the red means i love you {c!Technoblade}
Summary: Yandere!Technoblade. Fake gods are worshiped with wine and flowers; real gods require blood.
Need to Know: They/Them. Yandere!Technoblade / Enabler!Reader. established relationship. DARKFIC & LIGHT SMUT PLEASE READ WARNINGS VERY CAREFULLY !!
A/N: 2755 words. hey holy shit read the warnings i mean it. this really isn't for everyone. but anyways i started this months ago lol and it makes me feel some type of way. probably OOC as all fuck. if you do end up reading this, 1. is it coherent? 2. is it any good? :/
Warnings: Romanticisation/Rationalisation of Yandere Behaviour; NON-GRAPHIC SMUT (no genitals specified), GRAPHIC KNIFE-PLAY BLOOD-PLAY AND PAIN-PLAY, SEMI-VIOLENT BODY WORSHIP?? OBJECTIFICATION. Violence. Scarification. Bondage. Mutual Obsession. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Citrus Scale: ❤️ GRAPEFRUIT ❤️
{ yandere!dsmp masterpost }
He gets antsy in isolation; the voices are hungry, and fresh bruises will never compare to cherry-red blood on the snow, on his hands, like wine the way you'd seen him savour it before the regret flashes across his face. Blood for the Blood God cheered like the fleeting high was worth the exhaustion the whole ordeal brought with it. You'd seen it time and again; violence simply for violence sake was tiring. It's been a long time since he'd felt like killing for anything or anyone that wasn't you, and since you're by his side in the tundra, there was little reason for him to jump to violence, or at least, violence you didn't relish in.
Because you basked in reminders of his power, finesse, how easily he could wreak devastation, and there was something thrilling about when he turned those skills upon you, knowing he loved you too much to break you beyond repair. But there was also something intoxicating when he almost would, when he'd spend days lavishing praise upon you as he cared for you, tended to the wounds he'd inflicted, nursed you back to health.
In the split second after he'd land a hit while sparring, and he's breathing heavy, eyes wild, and the pain hasn't hit you yet, you see the way his eyes light up. This time it had been a deep gash in your cheek, which had genuinely startled you, and he turns immediately, apologising, saying he lost himself in the moment.
"Don't worry about me," you tell him as he takes your face in his hands, the contact stinging as blood begins to seep from the wounds, "you wouldn't kill me," you assured him, and it's as if he needed to hear the words out loud to believe them, his gaze softening, your hands resting on his hips, "and if you did, we both know you would have your reasons."
"You're so..." but he can't even finish the compliment, syrupy affection in his eyes as he looks at you, still holds your face. He can't find the words in this moment, cant say what you know he's thinking, 'you bleed for me' but you can still hear it. His gaze is endearing as he looks at his own hand on your cheek, before holding it up in the sunlight, your blood shiny and slick on his fingers.
You take his hand in yours, love unspoken but well heard as you softly kiss his knuckles. Carefully, you bring his hand back to your cheek, the stinging wound and the warm, red proof that you were alive. When you pull him in for a kiss, he's holding your face tighter this time, the pressure searing beneath his touch as you kiss him; the tense set of his shoulders had eased, however, and to you, that's all that mattered.
The moment, he tells you later, soothed the voices, at least for the time being. You, stretched out next to him in bed, carefully applying bandaids and ice packs to your more recent training wounds, make a noise of interest.
"I don't like hurting you like that," he admits, voice low, sounding almost remorseful. Instinctively you turn your attention from your bandage application, to him, curling an arm over his chest, resting your chin on his shoulder.
"Like what?" Because he's not one for admitting remorse, especially not about something like this; you've got well cared for scars to the contrary.
"Like in a way we haven't discussed," it takes him a long moment to find the words, but you know its still not entirely the truth; as if your awareness of the altercation was crucial to his enjoyment of it. He got caught up like this a lot, when injuries were accidents. The problem was that it wasn't his intention, it wasn't premeditated; you never minded the lack of warning, he'd had your complete trust for as long as he'd had your heart. You knew what he was capable of, but that he loved you, that's why you trusted him. He, however, knew what he was capable of, and loved you, which is why accidents scared him half to death.
"But it felt good, didn't it? Better than usual," as you say that, he looks to you, sharp and calculating, gaze focused on the patching job he'd done on your cheek earlier, "do you want that? The blood?"
"I don't need it," he says softly, kissing your nose, "I like what we have, I like training with you, you don't-"
"But do you want it?" You ask, reaching up to touch his cheek, your fingertips feather light as you trace where the scar would be on him, and his eyes close for a moment. He leans into your touch.
