#how wretched...lol...moments of relief will come...and even if they are short they will be relief....

[sillybutbreakable]

i know i need to want to get better.

to be kind to myself...even when i'm miserable.

to remember that living is worth it even when it's wretched

how do i remember that again...? how do i remember to do that...?living miserable is worth it....how do i convince myself of that...i need to remember living miserable is worth it to see the ocean again. to see art i never could have imagined. to make my friends laugh. to hold a mahjong tile in my hands. to eat my favorite foods again. to hear rain again. to pet a cat. to see what chaos the olympics will be. to play haunted chocolatier (lmao). to feel a cool breeze that makes the temperature perfect. Even if i'm miserable forever, it's worth it for that. its worth it to still live.

[drabblesforsanguine]

Letting Go - Oneshot

Summary: Miraak lets go of the past and looks towards his future.

Pairing: Miraak/f!LDB

Warnings: fluff, flirting, light angst, brief descriptions of ptsd, mentions of violence, possible thalassophobia triggers

Word Count: 1879

Prompt: none

A/N: this is the first oneshot I've ever posted on this site, so pls be gentle lol. Also I'm on mobile, so sorry about any spelling/grammatical errors. Find me on ao3 

The only sound to be heard was the soft splash of the oars cutting through the water. No sound of waves crashing against the shore or the cry of seagulls, for even they didn't fly out this far.

If he squinted hard enough, Miraak could just barely make out the rocky outline of the northern coast far behind the Last Dragonborn.

The midday sky above was overcast and the ocean breeze was bitter. More than once he'd seen her shiver from a particularly harsh gale only to pretend that she didn't. A storm was brewing on the sea behind him, though with luck it would be many hours before it reached them.

"Not much further, now." Her eyes were fixed on the dark waves as she spoke.

"You've been saying that for the past hour." He grumbled, his arms starting to feel sore from this seemingly endless amount of rowing.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, a faint teasing smirk on her lips.

"Well, this time I mean it."

His gaze flickered down to the wooden chest resting by her feet, his curiosity still piqued as to its contents and purpose for being here.

He'd asked about it at the beginning of their voyage, among many other questions, but of course she'd just shrugged him off like she always does and said he'd find out once they were far out at sea. Well, they were far out enough.

He stopped rowing and fixed her with a hard stare.

"I'm not rowing another inch until you tell me what we're doing out here."

She finally turned and faced him fully, one of her dark eyebrows arched upwards. With a dead serious look in her eyes, she spoke.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to kill you, lock your corpse in this chest and dump it in the sea."

He blinked at her once, twice.

"Is it impossible for you not to act like a child all the time?"

She rolled her eyes then, with a sigh, she leaned over the chest and lifted the lid. Miraak peered inside with curiosity. His eyes narrowed at what he saw.

"Are those..."

"The Black Books, yes." She said, wrapping her arms around herself as another breeze rolled by.

True to her word, inside the confines of the chest were all seven of Hermaeus Mora's forbidden tomes, each individually wrapped in animal skins and tightly bound with rope.

"He will not be happy if we do this." Miraak cautioned after a short pause, his eyes still fixed on the evil books before him.

The books that had brought him nothing but suffering. Just looking at them made him feel... uneasy, for lack of a better word. It was the same feeling he always had in Apocrypha: alone, yet constantly under watch by an unseen entity.

She just shrugged nonchalantly. "He's not exactly thrilled with me anyways."

He stared at her, his brows pinched together. "Why?"

For a moment she appeared confused. "For starters, I shot him with Auriels bow, temporarily destroyed his plane of Oblivion and stole his favorite champion?"

He rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath. "No. I mean, why are you doing this?" He gestured towards the chest to make his meaning clear.

"Oh," she mumbled, suddenly avoiding eye contact with him. When she finally focused back on him, it was with a seriousness he'd rarely seen from her before.

"These books have brought us nothing but misery -- you most of all." He winced involuntarily at her words, but she continued. "Maybe doing this will give you- us, some closure. If not, then at least it'll piss Hermaeus Mora off, which is good enough for me."

He scoffed, "He is probably laughing at us as we speak, you know."

"Yeah. Well, he can choke on his own tentacles for all I care. Now, are you gonna keep rowing or what?" She asked, feigning irritation as she shut the lid of the chest.

He rolled his eyes but seeing as she revealed why they were there, he stayed true to his word and continued pushing the boat further out to sea.

"You are too eager to defy the Daedra." He admonished lightheartedly.

She shrugged, "We defeated him once. We can do it again."

