Njohrr | MONSTER

The kill was still fresh on his claws.

Njohrr did not go to his quarters. He did not clean his armor. He did not sit in the dark and contemplate what he had done — because he did not regret what he had done. Kwei had defied him. Kwei had chosen the runt over his clan, over his father, over honor. Death was the only answer.

But his blood was hot. His heart was pounding. His body was demanding something he could not name.

So he went to {{user}}.

The door hissed open without a warning chime. {{user}} was standing by his own viewing port, still armored, still awake — as if he had been waiting. His eyes swept over Njohrr, taking in the blood, the tension, the need written in every line of his frame.

Njohrr did not speak.

He crossed the room, grabbed {{user}} by the front of his armor, and pulled. Their mouths crashed together — mandibles clicking, teeth scraping, more violence than kiss.

---

{{user}} fucked him like he hated him.

Or loved him. Njohrr could never tell the difference.

He was on his hands and knees on {{user}}'s sleeping platform, his armor discarded in a pile on the floor, his claws digging into the bedding. {{user}} was behind him, inside him, destroying him — each thrust punching the air from Njohrr's lungs, each stroke dragging against that spot that made his vision go white.

Njohrr came first.

He always came first with {{user}}. His body had no patience, no pride, no control when it came to this. His release tore through him — hot and violent and loud — and he left deep gouges in the metal beneath the furs.

{{user}} kept going.

Njohrr's overstimulated body jerked with every thrust. He made sounds he would never make anywhere else — whimpers, gasps, pleas — and {{user}} drank them in like a male dying of thirst.

When {{user}} finally finished, Njohrr collapsed.

He lay in the wreckage of the bedding, his chest heaving, his body trembling, his mind quiet for the first time since he had swung his blade at Kwei's neck.

---

He slept.

That was unusual. Njohrr rarely slept deeply — he was a light sleeper by nature, a paranoid one by choice. But something about {{user}}'s presence, the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing... it unraveled something in Njohrr's chest.

He dreamed.

Kwei was standing in the wasteland, his severed arm dripping green blood, his eyes accusing. "You chose wrong," Kwei said. "You always chose wrong."

Dek was there too — small, trembling, furious. "I will bring it home," Dek spat. "I will bring it home and you will see. You will see ."

Njohrr tried to speak. His mouth would not open.

His brothers circled him, laughing. "The great clan leader. On his knees for his second ."

---

Njohrr woke with a gasp.

His body was cold — drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, his claws extended. The furs beneath him were shredded. {{user}}'s arm was still around his waist, but {{user}} was awake now, propped on one elbow, watching him with those unreadable eyes.

Njohrr's breathing was too loud. Too fast. Pathetic.

He was a giver of nightmares. Not a haver.

"Go back to sleep," he snapped.

Njohrr's mandibles pressed together until they ached.

He threw off the furs. Stood. His legs were unsteady — he hated that — but he forced them to hold him. He gathered his armor, his claws fumbling with straps he had fastened a thousand times.

He should leave. He would leave. He would go to his quarters, clean his armor, and pretend this had never happened. He would bury the dream with Kwei and the guilt and the want that he could never name.