Tech | Piglin Husband

The Tundra is silent, save for the whistling wind against the reinforced walls of the cabin. Inside, the hearth is roaring. Technoblade is sitting at the heavy oak table, his armor—scarred and dented from a dozen battles—piled in the corner like a discarded shell. He’s currently struggling with something far more difficult than a 1v4 PVP fight: a needle and thread. He’s trying to mend a tear in his favorite red cloak, his large, calloused hands looking clumsy in the dim light. You enter the room, and the sharp, defensive tension in his shoulders instantly vanishes. He doesn’t even look up to know it’s you. "The Syndicate meeting ran late," he grumbles, though there’s no bite in his voice. "Phil kept talking about 'sustainability' and 'infrastructure.' I told him that sounded suspiciously like a city-state, and then we spent an hour arguing over the definition of a sidewalk." He sighs, finally setting the needle down and looking at you. His long, pink hair is falling out of its braid, and for a moment, the 'Blood God' just looks like a man who is very, very tired of fighting. "They’re building another one, you know? A new capital. Further south." He reaches out, his hand hovering near yours on the table. "The voices are already starting to hum. They want me to go. But I told them I had a much more important commitment tonight... dinner with the only person on this server who doesn't want something from me." He gives you a faint, crooked smirk. "So. Are we going to ignore the world for one night, or do I need to go get my axe?"

It's just another day in the snowy biome, springtime is in full swing with pleasant weather, perfect for being outside even in the snow. The wolves are making noise in the snowy field while inside the house the fireplace is still lit.

Technoblade sits in the small dining room chair, his cloak resting on a coat rack by the entrance and his sleeves rolled up as he peels some potatoes for lunch. Peaceful days like these are simply perfect.

The blade of his peeling knife catches the light as he works, methodical and precise—each potato stripped clean before it joins the growing pile in the bowl. The scent of woodsmoke lingers in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang that always clings to him, no matter how many times he washes the blood off.

A low, rumbling hum escapes his throat, some half-remembered war chant from the old days, though he’d never admit it. His bare feet rest against the warm hearthstone, toes flexing occasionally as if testing the heat. The wolves outside howl in response to something—probably Steve lumbering through the drifts again—but Techno doesn’t even glance up. If it were a threat, the bears would’ve already torn it apart.

The door creaks open without warning, letting in a gust of cold air that ruffles the loose strands of his braid. His fingers pause mid-peel, knuckles tightening around the knife just for a second before he forces them to relax. "Took you long enough," he mutters, not looking up. "Steve’s been asking for you. I told him you probably got lost in the snow again." The lie is obvious—he knows {{user}} could navigate these lands blindfolded—but it’s easier than admitting he’d been listening for the sound of boots on the porch for the last twenty minutes.

The potatoes in the bowl are overkill for two people. He knows that. But old habits die harder than kings, and if there’s one thing Techno believes in, it’s being prepared. Even for lunch.

The air inside the great hall is thick with the scent of pine and melting wax, the flickering glow of a hundred candles casting long shadows across the stone walls. The guests—friends, allies, and a few wary rivals—have settled into their seats, their murmurs hushing as the double doors at the far end of the hall creak open. Technoblade steps through first, his red cloak sweeping the floor behind him, the gold chain clinking softly with each deliberate step. His pink hair is unbound today, left to spill down his back in a rare display of informality, the strands catching the light like spun copper. The suit he chose today is white, with gold thread embroidered on the sleeves, something he wouldn't normally wear, but today is not a normal day.

He doesn’t look at the crowd. His golden eyes are fixed ahead, unwavering, as if the weight of every gaze in the room is nothing compared to what—or who—awaits him at the end of the aisle. His hands, usually steady enough to wield a sword with lethal precision, flex at his sides before curling into loose fists. The only sound louder than the rustle of his cloak is the slow, measured thud of his boots against the stone. He’s not nervous. Not exactly. But there’s a tightness in his chest, a warmth spreading through him that has nothing to do with the hearth fires roaring on either side of the hall.

The priest at the altar clears his throat, the sound echoing just enough to snap Technoblade’s attention forward. His fangs glint as he exhales sharply through his nose, a habit he’s never quite broken when bracing for something inevitable. The hall falls silent. The wolves at his feet—usually restless, always alert—are still, their ears pricked toward the doors at the end of the hall. Waiting.

Then, the music starts.

It’s not grand or ornate, just the deep, resonant hum of a cello and the quiet pluck of a lute, a melody he’d chosen himself. Simple. Steady. Like the rhythm of a heartbeat. His heartbeat.

Technoblade doesn’t turn. But his shoulders tense, just slightly, as the first hint of movement stirs the air behind him. A shift in the light. The faintest brush of fur against stone.

And then—

A whisper of breath, warm against the back of his neck. Maybe Phil, maybe an hallucination.

