Title: Variations of Stormcloak

Rating: T for language, themes, implied sex, alcohol, etc.

Summary: The Dovahkiin switches Ulfric's mead with Sanguine's brew. Even future High Kings can come undone.

A/N: I'm sorry.

"Bone Breaker," the Jarl wailed as his half-lidded gaze met mine. His hand brushed along the furs draped around his neck until it met his groin; then, to his housecarl's horror, those same calloused fingertips began fumbling with the ties of his trousers. "Wanna see my stormcock?"

Oh, by the Divines! The poor man! My jaw slacked, capturing a perfect 'o' on my lips. I was hardly fazed by the content of the phases Ulfric was sputtering out; nay, I'd spent too much time in the Ragged Flagon to even pretend – but I was rather bewildered that I was able to pull off such a stunt as this! Sanguine nor his mead disappointed. I suspected the Jarl may slur when I traded bottles, but this? This? Oh, if the daedric prince were here, he'd certainly grant me immortality for my genius. Galmar caught Ulfric as he began toppling over and like the good Dovahkiin that I am, aided him. I pushed against Ulfric's chest to steady him and when I was convinced he wouldn't crush his face in the ancient bricks, I wrapped one of his heavy arms around my shoulders. Galmar mirrored my actions and grumbled some curses under his breath.

"What are you laughing at?" he groaned through his bared teeth.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," I assured him. Really, I couldn't; I was trying really hard – not because the situation was a little awkward, but because I could feel every nerve in my lungs and I was exerted beneath half of the huge Nord's fucking weight. "To his room, then?"

"Where else?" Galmar agreed, shifting beneath Ulfric's arm. "He's done for the night."

"Hey, hey! – where're we going?" the Jarl slurred. "I'm having fun."

"You're going to bed," I told him very matter-of-factly. "So much for holding your liquor."

"No, I don't want to," he frowned and tried to gain leverage of his arms; we, Galmar and I, held them down and pursued our treacherous journey to the barracks. He either gave in or forgot quickly, and his steward was kind enough to open the door for us. As we began ascending up the steps, Ulfric tossed his head in my direction. "Izzhild, –marry me."

His breath against my cheek was like a sewer on a blistering day. "No," I told him for, literally, the sixth time.

"Buh why?"

"I said so," I sighed.

Ulfric swung his head in Galmar's direction. "Marry me."

"I already have," the housecarl grunted. Ulfric's head dipped to his chest; he seemed to be contemplating this, for he began humming, and lifted his head when the light ignited.

"I love you," he told him. I laughed. "I don't remember, old friend – have we, uh. . .con. . .stupiated our marriage?"

"We haven't consummated our marriage," Galmar heaved Ulfric's body up the last step. "You wouldn't have me with the lights on."

Ulfric leaned his head onto Galmar's shoulder. "I'm sorry. Let's do it tonight."

"Who gets top?" I asked in-between heavy breaths.

"I do," they answered in unison. Galmar halted before the Jarl's bedroom to glare into the other's eyes, a very serious scorn pinched in his heavy features. "You wouldn't know how to please a doe, stormcock."

"That's not what your mother said," Ulfric snorted.

As amusing as it was to watch them spit at one another, I was quite sure I was going to collapse. "Shut it, you hags. I'm going to die."

They each took turns cursing as we made our way into the Jarl's room; just as we began leveling Ulfric onto his mattress, I realized he must have fallen asleep, and his face was. . .euphoric. I cocked my head to the side, reading into the firelight that gleamed across his features – but Galmar recognized the reality of the poor man's expression.

"He just pissed himself."

"Are you fucking–" yes, he was fucking; drops of piss were running beneath the cuff of the Jarl's trousers and onto his boot. "Fuck."

If there ever was a line, he'd certainly crossed it now. My nose scrunched as I evaluated the poetic drizzle. Another pro of living in the Cistern was that if a man pissed himself, we were already swimming in the Rift's shit, and hey, who cared if the sheets soiled? I admit to being fond of my tutor, Brynjolf, although that changed very quickly when I found some crust glued between his furs. Semen is where I draw the line. Anyway. . .

I pulled a leather strap from my pocket and tied my thin, white-blonde hair back. Galmar looked at me with a crooked brow.

"I'll clean him up," I said as though I were offering from the good of my heart and not because I was the cause. "I saw you eying that brown-haired maiden. She's certainly tipsy enough to consider bedding you."

