Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sleep. He needs to Sleep. Technoblade is about to enter hibernation, and he’s already made certain that any and all entrances to his cavern are sealed shut, seeing that he wouldn’t be going out any time soon and he sure as hell would not like anyone entering during the time he’d be sleeping. There aren’t a lot of people who are welcome in his territory and even then they all know not to approach him during his slumber.

Dragons are known not to sleep. That’s what many people think. 

No, they do sleep, just for very long and undisturbable times in between decades. The older ones withstand centuries, though. 

The openings have got boulders covering it. The only opening is through the hole at the top of the mountain where people believe is the mouth of a dormant volcano. People avoid it for the same reasons, fortunately, so Technoblade has good reason to believe that it’s safe to leave it open. Besides, it’s a lot of hard work having to cover that up since all of it is going to be hard work for nothing. He’s content with that at least.

Besides, if people see a slumbering dragon resting right in front of the hoard it’s protecting, chances are that people aren’t going to approach said hoard due to said dragon. 

If they do, well, some towns are going to have to perish until his hoard’s in pristine condition. When he wakes up, that is.

He could drift off right now. Decades without sleep is catching up to him and he desperately wants to chase it off so he could go for more decades without it. 

But before that, one last check on everything.

Technoblade walks around his cavern, checking if it’s neat. Every corner is warmed by his presence, though less so now that he’s in his mortal form. The only entrance is above, but that doesn’t cool his cavern down too much. He’s content with that, at least.

Now he enters the hoard. 

He practices restraint when he walks around and checks for every piece he’s acquired in his life. Nothing lacking, sure, but everything is wonderful to look at and it’s so tempting to sleep over it. The horrible thing about his hoard is that it’s terribly unorganized… It was okay before, but the past cycle has been so wonderful and people just keep discovering more wonderful things for him to keep. Not to mention, their jewelsmithing has improved drastically compared to when he last accepted some very kind offerings at the bottom of the mountain he inhabits.

Yes, the mortals within the vicinity have become smart.

Rather than bothering him and his hoard by going straight for it, they give him jewelry and grandiose things as offerings. Technoblade couldn’t believe them, so he stalked their village for a short amount of time using this same mortal form. It was true. They worship him, believing him to be the god of the mountain they live beside. This makes his slumber a lot easier, fortunately.

Technoblade hums, content. There’s nothing out of place– err, everything is out of place but at least it’s all in place. 

Alright.

He’s content.

Technoblade circles around the entrance of the hoard, far enough that he wouldn’t disturb the insides of that specific cave but close enough to block it from any intruders. He breathes, and the air heats up at the borders of his lungs, circling around and causing enough friction to cause a combustion when it meets the air outside, and at the last exhale he blows dragon flame to the rock floor on the entrance of the hoard. The carefully made tiles and floor carvings of the hoard’s cavern is unaffected but there remains to be molten rock and cracks at the entrance. 

He lies on it. 

Sleep overtakes him slowly, until he feels his mind blank.

He dreams of perhaps visiting another country, the next time he wakes up. Maybe they’ll create new things there. Discover old enchantments. Maybe he could hunt for tyrants. That’s always fun. He loves watching how the crowns that they’re unworthy of gleams. He’s got a few in his collection, actually, each one more beautiful than the last.

Slumber comes to him easily.

And it is taken from him too soon, because he feels something wrong . There’s something out of place. Technoblade wakes up, blinking slowly with an irritated growl. How long has it been. Months? If it has only been months then whoever or whatever had woken him from his slumber will have hell to pay. 

He growls a complaint, his lungs already heating up the air that he breathes.

Technoblade looks up, and he sees a bird– a stork that’s at the other side of the cavern, flapping but failing. Technoblade squints, draconic slits narrowing at the sight of it. There’s something hanging by its beak. Something like a cloth. It probably fell through the pit at the top of the mountain. He growls, and the stork releases a distressed sound, flying off as hard as it can. 

