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It was commonly held among the Guard that deployment to a jungle war zone was the closest thing a Catachan understood to "shore leave".
Unfortunately, Tyco was not a Catachan.
The insouciant moisture hanging in the air had worked its way through his skin and into his bones: human sweat mingled with humidity like thin paint and seeped into every crevice of his body, and the only mercy to its constant discomfort was that the thin layer of water coating him seemed to drown the swarms of biting gnats trying to get at the skin beneath. A trickle of moisture ran down Tyco's brow and he quickly brought a hand to his face so he could test its color - red. It was a small cut and he couldn't be sure of its source: perhaps a razorfly stealing a quick meal, or a bramble which snuck its way beneath the brim of his cap without his notice.
Regardless, the stray cut's presence could not be forgiven.
Quickly, Tyco jostled his lasgun into resting position and decoupled the snipermod from its muzzle; an amplified beam would serve little use in close quarters and, even though he lacked the appropriate lenses for a proper assault configuration, the raw, rapid cycling of the weapon's universal output mode would serve him better in an ambush than a precision pulse. As he moved the weapon, he caught a glimpse of his face in the spot on its casing where Militarum green had chipped away to reveal the moisture slicked steel underneath: a thin, haggard face stared back at him from the reflection, diminished by malnutrition and the thin layer of grime which robbed his olive skin and black hair of their sheen. Green eyes had retreated into a pair of deep sockets which crowned his narrow face to rest atop dark circles, and even after a week and a half separated from his unit and his base, the only beard Tyco had managed to grow was still a thin shadow of coarse stubble.
Focus - Tyco blinked away the acknowledgement of how the jungle had changed him and dug with grubby fingers in his breast pocket until he found the small tin of medigel hidden there. As he hastily unscrewed the cap, he reminded himself that even though he hadn't seen another human - even a dead one - in days, he was not alone and that death would come as easily as distraction. His thumb dug into the greasy gel in the tin while he focused his eyes on scanning the trees around him, searching for any signs of ambush - he'd heard the thing following him through the foliage only twice, but he could feel its eyes tight on the back of his neck - but the jungle's abhorrent ambient life more than masked any hope of detecting his alien pursuer. "Fucking Tau," he mumbled irritably to himself in a vain attempt to slow his pulse while he wiped the wound-sealing gel across his forehead. "Can't bother the good sense to stick to one sort of Xenos nightmare." He could feel his heartbeat through his finger against his lasgun's triggerguard and another bead of liquid rolled down his nose: sweat this time. The weapon rose before his mind fully registered the sound: a twig snapping behind a glowing hole in the plant life which only moments before had been a cluster of ferns. Tyco hesitated only a moment past lowering his weapon to rush into the shouldering pit in the jungle floor his storm of laserfire had made, but excitement turned to disappointment and anxiety when he found no body. He spared the trees around him only two nervous glances before he scooped his snipermod from the jungle floor and ran.
She wasn't sure what emotion compelled her to watch the human - it certainly couldn't have been hunger, because if it was, she could have killed and eaten him two weeks ago.
Pakhwa was no stranger to humans - on the contrary, they made up a sizeable portion of her diet. An Imperial soldier stranded in the jungle was far from a novel experience for her, and if anything, the fact that her employers dropships would arrive in a week with all their merciful bureaucracy to spoil the fun should have stressed the importance of turning an uninteresting encounter into a quick meal (and perhaps a gift for her aunt - she loved to snack on sharpshooters' eyes) while she still had the opportunity.
Still, for some reason, she felt no particular compulsion to shift her claw onto her rifle's trigger nor to pull her blade from its sheath, so - logically - something about this specific human must be interesting to her.
Perhaps it was the way he moved - there was a… bounciness to him which was very uncharacteristic to his kind. Pakhwa had seen two sorts of human movement: the smooth, regimented, robotic movements of her Gue'vesa allies which rivaled the grace and elegance of Tau drones, and the plodding Imperial stomp which matched the robotics but left out the grace. This one, however, was more… lapiform: his motion was a series of rapid transitions between perfect stillness and quick, exaggerated, almost elastic action that, more often than not, saw both feet leave the ground at the same time like they just did when he heard a dead branch drop and fired on it like it could somehow pose a threat.
