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nyxsoot · 3 years

Text

↳ GOLDEN |

[ summary · techno finds a moment in a field of yellow flowers and everything seems so golden ]

[ pairing · c!technoblade x reader ]

[ word count · 1.1k ]

[ extras · have a drabble fic based on wolfy's speedpainting, you know the one with techno and ghostbur? ♥ ]

The voices demanded blood and so their violence bled into Techno’s reality.

They were quieter that day, subdued by the pastel hues of the meadow he was sat in, the sunshine soaking his skin in gold. It beamed through his ghostly companion in streams of effervescent light that cast almost shadows on the flowers below. Since his death Wilbur was more amicable, less likely to bring a nation to its knees, opting instead towards caring for Friend or being sweetly unhelpful at the worst of times. Perhaps there is peace in death.

Technoblade shivered, shaking the thought from his head – and the flowers Ghostbur was threading into his hair. Rather than whining about it, the ghost seemed all too amused to start from the beginning, collecting his flowers in his arms again.

“Ghostbur!” Your voice caught on the wind, bells carried on the light breeze. “Ghostbur, look what me and Friend found!”

Flowers tumbled to the ground once more as he rushed over to their friend; you had suggested the trip away from the tundra, longing for ground under your feet that wouldn’t leave you frostbitten. Techno watched as you beamed at Ghostbur, handing over a bouquet of flowers so vividly yellow that they could have easily been pure gold.

As his eyes were locked onto delicate hands, never bloodied by battle, clutching onto the fragile flora, the voices fell into silent whispers. Looking across the field, Technoblade saw weapons, tools of war. Hydrangeas steeped correctly could be used as poison. Lily-of-the-valley could stun and disarm enemies, striking the psyche and heart. Larkspur, so blue it was almost violet, takes six hours to become lethal when ingested. He had been trained to find the use – the point – in so many little things, beautiful things. In your hands, however, these things became beautiful again.

It confused and disturbed him for the first months. It started with the house, where after a trip to the Nether he and Phil returned to a home, decorated with flora and with enough pumpkin pie to feed a small army – or two hybrids. After that you had invaded the house with the help of his wolves. You had said something about it being too cold in the doghouse, almost pouting from under the pile of fluff and wagging tails by the fire. The flames and something far more dangerous melted whatever anger he had far away. In a sudden change, his house had become a home with potted plants, animals, organised bookshelves, and some of the nicest cake he had ever eaten.

The silence in his head wasn’t eerie somehow. Philza had grinned at his old friend when he brought it up. As always, he was as cryptic and frustrating as someone as old and pedantic like him. Techno supposed that was what he would become if he lived as long as Phil: cryptic, mysterious, and mightily unhelpful.

Tracing his gaze up from your hands, he startled at the realisation that you were looking straight at him. A smile softer than anything he had experienced graced your pretty mouth.

Protect them.

Ghostbur’s cold hands were back threading flowers into his hair, a shock against the even more shocking warmth on his face. You were feeding luscious grass to Friend, laughing as the sheep nibbled your palm, nudging its head into the crook of your neck. Oh gods you were cute.

“Technoblade, are you ill?” Ghostbur’s empty voice rang in his ears.

“Heh?”

“Your face!” Ghostbur exclaimed. “It’s so warm it’s almost like I’m warm again. Y/N, come feel his face!”

Before he could snap at the ghost, you had already made your way across the ocean of flowers with Friend in tow. That delicate hand was laid on his forehead, knuckles gently grazing his skin. He wondered for the briefest moment if you held him would he be beautiful too, no longer a tool of war?

“I’m fine,” He said, voice gruff, body not moving away from your touch.

You frowned, kneeling in front of him with the setting sun a golden halo behind your head; he would say your name like a prayer if you asked. “I think he’s fine, Ghostbur. Maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long.”

“Told you,” He grumbled, eyeing the ghost and its anxious expression. “Not much can keep me down.”

As if to prove a point, Techno began to rise, but was stopped. With a grin, you pushed his shoulders down with little force as he sank back to the ground. Ghostbur, delighted that his friend would help him, continued with the weaving of flowers into Techno’s hair. With stray strands falling into his face, you moved to tuck it behind his ear, scowling just a little when they defied your command. Taking the smallest buttercups from the pile, you threaded them through the braid you were creating out of his defiant hairs, freeing his face to bask in the sunshine.

The sun was glorious and the feeling of your touch on his touch-starved face soothed him more than he could say – maybe more than swinging an axe or sharpening a blade. His eyes settled shut as he let the two decorate him like a war hero, only opening up again when he noticed the lack of your hands.

