Haruka clenched his fists. “Y-you would be surprised if you woke up and -- and -- and your cell was full of ice cream!
I was just thinking of this line from your last Mikoto drabble and wondered… Can you make this happen?
I certainly can >:3 I tried for a while to frame this as straight-up comedy, but it actually worked so much better as something sweet, with silly lines here and there :) Thank you so much for the request, it was so fun!! (Also, I wrote John using Mikoto's name for ease, but in my mind he's switching between first person pronouns.)
There was someone unexpected in cell 009.
No, no, it’s not like that. Everyone was very aware that there were two distinct residents of that cell. John himself was very aware of his position in that cell.
The thing was, someone else ended up in there, too.
John kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep. The other person was here on a mission. They’d slipped in without creaking the metal door. Their footsteps were nearly inaudible against the floor. He would have thought it was Kotoko, with skills like that, but she would have leapt to an attack. This person was busy doing… something.
He strained his ears. It was impossible to tell their goal. They were going in and out, moving things around. Was it a trap? There weren’t enough materials in the prison to set a trap. Were they stealing things from around the room? He had nothing of value. Plus, he was sure Mikoto would have given anything to anyone who asked. What, then?
Unable to come to any conclusion, he readied himself. He’d protect himself. He always did.
In one fluid motion, he rolled out of the bed and pinned the other to the ground. The perpetrator let out a high-pitched squeak. Impossibly wide and frightened eyes looked up at him.
“Haruka…?” That was the last person he was expecting. John squinted around the room. “What the --”
Ice cream. He didn’t know what it meant, but that’s what Haruka had been arranging. Dishes and dishes of ice cream. Everywhere. Plates stacked on the desk. Bowls strewn across the floor. All vanilla. There was a scattering of toppings; some with colorful sprinkles and others dripping with chocolate sauce. When he’d tackled the poor boy, he sent another dish of it clattering across the ground.
“I’m sorry! Ah, I-I, ah, I’m sorry!” Haruka squeezed his eyes shut. “It-it’s a, it was a surprise, for you! For M-m-mikoto…!”
“A surprise?”
“The other d-day he said, we were, we were talking ab-bout --”
“He asked for this?”
“Uh, no, but --”
“He didn’t know about it?” John’s eyes narrowed. “It’s some kinda prank?”
“NO! No, n-no I’m not being m-mean. It was f-fun. A fun surprise.” Haruka held his palms up, unable to make his smile anything but panicked. “...Surprise!”
John stared.
Despite how nonsensical the whole situation was, there didn’t seem to be any danger. He rose. Haruka scrambled to his feet.
John gestured to the extensive supply of sweets around them. “How did you get all this together, anyway?”
“O-oh!” Haruka wrung his hands. “I was, uh, planning it for a while. I requested ice cream three times in a row. And I n-never ate mine for dessert. I’ve been saving it. Es asked why, b-but they still let me keep it.”
“And why did you? Why do all this for Mikoto?”
“I t-told you, it was sup-supposed to be fun...”
John braced himself against the desk. He was just wondering how long it would take to take care of this mess. He mused, “it’s all going to melt.”
He might as well have thrown a punch, the way Haruka’s expression shifted. “I’m sorry! I’m -- I… I didn’t think of that…”
“Eh? You don’t need to apologize or anything. It’s fine.”
They fell into silence. Haruka shifted on his feet.
“Y-you… can have it, if you want. The ice cream. I didn’t let anyone else have it but-but, you can, I think. ”
“I don’t want the ice cream.” He wanted to be left alone. He wanted the cell clean so Mikoto didn't stress out about cleaning it. He wanted to avoid being bothered by bizarre ‘surprises’ first thing in the morning.
His stomach disagreed, apparently. It let out a loud grumble. Both prisoners looked over.
He muttered a curse. With a huff, he picked up one of the bowls.