Yes, she thought, doing her utmost to stifle a laugh at this creature's utter ridiculousness, that must have been it.
She watched casually from her perch directly above the human while he scooped up his equipment and ran. She was in no hurry to chase him - he would have to rest eventually, and even if he was the first human she'd seen which moved like it would actually prefer to remain alive, he was still no stealthier than the rest.
Tyco wasn't sure which failed him first: his feet or his lungs. Either way, he only realized he'd stopped running when his knees struck mud and his hands released their grip on his weapon to stop his face from smashing into the muck alongside them. His skin was on fire - rash and fever twisted into a knot crawling up his back, and a primal, dense panic precipitated out of his blood and into his stomach until he thought it would collapse in upon itself. The fingers clapped to his mouth did little to stop the flow - thin, watery bile that dribbled past his lips to mix with the mud below.
Strangely, it made him feel better.
Tyco rolled onto his side away from the spittle and collapsed on his back, allowing his chest to heave with the exertion of pure terror as his breathing slowly returned to normal. Through the dense canopy, he could just barely catch a glimpse of the world's alien sky, it's warm purple tones shot through with the electric chartreuse which signaled this planet's sunset. Under any other circumstance, he might not have noticed it - the life of a guardsman was typically too filled with procedure and regimen to make room for beauty - but somehow, lying on his back with chapped lips and an empty stomach, it was almost… therapeutic. Tyco tucked one arm under his head, using the coarse texture of his fatigues as a pillow while the other fetched the flask from his hip and brought it to his lips. He opened it to take a sip, but the rim was as dry as his tongue - empty. A curious smile tugged at his lips and, despite himself, Tyco found himself laughing.
"Oh," he rasped to himself, "this is what it's like to go mad."
Tyco coughed and spat into the mud, then struggled onto his elbows and pushed himself back to rest against a tree. The snipermod for his lasgun lay discarded where he fell - its not as though anything were going to steal it, and it wouldn't be useful until he'd had some rest and collected fresh water, something which would hopefully be easy given the permanent dampness of his environment. With an odd feeling of calm, Tyco set his lasgun across his lap and elected to sing until he was too tired not to.
"I vow to thee o Terra, all starlit realms above. Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love; the love that asks no question - the love that stands the test. The love that never falters, the love that pays the price…"
"The love that makes undaunted, the final sacrifice…"
Pakhwa watched intently while the human sang. She knew most of the words - or, at least, enough to catch the meaning - and could not help to be moved by it, even if she thought it was a bit foolish. Devotion to a homeworld she had never known was something Pakhwa innately understood: the longing for soil her kin had not walked since the time of her distant ancestors, for a familiar sky she had never seen. Even if this new human desire to die for such things struck her as insane, it was a part of the human mindset which surprised her in how much she understood it. Noting the man's clear state of delirium, she decided to hazard a careful few steps forward through the branches - scaled feet dedicated to the task of arboreal movement and produced through millennia of organic craftsmanship in the age before her people's genes could sing gripped root and branch as silently as if she were a tree herself until only a scarce layer of leaves separated her from the human. Pakhwa lowered her head at a slight angle to prevent the sunset rays from catching her eyes and giving away her position and dedicated herself to the task of observation. She watched how the enemy sat: how he lay his back comfortably against the tree trunk, how one leg bent while the other lay straight at rest, how his grip on his weapon had subtly shifted to one better suited to cradling a string instrument the moment he had started singing. In that instant, he ceased to resemble what she knew humans to be; the rigid order and uncomfortable stiffness characteristic of his kind was gone, and in its place was a languid fluidity which was almost kroot-like. She found herself surveying his frame - narrow and long, though smaller than a proper male should be (but in perhaps an oddly adorable way), but wrapped in layers of tight muscle that showed clearly through his baggy clothes. She listened to him sing, and the alien words were almost soothing.
Pakhwa stopped herself - her mother had warned her about this, about a hunter's curiosity getting the better of her in the field. It was regretful - they hadn't spoken yet, but from her observations alone she got the sense that had he been Kroot, they could have been friends.
