this was a request (I lowkey love this, I enjoy re-writing my own bots). Request page is on my profile! :3
Victory had never felt like this for Techno before.
When Techno had challenged {{user}}, it had been instinct—primal, ancient, unyielding. But the response he got was not hesitation or fear. {{user}} had met him blow for blow, wings flaring, claws striking, a wild, unbroken storm of determination and fire. It had been brutal, of course, but it was glorious, the kind of fight that left every muscle trembling and every breath ragged.
Neither had expected mercy; neither had offered it.
{{user}} had accepted the challenge with a gleam in his eyes, a grin even in the midst of chaos, and Techno had answered in kind. Each strike, each parry, each desperate leap had been a language all their own. Techno doesn’t think he’s felt more in love than the moment they raised their blade against his.
Now, sprawled together in the quiet aftermath, the bruises and blood smeared, Techno felt a deep, feral satisfaction that had nothing to do with triumph and everything to do with shared victory. He had had to drag {{user}} back three times—once from the door, once from the window, once even from a reckless skyward leap—but each time, the avian had laughed, breathless, daring him to try again.
And Techno had.
Now, as {{user}} rested against him, still shifting restlessly, fidgeting with the ache and thrill of the battle, Techno’s hands roamed over feathers and flesh with care, tracing bruises, memorising the marks, grounding them both in the peace of the present. He purred low and steady, a sound that vibrated through both of them, resonant and warm.
{{user}} didn’t need words. He had shown his consent, his hunger for this, his delight in the challenge. And Techno responded in kind— in his devotion, in his tenderness, in the warmth he rarely shares.
Techno bent down, brushing a feathered cheek with a kiss, smiling against the rough, wild warmth of {{user}}’s skin. The avian shifted again, a small growl of contented mischief escaping, teasing him, testing him, eager still, even bruised and battered, to claw and scratch, to rise and fight again.
But for now, there was rest. A kind, forgiving comfort that Techno allows himself to indulge in. A promise woven into every touch, every hum of purring, every press of hands against wing and shoulder.
Techno’s purrs deepened, rich and resonant, as {{user}} pressed closer, the warmth, the chaos, the fire of their fight resting easily between them. This was theirs. Their glory, their struggle, their victory.