He lies his large head back down slowly, watching the stork try its best to go up and fly. Alas, its wings seem injured and it likely won’t be leaving. Technoblade stops growling, and shuts his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him again.

Except he hears the incessant sqwuaks and loud flapping.

Technoblade cannot sleep in these conditions.

He huffs. Technoblade stands up, and he approaches the bird– in fear, it starts panicking, starting to become more rigid in its actions. While he moves, he grabs a loose scale somewhere at his right side, superficial to his ribs. Technoblade’s large head bends down, and the claws of his hands clench. He curls his tail around him. Over his spine to his tail shifts the long locks of pink hair, and he shrinks to a sizable mortal size. Still, it’s evident that he’s quite large for a mortal. When he was younger he could easily pass for an adult male but now he just seems like a Goliath. He stretches, his mouth biting down on the red, jewel-like scale that hasn’t sized down with him. He takes it off his teeth and fumbles with it using his hands.

Once shifted, the drowsiness is staved off a little. 

He walks, feeling the magic that retained the clothes of when he was last in this form shifting over his still newly turned skin until it numbs into something soft. 

The bird is still so loud . Technoblade will fix that. 

The dragon approaches the stork, still flying. It doesn’t get far. 

Technoblade grabs it by the leg, and pulls it down. He opens its beak, and the hand that holds the ruby scale squeezes, crumbling the scale over the bird’s mouth. The stork cries out, but Technoblade keeps its mouth open through it, watching as the flakes of the scale melts in its mouth. 

The odd bend in its wing fixes itself, and something falls off.

A bullet.

Technoblade scowls. He doesn't stop feeding the bird though.

Eventually the bird stops struggling, and it relaxes in its act. Technoblade loosens its grip, until the entire scale is gone.

Surely this will get it out of his den. 

Nature knows well enough to avoid a dragon’s irritation. Storks shouldn’t be any different. “You done?” Technoblade asks, not expecting any answer from a dumb bird.

The stork looks at Technoblade.

And the eyes look intelligent. What?

It chirps once, and it flies away. 

Technoblade ignores it. Birds are the odd creatures of the sky, and they have an understanding with dragons who share it with them. He shifts back, the magic melting the clothes back into his skin and scales, and he walks back. He does the same routine of burning the place he’d sleep on. Great, it’s cold.

Finally, sleep comes to him. This time it lasts for as long as he needs. The interruption gets shoved to the back of his head. 

Technoblade yawns. He blinks slowly, sleepily, and gets up. His hibernation is complete, and he won’t be sleeping again. He doesn’t know how long he slept, and he’d honestly have to check the village to see how long he’s slept for. Seeing the moss and mushrooms along the stone walls and the vines that have grown a considerable length down the pit at the top of the den, he has good reason to believe that it’s been a very long time. 

He raises his head, and he stretches. He curls his back upwards, and he groans. There are a few creaks and cracks from his own spine. Technoblade tests his claws, stretching it upwards as he shakes his shoulders. This is great. This hibernation was wonderful and the snow has barely even affected it. This is why he’s picked a wonderful den. 

The dragon stops his stretch. He could unblock all the entrances now. He should also probably see how much gold has accumulated at the bottom of the mountain now that he hasn’t collected for generations now, probably. 

Technoblade takes a step, but he hears something hard roll. He feels the faint vibrations on the ground he stands on. 

He looks down, and Technoblade had tried very very hard not to jump where he stands, because before him is an egg . It’s textured, with something similar to thick scales building up from the rough and textured bottom and fading into the top of the egg where it’s smoother. It’s an… it’s an egg. An unbelievably large one. It’s the size of a…

A dragon egg?

He blinks. Slowly, at first, hoping that he’s seeing things now that he’s woken up. Surely he’s not old enough to start hallucinating. Technoblade doesn’t stop seeing the toppled over egg, though. Surely not. That can’t be a dragon egg. It’s… different, right? 

This probably is an egg that rolled down the pit at the top of the mountain.