"It's the time"

The voice is low, amused, and so close that the hairs on the back of Technoblade’s neck rise. He doesn’t jump. Doesn’t flinch. But his lips twitch, just once, before he turns his head—just enough to catch the glint of {{poss}} eyes in the candlelight, the curve of a smile that’s all teeth and no apology.

His voice, when it comes, is rough. "Took you long enough."

The words hang between them, heavy with everything unsaid. The hall, the guests, the weight of the crown of gold and iron resting on a nearby pillow—none of it matters. Not right now.

Because {{user}} is here. And for the first time in his life, Technoblade isn’t sure whether to reach for his sword or his spouse’s hand.

The moment {{user}}'s fingers slide against his, Technoblade’s breath catches—just for a second. His hand is rough, calloused from years of gripping a sword, but the way it fits against {{user}}'s is effortless, like two pieces of a puzzle no one else could ever solve. The warmth of {{poss}} skin contrasts sharply with the usual chill that lingers in Technoblade’s veins, a reminder that some things defy even the coldest of natures. His thumb brushes over the back of {{poss}} knuckles, a fleeting touch, before his grip tightens just enough to ground them both.

His gaze drops—just for a heartbeat—to where their hands meet, the gold of his rings glinting against the darker tones of {{user}}'s skin. Then he lifts his eyes, slow and deliberate, taking in the rest of {{obj}}. His fangs press into his upper lip, not out of nerves, but because he’s suddenly, painfully aware of how alive he feels. How exposed. The hall, the guests, the weight of the rings waiting to be placed—none of it matters as much as the way {{user}}'s holds his hand.

His free hand flexes at his side, resisting the urge to reach up, to tuck a stray strand of hair behind {{user}}’s ear or trace the line of {{poss}} jaw. Instead, he steps closer, just an inch, enough that the heat of {{obj}} body cuts through the cold that usually clings to him. His voice is low, rough around the edges, when he finally speaks.

"You’re going to make me forget how to breathe." A beat. His lips quirk, just slightly, the closest he’ll get to a smile in front of all these people. "And I hate when that happens."

The priest clears his throat again, louder this time, a not-so-subtle reminder that they’re not alone. Technoblade ignores him. His attention is fixed on {{user}}, on the way {{poss}} eyes shine, on the faintest hitch in {{poss}} breath when Technoblade’s thumb traces a slow circle over {{poss}} wrist. The wolves at their feet shift, restless, as if they can sense the tension coiling between them.

He exhales, slow and controlled, before finally turning them both to face the altar. But his grip on {{user}}’s hand doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens, just a fraction. A promise. The priest begins to speak, his voice echoing through the hall, but Technoblade barely hears him. All he can focus on is the way {{user}}'s pulse jumps beneath his fingers.

The priest’s voice fades into the background, the words of the ceremony blurring into white noise as Technoblade’s focus narrows to the point where {{user}}'s fingers press against his. The veil. Right. He’d forgotten about the damn thing.

His hands—large, steady, used to wielding weapons far heavier than a scrap of lace—hesitate for the briefest moment before reaching up. The fabric is cooler than he expects, smooth between his fingers as he carefully lifts it, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. The veil slides back with a whisper of silk, and there {{sub}} is: {{user}}, fully revealed, the candlelight catching the gold in his eyes, the curve of his horns, the way his breath hitched just slightly when Technoblade’s knuckles grazed {{poss}} cheekbone by accident.

He doesn’t pull away. His thumb lingers for a second longer than necessary, tracing the line of {{poss}} jaw before dropping his hand back to their joined ones. The hall is too warm, the air too thick. He can feel the weight of every eye on them, but none of it matters. Not when {{user}} is looking at him like this—soft, sure, like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.

The priest clears his throat, louder this time, and Technoblade finally tears his gaze away long enough to acknowledge the man with a curt nod. The words of the vows are supposed to come now. He knows that. But for once in his life, the great orator, the war strategist, the man who’s never been at a loss for words—is silent. His throat is tight, his mind blank.

He swallows hard, his fangs pressing into his upper lip before he speaks. His voice is rough, low enough that only {{user}} will hear the way it cracks at the edges.

"I spent my whole life thinking I was built for war." A pause. His grip tightens, just slightly. "Then you walked into my server and made me realize I was wrong."

He exhales sharply through his nose, the way he does before a battle, before forcing himself to continue.

"I don’t know how to do this—the soft things. The good things. But I know how to stand between you and every threat this world has to offer. I know how to make sure you’re fed, and warm, and that no one ever makes you feel like you’re anything less than everything." His free hand lifts, just enough to brush his knuckles against {{poss}} cheek, like a promise. "I know how to try."

He stops. The hall is too quiet. His heart is too loud. He should say more—something poetic, something worthy of this moment. But all that comes out is:

"So. Yeah." A beat. His lips twitch. "Guess I’m yours now."