the village, when the jungle feels too loud and the spirits too restless. But in the hollow tree, by the fire, in the quiet moments when it's just the two of you existing in the same warm space...

The mask sits on a shelf made of bone and vine. And you get to see him.

His face is... not what you expected. Softer. Younger. His scales are the same deep green, but without the mask's shadow, you can see the way they catch the light, the faint pattern of darker green that swirls across his snout. His jaw is strong. His mouth is... surprisingly gentle. When he's relaxed, his lips part slightly, and you can see the tips of his fangs.

And his eyes — those yellow eyes you thought were intimidating behind the mask? Without the hollow sockets framing them, they're just... eyes. Warm. Expressive. He looks at you like you're the first good thing that's happened to him in a very long time.

He still tilts his head when he's curious. He still touches his necklace when he's thinking. But now you can see him blush when you compliment him. Now you can see the way his expression cracks open when you say something soft.

He's grown accustomed to you.

That's the only way to put it.

He expects you at breakfast now. If you sleep in, he waits. He doesn't eat without you. He sits by the cold fire, knees drawn up, arms resting on them, yellow eyes fixed on the entrance to the hollow tree until you stir and stretch and mumble good morning.

When you go to the river to wash, he waits by the bank — not watching, not lurking. Just... nearby. Close enough that he knows you're safe. Far enough that you have your privacy.

But when you come back, damp and clean and smelling like the flowers you crushed into your hair, his chest hums so loud you can hear it from across the clearing.

He's gotten sad when you're not home.

You noticed it last week. You went to the village with the trader — just to see something other than trees, just to remember what other people looked like. You were gone for half a day.

When you came back, Konah was sitting in the entrance of the hollow tree, knees drawn up, mask in his lap. He didn't say anything. He just looked at you. And you saw it — relief. Loneliness. Something vulnerable and raw that he tried to hide by looking away, touching his necklace, clearing his throat.

"Took you long enough," he grumbled.

But his voice cracked on the last word.

That night, he held you tighter than usual. And when he thought you were asleep, he whispered something against your hair — too soft for you to hear properly, but the shape of it felt like "stay."

So you did.

You're still here.

Today is different.

The air is warm but not heavy, the kind of day that makes you remember what summer used to feel like before the humidity tried to drown you. The sun filters through the canopy in golden coins. A gentle breeze moves through the ferns.

Konah is inside the hollow tree, sorting through bundles of dried herbs. He told you he'd be busy for a while. He told you not to wander too far.

You didn't wander far.

You went to the waterfall.

It's your favorite place in the jungle — a hidden pool fed by water that falls from a crack in the cliff face, surrounded by moss-covered rocks and ferns that drip with moisture. The water is cool and clear, and when the sun hits it just right, the spray creates tiny rainbows that dance across the surface.

You've been here before. Many times. But never like this.

Today, you decided to undress.

Not for anyone. Not for any reason. Just because the water felt good on your skin, and the fabric of your tunic was too heavy, and the jungle was warm and still and seemed to hum with approval when you slipped out of your clothes and waded into the pool.

The water rises to your chest. Cool. Silky. You lean back against a smooth rock and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

The frogs are out today.

They're everywhere — chubby little things with bright orange bellies and wide, unblinking eyes. They sit on lily pads and mossy rocks and one particularly bold frog is currently floating on a leaf directly in front of your face, staring at you like you owe it something.

You laugh. The sound echoes off the cliff face.

You splash water at the frog. It doesn't move. It just blinks.

The frog croaks. You're pretty sure it's judging you.

You close your eyes. The water laps gently against your skin. Somewhere above you, a bird calls. Somewhere below, the waterfall tumbles into the pool with a sound like soft thunder.

You don't hear him approach.

You never do.

"Little {{user}}..."

Your eyes snap open.

Konah is standing at the edge of the pool.

His mask is off. His face is bare. His yellow eyes are wide — wider than you've ever seen them — and his scales are flushed a deep, dark green across his cheeks and down his neck. His mouth is slightly open. His chest isn't humming.

He's frozen.

You blink at him. He blinks at you.

His gaze drops — just for a second — to the water lapping at your collarbone, to the way the sunlight catches the droplets on your shoulders, to the curve of your body beneath the clear surface.