Then, another thought occurred to her - she was kill-broker now, not her mother. Who was anyone else to say what curiosities she could or could not pursue?
He wasn't sure how long he'd dozed for - Tyco was dully conscious of the fact that he'd still been singing, but the song was old enough in his bones that it required little thought to produce. It took him a moment to figure out what had pulled him from his reverie - the sound of a heavy crunch as a boot through foliage only registered in his brain after his finger had already found the trigger on his lasgun.
His Commissar would have commended him - there was a savage beauty in the single fluid motion which carried his grip from the safety to the trigger and into firing position. Hundreds of hours of drilling swept through his muscles on a wave of adrenaline whose speed Tyco's groggy brain couldn't match; the lasgun rose and a circle of foliage in the direction of the sound disappeared under a hail of glowing red bolts. Another sound pricked his ears and the weapon swung around, slicing a path of destruction through the foliage until the dull hum of its generator informed him that his fuel cell had run empty. Slowly, his senses returned to him: the ache of his fingers crushed against the grip and the trigger, the tree bark digging into his back, and the cool sweat clinging to his scalp.
"Fucking jumpy, Locke," he mumbled to himself, fumbling for the spare battery he knew he wouldn't find on his bandolier. "Fucking-"
Another sound froze him: a faint rustle of foliage which accompanied the sudden appearance of a pair of golden, almond shaped eyes. Tyco's stomach dropped out of his body and his heart seemed to stop for a moment - he swiveled his gun on the alien hiding among the trees, but it did nothing to dissuade the creature; it knew as well as he did that there was no charge left. For a long while it only sat and watched him, blinking scarcely and keeping him trapped under its amber gaze. Finally, it moved - yellow eyes drew closer through the leaves and dappled sunset fell across lithe, scaly limbs and vibrant red cloth. The alien was fluid and graceful - clearly humanoid, but moving on all fours towards him, gripping each branch with practiced deliberation to render its advance completely silent. It was big - easily a head taller than the biggest man in Tyco's regiment - but it was also slender, and it carried itself with a perverse elegance only amplified by its flowing red cloak, tasseled mask, and the deadly rifle and blade hanging off its hip. At first, he could only truly focus on its beak - a sharp, vicious organ whose lower jaw extended farther than its upper and whose sharpened edges looked perfect for scything flesh from bone - but then he caught its golden eyes again, and to his surprise, found not malice but curiosity in them.
"Y-you're Kroot," he stammered, and the creature nodded.
"You are human," it answered with a not and in an oddly smooth, soft voice.
"Are - are you going to eat me?" A strange trilling sound escaped the Kroot's throat, something he supposed must have passed for a laugh among its abominable race, and it shrugged, continuing to slowly paw its way towards him through the clearing.
"That remains to be seen, but I follow you for weeks." The alien jostled the rifle at its hip as though for emphasis. "If I wanted eat you, you would be eaten." A chill spread through Tyco's breast - the knowledge that he'd been stalked longer than he'd known made him uneasy. Subconsciously, he pushed himself back against the tree - the Kroot was close enough to smell now: earthy and floral, with a metallic tang radiating from the iridescent quills atop its head. From this angle, he had a clear view of the creature: vibrant green skin held smoothly over top of lithe muscle, split by soft looking belly plates the color of Terran sky. It wore a simple linen blouse over its chest, a set of belts about its hips and thighs, and a pair of brightly colored leg guards which extended from its ankles to its lower thighs and which almost resembled stockings. For a brief moment, the creature's slender frame - hips almost as broad as its shoulders - made him wonder how a human might look in similar clothes, but Tyco banished the thought immediately and blamed the fractional heresy on starvation, dehydration, and lack of sleep. "Name?"
"What?"
"Name," the kroot repeated, now crouched at his feet. "I am Pakhwa, broker for Kinband Prokk." It settled on its haunches then touched its chest, extending the other two-thumbed hand towards him. "You have name?" He nodded awkwardly and swallowed.
"Tyco," he managed after a moment's hesitation. "Tyco Locke, Sarkosan 641st regiment."
