#looooooooooooooooooooong fic

It was just meant to be a training session. Combat training. Sparring session. Sword fighting. Call it whatever, but it wasn't meant to be serious. 

But it was.

Because if Tommy and Philza were watching, it was one thousand percent serious.

It was also one thousand percent not in his favor. 

Because he was fighting Technoblade of all people.  

When Phil had asked him and Tommy if they wanted to accompany him and Techno to go sparring, Wilbur had thought he would get a nice, premium seat to a fight between the Angel of Death and the Walker of Whispers. 

And for the most part, he did. But, he did not think Phil was also going to randomly pat his back and say, "You could try fighting Wilbur. He's good with a sword.", and send him off to fight Technoblade. 

He was going to die. 

Wilbur did his best to hide his nervousness and readjusted his grip on his wooden sword. He convinced himself he was at least going to die by the hands of Technoblade which carried no shame, and then began circling the piglin. The two walked in circles for an agonizingly long time before Wil realized Techno was waiting for him to start. He hesitated, unsure if he should draw out his last living moments or just charge and hope to take the piglin by surprise. 

His hesitation was noticed. 

With two fast strides, Technoblade cleared the space between them and swung his sword. Wilbur hastily lifted his to block and got knocked to the ground from the ferocity of the attack. He stumbled, and Techno paused, guilt and pity clear on his face. 

Something about the pity made him angry. He didn't need pity!

A short cry tore itself from his lips as he struck back. For a while, the two pushed back and forth. Sometimes, Wilbur grew convinced his death was near. Other times, Wilbur somehow managed to nick Techno. 

Pride coursed through him until he noticed Phil watching the two amusedly. Fondly.

He's holding back, Wilbur suddenly realized. And of course he was. Did he really think he could even come close to beating Technoblade? He had almost been brought to his knees on Techno's first swing. 

Something about that disheartened him. It was strange to be upset that Techno was holding back — he had, after all, been convinced just a few moments ago that he was going to die — but he was still upset. 

So when the piglin sharply struck the flat of Wilbur's blade, he let it fly out from his hand. Technoblade's wooden sword flew up to his neck. 

"Dead."

I wish, Wilbur grumbled in his head. 

As the four walked from the training clearing back home, Tommy kept stride with Wil and rambled about everything he thought was cool about the fights. 

"And did you see Techno's sword?! It went poof, and then..."

Wilbur felt an emotion. It was a strange emotion.

"...but it was so cool! I never knew Philza could make his wings go all iron-y and metal-y! Did you?"

It was jealousy. And as much as Wilbur hated it, it was there.

"You were very good back there," a voice murmured. Phil pat his shoulder a few times, then sped up to talk to Techno, who was stoically walking in front of them all. Wilbur watched the two chat and wondered what they were talking about. Probably about adult stuff. Like taxes.

Tommy kept babbling, "And then Philza did that cool kick-flip-spin thingie and-"

"Why don't you go tell Techno how cool he is then, Tommy."

The thought seemed to terrify Tommy. So much so that he abruptly stopped talking. 

"No thank you," he quickly said. "He's scary."

"Scary?" Wilbur hollowly echoed. Jealousy roared inside him. He fruitlessly tried to strangle it. Tried to deny it. 

"Yeah. He's got scars and stuff."

I have scars too, y'know. But Wilbur didn't voice those thoughts, because those were thoughts tainted with jealousy. And he wasn't jealous. Not one bit.

—

Wilbur found himself feeling incredibly jealous after that night. 

Because Tommy was right, really. 

Technoblade did have scars, was pretty scary, was better at combat, and was overall just... cooler.

It really began to hit him when dirt was pressed against his cheek, his arm was pressed almost painfully against his back, and he felt a tiny prick on the back of his neck where Technoblade had a wooden sword pointed at him.

"If I had a proper sword, I could remove your head like I would an apple from a tree with about as much effort."

"Thanks," Wilbur grunted. "Can you let me up now?"

With a shove, Technoblade sent Wilbur sprawling into the soft dirt of the clearing. He quickly scrambled back onto his feet.