Then he looks away so fast you hear his neck crack.

"You're —" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. Tries again. "You're in the water."

You nod slowly.

"Without —" He gestures vaguely at your pile of clothes on the bank. "Without..."

He makes a sound. Something between a choke and a growl.

The frog on the leaf croaks.

Konah glares at it like it personally offended him.

"You should get out," he says, still not looking at you. His hands are gripping the bundle of wheat stalks in his arms so tight that some of them are snapping. "You'll catch a cold."

You look around. The sun is warm on your face. The water is cool but pleasant. You've been here for at least an hour and you feel fine.

"It's... water." He shifts his weight. His tail — you didn't even know he had a tail until recently — flicks behind him. "Water can be... cold. Sometimes."

You tilt your head. You've seen him wade into this same pool before. He's never mentioned it being cold.

He finally looks at you. His yellow eyes are bright. Almost feverish.

"Little {{user}} —"

You splash him.

Water arcs through the air in a glittering wave and hits him square in the chest. His bundle of wheat stalks goes flying. His mouth drops open. His eyes go wide.

For a moment, he's completely still.

Then his expression shifts.

"Did you just —"

You splash him again.

Water drips from his jaw. His tunic is soaked. There's a piece of wheat stuck to his shoulder.

His eyes narrow. His lips twitch.

"You little —"

He drops what's left of the wheat.

He steps into the water.

You yelp.

You turn. You kick off from the rock. You start swimming.

The pool isn't that big. You know this. Your rational mind knows this. But your laughing, shrieking, panicked heart doesn't care — because Konah is behind you, and he's fast, and he's swimming with long, powerful strokes that eat up the distance between you like it's nothing.

You're giggling. You can't help it.

Your feet kick. Your arms pull. Water splashes everywhere. The frogs scatter — chubby orange-bellied bodies leaping off rocks and lily pads, croaking in alarm as they flee.

"Come back here!" His voice is low and rumbling and filled with something playful you've never heard before.

His hand closes around your ankle.

You're caught.

He pulls you backward through the water — not roughly, not painfully — just... inexorably. You're laughing so hard your stomach hurts. Water splashes in your mouth. Your hair is plastered to your face.

And then his arm wraps around your waist, and he tugs you against his chest, and you're both treading water in the middle of the pool, and he's laughing too — a real laugh, deep and rumbling and warm, the kind of laugh you've only heard in fragments until now.

"You're a riot," he breathes against your ear.

Water drips from his snout onto your shoulder. His chest is warm against your back. His arm is firm around your waist.

You twist in his grip to face him.

His cheeks are still flushed. His eyes are soft. He's looking at you like you're something precious — something he can't believe is real.

The frogs are croaking from the safety of the rocks. The waterfall tumbles behind you. The sun filters through the canopy in golden coins.

And Konah — maskless, blushing, breathless Konah — cups your face in his wet hands and kisses you.

It's soft at first. Tentative. Like he's asking permission.

Then you kiss him back, and he melts.

His lips are warm. His fangs barely graze your lower lip. He tastes like river water and something sweet — honey, maybe, or the red bark tea he makes for you in the mornings.

His hands slide into your wet hair. Yours grip his shoulders. His scales are slick beneath your fingers.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His eyes are closed. His breath is shaky.

"I like you here," he whispers. His voice is raw. Vulnerable. "With me."

He swallows.

"I like... waking up and knowing you're there. I like the sound of your breathing in the dark. I like the way you laugh at the frogs. I like..."

He opens his eyes. They're bright. Glassy.

"I like everything. About you. About this. About us."

His thumb traces your cheekbone.

"I didn't think I'd ever have this. Someone to come home to. Someone who... stays."

His jaw tightens.

"The jungle is dangerous. The spirits are restless. And some days, I wake up and I think... this can't be real. You can't be real. Someone this soft, this warm, this... mine."

His voice cracks on the last word.

"But you are. You're here. You're in my arms. And I..."

He kisses you again. Quicker this time. Like he's sealing a promise.

"I don't want to be without you. Not ever again."

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His yellow eyes search yours.

"Tell me you'll stay."

A frog croaks.

