A Blacksmith and Her Prince // Technoblade x Reader

A Kiss Of Death

[I hope everyone is okay and well, enjoy this short but sweet part 🤍] ~Emily

It was the next day.

Early morning dew frosted the windows, letting the barely there sun shimmer flakes of gold onto the hardened floor boards. It felt warm against your cotton socks, seeping through to wake frozen toes from their comatose state. You relished the way it felt, though it was only the third day here in your getaway home, getting used to simple, warm floors was still impossibly hard to accept. It wasn't that you missed the usual cold stone, you just didn't want to get used to a life of luxury, which seems pretty ironic being that you're stuck in an inescapable mansion with a murderer.

Well, you didn't know for certain if the place was truly inescapable, but based on the overpowered concrete walls surrounding the castle and hundreds of guards, it seemed that way.

You sighed, gazing out the fogged window.

It was too early to be thinking of this, let alone planning a prison break.

Contrary to popular belief, you actually liked early mornings. The fresh pine air mixed with black addictive goodness, it was the perfect combination to get you started on a long day of work ahead. Not to mention no one was ever awake at this hour, you accepted the solitary moments with glee, appreciating the calm before the storm.

You are in the eye of the storm now, who knows how long it will last for.

Last night was a hurricane of emotions. Death kissed you sweetly against chapped lips, only to dissipate like a shadow in the night. It was rewarded with soft words and hidden playfulness prescribed for a specific person with fiery eyes, eyes that almost lost its flame to a singular taste of destiny. To even imagine that fire be washed away by something as cowardly as poison, was an infuriating thought on its own, for it to poison someone as independently strong and narcissistically powerful as him just didn't make sense.

The Blade, death by poison.

No.

No, that did not sit right.

It didn't matter the reason why, why it didn't feel good to you, why after all these days of wishing quick death upon him, you suddenly have a change of heart. Feelings change, emotions change, but not this quickly, not this fast. Was it because of the way his eyes shifted in the moment of realisation, while you were halfway across the almost funeral table. Confusion converting into a sense of dread, the shock after it all then the flash of thankfulness and worried support. You have never seen him give so much before, never seen him close to 'caring' that much before, even if it were just a helping hand on one's shoulder, that hand burned a mark, it meant more than just simple human decency. It meant more when he guided you back to your room, he didn't need to or have to, but he did anyway. He did it because he wanted to, because maybe he was worried or maybe he wanted to return the favour.

A quick tour in exchange for another chance at life.

You could have just sat there and waited for the final supper to end. It would have been easy just to simply not move and appreciate the soon to be silence, but even if you had time to think about that then. Your body would have moved on its own, trailing the cloak of death's shadow, ripping it apart from its clouded form with your own bare hands.

You tell yourself you would have done it for anyone and even if that's a fact on its own, it doesn't stop the steam train of force that fueled you in that specific moment.

You didn't jump for the King.

You didn't jump for Victoria.

Not even for yourself.

You jumped for him.

He was the first one to cross your mind and the first you latched yourself onto in a death defying instant.

You don't regret it, but it made you think harder about who he really was to you. His rare moments of showing any sort of small affection, made you forget that only a couple days ago he left you bloody and stranded in an abandoned saloon. Somehow, you believed he wouldn't do that now, or even come close to doing it, at least to you. You let the fact that you saved not only his life, but a total of five last night hang over you, that was probably the reason why you thought he wouldn't hurt you, because you saved his life.

Besides, his words hurt more than his fists ever could.

Thinking about him so much caused an internal war within, you wanted to talk to him or at least see him, just to know if he was okay. On the other hand, you wanted to hit him, to hurt him in any way possible. To smash your fists against his head, to scream at him and call him vulgar words, only to eventually wrap him in an unforgiving hug of relief and release the flow of panicked flood gates, thanking the gods that he was alive.

He's alive.

You let those words wash over, like a repetition of an old guitar, strumming over and over in your head, each string only pressing harder against your heart, it made your eyes sting with unshed tears of overwhelmingly gratefulness.

He wasn't even your friend.

You didn't care, you frankly didn't give a shit.

Just knowing you saved him and he's alive means more to you than measly friendship.

Your throat strains from the tension, itching in desert like dryness, it irritates you to the point of becoming a coughing and spluttering mess.

Seems like you forgot to breathe.

You left your room to wander the now familiar monotone walls in search of steaming liquid and a cure to a sleep deprived headache.