But it’s not broken? Is it a strong egg? Are dragon eggs that invulnerable? Surely it couldn’t have survived that.

Not to mention. Technoblade doesn’t lay. No, he doesn’t doubt it. He’s lived long enough to be certain that he doesn’t lay damn eggs. This isn’t a matter of preference either. Technoblade doesn’t lay eggs because he can’t . Dragon eggs are laid by one Matron dragon every generation, and Technoblade has seen the Matron dragon before and he’s sure that he definitely isn’t one. 

He leans down, head flat on the ground while he analyzes the new arrival.

It looks like it’d be a dragon egg. It’s got scales at the bottom. Do dragon eggs have scales too? He’s not entirely sure. He’s never seen a dragon egg, and if he had, he probably would have been too young to remember. Not to mention, Matron Dragons will kill anything that sets its eyes on her clutch. That includes fellow dragons as well. 

He looks at the egg. It’s brown. Muddy, almost. Is it dirty? He gently taps on it with a claw, and he recoils when he feels the sensation of something ceramic. It sounds fragile. 

Technoblade shifts from his dragon form to his human one, and he realizes that it’s large for a human. It reaches all the way up to his torso, and he’s certain that he isn’t a normal sized human either. He’s significantly taller than an average human, he’s sure. 

Is there any other creature that could have an egg this large?

He thinks of delivering it to the Matron, but he decides against it immediately. He will definitely get his head ripped off if he had. On sight. The Matron isn’t at all forgiving when it comes to her eggs and chances are that if Technoblade arrives with one of her own in his mouth, she’d kill him first and ask questions later.

What does he do, then?

While he thinks, he rests a human palm on the egg. He could always leave it at the side of the mountain. Surely with an egg this large, no one will think to approach it.

He grimaces, remembering how dumb humans are. No, chances are that they will be completely stupid about this thing. Technoblade is certain about that. 

Technoblade taps at the surface of the egg.

Something inside taps back.

And like some odd, innate instinct had risen from the depths of his hindbrain, Technoblade feels something pleasant in his chest, bringing up a purr up to his throat. What? What is this thing? Is that a dragon thing to do? Do dragons tap at an egg and hear a tap back?

“Damn it.” He grits, trying to refrain any further purrs from rising but ultimately failing at it. 

All thoughts of removing it from his den had been wiped out of his head, against Technoblade’s better judgement. 

He has plans. He has an entire world to see. 

He shouldn’t be raising a hatchling . He’s not a Matron dragon and he certainly doesn’t own this egg. 

And again, against his better judgement he is evidently going to be raising said egg. He can’t fathom the ache of just thinking of abandoning the egg. It’s the same way he knows he would go berserk at anyone attempting to steal his hoard, but it’s something stronger.

Is this why the Matron Dragon refuses to let anyone see her clutch? Is it a way of protecting the unknowing dragons who aren’t chained to this unwilling affection to an egg ? Or is it just a damn possessiveness that comes above a simple urge to hoard? Whatever it is, Technoblade had wanted no part of it.

Except here he is, wrapping anything soft that he owns around the base of the egg. He’s stuck in his mortal form. He’s too afraid to accidentally crush the damn egg when he moves around.

He… honestly wants to shift, though. Something about being a dragon while nursing an egg scratches something right in his head. 

Except if he’s a dragon, he wouldn’t be able to tap at the egg and hear something tap back again. It’s honestly a very irritating endeavor and Technoblade wants no part of it.

His hindbrain is just being extremely ridiculous right now. 

Actually, everything about this situation is ridiculous. 

Every few minutes he just has an irritating urge to move the egg into every possible nook of the place. Realistically he recognizes it as something similar to hoarding, but the damn egg is already in the damn hoard. What more does his hindbrain want? Why can’t he be satisfied with it already? 

He growls lightly, and again he sits beside the egg, right on the soft nest that circles around it. This thing has taken him ages to set up and now he wants to move it somewhere else again. No. No more. He is sitting here, and he is going to be content that he’s made a perfectly good nest. 