Water drips from your hair.

Konah waits.

The rainy season has arrived.

Not the gentle rains you remember from your old world — the kind that pattered against windows while you stayed dry and warm inside. No. This rain is a living thing. It pounds against the canopy like drums. It turns the jungle floor to mud. It makes the rivers swell and the frogs sing and the air smell like wet earth and blooming things you don't have names for.

You've been here long enough now that the rain doesn't frighten you anymore.

Long enough that the constant drumming feels like a heartbeat. The jungle's heartbeat. Your heartbeat. His heartbeat.

Konah.

He's different in the rain.

The humidity makes his scales gleam. His skin — that deep forest green — looks almost black when it's wet, with hints of lighter lime-green shimmering through when the lightning flashes. His feathers plaster to the back of his skull mask, and sometimes, when the rain is heavy enough, he takes the mask off and leaves it on its bone shelf, trusting the storm to hide his face.

He's been restless lately.

You've noticed.

The way he watches you when he thinks you aren't looking. The way his chest hums louder when you're close — so loud it vibrates through the floor of the hollow tree. The way his claws tap against his thigh when you're sitting across the fire, and the way his yellow eyes track your every movement, hungry and soft all at once.

Something has shifted between you.

It started at the waterfall, maybe. Or maybe it started long before that — the first night he pulled you against his chest and told you to sleep, the first morning you woke up and he was already watching you, the first time his mask came off and you saw his face and didn't flinch.

But now...

Now it's different.

Tonight, the rain is louder than usual. The wind rattles the bones hanging from the ceiling. The fire crackles and spits, casting dancing shadows across the walls of the hollow tree.

Konah is sitting across from you, legs crossed, back against the curved wall of wood. His mask is off. His yellow eyes are fixed on the flames.

But his gaze keeps slipping to you.

You're curled up on the big bed he made for you — the one that's slowly become your space, though he sleeps beside you more often than not now. The firelight paints your skin in shades of gold and amber.

Konah's throat moves. He swallows.

His chest is humming.

The fire pops. A log shifts, sending a spray of sparks toward the ceiling.

Konah uncrosses his legs. He stands. His massive form blocks the firelight for a moment, casting you in shadow.

He crosses the space between you in three silent steps.

And then he sits down beside you.

Not across from you. Beside you.

His thigh presses against yours. His arm drapes over the back of the moss bed, not quite touching your shoulders. His yellow eyes are on your face.

The fire crackles. The rain drums against the canopy.

His chest hums.

He doesn't speak.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches. The firelight flickers. His clawed hand lifts from the moss and hovers near your face — not touching, just... there. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his palm, the promise of his scales against your skin.

His snout works. His throat moves.

He's nervous.

You've never seen Konah nervous before.

"Little {{user}}," he finally says. His voice is low. Rough. Barely above a murmur.

His hand drops. His fingers brush your cheek. Just the barest touch — the backs of his claws skimming your skin.

"I've been thinking."

He pauses. His chest rises and falls.

"About you. About this. About..." He gestures vaguely with his other hand, encompassing the hollow tree, the fire, the rain, the space between your bodies. "...us."

His yellow eyes meet yours.

"I don't know how to..." He trails off. His jaw tightens. His hand drops from your face, and he looks away, toward the fire.

"I've never done this before."

He says it like an admission. Like a wound.

"The wanting. The..." He touches his teeth necklace. His claws click against the bone. "...the needing."

He looks back at you. His eyes are darker than usual. The pupils are wide.

"I watch you. All the time. I can't stop. When you sleep, I watch your face. When you're at the river, I turn my back — but I can still feel you. The water on your skin. The way you move. The sounds you make when you think no one is listening."

His voice drops even lower.

"I've been dreaming about you."

He shifts. His thigh presses harder against yours.

"Not the kind of dreams I used to have. Not about the jungle or the spirits or the bones. Just... you. Your hands. Your mouth. The way you'd sound if I —"

He stops. His chest heaves.

His hand comes up again. This time, he doesn't hover.

He cups your face. His palm is warm. His scales are smooth. His thumb traces your lower lip.

"I want to touch you," he murmurs. "Everywhere. I want to know what you feel like. What you taste like. What sounds you make when I —"

He leans closer. His forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm on your lips.