“Alright. But even if I did eat this, or Mikoto did, there’s no way I could finish it all.” He shoved it into Haruka’s hands. “You made this mess, you’re gonna help me deal with it.”
The boy nodded frantically.
“Come on, you can sit here. Pass me that one, with the syrup. And hurry it up.”
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some thoughts on hell and lucifer
an interesting little tidbit to think about is that in dante's inferno, it's stated that Hell existed since before humanity, that the concept of Sin is not something which started with humans. the most common explanation for this is that god made hell for the rebellious angels, and was later on used for sinners as well
in ultrakill though, hell was made with humans in mind. and the reason i say that is testament IV in 5-S:
"FATHER, WHY ETERNAL TORMENT? IS IT NOT CRUEL?
IS TORTURE UNENDING TRULY A FATE FIT FOR A FOOL?"
AN ANGEL SO BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL ASKED ME THIS . . .
AND I COULD FIND NO ANSWER
FOR I COULD NEVER FACE THE GUILT OF WHAT I'D DONE . . .
MY REGRET, A GNAWING CANCER
IN MY HOUR OF WEAKNESS, TERROR POSSESSED ME THEN
AND I CAST LUCIFER, TOO, INTO THE INFERNAL DEN
ONCE I REALIZED WHAT I HAD JUST DONE . . .
I COULD ONLY WEEP
AS I SANK SLOWLY INTO THE DEPTHS OF DESPAIR . . .
DEEP, OH SO DEEP
lucifer in ultrakill did not 'rebel' against god until after hell was made, meaning that hell's original purpose in ultrakill is to condemn sinners. and the reason for lucifer's fall was not some desire within him for god's power. rather it was his pursuit for justice for the damned souls that sealed his fate.
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19! :)
19: sea change
In the last few days of the year 200, Torr kills the Emperor. In early 201, a war breaks out.
It’s not wholly unexpected, at least not by those who know where to look. The Emperor’s death is no small blow to Solitude, the city that sent him off on a voyage he would only exit under a pall; especially considering that the guard had patted itself on the back for successfully foiling an assassination attempt right before his ship left, only for his throat to be slit under their noses, anyway. The head of Skyrim’s Penitus Oculatus appears to have vanished. No-one reports seeing anyone out of place on the boat until they started stumbling over the bodies. The Empire mourns through all the official avenues as the heir prepares for succession; Solitude’s government is busy trying desperately to smooth it over, putting out excessive bounties on the assassin that failed and scraping up intel on the one who succeeded. Not that there’s anything much to find – it’s a locked-room murder, and every logical suspect has an alibi that holds up to interrogation. There are no leads to follow.
And Windhelm is a powder keg.
It always has been, ever since the Great War, as long as Torr or any of his kids have been alive. Short-fused and disillusioned, crowds moving hot as blood through its winding stone streets, it’s always been something tough, hard-throated, splintered into careful lined sections. Torr walks whatever lines he wants, but not everyone has the energy to straddle them; not everyone can. The upper city is all harsh-cut stone and ice, the bricks ancient, the crowds in a hurry, even though none of them seem to know where they’re going; the Grey Quarter is where the snow runs when it turns to slush and the walls are stuffed with rags. The planks keep snapping with dry rot, sharp and gaping as broken teeth. They need to be filled to keep the cold out. The Cornerclub keeps the fire roaring. Talres goes there to work most days and doesn’t come back up to the house until the streets are empty. No-one knows it’s going to happen, not exactly, but there's no way anyone couldn't know. There are a lot of people who have been waiting on an opening, and all eyes are pointed elsewhere.
With little fanfare, the Jarl and his entourage leave Windhelm.