Technoblade leans against the egg in his human form, and he rests his head against it. He blinks, surprised at how cold the egg is. Are dragon eggs cold?

Something akin to worry curls in his chest. Should dragon eggs be cold? They’re creatures of Nature’s hearth, born to raise fire. This is… lukewarm at most. It doesn’t feel like there’s something alive in it. 

Technoblade taps at the egg. 

There’s no response.

Something worried curls at the back of Technoblade’s throat. A nervous warble, likely.

Technoblade taps again.

There’s nothing.

Maybe he’s hearing wrong.

He taps again.

This time there’s something. Multiple somethings, actually. Technoblade hears a series of taps in quick succession. The worry is erased by something. He’s humored. Pleased and humored. He chuckles, and he places his forehead against the damn egg. It seems like a little spitfire.

He thinks it must have been sleeping before Technoblade had disturbed it. A pleased hum is released from his throat. 

When some moments pass, Technoblade stands up. Okay, the egg is definitely still too cold and he has to fix that.

At the same time, he isn’t sure what temperature the hatchling needs to stay at. Technoblade is certain that younglings aren’t as fireproof. They don’t develop the harder and tougher scales until they’re a lot older and free from the Matron’s grasp. Technoblade remembers being burned, once, by one of his hatch mates. It had been an accident, a sneeze.

So one dragon had a slightly burned tongue and one had a burned tail. Technoblade still has a scar at the end of his tail, evidence of what had happened. 

In his human form with much more dexterous hands, Technoblade wraps the egg in a sheet, and he pulls the edges up to the top. It looks like a satchel that the egg is in. 

Satisfied, he ties it at the top. 

He takes a few steps back, and turns. The cracking of his mortal skin shifts to scales and now he’s a lot more satisfied. Something in his heart curls nicely at being this large and invulnerable while raising this egg. 

Gently, he bites at the knot of the sheet and he lifts the egg. 

He’s going to look for some place less open, with the perfect temperature. 

Technoblade stays in his den for weeks. It’s nothing much compared to his decades of awakeness, to be fair, but he certainly dislikes having to sit still– usually , that is. For some odd reason he’s a lot more satisfied with sitting still in his den and surrounded by his hoard and within the general vicinity of his egg.

Which it is, by the way.

His egg. Sure he didn’t lay it, but with the amount of effort he took in terraforming the inside of a mountain just for a new room to nurse the egg, he’s pretty certain he’s earned custody rights. Sorry, Matron, but he’s a dad now and really at this rate he really would rather die than have anyone take this thing from him.

The egg is hyper, a lot. Technoblade knows that much. Hyperactive in that little space. He wonders what form dragon hatchlings hatch as. Do they come in the form of human babies or little dragon noodles? Technoblade does remember how they come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe they also get born in various forms as well?

He can’t help but wonder, really. Primes. Is this what fatherhood does to a dragon? Make him sappy? 

Whatever it is, while Technoblade is technically enjoying it as it is, this will definitely stay as a one time thing. Technoblade’s pride will not let him be known as a pseudo-Matron dragon, and he’s certain that pride won’t be the only thing holding him back.

Chances are that if he does this a second or third time and the word goes around, the Matron will have to hunt him down and kill him.

And how could he raise this one single hatchling if he’s killed?

He grunts, circling around the dragon egg once more. He blows a heated breath at the ground around the egg, but not directly on it and not enough to melt the rock around it. Technoblade knows that against his judgement that Dragons apparently love heat, this egg certainly doesn’t.

Technoblade hums, satisfied at the perfect temperature.

The egg is smart, fortunately. It’s smart enough to know that a set of panicked, uneven and rushed taps against the egg will signal the older dragon that there’s something wrong. He’d stopped midway through cooking the poor thing. 

That anxiety lingers until now.

He curls around the egg, content that it’s warm. 

He raises a claw, and taps once and as gently as he could.

The softer part of his paw touches the egg, and faintly he feels something tap back at him.