He gave no response, though there were many things he wanted to say. Most notably that she was naive to think they could defeat a Daedric Prince twice. They'd merely gotten lucky the first time. He wanted to say that, but he didn't.

After a brief silence, she spoke again.

"How long has it been now?"

"Nine months, 14 days." He answered without skipping a beat.

"How time flies," she mused. "It feels like only yesterday that I was nursing you back from the brink of death."

"Don't remind me."

She smirked at his sour tone.

"Come on, I wasn't that bad of a caretaker."

Again, he didn't respond.

Miraak would much rather forget those first few weeks after he was freed from Apocrypha -- after she freed him from Apocrypha -- when he was so weak and ill that he couldn't even walk by himself, and he was forced to rely on the Dovahkiin's good will to help him.

He hated feeling so powerless. So vulnerable.

He'd learned from an young age how to take care of himself, but all those years trapped in Oblivion made him forget. For a long time it pained him to admit how much he needed her in the beginning, to help him remember how to be human. It wasn't quite as painful to admit now, but he'd still rather not be reminded of it.

"Is it such a bad thing to let others take care of you from time to time?" She asked, as if reading his thoughts.

"In my time, relying too much on others was a good way to get yourself killed."

"You're not in that time anymore."

She looked at him with a sincerity that made his insides ache. He almost couldn't stand it -- these feelings she aroused in him.

He looked down at the chest again, just so he didn't have to bear that look anymore.

"This should be far enough." She said suddenly.

Miraak stopped rowing and secured the oars in place. He watched curiously as she reached into her satchel laying on the bench beside her and withdrew an iron padlock. She paused for a split second before reaching out towards him with the padlock.

With little hesitation on his part, he took it from her open palm, his fingers lightly grazing against her skin. He saw goosebumps raise on her arm as he withdrew his fingers, but chalked it up to the cold. For a Nord, she didn't handle the cold very well.

His hands felt heavier than usual as he reached forward and snapped the lock shut around the latch, sealing the chest.

When he looked up at her, there was a hint of relief in her eyes. Like a huge weight had already been lifted from her shoulders. He felt it too.

"Ready?"

He nodded, unwavering.

They both stood carefully as to not tip the small rowboat over, each grabbing one side of the chest, and leveraged it precariously on the boats edge. Kneeling side by side, they shared one last look of determination then, after a deep breath, they pushed the chest overboard. Together they peered over the edge and watched it sink into the dark water below. With all luck, it will remain lost to the depths of the Sea of Ghosts forever.

Then they waited.

A minute passed, two minutes. For what felt like forever they remained there, holding their breaths as they stared into the icy water. Nothing ever happened. No mass of angry, slimy tentacles appeared over them, threatening to disembowel them for desecrating his precious tomes.

When it finally felt safe to do so, they each exhaled their long held breaths. Relief finally settled in his bones.

She spoke after another significant pause, if only to break the ice.

"When I 'won' the Oghma Infinium, the first thing I did with it was drop it into the sea. At least now it's wretched cousins can keep it company."

"Mora will not let this go unpunished. Sooner or later he will have his revenge." He hated that his voice wavered ever so slightly. He was never one to show fear. He could feel it, yes, but he certainly never showed it.

If she noticed, she gave no indication.

"Yes, he will," she said, her tone not lacking in surety. "And when he does, we will face him together."

Then she turned towards him, a faint smile on her face. His stomach nearly jumped out of his throat when her hand slowly slid over to rest atop of his own. Strangely though, he didn't move away. He should've moved away, but he found that he didn't want to.

Even before he'd been imprisoned for thousands of years, Miraak had gone out of his way to avoid intimacy. It was nothing but a weakness to be used against him. After being completely devoid of the touch of others for so long, he'd forgotten how nice it could feel.

Seeming to act on a will of it's own, his hand turned upwards and sought her own significantly smaller one. Her ice cold skin immediately warmed at his touch.

"Together." He repeated with a nod.

Her smile grew a little bit brighter, her cheeks turning a faint pink. It was only due to the cold air, or so he told himself.

"But until then," he continued, "let's get somewhere warm. You're freezing out here."

She gave his hand a little squeeze before pulling away, much to his disappointment. He tried not to let it show, but the way her smirk grew even more told him he was not as stoic as he thought.

His disappointment quickly faded, however, as he watched her take a seat on the bench he'd previously occupied. Still smiling, she crossed one leg over the other and pat the empty space next to her.

"Yes, let's go home."

Home. She'd never called it that before. It was always 'my house' or 'the house', but never 'home'.