"How come you keep beating me?" he roughly demanded. Well, he meant for it to come off as a casual question, but his frustration bursted forward and heated his words.

Technoblade raised an eyebrow at his tone. "Because," he lightly said, "I've had centuries of practice and have fought in hundreds of wars. It'd be alarming if you could beat me, wouldn't it?"

"I can't even touch you."

"Most cannot."

The two began to circle each other once more. Wilbur held his sword to his side, far too exhausted to lift it. Technoblade seemed almost the exact same as when they had began, only the right side of his tunic was torn. The only blow Wilbur had managed to land. 

"Most?"

"Philza Minecraft."

"Mmph."

Technoblade feinted for Wil's left leg, causing him to leap backward. Annoyance quickly buried what fear he felt a moment ago.

"Anyone else who can touch you?"

"Tommy, but only because I let him."

Another flash of jealousy.

Before he could overthink it, Technoblade ran at him again, and Wilbur struggled to hold his ground for the hundredth time. Soon enough, he found himself pressed to the ground, struggling not to sneeze as dust settled from his and Technoblade's relatively short scuffle.

"Dead," Technoblade said, emphasizing it with a light jab of his sword to Wilbur's exposed ribs.

"Thank you."

Technoblade flashed him a dry grin. "You're welcome."

The two glared daggers at each other, and then Technoblade stood up and allowed Wilbur to haul himself to his feet. The younger man eyed at the wooden sword in his hand for a moment, then tossed it to the ground in disgust.

"Forget this," he muttered, and then he turned and walked away, grumbling to himself.

Technoblade flicked an ear. He wondered if Wilbur knew a piglin could hear better than a human could. Or if Wilbur knew the piglin was perfectly aware that he was quietly hoping that his pillow would always be warm on both sides.

Wilbur didn't seem interested in returning, so Technoblade packed and decided to head home too. He couldn't help but feel oddly cheated; it had been Wilbur who had kept begging to spar with him, and now Wilbur was the one walking away like Techno had done something wrong. He grumpily thought over this concept, then tossed it away. It would do no good to brood over a man with a hurt pride. Still, he made sure to walk slower than he usually would, not too intent on bumping into an angry human on the way home.

As he walked, he let himself slip into the thoughts that constantly plagued his mind. The voices were, as usual, screaming for blood and revenge, but Technoblade pushed them firmly to the back of his head.

Other thoughts — significantly happier thoughts compared to the voices — flooded him soon after. One thought nagged him, but it was not his own, so he ignored it.

He saw a beehive and thought about Tubbo. The thought nagged him. Tubbo and his goat horns. He had started growing goat horns. The thought nagged him. Technoblade chuckled to himself, recalling the panic that had spread throughout the house when Tommy's friend burst into their home and hollered for Tommy to come quick because he was turning into the devil and growing demon horns. The thought nagged him. Tommy the raccoon and Tubbo the goat. The duo that struck fear into any adult they meet. The thought nagged him. And Wilbur, too. The adult that had fear struck into him. The thought nagged him.

The thought nagged him. His son was angry. His son kept throwing things and yelling. He was sad. Why was his son angry? They argued too much. They were no longer as close as they were before. Technoblade wanted his son to be happy. 

No, not Technoblade. One of the voices once wanted its son to be happy. This was not Technoblade's past experience. The voice had a son of whom it wanted to be happy. 

The voice paused on this part of the memory as if trying to make sure Technoblade understood.

The thought nagged him. The thought was not his own, but Technoblade listened anyway.

Wilbur was angry and was more distant than he used to be.

The thought nagged him.

Wilbur was sad.

As soon as Technoblade came to that conclusion, the voice seemed satisfied and subsided. Techno stopped thinking about Tubbo.

Wilbur was sad.

He remembered their training session. He remembered all of their training sessions. He wondered if it really was about training. 

"How come you keep beating me?"

Wilbur was sad. Wilbur was.. trying to be better. Than him. He was sad he was not better than him. Wilbur was sad, and it was because he felt inferior to Technoblade. 

Technoblade ran home.

The voices told him to hurry, hurry, hurry.