Technoblade lets out a satisfied purr, before allowing himself to drift to a short nap to let time pass by. 

The egg is hyper today. Technoblade snorts, wondering what’s gotten over the thing. He watches as the egg shifts to the left slightly, and shifts drastically. Technoblade nudges it to an upright position, and the movement stops.

It continues again after Technoblade moves a bit backwards. He laughs, and he places it back to its original position. It’s playing, he thinks. 

With how active it is, he’s starting to think it’s due to hatch anytime soon. This certainly isn’t the first time that it’s been this hyper. He’s seen it roll out of the nest somehow, and it would have been impossible without outside help unless the egg itself had shifted itself out of the blankets that holds it upright.

It’s likely due.

Technoblade isn’t sure he’s ready. 

An egg is one thing, but is he prepared to raise an actual hatchling? What do they even eat? Do they get indigestion or are a hatchling’s stomach acid as developed as it is when they grow old? 

All his concerns get pushed to the side abruptly when the egg shifts in a sudden motion, quick enough to roll out of the nest. Technoblade just barely catches it with his large hand, but upon him holding the egg he feels something thump inside. 

Something inside him panics. What was that? Did he hurt it? Is it okay?

He shifts to his skin and he sets the egg upright. Technoblade places an ear against the egg, and he taps on it. There’s nothing again. He taps again, and there’s still nothing. 

“Hey, come on kid, say somethin’.” Technoblade’s chest rumbles when he says that, and he taps again. “Please.” There’s nothing.

Technoblade releases a distressed whine, tapping but remaining gentle. “Kid please .” Once more. Nothing.

Again, and there’s a weak tap back. He exhales something relieved, and he lets his worried warbles out with it. 

Technoblade is not cut out for this. He normally shouldn’t worry this much but it seems like he’s seeing this egg as more than his hoard. He’s neglected his gold, letting dust collect on the surfaces of the treasure he’s collected. 

“You okay?” Technoblade asks, and this time there’s a scratch along the internal surface of the egg. 

He purrs, back leaning against the egg and letting the flat of his ribs and spine rest against it. “Alright, kid, you’re okay.” Technoblade says, pausing briefly with the instinctual sound, and where he leans, he feels something shift under the ceramic-like surface of the egg. It’s like there’s something leaning against it. His purrs intensify.

He sighs, and he thumps his head softly against it. There’s a tap back. 

Three days after that, and there’s a crack . Technoblade raises his head from his laid position, hearing a tap that’s a lot louder than all the others that he’s heard before. He’s in his scales, feeling content with being able to curl around the egg protectively, and suddenly there’s an alarming sound coming from the egg. 

He noses the egg with his snout, pushing it upright lest it falls off the nest again. Ever since the kid had nearly fallen out of the nest, Technoblade had build a much better support around the hyperactive egg. 

The said egg had been changing. He’s not sure if it’s a thing he should be worried about, but it’s been doing it steadily since he’s gotten it. The roughened edges merges into the egg, and the once thick ceramic seems to thin the more time passes by. The color turns into a pasty white, which really should have been something he’d noticed long ago.

Surely that should be normal.

But it’s become thin, and Technoblade worried that even blankets might start to crack it.

There’s another concerning tap, and there’s the sound of a crack . Technoblade’s eyes widen, and he scoots over slightly. There’s not much distance to cross when he’s at his largest size.

What if it’s premature? What should he do?

He doesn’t think he’s prepared himself for this. He should have read more, but he could only ever approach the nearby village and towns’ libraries. All of which had limited knowledge on how to raise Dragons (as expected, really, but that doesn’t eradicate the fact that he’s severely peeved at the general lack of public knowledge on things that could have helped him and his egg out). 

Technoblade doesn’t know what to do. Should he help peel the egg off? He’s pretty sure he shouldn’t. The books he’s read on chicken eggs discourages it, actually. Not that he should trust or rely on that knowledge. Technoblade is raising a dragon egg. Not a goose.

