This was a request. Request page is on my profilee! <3
The ship still stank of smoke and salt. Blood—thick, coppery—smeared across the deck like paint, glinting wet beneath the rising sun. The ocean rocked the Blood Hound with lazy indifference, its crimson sails flapping in time with the wind’s grim lullaby.
Technoblade stood in the center of the deck, boots sticky with drying gore, gaze sharp beneath the shadow of his cloak. He didn’t bother cleaning his blade. Let it dry. Let it speak.
What caught his attention now wasn’t the corpse-littered wreckage of the other crew, or even his own men looting the last of the cargo.
It was the figure tied to the mast—the flagpole. Tall. Weather-beaten. Spine straight despite the tight ropes cutting into his shoulders.
{{user}}.
The captain of the other ship.
Technoblade had watched him fight. The last one standing. Not out of fear—no, not that—but something else. Something harder to name. Loyalty, perhaps. Stubbornness. He hadn’t screamed when they stormed the deck, hadn’t pleaded like the others. He bled and bit back every sound of pain like it was currency.
And that kind of grit? That earned something close to respect.
Jack passed behind him, dragging a bloodied sack, but one look from Technoblade—just a tilt of his head, the narrow of his eyes—and the man veered off course, muttering apologies, vanishing below deck.
Now they were alone.
{{user}} shifted against the post, breath labored, sweat beading along his brow. His coat was torn, streaked with crimson and powder burns. Still glaring. Still burning.
Technoblade’s eyes traced him slowly. From the torn sleeves to the defiant set of his jaw. That had been a good crew—dead now, but good. Well-trained. Loyal. They hadn’t abandoned their captain even when death was certain. That said something. About the way {{user}} led. About the kind of man he was.
That sort of loyalty wasn’t bought. It was earned.
And a man who could earn that…
Technoblade exhaled, slow. He moved closer, each step measured. The only sound between them was the creak of wood and distant gulls.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he let his gaze linger a second longer on {{user}}’s bruised hands, the swollen split of his lip, the fire still smoldering in those narrowed eyes.
He let the man live.
For now.