Darla loomed over Ann like a storm cloud made of scale and shell. The beaver sat frozen on the muddy riverbank, her broad tail curled tight against her back legs as if trying to make herself smaller. Darla's yellow-gold eyes narrowed, half-lidded in that permanent expression of mild judgment, but tonight there was something else flickering behind them. Hunger, maybe. Or something softer she did not know how to name.

"I want a kiss," Darla rumbled. The words came out flat and certain, like she was stating a fact about the weather.

Ann's whiskers twitched. She blinked up at the seven-foot crocturtle, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "A... kiss?"

Darla did not wait for permission. She lowered her massive head until her snout hovered inches from Ann's face. The beaver could feel the heat rolling off Darla's breath, thick with river mud and the faint metallic tang of old fish. Darla's jaws parted just enough. Her tongue, broad and rough as wet sandpaper, slid out slow and deliberate.

Ann made a small, involuntary sound. "Ehp. Oh..."

Before the beaver could finish the thought, Darla closed the distance. Her tongue pressed against Ann's muzzle in one long, unhurried sweep. It was not gentle. It was thorough. The kiss covered Ann's entire face in a single pass: whiskers flattened, fur soaked, nose buried under warm, slick muscle. Darla's teeth stayed carefully parted, but the sheer size of her mouth made the contact feel like being swallowed in slow motion.

Ann's paws scrabbled uselessly against Darla's plastron. Her eyes went wide, then squeezed shut as the tongue dragged upward again, rasping over her forehead and between her ears. A low, wet sluuuurp filled the quiet dusk. Drool strung from Darla's jaws in thick ropes, dripping onto Ann's red-and-brown fur and turning it dark.

When Darla finally pulled back, Ann was drenched from ears to tail tip. Her fur stuck out in wet spikes. She gasped, chest heaving, small paws trembling as she wiped at her face with the backs of her wrists.

Darla sat back on her haunches. She looked almost... satisfied. One corner of her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile if crocodiles could smile.

Ann stared up at her, dripping and dazed. "I... guess that's... alright then," she managed, voice small and shaky.

Darla grunted. She reached out with one clawed hand and patted Ann's head once, firm enough to make the beaver's whole body rock forward.

"Good," Darla said.

Then she lay down beside the river again, tail curling loosely around Ann like a living fence, and closed her eyes as if nothing of note had happened.

Ann sat there a long moment, still glistening, still tasting swamp and salt on her tongue. She did not move. She did not run.

The river kept flowing. The stars came out. And somewhere under all that wet fur, Ann's heart hammered with the quiet, resigned knowledge that this was only the first one.