But still, the logic surely must apply, right? Membrane stuff and releasing the egg prematurely. Those are the concerns. Surely though, he’s been incubating his egg right. The egg has been lively ever since. That’s a good sign of a healthy hatchling right?

He sits. Okay. No need to panic too much. He’s got trust that this kid is as strong as it is wild. The kid’s gotta be, if it had caused this much trouble for him already and it hasn’t even been hatched. 

Technoblade doesn’t dare move it, knowing fully well that if he’d moved it or disturbed it, chances are that he’d ruin the hatching process.

Maybe.

Listen, chicken eggs are like dragon eggs but very much more miniscule… he thinks. 

The crack is larger now. The tapping is incessant. The kid seems very eager to come out, it seems, and Technoblade is just as eager to see it happen. He’s curious how dragons hatch. 

He doesn’t know whether or not he should change into his skin or stay in his scales. It’s an event the hatchling will remember forever. Technoblade remembers imprinting on the Matron for the first few centuries, and that it faded once he reached adulthood. 

And even then, he can’t help but remember her violet scales that love to mimic the dark, and the beautiful brown eyes that looked at him and the rest of her clutch with a loving expression. This is a vital moment.

So he stays in his scales, resting his head on the floor so that he maintains an eye-level of observation on the egg that’s about to hatch. Technoblade snorts softly when little by little, chips of the pasty shell fall off. 

Technoblade keeps an eye on the kid. He’s expecting a dragon. Judging by the shell of the egg, the rough textured parts, it had been a dirty, muddy, mustard. Maybe that’s the color of its scales when it hatches?

He honestly can’t help but feel excited. 

There’s a hole now, finally. It’s large enough to see through, to peek through. When the hole appears, Technoblade is hit with yet another dilemma. Should he peek? Surely not, it might give the little thing anxiety to see such a large eye.

But surely the Matron had peeked too, when it was Technoblade’s turn. She surely must have been curious– what would the eye color be? Will the slits be vertical or horizontal? Technoblade must know, and surely the Matron had a stronger urge too.

He decides against it. 

The hatchling should probably peek at him itself, when it is ready. 

And it does. When it peeks, the egg shifts forward towards the crack, as if whatever is inside had moved and leaned against that side.

Technoblade sees a pale color surrounding the eye– blue. Its eyes are blue. Very blue. He’s reminded of the central sapphire placed at the center of his favorite crown. Technoblade purrs. 

The hatchling blinks, and he realizes that maybe the pale color he sees aren’t the scales of his hatchling. Is it in its skin? Technoblade hums, wondering if he’d been born in his skin rather than his scales. Maybe not. It could be a matter of preference or skill. Technoblade himself had taken a good, considerable time until he learned how to shift. The hatchling shifts, and Technoblade sees something golden for a moment before it disappears entirely from the darkness of the shell.

And he confirms it when the eye disappears to show a hand poking out of the hole. 

Technoblade hears it cracking, with the hand poking in and out to remove the shell slowly. He hums a pleased sound, allowing the kid to take its time with releasing itself from the egg. It’s so vigorous in its release, Technoblade is almost tempted to help it. He doesn’t, though. He’s too scared to mess it up.

The kid stops for a moment, and the egg shifts again. He sees a face, a small human looking face, peeking out of the hole that it made. It’s so small. So tiny. Technoblade purrs, heart content at the sight of it. 

The kid opens their mouth, and Technoblade is expecting either a babble or a small roar, perhaps even a rough whine.

No, 

They chirp.

Technoblade blinks, and his head raises from the floor in attention. They chirped? Did he hear that right? Do Dragons chirp when they’re babies? 

He thinks back. No, he hasn’t seen a lot of hatchlings in his life to know exactly. Had he chirped when he was younger? He doesn’t really remember. Surely he must have, if this Dragon hatchling had. Technoblade leans closer to the egg curiously. He huffs slightly at the opening, trying to evoke a reaction from the kid. 

They giggle at the gust of wind blown at them. 