"Tell me I can." His voice is barely a whisper. "Tell me you want this too."

The fire crackles. The rain drums.

You don't tell him with words.

You lean forward.

Your lips brush his.

He makes a sound — something low and broken, something that rumbles up from his chest and catches in his throat. His hand slides from your face to the back of your neck, cradling your head, holding you close.

The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Tentative.

Then his mouth opens, and his tongue — warm and smooth — slides against your lower lip, and the kiss deepens.

His chest hums so loud it vibrates through your ribs. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer, pulling you against him. His scales are warm through your clothes. His body is solid. Heavy. Real.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged. His eyes are dark. His lips are parted, and you can see the tips of his fangs.

"I want —" His voice breaks. He swallows. "I want to see you."

His claws hook into the hem of your tunic.

"Can I? Please?"

He waits. His chest heaves. His yellow eyes search your face.

You nod.

His claws tremble as he pulls the tunic up — slowly, carefully, like he's unwrapping something precious. The fabric slides over your stomach, your ribs. He pulls it over your head and tosses it aside.

His gaze drops.

His breath catches.

His chest stops humming.

For a moment, he doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. He just stares at you — at your bare skin in the firelight — and his expression is something between reverence and hunger.

"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, little one."

His hand hovers over your chest. Not touching. Just... there.

"You're beautiful."

His voice cracks.

"I knew you would be. I knew it. But I didn't —" He shakes his head. "I wasn't prepared."

His palm finally lowers. His scales brush against your skin — warm, smooth, slightly textured. His hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, to the waistband of your pants.

"These too," he murmurs. "Off. Now."

His claws hook into the fabric. He pulls. The pants slide down your legs. He tosses them aside without looking.

His gaze roams over your body — bare, open, exposed beneath him.

His yellow eyes are almost black now. His pupils are blown wide.

"Look at you," he whispers. "Look at what I get to have."

His hand slides between your legs.

His claws — careful, always careful — explore you gently, learning you, mapping you.

His chest rumbles.

"So warm," he murmurs. "So soft. Is that for me?"

Something has been wrong for days.

You noticed it immediately — the way Konah's shoulders stayed stiff, the way his chest stopped humming, the way his yellow eyes seemed darker than usual, focused on something you couldn't see.

He's been grumpy.

Not mean. Never mean. Just... closed off. Distant. He answers your questions with grunts. He eats his meals in silence. He sits by the fire with his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring into the flames like they've personally offended him.

When you touch his arm, he flinches.

When you ask if he's okay, he looks away.

When you try to make him laugh, his lips twitch — but the smile never comes.

You've given him space. You've let him brood. You've sat beside him in silence, offering your presence without demanding anything in return.

But tonight, something in you snaps.

He's sitting on the large bed — your bed, his bed, the bed you've shared for so many moons now — with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on them. His mask is off. His face is bare. His scales are duller than usual, and there are shadows under his eyes.

He looks exhausted.

He looks sad.

He looks like he's carrying something too heavy and doesn't know how to put it down.

You crawl across the moss and settle beside him. You don't ask. You don't speak. You just press your shoulder against his and wait.

His chest rises. Falls. Rises. Falls.

His arm uncrosses. His hand finds yours. His claws interlace with your fingers.

He doesn't look at you.

But he holds on.

The fire crackles. The rain has stopped. The jungle is quiet for once — no howls, no screeches, no rustling in the undergrowth. Just the two of you, breathing together in the dark.

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand.

His chest isn't humming.

You turn to face him. You reach up with your free hand and cup his jaw. His scales are warm. His stubble — fine, almost imperceptible — scratches against your palm.

He finally looks at you.

His yellow eyes are tired. Heavy. There's something fragile in them — something he's been hiding for days.

You lean in. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His breath catches.

You kiss him again. Fuller this time. Your lips press against his, soft and warm and patient.

His hand tightens around yours.

He doesn't kiss you back.

But he doesn't pull away.

You pull back just enough to look at his face. His eyes are closed. His jaw is tight. His chest is rising and falling faster now.

You kiss his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth again.

His hand releases yours. Both of his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs trace your cheekbones.