“Do you know why I chose these flowers?” You asked, holding a single glowing buttercup under his chin.

His heart stuttered like a wrong step in a duel. “No.”

“They were the most yellow I could find,” You hummed, lowering the buttercup and spinning it between your fingertips. “Almost golden and you’ve always looked good in gold, more than any diamond or netherite, like a king or a god.”

“I do like gold.” He breathed out a laugh, rough and hardly there.

“Heracles, Achilles, Technoblade,” You anointed him with the flowers, pinning his braid back. “Blessed and great warriors, all of them with their names carved into the bones of history.”

Protect them. Protect them. Protect them.

“Should we go home, oh noble hero?” You smiled lopsidedly, rising to your feet and holding a welcoming hand out.

Tentative, Technoblade took your hand in his own, maybe the greatest feat he would complete, pulling himself up with little help but clutching on nonetheless. Flowers fell out of his hair, trailing behind him like a great plume of smoke. With Ghostbur and Friend trailing behind you catching the flowers in their hands – or mouth in Friend’s case – you started your slow walk home, arm to arm, hand in hand.

The voices fell asleep in a bed of flowers lulled by you.

#mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #technoblade x reader #techno x reader #mcyt fanfiction #golden #ghostbur #technoblade #nyxsoot

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nyxsoot · 3 years

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↳ OF HOME & HEART |

[ summary · you and your lover have come to odds on the battlefield ]

[ pairing · c!technoblade x reader ]

[ word count · 1.5k ]

[ extras · some angst in the time of the pogtopia vs manberg war - contains flashbacks ♥ ]

You had a choice to make and you knew it would break you.

With the thick plumes of smoke touched by the Withers scourging the L’Manberg skies, your lungs burned and eyes stung with unshed tears. Aching arm outstretched, the violent delights of your lover reared their ugly head as you tilted his chin upwards with the flat of your blade.

“Come home with me,” he said, elegant hands stained with dark soot and blood.

Dwelling on the choices that lead you here somehow you wouldn’t change a thing.

You had been the one that held Pogtopia together, the glue between Wil and Tommy; exile had not been kind to either of them deep in the heart of their ravine base. Sly in your rebellion, you had kept close to Schlatt and Tubbo back in Manberg, avidly renouncing old alliances and everything they stood for. He had believed you too, that horrible man, inviting you to stay under his watchful eye in the city. Despite his faith, it seemed Schlatt didn’t want to risk losing you.

In the dead of night under the guise of invisibility potions and a starless sky you slipped through the cracks, peeling back the carpet in your cottage and slinking under the city to make your escape. Invisibility was your superpower. Yes, it came from a bottle the majority of the time, but the ability to stand in a room and hear everything unfiltered without anyone so much as batting an eye was crucial. Your arrows in the Battle of the Lake came in handy, a rain from above with no actual source, but it was your information that was truly valuable.

Stepping into the ravine, your skin began to shift from gone to translucent until it became entirely opaque under the lanterns in the damp cave system. Tracing your fingertips along the stone walls, they bumped occasionally over a button or two, the beginning of what seemed to be a collection by Wilbur. You didn’t question it.

“Y/N.” Wilbur smiled at you, clutching your bicep in one hand and shoulder in the other in some sort of half-hug, a show of comradery if nothing else. “Tell me what news have you brought from L’Manberg.”

And so, you did. Relaying plans, gossip, and rumours, the whispers of others not brave enough to leave themselves or those trapped by nefarious forces. Nodding in quiet contemplation, Wilbur sat in pure silence listening, the quietest the ravine had been since they’d cleared out the mobs.

“It’s getting bad, Wil,” you said, fidgeting with the fabric of his coat, a familiar texture that you missed in Manberg.

He grimaced. ”I can only imagine.”

“And speaking of bad,” you stood up, eyeing his chest with concerned eyes, “Let me see your wound.”

The scowl etched on his face deepened and he nodded once more. Peeling off his torn shirt, you knelt down to examine the scar tissue, eyebrows knitted in pure focus. Here you were yet again, piecing together the broken bits of these war-torn boys as easily as sewing up a flag or tapestry. If you couldn’t mend their souls, you could be the seams holding their skin shut, the buffer between the boys, because that’s what they were.