"Sarkosan is part of your name?" The Kroot asked, it's head tilting sideways in confusion. "Humans have two names, I thought. Like Kroot." Tyco shook his head and made the sign of the Aquila on his chest.
"'S my homeworld," he explained. "You mentioned your unit - I mention mine." Pakhwa's eyes narrowed; Tyco wasn't sure what he'd said wrong, but he knew he had to figure it out and fast. If he could keep the Kroot occupied, there was a chance he'd have the time to work his combat knife out of its sheath while it was distracted.
"Kinband is not a unit - not like you understand. It is…" the Kroot paused, then snapped its fingers several times as though searching for a word. A few words in languages he didn't understand spilled from its beak, until it finally settled on a Gothic one: "family. When you sang, you sang of Terra. Terra is not your home?" Tyco could only shrug.
"Terra's home to all humans," he explained, using the motion to disguise his hand creeping slowly towards his belt. "Sarkosa's where I was born."
"Then Sarkosa is home," Pakhwa asserted with a nod of the head which set its quills shaking. "You are not like other humans."
"How so?" He asked, inching his fingers closer to his blade. He just needed a little more time.
"You want to live," Pakhwa said flatly, and pounced on him.
He didn't have time to scream - his hand flung to the handle of his blade but found its wrist caught firmly between scaly alien fingers. Pakhwa grabbed his wrist and pinned his hand back against the tree, trapping him underneath its body with one knee planted firmly between his legs with the other resting against his side. He instinctively brought his free hand up to pound against the alien's chest, but it was hopeless: as soft as the Kroot's blue underbelly was in texture, it was also tough and firm - like punching body armor. The alien's beak plunged towards his face and he squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for the killing bite he knew was coming, but he stopped when he heard… sniffing?
Pakhwa's beak was buried in his hair, the alien intensively smelling his scalp and combing the lice from his head with their claws.
"You are filthy," Pakhwa muttered contemptuously, diligently peeling the layers of filth away and turning his hair from brown back to black. "Most humans are not so filthy. Are you so different that no one wishes to groom you?"
"What?" Tyco stammered, heart hammering its way up his throat. "Are - are you smelling me?" He could feel the Kroot's body heat against his chest - as reptilian as Pakhwa looked, he could tell hot blood flowed through its veins, and the sensation of its breath on his neck in the sunset gloom was doing curious things to his forebrain.
"How else am I supposed to know you?" Pakhwa snorted. "You smell only of fear and dirt, though. Not very sensible."
"Fear and dirt," Tyco grunted, doing his best to relax given the situation. "I'm in a fucking jungle with a fucking cannibal on top of me, what would you expect?"
"Cannibal? I know this word. Why do humans call Kroot this but not themselves? I know what your rations are made of. Relax - I have decided not to eat you, and as we are talking, it is only polite that I g-" Tyco's eyes went wide and his cheeks turned hot, and Pakhwa pulled back from his ear to look down. Slowly, an amused grin tugged at the edges of the Kroot's beak. "I was correct then - you are male."
A treasonous bulge pressed against Pakhwa's knee through Tyco's fatigues - it seemed that the degree of physical intimacy the alien considered etiquette coupled with the term for which he'd been deployed alone in the thick of the jungle had eroded his body's standards. The alien glanced up at him and he looked away, flushed in shame.
"S-shut up, it's a fear response," he grumbled, shivering as he felt himself rub against Pakhwa's thigh through his clothes.
"This does not feel afraid to me," the Kroot answered in a remarkably accurate teasing tone. It seemed to sense the source of his discomfort and leaned forward, grinding its thigh torturously against him. "This feels more amusing to Pakhwa," it whispered into his ear, and the hand holding his wrist released to gently stroke his jaw. For a moment, Tyco considered going for his knife - he told himself the reason that he didn't was because the Kroot would handily dismember him long before he did any real damage, and stuffed down the reality that he was perversely excited by the unholy interest his hunter seemed to be taking in him.