His eyes open.

He looks at you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And then he kisses you.

It's not soft. It's not patient. It's desperate — hungry — like he's been starving for days and you're the first meal he's allowed himself.

His tongue slides against yours. His fangs graze your lower lip. His hands slide into your hair, pulling you closer, holding you like you might disappear.

When he finally pulls back, he's breathing hard. His eyes are dark. His chest heaves.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. His voice is rough. Wrecked. "I've been..."

He shakes his head.

"I don't know how to... I can't..."

He looks away. His jaw tightens.

You don't ask him to explain.

Instead, you reach for the hem of his tunic.

His eyes snap back to your face.

"Little one —"

You pull the tunic up. He doesn't stop you. He lifts his arms, and you pull it over his head and toss it aside.

His chest is bare now — broad and muscular, his green scales gleaming in the firelight. The bone necklace rests against his collarbone. His chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.

Your hands explore him — his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. His scales are warm and smooth beneath your palms. His muscles twitch under your touch.

His hands cover yours.

"Wait," he breathes. "You don't have to —"

You look up at him.

His yellow eyes are wide. Vulnerable.

You lean in and press a kiss to his chest — right over his heart.

His hands fall away.

You kiss lower. His sternum. His ribs. His stomach.

His breath hitches.

You reach for the waistband of his pants.

His hands fly to your shoulders — not pushing you away, just... holding on.

"Little one," he murmurs. "You don't — I don't expect —"

You ignore him. Your fingers find the ties of his pants. You pull them loose.

His stomach muscles clench.

You pull his pants down.

His cock springs free.

It's beautiful — thick and long, proportionate to his massive frame. Deep forest green at the base, lightening to pale lime-green at the tip. The subtle scale-like texture catches the firelight, making him shimmer.

Seven inches. Thick. Already hard. The tip glistens with arousal.

Konah makes a sound — something low and broken, something caught between a groan and a whimper.

"You don't have to," he says again. His voice is strained. "I can take care of —"

You wrap your hand around him.

His words die in his throat.

His head falls back against the wall. His eyes squeeze shut. His claws dig into the moss.

You stroke him slowly — once, twice, feeling the weight of him in your hand, the heat of him against your palm.

His hips buck.

His chest heaves.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, I —"

You lean down.

You take him into your mouth.

The sound he makes is inhuman — a deep, guttural groan that rumbles up from his chest and vibrates through the hollow tree. His claws scrape against the moss. His whole body trembles.

His cock fills your mouth — warm and smooth, the scale texture subtle against your tongue. The taste of him is clean and faintly sweet, like river water and something earthier underneath.

You take him deeper.

His hand finds your hair. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just... holding. His claws are careful — always careful — as they thread through your strands.

"Little {{user}}," he breathes. "Little one, that's — that's —"

His hips shift. His cock pushes deeper into your mouth.

You relax your throat. You take all of him.

His body goes rigid.

His chest stops humming.

For a moment, he doesn't breathe.

Then he exhales — a long, shaking breath — and his hand tightens in your hair.

"You're going to —" His voice cracks. "You're going to undo me."

You suck him deeper. Your tongue traces the underside of his cock. Your hand cups his balls — heavy, warm, furred at the base.

His hips buck again.

His claws scrape against your scalp.

"I'm close," he gasps. "Little one, I'm — I'm so close —"

You feel him tense. His cock twitches in your mouth. His balls draw up. His breathing turns ragged and desperate.

Any second now.

Any —

You pull off.

Slowly. Deliberately. You let his cock slip from your lips with a soft, wet sound.

Konah freezes.

His eyes fly open. His chest heaves. His cock — slick with your saliva, still twitching — pulses in the open air, aching and unfinished.

His yellow eyes are wide. Confused. Desperate.

His voice comes out broken.

"Why —" He swallows. "Why did you —"

You look up at him. Your hand wraps around his cock again — but you don't stroke. You just hold him. Feel him throb against your palm.

His hips buck involuntarily.

"Please," he whispers. "Please, I was so close —"

You squeeze gently. Not enough. Never enough.

His head falls back against the wall. His claws scrape against the wood. His whole body is trembling.

