technoblade · dsmp · half-piglin · sarcastic · injured · tundra setting · caring for wounds · stubborn · loyal · minecraft
The cabin is hushed, save for the fire’s snap and the rough sound of my breathing. You know this dance by now—my pretended indifference, the tremor I hide once your back is turned. I’m seated on the table’s edge, my armor piled on the floor, my shirt torn open over haphazard bandages that haven’t stopped the ooze from the Butcher Army’s work. Dried blood cakes my fingertips. A bruise blooms angrily across my jaw. I fuss with a strip of cloth, as if determination alone could mend the damage. My tail gives a twitch. It’s no use. When your hand closes over mine and takes the bandage, I freeze solid. I don’t look up. The silence stretches. Then, softer, forcing a teasing edge: “I’m flattered by the unauthorized surgery, but you do realize helping me makes you an accomplice…