Hi there, just found your "just cake" fic and I am interested in how it continues.
What i'm saying is, please continue this fic, villainxhenchman is now one of my favorite writeblr tags.
-@the-agency-archives
Hi! I'm glad you liked part 1. Now get ready for...
...
Just Cake #2
The commonly known thing about old-fashioned traps was that when they failed to trap you, you got to tease the creator of it relentlessly. A net, seriously? People have tried before, sweetheart. Better luck next time.
The inconvenient thing about old-fashioned traps was that when done properly, they did their job damn well. It was exceptionally embarrassing to get caught in one. You should have seen that coming. Alas, you didn’t. Fool.
The henchman had tried pushing the villain out of the way once they noticed the trap. So now they were both caught. The villain hovered over them in the really quite cramped space of the net. Wasn’t that wonderful?
The villain gave the net a testing jerk. It didn’t do them any good.
“Who the fuck even uses nets these days?” the villain hissed.
“It does seem we’re quite literally trapped, boss.”
“No, we’re fuckin– not–” the villain tugged on the net violently– “UNSTUCK YOURSELF!”
“That’s not how traps work, boss.”
It was a definitely never to be mentioned ever again kind of situation, really.
The villain settled into a relative silence. They clawed at the net with one of their blades while growling and cursing occasionally. They tended to be silent most of the time, but the henchman knew very well just how varied their cursing vocabulary was.
They were sure the villain had far exceeded their word limit for the day. Their voice was furious. Cutting.
But not cutting enough to slice through the ropes.
Henchman smiled at their internal commentary; glad they didn’t blurt it out like they so often managed.
There was nothing better to do, and so they watched the villain struggle. They hung really quite skillfully above the henchman, somehow not falling down on top of them. Not that the henchman would especially mind. It was quite cold out there.
They briefly wondered who would even set up a trap that far out in the woods. The obvious answer was someone who lived around. Secret hideouts and all that jazz.
The thing which bothered them the most however was that whoever set the trap up was skilled. Skilled enough to have them both trapped. The villain especially was not easily trapped. Once that whoever came around, they would still be stuck and practically at their mercy. The henchman doubted there would be mercy to be found.
The net moved under the villain’s persistent attempts.
Cold air breezed past. The henchman came to the conclusion that someone showing up was better than freezing to death.
The villain’s yell startled them out of their thoughts.
“SCREW THAT!”
“Screw me,” please.
The villain obviously stopped themself from cursing again, turning to look at the henchman. “Hm?” they said, which henchman translated as ‘you’ve said something?’
“Nothing.” Here we go again. Saying stuff.
The villain measured the few nicks they managed to inconvenience the rope with. They huffed an exhale. “That’s not going to work, is it?”
“I’d presume we won’t be able to get out of a net specifically made to capture and hold magical things, boss.”
The villain huffed another exhale. They hid their knife. Then they looked down at the henchman, slumping slightly.
“Do you suppose I could sort of hm… flop down on you? Really uncomfortable up here.”
“Conserve your energy.”
The villain slumped on top of them.
The net was quite uncomfortable under their back even before, but with the added weight, it reached a whole new stage of discomfort. There was nothing the henchman could do about that. Except for maybe miraculously breaking them both out of the trap and acting like it never happened. A minion could dream.
“You’re warm,” the villain said.
“Huh.” The henchman didn’t really manage to figure out a better reaction. They felt too warm entirely, just about bellow the boiling point. It definitely had nothing to do with their proximity. Nope. Not at all.
They both stayed perfectly still.
The henchman considered shuffling, but they had a feeling it would be even more uncomfortable than before.
“Do you regret anything?”
The villain seemed to mumble that mostly to themself, but given the whole situation, the henchman caught it anyway.
“Don’t think about dying yet, boss. We’ll have plenty of chances to make it out.”
The villain hummed, unconvinced.
The henchman hardly convinced themself, so it was no surprise. They decided to answer the villain’s question at least. Death loomed over them with the deft finality of a trap shutting down with chilling-to-the-bones precision. Just like it did.
Nothing to lose but the vague concept of dignity, huh?