—

"There is no instance of a nation benefitting from prolonged warfare."

Wilbur glanced up from his papers to see Technoblade leaning on the doorway to his bedroom, arms crossed.

"Uhm..."

"You're upset," Technoblade said, blunt as ever.

Wilbur blinked. I mean, yes, but it was very random of Technoblade to come into his bedroom to tell him his own emotions. He briefly wondered if having strange siblings could be one of his supporting paragraphs in his school essay.

"Can I come in?"

"Er... sure."

Technoblade sat on the edge of Wil's bed, so Wilbur turned in his chair and straddled it backward to face him properly. The two waited in silence until Technoblade winced and flinched. Almost unconsciously, he brought up a hand to rub his temples.

"Are you okay?" the piglin eventually asked.

Wilbur raised his eyebrows. "Are you?"

It was a childish response, and one that he had learned from Tommy, no doubt ("what's wrong with you?" "What's wrong with your face?"), but he was angry and hurt and so he lashed out as a wounded animal would, desiring nothing but to forget today — to forget all the today's when Technoblade bested him on something — and nurse his injured pride alone. 

"No," Technoblade replied. "I'm usually not okay. But right now the concern is you: are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"No, you aren't," the piglin sighed, heaving himself up from the bed. The springs and wooden groaned in protest. He made his way across the room and sat down on the floor beside Wil. His height made him eye-level with Wil, despite the latter being on a chair. 

Technoblade reached hard for the right words. He was not the best at human interaction — that was Philza's thing — and he worried that the wrong words might only send Wilbur into greater sadness. 

The voices were quiet, something that didn't happen often. It seemed like the whole world waited with bated breath.  

The voice from before, the one with the memory of its son, pressed gently against his mind. With great effort, as though each word required a vast amount of strength, the voice whispered, Tread slowly, so the ice you walk upon does not crack from the weight of his sorrow.

"Would you like a hug?"

Wilbur eyed him, almost suspiciously. Technoblade quickly attempted to mend his words. 

"You seemed disgruntled these past few days, and I wanted you to know that not being better than me in combat is a perfectly normal thing."

A long silence stretched out between the two. Feeling emboldened that Wilbur hadn't reacted negatively, Technoblade added, "And for what it's worth, I have no idea how a guitar works."

A shy smile spread across Wilbur's face. 

"Awww, come on let's see that big grin of yours," Technoblade teased. He wracked his brain for more things to say. "You're better at reigning Tommy in than I am."

The mention of Tommy seemed to make the smile falter, so Technoblade hurried on, "You have an uncanny patience when it comes to fishing. You're able charm the birds from the trees. You sing."

It was a humbling experience, mostly because Technoblade was forced to admit that there were many traits he wanted to possess that he did not and Wilbur did. But then, he figured, the same held true for Wilbur. 

Technoblade rattled on until he emptied himself of things Wilbur was good at that he was not, to which he rather lamely concluded, "And a bunch of other things too."

By now, Wilbur had his face semi-covered with a hand, his ears and neck bright red. He was grinning. 

"Thank.. Thank you..." he whispered. He seemed unable to stop smiling and oddly embarrassed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah I just... I don't know. I'm relieved, I suppose." 

"Happy?" Technoblade checked. Wilbur shrugged in response, much to his disappointment. He mentally took his brain, flipped it upside down, and shook it, as if an idea could fall out. 

And fall out an idea did. 

Another voice freed itself from the writhing chaos of the other millions of voices and shyly offered a memory. Technoblade saw nothing, but what he heard was what the voice seemed intent to share. Laughter. 

The voice repeated the memory over and over, letting Techno listen to the giddy merit before slipping away. 

Techno frowned to himself. Laughter? How was that relevant to anything that was currently happening?

Other voices, seemingly encouraged, leaped forward to offer more ideas, succeeding in nothing but further confusing him. 

Philza Minecraft. Tommyinnit. Family. Wilbur Soot. Laughter. Wings. Father and son. Tail. Fluffy tail. Fluffy. Laughter. Wings. Philza Minecraft's wings. Tommyinnit's tail. Laughter. Family. Wilbur Soot. Laughter. Wilbur Soot. Laughter.  