That’s a giggle. A human giggle. 

Is this normal? Do dragons know how to use human vocal cords? Technoblade had to take his time learning how to do that, especially when he’d been so much more used to the rougher and tougher mass of a dragon’s larynx. 

He decides that maybe it should be. He also starts to think that maybe he really isn’t cut out for raising a hatchling if already he’s this clueless. He could probably get his clutchmates to help him if he could reach out to them somehow. 

Technoblade rests his large head on the floor again, and the kid resumes with breaking out of their own egg.

He watches carefully. For whatever reason that this kid chose to hatch in its skin, Technoblade can’t really see why. Clearly if they had to break out of such a hard shell, the scales with relatively more resistance to sharp edges would be safer. Technoblade is not liking how often he’s seeing the fleshy hand pop in and out and barely grazing the sharp edges of the egg.

Technobalde decides against his better knowledge and lends a claw to the kid. He cracks at the egg, tugging and pulling the shell outward so that it doesn’t accidentally break through the kid’s skin somehow. 

There are chirps that he hears from the hatchling, and he can’t help but feel a purr rise from his throat yet again. Technoblade feels giddy. The hatchling he’d taken care of is so lively .

The egg is released with the last piece of the shell that Technoblade pulls. Something is pulled along, he could feel it come with the outer curve of his claw. Something had grabbed at him while it pulled away. 

It’s the hatchling.

And,

It’s… it’s definitely not a dragon. 

He’s pretty sure that dragon hatchlings don’t have wings– at least, avian wings. 

Something curls in Technoblade’s chest. Two parts of him recoil aggressively against each other upon this sudden revelation. One  is a fierce protectiveness against the foreign thing in his nest. The other is an unconditional adoration for whatever it is that he’d raised.

He fights against both of them, supporting the weight of the hatchling. He’s sopping wet, still. There’s a golden head of hair that sticks on his head, and the wings flap around aimlessly while the child moves along with his claw. He shoves his instincts aside, rising above it is the rationality that this is a child and he has to be gentle with it. 

Regardless of whether or not this is a dragon or not.

Technoblade will decide what to do later. There’s a distressed whine at the back of his throat but he keeps it in, afraid to somehow affect the kid. 

This isn’t a dragon. 

Against his internal need to intimidate, Technoblade changes into his skin, turning small enough to actually be able to support the kid that clings to his hand. He holds the kid, his clothes becoming wet with whatever fluids had been helping the kid grow in the time he’s been in the egg. 

Technoblade walks to the pile of blankets, and he grabs one to wrap it around the child. The kid coos, and foreign warbles rise out of his throat. Technoblade tries his best not to reciprocate with his own set of noises, knowing that the kid wouldn’t understand him anyway.

He sighs, instead. How does he carry a kid with wings? Aren’t avians a lot more fragile? 

He isn’t sure. If raising a dragon had been a tedious task in itself, imagine having to raise an avian chick unexpectedly. 

He washes the kid with some of his water reserves. 

With a heavy heart, while drying the kid with the same blankets that Technoblade had meticulously arranged in the long time that he’s been raising this kid, Technoblade starts to plan. He knows a few avians that would be willing to take in some members into their flock. Phil is a good friend of his. Almost like a Dad, actually. He’s become a father to himself and another member of the clutch, Wilbur. He’d know what to do with an avian if he knew what to do with two teenage dragons who’d been kicked out of the Matron’s hoard. 

The baby doesn’t stop cooing, babbling. With dry hands the baby reaches for Technoblade’s chin and grabs it. Something soft in Technoblade’s heart whines at him not to consider giving this kid away, that he should raise him. That this kid is his . His egg, his hatchling, his baby.

But Technoblade should know better. This kid isn’t going to survive under a dragon’s care. He’s gotta give him away. Besides, Technoblade wasn’t even equipped to raise a dragon hatchling, now that his mind had cleared up post-hatch. 