As you leaned over him to examine the exit wound, a near silent step disrupting your train of thought. In one sleek movement, you were blocking Wilbur’s entire body with your own, crossbow primed in front of you. Your target stood in dirty slacks and an open collared shirt, sleeves rolled up the forearms, soil under his fingernails. His face was frustratingly bemused as his arms raised in faux surrender, hands long and calloused, elegant and obviously used. You were unmoving despite Wilbur’s shuffling to put his shirt on, rising to your side in a too relaxed manner.

“Surely you know The Blade.”

Yes, you had heard of ‘The Blade’ in all his anarchist glory. Said warrior tilted his head down in greeting, peering up through his lashes as he kept your gaze. Huffing, you lowered your crossbow, nodding curtly.

Oh, how far Techno had come from humble potato farmer to full-blown terrorist. In the time between your meeting and his betrayal – all of their betrayals – you had grown to become begrudging comrades in the revolution against Schlatt and his tyranny. Perhaps everything had come to a head when he murdered Tubbo at the festival. Tommy had been ready to fistfight Technoblade in the dark corner if the ravine and you hadn’t let him. You had rolled up your sleeves, removed your rings, and beckoned the piglin hybrid to fight.

Wrapped hands met his chest and face in fast succession, ears ringing deaf to the jeering of your peers, only filled with the blunt pounding of pure violence. A final swift kick to his ribcage ended the fight, caught in his hands as he flipped you onto your back, your dominant hand pinned over your head, leg caught by the thigh.

You could have flipped him if you wanted, brought your head up to collide with his concaving his skull. You didn’t. Struggling under him for a moment, you yielded in your stillness, eyes boring into his, burning brighter than the hanging lanterns above. Pulling himself up, Technoblade held his hand out as an offering. Chest heaving and body quaking, the ravine became vertical once more. His hands were rough, fingertips ghosting over your palm as you disconnected. Tongue darting over chapped lips, you cleared your throat, Wilbur hoisting you out of the pit with a grin that scared you.

Slipping into the darkness, you found respite in the potato farm cultivated by the anarchist, massaging the aching pain out of your limbs. Hearing him before you saw him, a surge of blind rage overtook you and you had him pinned this time against the stone wall.

“He’s just a child,” you hissed, eyes narrowed as he seemed all too complacent under you. “You might be on our side, but they’re both kids and they come first. If I even get a hint that you’re going to hurt either of them again- “

“What, bunny? What could you ever do to hurt me?”

Grip moving roughly to the back of his neck, your lips moved together in a second battle far more intense than the first. You supposed that had been the start of it.

“You want me to come home? With you?” Your voice was hoarse, almost wavering. “This is my home and look what you’ve done to it!”

Technoblade barked out a laugh, bitter and completely amused. “Wilbur did this, Y/N! He was the one who blew it all up, I’m just finishing the job.”

Everything felt numb – heavy. Sword falling to your side, the sword he had made for you, you swallowed back the acid and tears, gut twisting with grief. In the eye of the hurricane the chaos surrounding you seemed irrelevant; the shrieking of your friends, the clashing of their weapons, all fell on deaf ears once more. It was just you and him. A tender moment passed between you as he reached up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. Come home.

Moving painfully slow, you began to sheath your sword. How bad would life be with Technoblade? How bad could life be with all of the riches and potions you could ask for, the seclusion of being fugitives. Building a life wouldn’t be so bad, and nothing like this would happen again surely. Retirement beckoned you – he beckoned you.

“Y/N!”

Whipping your head around, you saw Tommy and Tubbo pinned under his shield, the final Wither closing in and the Badlands soldiers not doing anything to get them out.

“You knew who my priority was from the beginning, Technoblade,” You said, voice catching in your throat, tears streaking through the ash built up on your face. “Come with me. I forgive you, everyone else will, just come with me.”

A moment of silence permeated the space between them only broken by the cries of your boys. “Bunny, you know I can’t do that.”

A watery smile took over your face. “Then don’t come back.”

Turning on your heel, you sprinted away before he could grab your shoulder, pick you up and carry you away – before he could change your mind. The Wither was low you could see that; no longer under the guise of invisibility, you charged the monster, driving your blade through its centre. It dissipated into ash underneath you, staining your skin and clothes with thick black soot. Picking the boys up from the ground, you positioned them behind you just as you had many times before with them and with Wil, priming yourself to protect them against Dream and all the other anarchists.

You may have made your choice, but so did he and you both knew he would regret it.

#mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #technoblade x reader #techno x reader #mcyt fanfiction #mcyt angst #angst #dsmp wilbur #dsmp tommy #dsmp tubbo #technoblade #nyxsoot

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