Technoblade shook his head. He didn't underst-... Oh. 

"Techno?" Wilbur's worried voice cut through the other voices like a knife through water. A warm hand rested on his shoulder. "Techno? Are you alright?"

"Are you ticklish?"

Now, Technoblade was pretty good at psychology. In fact, he had almost majored in it. He only swerved at the last moment to go into English out of sheer pettiness. And just for the record, he was the best English student at his school and it did not matter that he was a piglin and did not speak English as a first language, thank you very much. Howbeit, throughout the years, Technoblade retained his knack for psychology. In brief, he knew how to read people (which is what most people seemed to think all psychology was). 

He read Wilbur's squeak and blush as an affirmative answer. He read Wilbur's timid, "N-No," as a lie. 

Echoing the voices, Techno stated, "This'll cheer you up."

And then he pounced on the younger man and slipped a hand up his shirt to skitter his fingers across the man's stomach. 

The effect was instant. 

"N-Noho– Tehehehechno!!"

"Wil-bur," Techno mimicked, using the same high-pitched tone. "Hush and laugh."

For some reason, that seemed to embarrass Wilbur tremendously. So of course, Technoblade said it again. He shifted position so that Wilbur's back wasn't pressed against the floor in a painful way and so that he was straddling his hips more comfortably. Then he leaned down, drilled his fingers into Wil's tummy, and murmured, "Hush and laugh."

"Shuhuhut uhup!" Wilbur squealed, turning his head back and forth to avoid Techno's taunts. His limbs jerked and flailed uncontrollably, and his hand managed to catch Techno on the snout. The piglin jerked back, though mostly out of surprise than pain (pain was not something he registered anymore).

An evil idea wormed its way into his head.

Whether or not it came from the voices, he did not know, but he assumed it did, for he had never partaken in tickling before. It happened frequently in Phil's house — mostly because of his wings and Tommy's fluffy raccoon tail — but Technoblade had never been explicitly invited, so he stayed away, worried about breaking some unspoken boundary (piglins were not welcome among humans and half-humans). Still, Wilbur seemed happy, and a few voices told him to say it, so he did. 

"I'll make a call."

"Wh-Whahahat?" Wilbur did his best to lift his head up and look at whatever Techno was planning. But there were fingers digging into his stomach and ohdearlord-

"FUHUHUHUCK!!" Wilbur threw his head back in laughter. Oh god, oh GOD. Technoblade knew what he was doing. He knew it. There was no way he couldn't know it. He had watched enough of his tickle fights with Tommy to know that his hips were a spot that was fucking lethal. He could feel his face burn up, and he quickly moved both hands up to desperately hide it. "FUHUCK, PLEHEHEASE!"

"No looking," Technoblade admonished, though he quickly threw the pillow from Wilbur's chair underneath his head to prevent the squishy human from injuring himself. Human skulls were not made for head-bonking, much less thunking against wooden floor. "And hush. I'm making a call."

"WHOHO THE FUHUHUCK ARE YOUHU- AGH NOHOHOHO!!"

"Hush, I said. Do you need me to remind you?"

It took a moment for what Techno had said to settle in.

"GOHOHOHOD, SHUHUT UHUHUP!!"

"Hush and laugh, Wilbur."

"NOHOHO!" Wilbur practically whined. His arms began flailing again. So the piglin did the logical thing and pinned them to his sides. It took a bit more effort to straddle the ticklish human when his arms kept trying to jerk about, but he managed. 

"My phone's not working," Technoblade commented, but he held nothing in his hands. Both his hands were being used to torment Wilbur's hips. One scratched the dip of his hip bones while the other squeezed relentlessly. It was amusing to watch Wilbur try to decide which sensation was worse, the light scritches of ruthless squeezing, and which side to buck away from. 

Still, he moved away from the spot because from his observations (yes he observed the tickle fights that happened in the house and made a mental note of everyone's spots; why is this a question), hips were a death spot. He went back to swirling a finger around Wilbur's belly button and listening to his breath hitch with anticipation. 