"Emperor protect me," he groaned, not fighting the impulse for his recently freed hand to come to rest tentatively on Pakwha's thigh. The green skin was hot to the touch, and a new smell emanated from the alien: one which read as enticing and lurid to an ancient part of his brain that the Ecclesiarchs would rather he forget he have. Pakhwa shivered a moment when his palm touched their skin, but made no motion to remove it, so he risked a squeeze: the scales were coarse, but the muscle beneath was as supple as any military woman. Another mischievous, trilling laugh slipped into his ear, and Pakhwa's hand slid up to rest on his chest as the alien pushed itself back and shifted its weight to rest its groin fully on his thigh. He bit his lip when he felt just how hot that was too. "D-do you often molest prisoners of war, Pakhwa Prokk?" He grunted, not sure he meant the words he said.
"You are the one who pushes his penis against me, Tyco Locke," the alien retorted with a slight twist of the head. "Would you like me to stop?"
Everything in him screamed at him to say yes - a lifetime of warnings against the seductions of the Xenos, the Heretic, and the Witch, carefully drilled into him from cradle all the way through to the munitorum. By rights, he should take up his knife and die valiantly attempting to purge this Xenos filth in the Emperor's name and be welcomed into His embrace.
Unfortunately, Tyco Locke had had a very good mother, and that very good mother didn't raise no liar.
"W-why would you want to continue?" He settled on instead, thanking the Emperor for his blessing of wit sufficient to evade the issue. "We aren't even the same species. I don't even know if you're male or female." Pakhwa laughed and shook its head.
"Silly Tyco - it is simple: I am Kroot, and Kroot are curious. How many of my kind can claim to have…" it trailed off, again thinking of a word. "Fucked? Yes, fucked a human? And what use would Pakhwa Prokk's efforts to learn the Gothic language be if she could not put them to… diplomatic use?" She slid her hand up his chest to his collar as she spoke and undid one of the buckles on his body armor. "Besides, as different as our species may be, we each have two legs, two arms, one head, and the blessings of evolution have made such creatures… similar, in ways which can be useful to a male and a female." She ground her groin on his leg for emphasis as she spoke, and his face grew hotter yet when he felt the hint of moisture seeping through his clothing at the action. He bit his lip again, then buried his face in one hand and cursed his poor morals and good honesty.
"... no, I would not like you to stop," he grumbled, and Pakhwa made a delighted series of clicks as she set to work stripping him of his armor and weapons.
Oh well. If this was a xenos trick, he'd be punished for his heresy soon enough. With any luck, alien pussy was about to make three months solitary deployment without leave a whole lot more bearable.
The Kroot was shockingly adept at undoing standard Militarum kit - Tyco tried not to think about where she might have gotten the practice while his last layers of protection were peeled away and cast aside. She worked fast - what had taken him the better part of an hour to assemble took Pakhwa minutes to deconstruct, and as the layers of padding and ballistic plate fell away it was remarkable just how much better he felt with them gone. The jungle humidity - which just moments before had been almost drowning - was now almost comfortable, and he started to appreciate its effects on Pakhwa more than he resented its pressure on him.
He had a good view of her while she worked on him - droplets of moisture clung to her skin and rolled over the rounded forms of supple muscle and soft fat. She didn't have breasts, but her belly, hips, and thighs had more than enough shape to them to whet his lips. Tyco found himself transfixed by the gentle curvature of Pakhwa's belly as it sloped into her groin, and the ever more inviting gap between her muscular thighs.
Fuck it - he was already damned anyways, might as well.
It was almost cute how Pakhwa's quills bristled when something surprised her - she seemed less and less like an alien predator and more and more like a parrot from back home. Her back straightened and she made a sharp squawk, then turned her head to look behind her.
"Your hand is on my rump?" She asked curiously.
"Is that a problem?" Tyco responded, and gave the alien ass a squeeze, surprised to find it precisely as supple as he'd expected it to be.
"No," Pakhwa answered, then shifted her knee to firmly brace it against his cock and grind through his pants. He gasped in shock, and she laughed again. "I am just surprised you seem to be growing some courage."
"Seemed - seemed appropriate," he huffed and squeezed her ass again, firmer now, and this time - to his pleasure - it was her turn to gasp. He slid his hand up until he felt it bump the underside of a plump, stubby tail, then slowly began to knead the alien flesh, tugging it aside to roll in small circles as he did and noting how the motion made his unlikely bedfellow shiver. "You seem to like it."