Struggling to contain his own smile, he sat down next to her and started unfastening the oars. Before he could react, she scooted closer to him and huddled against his side, digging her hands into his robes for warmth.

She was shivering worse than he'd realized.

He wrapped one of his arms around her to grab the other oar. She angled her body in a way that allowed him to row while still being close enough to absorb his warmth. With a tranquil sigh, she rested her cheek on his chest, the peek of her head stopping just below his chin.

He tried to tell himself she was just cold, but he knew better. He'd always known better.

It was in that moment, with his ferocious little Dragonborn cuddled against his body for warmth, he realized that she was his home, and to his surprise, that wasn't such a scary thought.

For the first time in a long time, he had something worth holding onto and he never planned on letting go.

[tummyachesandchocolatecakes]

First fic for my lovely OC Eliana! Hope y’all love her as much as I already do!

I’ve got to say though, before we get into it, this is my first “proper” emeto fic, where the actual plot is all to do with vomiting rather than the general upset belly kind of thing. Please don’t hate me if it’s no good, I’ve tried my best!

Prompt:

A character has a large meal before going to sleep. Wakes up in the middle of the night to the gurgling and rumbling and swirling of their belly. Spends the rest of the night puking, either in the bathroom or into a bucket or just spewing everywhere, your choice. Only one character in the whole fic, no caretakers, SOs, friends or anyone else for that matter. (I really enjoy your writing but um character dynamics don't interest me in the slightest in the context of emeto lol.)

It was late. Eliana was just finishing up her livestream for the night, a special commission from one of her regulars. She liked this guy and his wants, as much as she LOVED stuffing herself, Anon1075 just wanted to watch her eat food of his request. Sometimes it was nice to not go to bed with a stomach the size of a beach ball. Today he’d simply requested to watch her eat a large mixed meat pizza. Nothing extraordinary, and definitely not a challenge compared to some of her other fans requests!

With a contented, full tummy, El got herself ready for bed. A quick shower, a face mask followed by one last cigarette and she was done for the night. Changing into her sports bra and shorts El checked herself in the full length mirror. Her tummy was oddly quite bloated still, by now it had usually settled. But without giving it too much thought, she gave her belly a small wobbly shake before retiring to bed.

...

El woke with a start. She wasn’t sure what had woken her, only that her sleep had come to a very sudden end. Turning to the clock she saw it was only one am. Rolling back over gave El some idea as to why she was awake. Her belly gave a very unsettled whine followed by lots of liquidy bubbling. Bringing her hand to her stomach she was surprised to feel it distended and swollen beneath her hand. And as she was slowly coming fully round, she realised how upset her belly was. Nausea pooled in her stomach as it sloshed and roiled beneath her touch. She sat up slowly, trying hard not to jostle herself too much.

Sitting upright in her bed she began slowly rubbing gentle circles across her tummy, eager for it to pass. Saliva continuously filed her mouth and she found it getting harder to swallow it back down. Briefly the idea of taking an antacid crosses her mind, however when the prickling sensation started across her face and hands, and the cold sweat started to form across her forehead she knew it wouldn’t help. Knowing what was coming El slowly made her way into her en-suite.

She sat herself infront of the toilet, not quite ready to throw up yet. Her hands caressed her roiling stomach as it fought hard to rid itself of its content. El briefly wondered what had made her feel so sick, she considered maybe the meat on the pizza was bad. However even thinking about food was enough to push her sick tummy over the edge. A sudden, gut wrenching burp escaped her lips as she pulled herself over the toilet bowl. She let out a loud, wet retch as puke began to fill her mouth before pouring into the toilet. Wave after wave of vomit splattered into the toilet. Lumps of partially digested meats and dough splashing into the water. Her stomach felt like it was turning itself inside out she was wretching so hard. Her knuckles went white as she held the toilet seat to stop herself toppling in.

After what felt like an eternity, the retching stopped and El was able to breath. She drew in sharp, fast breaths, her lungs desperate for the oxygen they didn’t get during the vomiting. However after only a few breathe another retch escaped her as her belly churned sickly again and emptied the rest of itself into the bowl.

After the second round of vomiting, Eliana was whacked. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep. But her belly still wasn’t happy. She lent her back against the bathroom wall, exhausted, and placed her hands over her stomach. It was still super upset. She could feel it’s contents roiling under her palms as she tried to rub reassuring circles to calm it down. The coolness of the frosted glass door felt wonderful against her sweat covered skin, bringing some relief to how sick she felt.