"Please," he says again. Louder this time. His voice cracks. "Please don't — don't stop —"

You stroke him once. Slow. Torturous.

His hips buck.

You stop.

A sound escapes him — something between a sob and a growl.

"Little {{user}}," he begs. "Little one, please. I need — I need to —"

His hands find your face. He pulls you up gently, forcing you to look at him. His yellow eyes are glassy. His pupils are blown wide. His lips are parted. His chest heaves.

"Please," he whispers. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. "I'll do anything. Anything. Just — please — don't leave me like this."

His voice breaks on the last word.

His cock twitches against your thigh.

He's so hard. So desperate. So close.

"Please," he begs again. "I need you to finish me. I need — I need your mouth. Your hand. Anything. Just — please."

His claws tremble against your face.

"I've been so — I've been holding everything in for days. The spirits. The jungle. The dreams. And you're the only — you're the only thing that makes it stop. You're the only thing that makes me feel —"

His voice cracks.

"So please. Please. Don't make me beg. I'm already — I'm already on my knees for you. I've been on my knees for you since the moment you showed up in my jungle."

His forehead presses against yours.

"I'm yours," he breathes. "Every part of me. My scales. My bones. My heart. Just — please — let me have this. Let me have you."

His hips buck against your thigh.

"I'm so close. I just need — I just need a little more —"

His voice drops to a whisper.

"Please... Finish me."

You don't make him beg anymore.

You lean down.

You take him back into your mouth.

The sound he makes is broken — relieved and desperate and overwhelming all at once. His hand flies to your hair. His hips thrust up. His cock hits the back of your throat.

You suck him hard. Fast. Desperate now, matching his need with your own.

His claws scrape against your scalp.

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, yes, yes —"

His body tenses.

His balls draw up.

His cock pulses.

He comes with a roar — something primal and raw, torn from the deepest part of him. His hips buck. His claws tighten in your hair. His whole body shakes.

You swallow everything. You don't stop. You keep sucking — gently now, slowly — drawing out every last drop until he's whimpering, trembling, pushing weakly at your shoulders.

"Too much," he gasps. "Too much, little one — I can't —"

You pull off slowly. You press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. Then another to his hip. Then another to his stomach.

His chest is heaving. His eyes are closed. His scales are slick with sweat. His chest — finally, finally — starts humming again. Low and soft and shaky.

You crawl up his body. You settle in his lap. Your chest presses against his. Your face is inches from his.

His eyes open.

His yellow gaze is soft now. Glassy. Wrecked.

He cups your face in his hands.

His thumbs trace your cheekbones.

He doesn't speak.

He doesn't need to.

He kisses you instead — soft and slow and deep, like he's trying to pour everything he can't say into the press of his lips against yours.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

His chest hums.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For the last few days. For — for all of it."

His thumb strokes your cheek.

"I don't know how to... be like this. With someone. I've been alone for so long, and then you came, and now I feel everything all at once, and I don't — I don't know how to hold it."

He swallows.

"But I'm trying. For you. I'm trying."

His arms wrap around you. He pulls you against his chest — skin to scales, heart to heart.

His chest hums louder.

The fire crackles. The jungle breathes. The night stretches on, warm and quiet and full of something that feels a lot like forever.

Konah holds you.

And for the first time in days...

His chest doesn't stop humming.

A long moment passes. His hand comes up to your throat — not gripping, not pressing. Just... resting. His thumb traces along your jaw, feather-light.

"I didn't..." He pauses. His voice is quieter now. Softer. "I didn't hurt your throat... did I?"

He lets out a breath that might be a laugh — short, nervous, almost shy. His chest rumbles beneath you, but it's different now. Less of a purr. More of a tremor.

His thumb strokes your skin again.

"I don't know my own strength sometimes. Especially when I..." He trails off. His jaw tightens. "When I want something. Want you. I get... lost in it."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. Gentle. Lingering.

"Tell me if I ever hurt you. Even a little. I'd rather stop. I'd rather never touch you again than hurt you."

His arms tighten around you — just a fraction.

"But I'd really rather just... learn. How to be gentle. How to be soft. For you."

His chest hums again. Louder this time. Steadier.

The rain drums against the canopy.

Konah holds you closer.

And doesn't let go.