And also because the voices kept insisting he do the "phone idea".

"My phone's not working," he repeated. "I suppose I'll need something else."

"Whahahat?" Wilbur forced out. He did his best to lift his head again. A thumb vibrating into his navel made him rethink things. "Gohohohod, Tehehechno youhu're ehehevil!!"

"No, I'm making a call. Now hush."

"Whahaht're youhu- aHAHA-! N-Nohohoho!" Wilbur squealed loudly. Oh, it was fucking torture. Goddammit, Techno. 

"Beep boop beep beep boop," Technoblade murmured to himself. It was mildly fascinating, honestly. Every poke elicited loud, rather adorable giggles and caused the human's squishy tummy to quiver. He continued poking around, pretending like he was dialing a phone number. "Quit trembling, Wil, I'm calling someone."

"Thihihis ihis whahahat youhu- Nohoho nohot thehehehere!"

"Not where? Here?" Technoblade poked the area beneath Wilbur's ribs, where the number 1 would be on a phone (or a communicator - it depends on what universe you're from). A loud squeal answered his questions. "Well, too bad. This guy's number has a lot of 1's."

"Plehehehease, whoho- Gohohod- Tehehehechno!!" Another poke underneath his ribs. Wilbur arched his back, then quickly curled up at another poke to the same spot. Oh god. "Tehehechno! Iihihi cahan't!! Plehe– Sahahafe-wohord!!"

Safeword?

Technoblade immediately flipped off of Wilbur, suddenly reminded that, as a human, he was incredibly delicate. Well, delicate based on piglin standards. 

He sat there for a while, anxiously watching the squishy human. Wilbur's chest heaved, and for a frighteningly long while, he just curled up and giggled to himself. Technoblade frantically worried he killed his friend (brother? partner in crime? Technoblade had no clue). 

A few voices attempted to comfort him, but the others immediately seized the chance to torment and torture his conscience further, insisting he had harmed his brother-friend-crime-partner beyond repair. 

"I-I didn't kill you did I?" he worriedly asked. "Wilbur? Are you okay?"

Wil weakly nodded. "Juhuhust... Ju-Juhust gihihive me a mohoment..."

"I didn't push you too far, did I?"

"I'm fi-fihine..."

Technoblade pushed the voices away.

Eventually Wilbur calmed. Then he nervously asked, "Who... Who were you calling?"

"Oh that?" And suddenly, Technoblade felt very stupid. Without the adrenaline "ler mood" and the voices eagerly trying to help him, Techno found himself painfully aware of his words and how dumb and childish they were. He mumbled out, "...Th-The tickle monster..."

Wilbur squeaked and blushed, and Techno felt slightly better. Tickling was meant to be dumb and childish. It was meant to cheer people up. 

Oh right-

"Would you say you're happier now?"

A strange emotion flickered across Wil's face. There was something about it. Embarrassment? Shame? Guilt? Reluctance? An odd mix of all four?

"I can always call the monster again," Techno threatened. 

"I'm happy!" Wilbur blurted out. He seemed embarrassed at his own outburst. Or maybe he hated admitting he had been cheered up. "Th-Thanks. I, uh... I guess I was jealous. Of you. I don't know. It was stupid."

"Probably. Probably not. One time I tried taking over the Overworld with an army of magma slimes. It nearly worked, but Phil and a few other humans stopped me with an army of lobsters. Stupidity is subjective."

"...Thanks," Wil mumbled again. He seemed to still struggle with something.

"What's up?" Techno gently prompted.

"...What... Wh-What... uh... Wh-What were you going to do when you finally called... uh.. the monster...?"

"You want me to show you?" 

Wilbur gave Techno a timid look and nodded.

Gently, Techno pushed Wilbur back onto his back, this time making sure to keep a good eye on Wil's face to recognize anytime he got pushed to his limit. 

As a way of a warning, Techno explained, "So, uh, usually, when something rings, it also vibrates."

...Oh...

From downstairs, Philza sipped his tea and casually listened to Wilbur's loud shriek of laughter. I raised an interesting bunch.