#c:technoblade

you jerk up from the couch at the sound of a harsh and rapid banging against the front door. in a flash, you’re rushing to the hallway, axe in hand and leaning next to the doorframe. the banging continues, and just as you’re debating whether or not to open up and give the disturbance a piece of your mind, they call out.

“y/n…” the voice is hoarse and ragged. “i know you’re there. let me in…” you knew that voice. you’d recognise it anywhere. you hurriedly drop the axe and open the door, only realising he had been leaning against it for support when he damn near collapses onto you.

“techno! what the fuck happened to you?!” you gasp, scrambling to hold him up and drag him inside with the door shut behind you. he doesn’t respond, only hissing and grunting at the contact. he lets out a particularly loud groan when you briefly graze your fingers against his waist, and your heart pounds when they came back dripping in blood.

you slowly drop him onto the couch, despite his whined protests. “‘m fine… i’m fine… i just need to… sit down—”

“shut up,” you huff, pushing him to lie down by the shoulders and handing him a cloth to apply pressure to his wounds. he reluctantly does so as you stand back up, fast-walking to the bathroom to retrieve the medical kit stuffed into the upper cupboard and come back in record time, reaching out to remove his ragged cloak and pull the stained shirt off his torso. you cringe at the view of his wound, working fast to wipe at the three deep slashes at the centre of his torso with a wet towel that’s quickly turning crimson. his blood is spilling fast, and the gaping wound will definitely need stitches. “this is gonna sting. ready?” you don’t give him any time to answer before pouring a clear liquid on a large cotton pad and swiping at his ruined skin. he gives a strained yell, desperately trying to free himself from your grasp, but you’ve already straddled him so he wouldn’t have the chance. his only hope is to claw the couch cushions beside his head.

eventually, he stops writhing as the burning sensation of the alcohol fades and you begin to stitch him up. the two of you sit in a silence that hovers between comfortable and awkward as technoblade stares at the movements of the needle.

“hey,” you him pull him out of his mind. “are you still alive?” you momentarily paused in your actions to lock eyes with him.

“unfortunately,” he grins. reassured, you go back to work, finishing up the second gash and beginning to work on the last, the one furthest up his torso. you work quickly and quietly, dead focused on the thread between your fingers. techno watches how your brow creases in concentration and you puff a few strands of hair out of your face. “done?” you hold up the roll of bandages. “i’ll be fine without—” you shush him as he tries to sit up by poking his wound. he lets out an involuntary groan and falls backwards again. “fine,” he grumbled. you don’t work as gently this time, making sure to wrap tightly. he grunts a few times, but never complains.

it’s only once you’re halfway done with the wrappings that he takes notice of how bare your legs are. all that covers your body is a large undershirt that barely covers your waist. his fingers begin to wander, but as soon as he makes contact with the soft fabric you pull the bandages particularly tight, causing him to yelp and flinch away in pain. he glances up in time to see you smirk.

“how’d you get yourself into this mess, anyway?” you finally ask as you finish securing the bandages.

techno shrugs nonchalantly. “the usual. people don’t agree with my methods all the time.”

“m-hmm.”

once you’re done you allow him to sit back up – back against the arm of the couch – with you still in his lap. he grunts with the strain but meets your eyes regardless.

“tech,” you breathe. “you can’t… you can’t keep getting yourself into these situations. how many stitches—”

“don’t worry about me.” he brings a large hand up to cup your cheek. “i can handle myself – you know that.” you slowly nod with a frown. “and if anything happens…” he smirks. “i know i can count on my own personal doctor to patch me up again.”

you lightly slap his shoulder in defiance moving to shuffle off his lap when his hands grip your waist.

“hey,” he holds your gaze. “thank you.”

the sincerity of his tone turns your ears hot and you bashfully nod again. he nods back, almost mocking your inability to form words, before touching his forehead against yours. you breathe against each other for a moment until he’s closing the gap and pressing his lips to yours. you move against each other in sync, his hands still at your waist while yours thread into his hair at the back of his neck.

you shift against him again, seeking a better position, but end up pressing against his wound and causing him to wince. “shit – sorry—”

“it’s fine,” he chuckles, arms enveloping you into his broad torso for a soft hug. “i forgive you,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck, eyes drifting shut in much needed sleep. as he dreams, his fingertips draw constellations on your skin.

. . .