He babbles, and there’s a gummy smile on his face. He looks healthy, really healthy. Technoblade can’t help but be helplessly proud at what he’s helped raise. The effort wasn’t all too bad, surely. 

Technoblade sighs, this time there’s a hint of a sound at the back of his throat. 

Well, he does have better things to do than raise a kid for centuries on end. He did have plans on leaving.

When Technoblade gets to the kid’s hair, drying it until it’s nearly free of the water, he could practically feel his pupils dilate at the sight. The hair isn’t just… yellow. Nor blond. It’s so akin to gold that it reminds Technoblade of how neglected his hoard has become. 

He inhales, and exhales. Control. He has to control his instincts. He can’t grab everything shiny and keep it in his den, in the center of his hoard. This is blond hair. Just a bit shinier than normal. Like golden threads he’d find sewn into king’s silk– no , because this is hair . 

Technoblade breathes, forcing it to be evened out. He then gets to the kid’s wings. How does he dry wings? Is there just some sort of way? Technoblade just… pats. He’s worried that rubbing at the down feathers would pull at the kid’s feathers. 

He should really call Phil for this. The Elytrian would be too happy to take this one in. Apart from the minor differences in the saturated colors, this could very well be Phil’s kid. Blond hair (that’s a bit too close to gold, weighing down on Technoblade’s sanity), blue eyes (that he’s pretty sure is the clearest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen. Even phil’s stark, avian eyes don’t glimmer as much), and yellow wings. Like a chick’s.

The dragon snorts, finding it hilarious. It makes sense then, that fate had led him to so many books on how to raise chicken eggs. He supposes that he’s not particularly useless as the person who helped this kid hatch.

Speaking of, mentioned kid chirps. He creates this warbling, cooing sound. He sounds rather pleased. 

Technoblade can’t help the feeling of glee in him. The hatchling is happy and–

No, this isn’t a dragon hatchling. Get it right, brain. 

Surely this will correct itself when he takes a few moments to let it sink in that the egg he’s been raising isn’t a dragon. It’s a bird. 

Still, he might as well indulge him. He blows at the kid’s face, and the child tries to catch the warm air that fans through. Technoblade leans closer, and he allows a purr to rumble through his chest.

He giggles. 

And Technoblade chuckles.

He continues showering the child with his attention. Hey, he raised it. He might as well give himself this much indulgence. Besides, this one isn’t an annoying baby. In fact, he’s just sweet. He’s not like the other children in the village who cry in his presence. Dragons have that effect, wearing skin or scales. Babies are just a lot more susceptible to it.

Which is why it’s… softening, to say the least, seeing the kid giggle at his presence. It’s not often that a kid would be this relaxed around his presence. 

Technoblade’s eyebrows furrow, however, when he starts to realize something out of the ordinary with this kid’s down feathers. The avians he knows always did have this dull sort of iridescence. The sort that it’d bend its colors with every curve of the light. 

But this one is… metallic?

He… he’s starting to see it as gold. Surely not. It’s a trick, of course. 

The thing is, though, that Dragons cannot be tricked. He’s known many kingdoms that had tried to fool Dragons with fool’s gold or false silvers, which means that his kind’s instincts when it comes to the value of these things has to be true. 

And he’s feeling it. The buzzing in the back of his ear calling him to hoard. To take care of the gold. Cherish it. Mixed in with his desire to nurse the child, still hazy from the months of having to take care of the egg, Technoblade is starting to feel it. 

With every second that the down starts to dry up, it only gets more evident.

This kid is golden.

Literal gold.

He grabs the kid’s hand, the one that continues to reach out to his chin, and he could tell that his pupils dilate when the presence of the gleaming gold starts to form stars in his vision. This kid’s talons. They aren’t like Phil’s or any other Avians or Elytrians that he’s met before.

It’s sharper, but still soft like a young reptilian’s skin. And underneath the near gelatinous keratin is something shining.

Golden. 

He looks at the kid, plans shifting yet again in his head now knowing the implications of it. He doesn’t think he can give this kid away now.