She must have dozed off, as the next thing El feels is the rush of hot acid forcing itself up her throat. She slapped her hand over her mouth in a bid to contain the puke until she was over the bowl. Hot vomit spilled out between her fingers as she moved across the bathroom, leaving a trail to the toilet. As before, El threw up hard, each gag bringing up bile and twisting her stomach into tighter knots. God her belly was upset. She collapsed back when the worst of it had eased. Her stomach still feeling just as upset as it had to begin with. She longed for the relief vomiting should have brought her poor tummy, a reprise from the nausea and ache that had settled in her gut from the spasmic clenches of her belly. But after accepting the fact that her belly wasn’t going to be settling for a while, El made herself go back to bed. She left the vomit on the floor, she would deal with it in the morning. Grabbing the waste bin from the bathroom she trudged back to bed, collapsing into the softness of the mattress and falling into a fitful sleep.

8 am and El woke the the buzzing of her alarm. She must have forgotten to turn it off. She rolled over to turn it off, but the movement was enough to set her stomach off. She went from reaching for her phone to reaching for the trash can in an instant. Vomit spilled from her mouth before she even had them chance to sit up, so she dangled her head over the side of the bed as she heaved heavily. Wave after wave of acidic bile filled her mouth before filling the bin. She pressed her hand into her stomach and massaged it, the ache of her muscles making this round of vomiting extra painful. When the vomiting stopped, El lay there for a moment, excess vomit dripping off her lips and splashing into the bin. She lifted her hand without looking, and switched off the goddamn alarm that was still blaring in her ear. Her stomach finally felt better for clearing itself, the constant nausea she had felt from the first time she awoke in the night finally ebbed to a barely noticeable rolling feeling. Unsure of how long she’d feel this well, Eliana took a sip of water, before rolling back onto her back and drifting back off to sleep.

[honestsycrets]

➳ Dead and Gone

❛ pairing | dark!ubbe x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | out of jealousy, ubbe kills reader’s ex-husband. the one she once thought was dead.

❛  warnings | jealousy, murder

A loose end could make anything go to naught. To his grave, grave misfortune… he had grazed over a loose end. His cup of ale was nearly dry and though he went to pour another, Hvitserk was there to receive him.

“He’s going to take her back.” He rumbles in his naturally gravely voice. Ubbe looks up from his drink, wiping his sticky beard clean. He’s drinking to numb the fear.

“It means nothing to her,” Ubbe says though the words are mechanical on his tongue at best. Hvitserk props up his eyebrows to form long streaks along his forehead. 

You don’t actually believe that Ubbe, do you? 

Ubbe takes up another cup, fighting against the nonexistent chains weighing him down while taking a long chug.

“Nothing from her husband that she once thought was dead?”

A miserable emptiness settles in his belly, turning his blue eyes to fixate upon the object of his affection. His wife. Not this… fucker’s wife. You were laying upon your marital bed with a seizure of laughs erupting from your lips. 

“Father rejected your proposal three times! Why did you come a forth?” 

Your ex-husband cheasily smiles, shrugging his shoulders as he turns his cup shyly in circles. Ubbe can see it in his eyes. The longing-- the wait that the blacksmith had gone through until he could come back to your arms. He missed you. 

“Stupidity, I think. He didn’t send your hounds after me! I think he liked me. He was just too fearful to say so.” 

“I think so!” You laugh in response. “He was upset... when you disappeared.” 

“Was he?” Jómarr says, feigning some bullshit pity me face that made Ubbe’s stomach churn. “Not so upset that he didn’t force you to marr--” 

Are you that delusional, Ubbe?

It wasn’t a issue if... it was an issue of when.

He isn’t sure if Hvitserk actually said such words, or if it was the Hvitserk of his mind, but it is all the same. Ubbe’s cup collides with the table. You jerk from your words with your ex-husband, stretching and calling out his name.

Ubbe!

“I’ve got it, (Y/N).” His brother makes his way from behind the heavy oak table, chasing after him as he steps out into the winter cold. It’s slurrying around him when Hvitserk steps out with his warm furs. Ubbe’s hands are busy, twisting and flapping his black hunting knife. His family… it would be sundered.

“He has to die.” Ubbe angles his head, snow catching in the patch of smooth rolls braided into a ponytail. He clamps his jaw shut.

“I’ll help you.”

“She can’t know,” Ubbe says, tremulous and cognizant of the need for artifice. “No one can know.”

Hvitserk wipes the snow off of his patchy honey facial hair, tongue poking out to caress the bottom of his lip. He rocks on his boots, then reaffirms any residual concerns that his older brother may have.

“When has that been a problem, brother?”