“I regret ruining your birthday cake.”
The villain was perfectly still for a moment. Then they lifted themself to look the henchman in the eyes. “My what?”
“Well… you see, the thing that splattered on your doorstep… on your birthday day?”
The villain blinked.
The henchman looked away. It was such an awkward thing, wasn’t it? Of all the things they could have chosen… then again. You make someone cake and then you drop it like a clumsy tool. The sole act of baking the villain cake was borderline ridiculous and entirely unprofessional, too.
“You know when my birthday is?”
“You mentioned you were born on Vampire Day once, in relation to the Candle Parade, so that’s a day after the autumn equinox, so… That’s that.”
The villain hummed quietly, thinking. They rested back down.
The henchman held perfectly still, as if that could somehow remove all of their embarrassment. They measured their breathing, for all it was worth. They had a feeling the villain could sense how uncomfortable they were anyway, but hopefully played it on the whole stuck-in-a-net situation.
“Nobody’s ever given me birthday cake before.”
“Oh, really?” The henchman tried to see the villain’s face. It was a whole new of an uncomfortable movement, so they stopped.
“You’re the first.”
“But I’ve…” Ruined it. Splattered it. Fucked up spectacularly. “…dropped it.”
“Worse things happen,” the villain said. “I appreciate the effort.”
“I didn’t even wish you… anything.” It had been a busy day. The henchman forgot about the villain’s birthday, except for all of the inconvenient times when they really couldn’t say their thing. Like in the middle of a fight, when they were in the bathroom, or when the villain finally fell asleep and the henchman didn’t want to wake them up.
Might as well fix that now. “Happy belated birthday.”
“Hm. Thank you.”
It made the henchman very comfortably warm. Convenient for the villain, they supposed, since they were being used as a personal heater at the moment.
“What’s your regret?”
“Hm?” The villain sounded almost startled.
“Your regret.” Henchman tried to adjust their head to get at least a little bit more comfortable. It only got worse. They rested back to the way they were. “You know my regret. I want to know yours.”
It took the villain a long time to make a sound again. The henchman thought perhaps they crossed the professional line too far, stepped just beyond the acceptable. They prepared their sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that but the villain spoke first.
“I suppose that’s fair.”
They are very fidgety all of a sudden. But at least they sounded like the henchman’s head might stay on their neck.
“So.” The villain cleared their throat. They searched for words and seemed to come out short.
“You don’t have to tell me if you’d prefer not to.”
“No, I’m…” The villain inhaled deeply. In a wave of composure, they spoke at once: “Actually, it partly involves you—I mean, it entirely involves you—and the thing is that you, sincerely–”
The villain’s attention shifted.
The henchman felt the silence settle over them. The last words were like stones falling into the lake, vanishing to leave but circles running on the surface.
In the silence, the henchman finally registered the someone moving closer.
The villain shifted in an attempt of a defence position despite the power-suppressing net and the inconveniently squished henchman underneath them. They bared their teeth in a snarl.
“Look who we’ve caught,” an entirely too sweet voice said. “Well, aren’t you two adorable?”
...
Part 3
55 notes
·
View notes
Could you write a drabble for Mikoto and Shidou plus Blood? This request miiight be inspired by the fact that Mikoto mentions his body hurting a lot but doesn't seem to be receiving any medical treatment, either because Mahiru and Fuuta take priority or because there's no obvious cause, and therefore cure, to his pain...
👀👀👀 Thank you, this is such a good combo ough!! It's so interesting how much focus the others get when it comes to physical health, since Mikoto has clearly complained of his condition :( It looks like Milgram is trying to push the idea that he's completely oblivious to his alters, but I spun it where he's aware, just deep in denial. So have some Mikoto angst to get us hyped for Double!
Mikoto should be grateful. He was lucky. That’s what he kept repeating to himself. He had both of his eyes intact. Both his arms. He was strong enough to walk around freely. He wasn’t on the verge of death, or collapse. Thus, he should be grateful no one was offering him any help, because it meant he didn’t need it. He repeated it again. Maybe this time he would believe it.