"The things I crave," he begins, before amending with the faintest smile, "the things other than you, don't matter out here; I'm keeping us safe. The violence for the sake of blood, it's exhausting to keep searching for," he groaned faintly, before adding, "and dangerous," his gaze slides to you, and you know he's not concerned about himself. You, however, held his face for a long moment.
"And what of blood without violence?" You ask softly; he goes very still, breath caught alongside the thought, "Blood for the Blood God," When you lower your hand to his chest, his eyes open. Dark and thoughtful, there's hesitation there, confusion almost.
"You don't know what you're offering," his tone is like ice water, a shock to your system with how cold it is. There's no warning when he sits up, out of your embrace, leaving you cold and confused, "I'm trying to keep you safe." Accusatory, as if you're in the wrong, as if you should know better.
He leaves before you've even formulated a response, tense and seemingly furious and you have no idea how or why the situation changed so dramatically. It's always hard to try and sleep alone nowadays, but you don't have much of a choice.
Techno comes home still wreathed in the heat and horrible sufler smell of the Nether, sweet words on his lips as he curls into bed beside you. None of them are an actual apology, but he's got a talented hand between your thighs as he tells you he loves you, and it's enough to ease your fretting, half asleep mind for the time being.
It seems safer to leave that topic well enough alone for the time being, but it doesn't leave your mind. The thoughts that begin to haunt you encroach on every part of your life. Intrusive, idle chatter starts up when you're training and the sun glances off his blade and catches your gaze, and won't shut up as you're preparing dinner together, and the chatter roars with approval whenever you so much as get a paper cut. Perhaps this is what it's like to experience the voices that clamour for blood and violence in your love's head, though more and more you're sure it's your mind's way of encouraging you, because there are moments where Techno looks at you, eyes dark with a barely concealed desperation, and all thoughts in your mind go silent.
"Don't look at me like that if you're not going to do anything about it," you teased, catching him in one of those dark, thoughtful moments he was becoming increasingly prone to. Techno, however, is pointedly quiet, averting his gaze, light from the fire making him seem somehow even more dramatic, "you've been trapped in there a lot lately," settling yourself on the sofa beside him, you curl up by him, cheek against his shoulder.
Still, he remains quiet.
The crackle of the fire fills the otherwise silent room, though Techno shifts to wrap his arm around you, pulling you a little closer. You feel when he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"Wish I could be trapped in here," he mumbles against you, drawing circles on your shoulder with his finger, "figure out how you live like you don't feel fear."
"I have you," you respond with absolute, blunt sincerity.
"What?" It sounds as if he genuinely didn't expect your response.
"I have you," it comes out a murmur, angling your face to his, nose to nose as your gaze locks with his, "why would I ever feel afraid." His pupils are blown so wide with want that you're half afraid you'll get lost in them. He must feel the erratic beating of your heart, must know the thrill you feel in this moment -
"You should fear what I want to do to you when you say things like that," his voice is low and you feel like you could melt at the implications, which was probably not his intention, but you didn't care.
"And yet you don't even do anything," you sighed languidly, eyelashes fluttering as you find your gaze dropping to his lips, "what a tease -" but then there's two fingers in your mouth, effectively shutting you up.
"And if I tore you apart, would that make you happy?" He practically snarls, but you angle your head to make sure he can see the dreamy look in your eyes. After a few moments of intensity, he moves his hand from your jaw, your mouth, to grip your thigh, to pull you closer.
"Is it what you want?" You feel elated, all kinds of heady and fire-warm. This is the precipice, the moment where he yet again understands you truly mean you'd do anything for him, and his hesitation will evaporate -
"More than anything," he admits, as if his honesty had left him breathless, and he kisses you hard before you have time to think. Pulling you into his lap, he takes the opportunity to fist his hand in your hair. When he pulls hard, it's the first of many wonderfully aching, stinging, bruising moments of the night.
And you learn that there is no blood without violence, not for the Blood God...
There's a sharp pain the moment the blade first breaches your skin, metal along your sternum cool before the pain brings with it heat. You try to bite back your yelp, but can't quite manage it. You've been cut before but never so deliberately, not by someone who looks at you like Techno does now. Techno, sitting carefully on your thighs, doesn't seem to acknowledge it; he drags the blade down the centre of your chest with an almost agonising unwaivability, tears springing to your eyes, trying not to squirm, to make the pain worse.
