TLW college au but Barkovitch won't stop inviting himself to hang out in their dorms and they don't know how to ask him to leave (he's their court jester)
TLW college au but Barkovitch won't stop inviting himself to hang out in their dorms and they don't know how to ask him to leave (he's their court jester)
Can I request drunken confession with Technoblade? Like when he’s sober he’s super cold and avoidant of reader to the point where reader is convinced that he doesn’t like them, but when he gets drunk he becomes all lovey-dovey and can’t take his eyes off them.
aww, yes.
Title: Loose Lips & Rosy Cheeks
You’d stopped trying to talk to Technoblade weeks ago.
Every time you tried, he’d give you short, clipped answers, eyes darting away like you were the most uninteresting thing in the room. If you cracked a joke, he’d just hum in vague acknowledgment and go back to sharpening his axe.
It stung, but you got the message — Technoblade didn’t like you.
So when Phil invited you to the tavern with the rest of the crew, you didn’t expect much. You figured Techno would drink in silence, maybe glare at the wall for a while, then leave early.
You were not expecting to find him slouched over the table, a deep blush on his pale cheeks, eyes locked on you like you were the only person in the room.
You froze mid-step.
“…Techno?”
His head snapped up, pink hair falling into his eyes. “You came,” he said, almost dreamily.
“…Yeah?” you answered slowly, still expecting some kind of dry remark.
Instead, he grinned. Grinned. “You’re so—” he hiccuped, “—pretty.”
You blinked. “What?”
He patted the seat next to him, nearly knocking over his mug. “Sit. Please. I— I like it when you’re close.”
That… was new.
Phil caught your eye from across the table, mouthing he’s drunk.
You sat down cautiously. Techno immediately leaned toward you, his shoulder brushing yours. “D’you know,” he mumbled, “you make it really hard to fight people? Like— how’m I supposed to look all scary and cold when you’re around?”
You stared at him, the words sinking in slowly. “I thought you didn’t even like me.”
His head whipped toward you, eyes wide and offended. “What? No. No, I— I like you too much, that’s the problem.”
The rest of the table went quiet, listening in. Techno, oblivious, kept going.
“You— you smile at me and I forget how to talk. My brain just—” he made a vague explosion gesture with his hands, “—gone. So I avoid you. ‘Cause if I don’t, I’ll probably say something stupid like—” He paused, squinting at you. “…like this.”
You were speechless. He looked so… open. Vulnerable. Nothing like the stoic man who barely spared you a glance.
“Techno,” you said softly, “you’re saying this because you’re drunk.”
He shook his head, stubborn. “I’m saying it ‘cause it’s true.”
Later, when he sobered up, he wouldn’t meet your eyes again. He’d mutter something about “not remembering much” — but the next time you caught him staring, he didn’t look away.