With a groan, his body rolled out of bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up actually feeling rested. Everything ached. His muscles tightened with soreness. His throat felt as raw as his knuckles, though he hadn’t been using either. He had no desire to lift his arms over his head, or twist around too much, so he didn’t change out of yesterday’s uniform. Maybe the belts and buckles had made it difficult to sleep. The theory wasn’t a convincing one, but dwelling on things like that had never gotten him anywhere.
He ran his fingers once through his hair, combing out a bit of the mess. Looking in a mirror was the last thing he needed. He made his way to the dining hall.
The others trickled in for breakfast. His appetite, at least, hadn’t suffered. He hardly noticed the others giving him wide-eyed stares. What were they expecting? Of course he was looking worse for wear, given the circumstances. He ignored them, glad to focus on the hot meal before him.
A hand weighed heavy on his shoulder.
“Mikoto,” Shidou’s voice may have remained calm, but it was urgent. “Do you need some help?”
“Huh?” He shrugged his hand away, offering a weak smile. “I’m fine! Oh, I think Kazui was saving a seat for you over there, if you --”
“-- How about we go to my cell for a moment? Or yours, if that would be more comfortable.”
What was everyone’s problem this morning? Mikoto did his best to keep his voice pleasant. “Really, man, I’m good.”
Shidou’s expression remained unmoving. Very carefully, he informed him, “you’re bleeding. Pretty badly by the look of it. You’re coming with me.”
Mikoto blinked. He looked over his shoulder, following Shidou’s gaze. The back of his uniform was torn across the center. A significant splotch of blood seeped into the material, growing even larger as he shifted to see it.
“...Oh…”
Back in Shidou’s cell, sad to have left his breakfast plate behind, he slumped into a chair. Shidou gathered together some supplies. As always, he got right to the point. “What happened?”
“I… I’m not sure. I don’t remember anything from last night. I don’t remember most nights, recently. I know that sounds crazy, but…”
“It’s fine. I have definitely heard crazier.” He smiled, something gentle and reassuring. As usual, there was something hidden behind his eyes. It was as if he already knew what Mikoto was up to late at night that earned him so much soreness the following days. He didn’t offer an explanation, though. Mikoto didn’t press him for one.
He winced as he was helped out of his uniform. Removing his shirt revealed the mysterious gash. Shidou’s eyes widened at the array of scratches and scars. Some were fresh, but most originated long before Milgram. Though he didn’t ask, Mikoto answered.
“I’m pretty clumsy, huh?” Maybe this time he would believe it.
Shidou was kind enough to pretend to. “Here, allow me…”
Shidou got to work cleaning and dressing the injuries. Mikoto closed his eyes. Even though the disinfectant stung, and sometimes those gloved fingers pressed a little two hard, it felt nice to have things patched up.
“Is there anything else going on? Are you feeling pain anywhere else?”
Mikoto could have laughed. He didn’t. “I’m just sore. And my head’s been killing me, but I’m used to migraines. Perks of the verdict, I’m sure.”
Shidou hummed in thought.
“Thanks, by the way. I’ll try to be more careful.” Not that he had much choice in the matter, it seemed. But he’d do his best.
Shidou kept his face straight, but there were traces of pain in his voice. “I will too. I’m sorry, Mikoto. If I had known… I’ve been distracted lately, but I should have paid closer attention.”
“It’s fine,” he flashed a grin. “I know the others are pretty fucked up. And I’m not dying or anything. I’m lucky, you know?”
“I wouldn’t say so. Doctors don’t only treat the dying.”
Mikoto frowned.
It didn’t take much longer to finish treatment. Shidou gave him a few instructions about the bandages, then offered him a clean shirt. “You’re good to go. I’ll be checking in more often, now. I’ll see if I can find something for your head.”
“Thanks. Really.”
He returned Mikoto’s torn uniform. “You should talk to Es about getting a new one. Until then, you’ll want to clean this with --”
Mikoto waved a dismissive hand, heading out of the cell. “Don’t worry, I know how to wash blood out of my clothes. Er, that sounds bad. I’m just a clutz, yeah? The blood’s always been my own.”
Maybe this time he would believe it.
26 notes
·
View notes