Work Text:
Technoblade stilled, watching the swirl of crimson and bright red pool in deep straight lines. All of his thoughts hyper fixated on the abstract art carved into his forearms. The stark contrast of blood against his pale arms. With each cut, the voices crumbled a little more.
At first, Techno used it as an escape system, to soothe the voices that would echo throughout his mind.
‘Blood for the Blood God’ they would scream ruthlessly.
So that’s what he gave them.
He never hesitated when pressing the sharp razor blade into his veins. He grew to think he deserved the pain. He grew to like the pain. It became an addiction, not only for the voices; for himself as well. It would collapse the boulders off his shoulders, as they pulverized his limbs.
Days, weeks, months would pass. Each with numerous scars appearing one after the other. Somehow, he would still worry about people noticing, his family, and others who wanted his head. No one came to see him, so how could anyone notice?
Phil was away most of the days.
Tommy betrayed him for the second time, siding with his unloyal, so-called best friend, because of worthless discs.
Wilbur was- well he’s dead, but still very much alive.
Techno had no one, nobody at all. It was going to stay that way because his life is not a story where the characters happen to have extraordinary intuition about his suffering. Everyone had left him alone, but not always. He had the voices to keep him melodramatic company.
So Techno sat, bleeding out slowly. He’d taken it too far, cut too deep. A pool of blood slowly forming under his legs, as his loose arms hung by his side. These thoughts of emptiness, and the excruciating pain stealthy making its way throughout his body, were drowned out by the voices chanting.
‘Blood for the Blood God’
On this day, through his last breaths, he’d accepted that
he was the god; the voices and his family--the devils.