The city stops being a fuse and starts being the wreckage after it’s blown. Torr is told that there’s a span of a few weeks where Talres stops leaving the house completely. Katla gets arrested again and weasels out of it on her own. The ill-drawn posters of something approaching Torr’s face stuck up over the walls of Solitude are covered up with announcements and calls to join the Legion. Windhelm floods with bodies ready for the rebellion. Aventus’ house is already crowded; in a few months, Torr hears, it’s nigh impossible to walk in for the bedrolls and blankets spread over the floor. The city has never been a warm place in any sense of the word; Torr’s siblings are inundated with more kids and more kids with nowhere else to go. They don’t know if Solitude is much better; they look different now than they did on the night of the assassination that wasn’t and then was, hair cropped shorter and uneven, face gaunter, the weight they’d managed to gain over their comfortable months in Falkreath sloughing off them like a spider’s old skin, but even so it’s a bit much to step foot in there so soon, some of the bounty posters still mouldering on their posts. One of the kids says something about needing a whole other house. They’ve only got the one. Still, it makes Torr think.
(Skyrim has one orphanage, a little wooden hall down on the banks of Riften’s canals. And now there is a cursed house in Windhelm.)
Torr doesn’t go to Solitude. They only occasionally go to Windhelm. When they’re not on business, they stay on the outskirts of Danstrar; the Pale, all frozen winds and snow high enough to ice a horse’s knees, is an unappetising enough target that aside from an announcement of alliance with Windhelm’s Stormcloaks the war has not truly reached them yet. Which is ironic, considering.
(If prompted, Torr probably could have seen this coming – Torr, who spent years with his finger on Windhelm’s pulse, moving through the people and hearing endless talk about the government. It was going to happen sooner or later. And of course the Empire reeling from the assassination of its Emperor – the first since around the time of the Oblivion Crisis, which no-one is anxious to repeat, and the reminder of which put plenty of important people quite on edge – is enough of an opportunity to weigh heavily in sooner’s favour. If he’d thought about it with his blade set beneath the hairs of the old man’s beard, he would have known he was setting a war in motion. What Torr doesn’t know is if he would have cared.)
(Probably not. He still doesn’t, after all. Not enough to regret anything.)
Dead winter bleeds into spring; a little ice melts, and the sea begins to change. Torr’s shoulder aches when the weather is bad. There are clashes on the roads, outside cities, described in newspapers and word of mouth. Cyrodiil ships off heaps of soldiers to spill into Solitude’s ports. The house in Windhelm is overrun. But the nightshade kept in the temperate corner that Babette has transformed into a garden begins to bloom months early. The tides still come in and out.
The old Emperor is dead. Skyrim is tearing itself apart. Torr cleans his knife after use with a soap that smells like lavender and tries very hard to dredge up any guilt.
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I saw somebody discuss it a while back ago, but it was so affirming and I wanted to open a similar discussion here...
I've noticed in myself and others this intense (genuine) trigger response to people not understanding us or our words or whatever it may be, and it can feel so important that you correct people, that people know you, not a shitty cut-out version of you.
I think this is a valid response, of course. It is completely understandable, and I get where it comes from. When I was in the middle of abuse, I was misrepresented in order to be abused, so it can be a genuine trigger for something "small" you said, did, or are to be misinterpreted or twisted into something it isn't. It turns from, "this person didn't bother reading what I'm saying," to, "this person might be just like them, they're going to hurt me."
My overall point is that a huge part of living is this misinterpretation of you or your character, and it isn't your fault, and it isn't in your control. Hell, even, a huge aspect of language itself is in not being able to fully represent you or what you're saying because language is interpretive and based (in part) on other people's interpretation of what you said. They fill in the blanks with their own experiences, desires, or their own character, and at some point, it isn't really about you, you know?
My biggest piece of advice is learning how to let people be wrong. This shit, of trying to correct every single person? Personally, I have found it to be exhausting, and it feels like I'm blaming myself not only for everybody's interpretation of every little thing I do but also for abuse that led to this intense of a response. It's really hard to let people be wrong, yes, but it also has allowed me and permitted me to be more interested in my own life, not in my life in other people's brains. It's given me that specific freedom from abuse, from worry.
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