Techno had never thought victory would taste like this—quiet, soft, feather-lined.

When he challenged {{user}}, it had been instinct. The sounder’s law, the weight of tradition, the ancient, primal right of choosing.

He had expected blood, had expected the fight to last longer. He hadn’t expected {{user}}’s eyes to flash with such startled horror, hadn’t expected his wings to flare with that desperate fear.

{{user}} had thought he meant to kill him. That much was obvious in the way he’d fought back—not to win, but to survive.

And now, with {{user}} stretched across his lap, battered and bruised, Techno couldn’t quite find it in him to feel guilty. Not really. Because the challenge had been made, accepted, won. The pact was bound in blood and instinct and culture older than memory. In Techno’s world, there was no refusal. A fight accepted was a mate claimed.

So he purred.

Low, rumbling, steady. His calloused fingers stroked carefully over feather and hair, skirting along tender bruises without pressing too hard. He had dragged {{user}} back three times already—once from the door, once from the window, once from the very sky itself when the avian had managed a broken-wing leap.

Each time, Techno hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t snapped. He’d simply gathered him back into his arms, into his nest, holding him close until the trembling eased.

{{user}} didn’t understand. But Techno did.

This was mating.

He knew {{user}} would settle eventually. Knew the fight would drain away, the wings would tuck in, the wary eyes would soften. Techno had time. He had patience. More than that, he had devotion.

As {{user}}’s head rested heavy against his thigh, Techno’s chest rumbled again, a steady vibration of contentment. He didn’t need words, didn’t need to explain. The bond was written in the marrow of his bones, in the way his hands refused to let go even when {{user}} shifted restlessly.

{{user}}’s feathers tickled against his arm, and Techno bent down, brushing a slow kiss into the messy strands of hair. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t ever angry with {{user}}. The avian could fight, flee, rail, claw—Techno would always catch him. Always keep him.

Because in his culture, the fight had already spoken.

{{user}} was his.

And Techno, with all the warmth and certainty of an ancient beast, would make sure {{user}} never forgot it.

His purrs deepened, steady and unyielding, the sound of a wolf with everything he’d ever wanted pressed safe against his lap.