#c!technoblade

hell yeah.

the source image is below

Thing is, praise isn't exactly a kink Techno's aware he even has. It's more so just conditioning from his earlier years as a young solider when the world ran on a very simple system: Do your job, win the fight, protect the line.

And somewhere in that rigid structure there were moments where someone above him would nod once and say something like "good work" or "well done, soldier." That was the reward.

So when Techno catches you saying it to his horse Carl? And not him?? His heart embarrassingly stirs with jealousy.

“Aww you're such a good boy today!!” You coo, voice sweet and fond. You're outside in the snow by the cabin, both your hands are on Carls big dumb face, rubbing along his cheeks, fingers buried in his mane. "You're my best boy!! Yes you are!! Yes you are!!”

Techno does NOT call Carl a good boy, not ever. Techno gives nods, approving grunts, a 'good' at best. It's respect between warriors, no praise fluff, no baby talk and certainly no 'good boy.'

So when you say it? Carl melts.

He makes this low, pleased huff. Deep in his chest and leans into your hand hard. Like twelve hundred pounds of warhorse deciding affection is now all he'll ever need. His head presses into your shoulder, his muzzle shoves under your chin, and you stagger with a startled laugh, nearly losing your balance.

“Carl—whoa—HEY—!” You laugh, grabbing his mane to steady yourself.

Carl takes that as encouragement. He nudges you again, harder, practically trying to crawl into your arms, eyes half-lidded, tail swishing like he’s just been knighted. If horses could purr, he'd be purring.

From across the snow yard Techno stops what he’s doing. He watches Carl absolutely lose his mind over being called a good boy, watches you laughing, rubbing his forehead, repeating it without realizing the damage you're doing.

“Easy, easy—good boy, Carl! You're my sweet big boy!!"

And Techno just stands there, quiet and still.

The voices IMMEDIATLY clock it.

WHAT?!? SWEET BIG BOY??  WHY DOES HE GET CALLED THAT?!  WHY DOES HE GET THE BABY VOICE?! TECHNO HELLO??? THAT TONE IS RESERVED FOR US!! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!! WE DESERVE PRAISE TOO!! NOT THAT DUMB HORSE!!

Techno’s jaw tightens a fraction, he looks away, pretends he doesn’t care. He absolutely cares.

Carl, meanwhile, throws his entire weight into you again, nearly bowling you over as he shoves his forehead into your chest like "yes. more. say it again."

“Okay, okay—you’re gonna knock me over!!" You're wheezing with laughter now. "Such a good boy! Fast and strong!! You're my good boy and no one else!”

Techno mutters, barely audible, “…Traitor.”

And Techno, who has survived wars, exile and betrayal has to confront the devastating realization that his horse is getting praised and he is not.

And he is, unfortunately, a little jealous.

You're still laughing, one hand buried in Carl’s mane, still riding the high of victory.

“Aww and you're so handsome!! You're my handsome boy! Yes you—”

Carl makes this deep, delighted huff. A sound like a furnace lighting and lunges forward with pure, unfiltered joy. Not aggressive, just way too much horse.

You yelp as the world tilts. Your boots slide out from under you and you go straight back into the snow with an “Oof!” flat on your back, breath knocked clean out of you.

Before you can even sit up, Carl’s massive head is right there.

Nuzzling you everywhere.

Your shoulder, your chest, your cheek. His warm breath fogs your face as he presses his muzzle into you like he’s trying to crawl inside your coat. Snow scatters everywhere. You're laughing helplessly, half buried, hands up like surrender flags.

“CARL—! Carl—oh my God—okay—okay—!”

Techno rushes over, heart in his throat, boots crunching. “Carl—Carl, back—!”

He grabs Carl’s halter, pulling the horse away.

You're red-faced, wheezing, snow in your hair, one mitten lost somewhere in the chaos.

“I’m okay—!” You laugh, gasping.

Techno hauls Carl back with effort, planting himself between you. Carl protests with a disappointed snort, craning his neck like 'but she said the thing.'

Techno helps you up, brushing snow off your shoulders with quick, careful hands. His cheeks are pink. His ears are worse.

“…You good?” he asks, softer than usual.

You grin up at him, breathless. “Yeah. Think I broke your horse.”

Carl stamps once, offended, then leans over Techno’s shoulder to nuzzle you again, much gentler this time, like he learned his lesson in real time.

Techno exhales, defeated. “…He’s never acted like this.”

You, still smiling, reach up and pat Carl’s nose. “Guess he just really likes being called a good boy."

Carl preens.

The voices, immediately:

SO DO WE!! TECHNO WHEN WILL IT BE OUR TURN!! WE'VE BEEN GOOD!!

So anyways later that night when the snow's whispering against the walls, you're already in bed, laying on your back, a book open in your hands, lamp glowing warm beside you, the rooms quiet except for the occasional page turning.

You're halfway through a paragraph when the ladder creaks.

You don't look up, "You're late."

Snow still clings to the hem of his cloak. He shrugs it off first, hanging it over a chair by the wall. The heavy fabric falls with a quiet rustle. Then he kicks off his boots, they land beside the bed with a dull thud.

You don't look up yet, but the corner of your mouth twitches.

Techno sits on the edge of the mattress, shoulders heavy after the day. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, staring at the floor for a moment.

You turn a page. Then, finally, you peek up at him over the top of the book. Eyes a little mischievous.

“You seen Carl today? He was such a good boy today.”

He exhales a long, tired sigh through his nose. "Mm," he just sits there another second.

Then he turns and literally flops forward.

All six-foot-something and 250 pounds of stubborn warlord just collapses onto you like a tired mountain, burying his face against your chest. His arms hook loosely around your waist.

“……my turn.”

The book tilts dangerously.

You groan softly. “Techno—” But you're already setting the book aside and roll your eyes, though the smile pulling at your mouth ruins the effect. Your arms slide around him automatically, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Your fingers slip into his hair. Slow, gentle strokes.

His shoulders relax almost immediately.

“I knew it,” you murmur.

He grunts something muffled against your shirt, pretending to be annoyed by the attention.

You sigh dramatically.

“Don't worry, you’re a good boy too.”

His whole body stiffens for half a second. His ears go bright red.

The voices instantly detonate inside his head.

SHE SAID IT!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!! WE'RE HER GOOD BOY TECHNO!! WE'D BARK FOR HER IF SHE ASKED!!

Techno makes a low, embarrassed grunt and buries his face deeper against your chest like maybe the mattress will swallow him whole.

“Stop.”