"Techno," you whimper, his name escaping you almost involuntarily, nervously tugging at your wrist bindings above your head. There's something dark and strangely detached in Techno's gaze as he meets yours.
"I'm okay," you murmur unconvincingly, "I- it hurts more than I thought it would is all, I'm sorry I'm-" though for all your babbling you don't even consider asking him to stop. He presses the flat side of the blade to your ribs and reaches out with his free hand to carefully wipe away your tears.
"You're so good," there's something hungry in his eyes, "so good to me... beautiful like this." And something clicks in your brain; you'd do anything to keep him talking to you like that, looking at you like that.
"More- please, again," you choke out, a desperate gasp as pain and pleasure weave together in your mind. Something about the way you've already begun to beg has his breath catching in his throat, an animalistic noise escaping him. Already his self restraint is all but shredded; before you knew he'd hesitate, or check in with you, but now -
"More what?" A demand for an answer. The blade is ice cold and feather light against your skin.
"Blood, please," stutters from your lips as you try to lean up to kiss him. Instead, he keeps one hand firm on your shoulder against the table, wearing a pleased smile as he instead dips to keys you, "my love, make me bleed."
He seems to derive pleasure from the way you whimper against his lips, your faint noises of pain as he carefully carves into the skin of your sternum while kissing you. It's starting small, he tells you, at least for now, having left a simple geometric pattern on your sternum that he admires as he fucks you. He lavishes you with praise, works hard to get you off but leaves you a bloody mess until well after the afterglow has faded.
When he tells you it will leave a beautiful scar, something inside you lights up with joy, with love.
"I can take more, I -" already you're babbling, offering. He hasn't untied you; the ache of your bound wrists is comfortingly familiar as you allow yourself to be taken care of.
"Don't," Technoblade warns you firmly, looking up from where he's cleaning and dressing the wounds. Even so, he seems calmer and steadier than he's been in a long while, as if granted a brief moment of mental peace after what had just occurred.
"You keep offering something very dangerous, but maybe your naivete is part of why I find you so precious," he pauses for a long moment before leaning in to press a kiss to the edge of the bloody pattern he was responsible for. A thin line of your blood shines by the corner of his mouth as he pulls back and smirks up at you. You're desperate to kiss him, but you knew it would interrupt his care, and you'd probably remain restrained past the point of it being enjoyable.
"Did it help?"
He is quiet for a long moment after your question. Finally, he spoke.
"How much did it hurt?"
"What?"
"Tell me how much it hurt," there was an unexpected dark edge to his voice now, something pleased and almost smug. He's holding bandages but his hands have stilled, "when you begged me to carve into you like that," it's that hunger again, the same you'd seen the moment you'd winced and gasped and squirmed once he'd finally put the blade down in favour of admiring his work, now free hand between your thighs.
Now he's just... admiring you, bound, marked, still comfortable at his mercy. Looking at the angry red lines in your skin, he can see the blood slowly seeping from them, his personal form of art. Carefully, you wet your lips, shifting the barest amount against the still bloodstained linens.
"It was awful," you murmur honestly, "it still is kind of unbearable, more than I expected." He blinks slowly, hands still hovering inches away from your torso. He hears it, you know he hears it, the way you speak so carefully about the pain without a hint of negativity. He's a sudden rush of movement, kissing you with newfound intensity, one hand coming to cup your face while the other he presses flat against the still fresh wound.
"I could kill you, you silly, porcelain thing," he groans, as if turned on by the very idea he's warning you about.
"Could you?" A breathless, wanton gasp escapes you, and it turns to a pained whimper as he presses against the wounds more insistently, which he echoes with a pleased noise of his own, "please, I need you to -"
For the first time in a long time the voices seem sated. They've had their fill of violence, of blood, of you, they're practically sick with how they've gorged themselves on all you've offered for them. But Techno himself? He loves to know just how much it hurts, and loves to make you beg for it nonetheless. He loves knowing how far you'll let him go, how much you'll endure and still ask for more. He loves the proof of your devotion. He will never get enough.
And you?
You want to wear the scars like the proof of your love for him, with pride. You now understand and appreciate the pain he's inflicted on others in your honour. You relish in knowing you can satisfy all he craves in a way that no-one else ever would.
But mostly, you crave those moments, the bloody handprints he leaves on your thighs, the gentle way he caresses the ice cold blade against your skin, and the look in his eyes as you whimper, like you're the only thing in the world that has ever mattered.