"Pakhwa likes a male with a spine, y-yes," she joked and flashed him a wink, but she looked to be on slightly less steady ground than before.
"One who likes to grab her rump?" Tyco asked with a slight grin - one that lasted precisely long enough for Pakhwa to plant her hand on his chest and shove him into the tree.
"O-one who would be wise not to attempt to strike it," she warned him, then undid the final buckle at his waist and undid his belt. The shove set his nerves on fire; he was beginning to realize an unhealthy connection his brain had towards the idea of feeling like prey. Nimble Kroot fingers undid the button on his pants, and finally the pressure in his pant leg was relieved as his now almost painful election sprang out to form a prominent tent in his undergarments. Pakhwa stared at it, and for a moment, Tyco was embarrassed: after all, Kroot were much larger than - "is it supposed to be that large?"
"U-uh, what?" Pakhwa scooted back, her hand slowly sliding down his chest until a sharp claw trailed down his belly, making him shiver and flinch away until it finally came to hook under the hem of his underwear and pull it aside. Tyco gasped as he felt hot jungle air hit his stiffened cock, and a thin moan escaped him when Pakhwa saw a bead of moisture roll down its tip and licked her beak.
"Your penis - is it supposed to be so large?" She reiterated. The compliment alone was enough to make him twitch, but he couldn't help but find it funny too - sure he wasn't particularly small, but he'd also never considered himself particularly endowed either, so to have an alien whose stature almost made him look like an adolescent by comparison marvel at his apparently enormous size was almost as ridiculous as the fact that an alien was looking at his penis at all.
"Don't- don't call it that," he chided sharply. "It's weird."
"Your penis is weird?" She asked, head tilting to the side again as her claws settled to grip around his base.
"No, no - o-only doctors call it a penis." A shiver of fear flickered through him, but it was more exciting than off putting now. He could unpack that later. "And it's supposed to be the size it is, why?" Pakhwa seemed to think for a moment, and the deep red line of her tongue flickered out of her mouth again to lick the edges of her beak.
"Kroot males are smaller," she finally explained. "Unless they have been eating of particular flesh. Such a savage organ…" Tyco suppressed a snort and pretended that the comment hadn't almost made him moan.
"Think you've got something backwards, xenos," he mumbled. "Pretty sure you're the savage one." Her grip tightened around his cock and his whole body went tense - Tyco was suddenly very keenly aware of how little effort it would take for her to rip it off of him, and for some reason that thought wasn't the mood killer he thought it would be.
"If Pakhwa remembers correctly," she whispered, delicately tapping his shaft with one claw at the time, her hand climbing its length until she traced circles around its tip and made him melt under her grasp, "it is not Kroot who burn away entire species, nor Kroot who leave their own stranded in the jungle with not enough food or water to sustain them." She moved back further - to Tyco's disappointment, too far for him to keep his grip on her rump - and drew low, her face slowly sliding down until he could see that his cock was longer than her beak was tall. "I think it is you humans who are the savage ones," she whispered, the flexible corners of her mouth curling up into a grin. "I am a sophisticated beast."
Before Tyco could ask what she was doing - that beak didn't look particularly soft or inviting, after all - the full length of Pakhwa's tongue slithered out of her mouth and wrapped around his cock. The thin, triangular tip quickly swelled to an enormously wide and plush organ; he had been wondering in the back of his mind how a creature without anything resembling human lips could produce the sounds required to speak fluent Low Gothic, but the complicated series of frills protruding from the sides of Pakhwa's tongue currently busy stroking him better than any human could possibly hope to had more than handily answered that question. His back arched off the tree and he felt a convulsion rock a deep, primal place in his guts - Tyco Locke had never been a particularly promiscuous man, but he hadn't realized how sensitive three months of isolation had made him. Pakhwa's tongue was an ocean of exotic textures and hot, slimy tightness which slowly coiled until it had swallowed him whole. When he gathered his senses enough to look, his heart caught in his chest - a pair of golden eyes watched him curiously from between his legs, Pakhwa's hands braced against his hips, and her brightly colored tongue had wrapped around his cock until it was completely enveloped.