"Ha!" Galmar sort of half-laughed and shrugged his thick shoulders. "I've been doing this too long, girl. I'll take care of him."

The feels. "So have I, boy. I got this."

My insisting must have been suspicious. He looked at me, his face hardening as he began accusing me, the heroic, honor-bound Dragonborn– "do you have anything to do with this?"

"Nooooooo."

I'm actually a very learned liar, mind you, but I was a bit tipsy myself. The old Nord's eyes rolled but he spared me a beating. "Don't tell Ulfric. He'll butcher you with Talos' axe until you won't be recognizable even in Sovngarde."

"Uh-huh," I sang and nodded in his direction. He left the room, and I was left to my own clever devices – I supposed the first thing to do was actually clean him up, right? I hunted through the remote quarters of the palace until I came across some water, a rag, and a pail; I then returned to Ulfric, whose snoring was a thu'um within itself.

Now was the dirty business. I admit, a girlish giggle bubbled in my throat, but I was too honed on acting on my not-so-present maternal instinct as I discarded the layers of the Jarl's dress. He was older than I by several decades and yet he'd managed by either genetics or prayer to maintain his figure. Oh, sweet Talos! I felt like a perverted fool.

Well, I am. But this particular lady-like feature had never been expressed so much on the crook of my lips as it was now. Nevermind the monstrous roar and piss, I wouldn't mind taking this man right then and there. Oh, Divines. I shot a look at the door to ensure no one was shadowing me before I finished Ulfric's work in unfastening his trousers. I yanked them to his knees, pulled off his boots, and finished completely undressing him, leaving him nude and soaked in all his shit-faced glory. And there it was – the stormcock. It was as thick as any Nord's but something about it seemed to wield potential. . .

Ah, but this was wrong. I have few morals and not molesting a man while he's unconscious is one of them. Besides, no matter how much I played with it, I knew it would never harden. Mead has the effect. Unfortunately.

I twisted the rag before applying it between Ulfric's legs. I began from the top down, for the liquid was still new, and once I leveled myself to the mature woman that I am, I noticed the texture of his thighs was unusual. His skin was thicker in some places and not in others and the patches brimmed with pinkish-silver, just as a salmon might when it breaks through the water's surface and beneath the moon. I traced my fingers over what I recognized as scars, but like the night sky, I couldn't keep track of which ones I'd counted or even remember which number I'd pronounced last.

And they were assorted into various shapes and sizes. Some I recognized as burns, others as casualties of the hunt or war. However, several around his chest, abdomen, neck, and wrists were quite peculiar; they were parallel of one another and like wrinkles sank under my touch – they'd been derived from a sharp piece of steel, and one that had been sheathed beneath a steady hand. Beneath the Thalmor's hand.

Did he wail when he confessed all the secrets he knew? Did he wiggle beneath their touch? Or did he sit as stern as a king?

A sudden spell of exhaustion weakened the bend of my legs like an avalanche or a sudden sandstorm – or whatever comes on quite suddenly and violently. I finished my task, replaced the rag in the pail, and clothed Ulfric beneath his sheets.

Then I lay beside him, as bare as he, and sought his hand beneath the green. It was warm, as is common with his race, and it wasn't soft at all – it was hardened, calloused, and stiff. Yet it served like bark against my own, for my hand was like water – molding into the rigid. I took his arm and held it against my body, my nose nuzzling into his shoulder, and I thought losing my freedom to become queen wouldn't be that much of a sacrifice at all if I could lie like this every now and again.

"I'll marry you," I whispered. He smiled.

"WHERE'S MY AXE!?" a shout woke me from my sleep. My entire body trembled as I sat upright, blindly seizing the blanket to cover my breast – "WE'RE UNDER INVASION!"

Oh my. I began to redress in the dark. "Who is invading us, my Jarl?"

"I – I can't explain to you, but we need to prepare!" he growled, thrusting the doors of his wardrobe open. "I need my axe. Where's my axe!?"

I frowned. "Ulfric, no one is invading us – am I right?"

"No. I told you, I can't explain –"

"You're drunk. Go back to sleep. Now," I demanded, kicking off the lace around my hips before slamming my face back into the pillow. Ulfric grunted but did as he was told and within seconds, the thu'um sang me to sleep.

I announced the following morning I wouldn't marry him.

The End.