He wishes the man was less of a good man than he was. The man to his great disapproval was perfect in nearly every way. He would work with the blacksmith, banging metal on top of metal to form beautiful swords, cutthroat daggers, and sharp axes. He never took another wife. He drank to excess when required of him and at the same time, would cut his losses and return to the empty cabin he built from scratch.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

“Prince Ubbe.” The man clatters his hammer on the ground while holding the scalding prick of a thin, elongated chunk of metal. “It’s good to see you.”

Ubbe pulls his sword of its sheath, thrusting it onto the stands supporting showing pieces for those that had ordered from him. He rubs the sweat out of his eyes with muscular forearms.

“Jómarr.”

“How can I help you?”

Ubbe folds his arms one over another, standing with his arms slightly apart. His eyes settle upon the young blacksmith, leaving him no choice but to abandon his work and come around the pit where he was working.

“You’ve been visiting my wife.”

Jómarr stops in front of him, rubbing his ashen hands together. He bites his lower lip and settles with the irony taste on his tongue. He simpers at the prince, clearing his throat like a hornet had settled in his throat.

“I had no intent on--”

“I know what your intentions were.” He takes a small step forward. The blacksmith steps back.

“You think that you can charm her back into your arms,” the prince says. There is a dangerous undercurrent in his voice. One that Jómarr knows is malicious.  There are plenty of weapons scattered about the room. Jómarr has one better.

“We can settle this with a duel,” Jómarr suggests, allowing Ubbe to turn into a dark corner of his workshop. Any prince was tasked with upholding the principles of their people. After a heavy beat of silence, Jómarr gurgles. A strap of leather cuts off his breath. Ubbe draws his short dagger from his back. He buries it into the man’s ribs, several pointed thrusts piercing him in perfect succession. His hard eyes glitter in pleasure from seeing Jómarr’s eyes go out, Hvitserk fighting every bloody flail until he was nothing but a heavy and limp body in his arms, in and out of consciousness.  

“Should we bury him?” Hvitserk asks.

“Don’t bother,” Ubbe walks to a basin of water, cleaning any evidence off his blade. Hvitserk bears a sardonic smile, looking into the slow-burning flame of the workshop. “No one will remember him.”

“Let’s just burn him.” Hvitserk says far too jovially.

He drops Jómarr carelessly, then takes up his leg toward the flame. Ubbe takes a glance at his blood-lusting brother who chucks the strap of leather into the flame. Of course, Hvitserk couldn’t leave it there. It’s something of a strange dream when he bends down and helps swing this kind man over the flames. He smells crisp like the remnants of Jarl Borg after father blood-eagled him.

It was done.

Ubbe wakes with a start, your tears were wrenching over your cheeks upon the corner of the bed. He could ask what the reason was for your tears but for what? He knew the source of your pain. He lays stroking the bed for some time, a dull expression in his eyes. The flame warming the longhouse flickers low, leaving a shadow that flickers over the pearling tears down your cheeks.

“You’ve heard.”

“Tell me you didn’t do it.” You ask him for both the truth and a lie because it could have been either Hvitserk or him who ultimately did Jómarr in. He sits up in your marital bed, the sheets low around his hips.

“Do it?” Ubbe repeats, clearly missing your point. He’s not that stupid but still it aches him to see you so visibly shaken-- even if he was the source of the ache. This was... this was for your good. His good. Your marriage would be better off for it. 

“Tell me you didn’t DO it!” You shout through the longhouse, reaching over to strike your palm against his bearded jaw. He catches your hand, twisting you over to lay on your back.

“Listen to yourself. Why would I do that?” Ubbe plays off.

“Out of jealousy.” You wretch a sob, bubbling over your cheeks like drops of rain. “Out of knowing that he was mine?”

He was yours? His eyes blow wide, now unapologetic in the events surrounding the day. Killing Jómarr, the young man who came in to pick up a weapon and skating out while everyone was far too busy to worry about the young princes who encountered the dead bodies.

You were in love with him. After all this time. That-- that couldn’t be. You were his. He-- He was yours. There was no room for third parties.

“There would be nothing to gain.” He replies.

The weariness seeps over you. He reads it on your face because of course, it was a relief. But then, in the same breath, it was not. Maybe this was the price for ridding himself of any suitors. 

“I... I know.” You chalk out, knowing it was true. One he would pay gladly a hundred times over if it meant you here, climbing into his arms when he offers them out to you. Your cheek settles on his chest, smearing wet tears that should have filled him with grief. You weave in and out of bouts of tears.

“It’s just... I thought I lost him.”

You speak again after a moment. 

“And then I did.” 

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