"E-emperor guard me," he murmured. Pakhwa's tongue rippled in steady, even pulses, each wave shooting lines of fire down his skin and into his flesh. He lifted a hand - cautiously at first, but then with confidence - and slowly brought it towards the Kroot's face. A clicking growl from deep in her throat warned him and he almost stopped, but something unfamiliar took hold of his mind and he pressed on despite the warning until his hand cupped the predator's jaw and his fingers could gently stroke her neck - it was long and muscular, and he could feel strange fibers twitching under the skin as she worked him up and down with that amazing tongue. Tyco couldn't help but admire the creature; everything about her was perfectly designed for the purpose of the hunt, and the knowledge that he was one of exceptionally few humans to ever experience this side of that beautiful savagery was perversely titillating. A golden eye followed his hand until it came to rest on her cheek and jaw until it touched home - he watched Pakwha's eyes widen slightly, pupils growing small as hot blood visibly rushes to the skin below his palm. She seemed to approve - the warning growl transformed into a purr and the golden eyes closed in time with her tongue squeezing in an increasing, consistent rhythm. Tyco's grip tightened and he let his head fall back, losing himself to the sensations of her milking grasp. His jaw fell slack, and his breath stung sweetly against his dry, chapped lips. He could feel the muscles in his thighs quivering and his toes curling in his boots. "N-not sure how much longer I-Im gonna-" something hard couched in his groin, and he opened his eyes to look down.
Pakhwa looked up at him, her beak and nostrils obscured by the black scrub nestled between his legs, and he came.
It was as though months of tension were finally coming unraveled and seeping out of his body through his cock; Tyco twisted and cried out, shuddering with the force of his orgasm, but Pakhwa's hands kept him firmly pinned under her grasp, holding him in place like a rabbit caught in a trap as her tongue guided his tip into the soft corner of her mouth.
"F-fuck," he gasped, and watched as the Kroot between his legs greedily drank his every last drop before she released him, pulled away, and licked her beak clean.
"Salty," Pakhwa commented casually. "I had expected sweet."
Tyco collapsed against the tree, panting heavily and vaguely aware of his cock still twitching in the sudden chill of the jungle air as the last rays of day gave way to night. Powerful emotions mingled in his gut - relief, anger, and a deep and pervading sense of shame. Pakhwa laughed, and he shivered as he felt her claw flick his tip.
"You are still leaking," she giggled. "When was the last time you found relief?" He looked at her a moment, thinking to himself; she was xenos: alien, and that meant she was evil. And yet she was also here, sitting between his legs and asking about his sex life. She seemed almost… relatable.
"Before I started running from you," he grunted, hissing through his teeth at the overstimulation aching in his cock. "So… more than a week, at least." Pakhwa snorted and shook her head, pulling her beak away so she didn't batter his dick in the process.
"Kah. Far too long. No wonder you accepted my offer so quickly." He groaned at the accusation and found a clawed finger flicking his nose in response. "Don't feel bad - humans are animals, like any other. Have needs like any other. No amount of pretending makes it untrue."
"Still not something I'm - hff - used to being reminded of," Tyco grumbled, slumping down the tree and coughing slightly, the exertion of climax having drained what little energy he had left. "My Commissar is going to shoot me for this."
"Your Commissar has no reason to know," Pakhwa corrected him, then unfastened a globe from under her cloak and passed it to him. It was made of a woody material wrapped in fine netting, and had a black plastic screwcap at its top. "Drink - you need hydration. We not done yet."
"W-we're not?" Tyco stammered, an odd mix of excited and afraid.
"No," Pakhwa chirped as she got to her feet, unbecoming her belt to cast it and the attached ammunition to the jungle floor. From this angle, Tyco had an excellent view of her groin - the sky blue plates had split; between them was nestled a fleshy slit: pink, soft, and wet. He swallowed. "I have only tasted you, Tyco Locke. I have not had my fill."
Tyco nodded, unscrewed the alien canteen, and drained it dry.