Skyrim One-Shots

Ulfric x Reader (Female) ~The Council(2)~

The Nord clenched his eyes shut, leaning back in his chair and away from his desk as his back thudded with light, irritating pain. Ulfric knew if he spent another night without rest it would get to the point where it would be equal to the feeling of a whip on his back, something he didn't much like the idea of being the uneasiness it brought to him and the general awful memories.

And yet, a leather-bound book still perched halfway open on his desk, the writing of it small and detailed in every order that was inked.

He rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, a hand coming to rub his eyes with the bottom of his palm. He felt muggish from the overworked nights and even busier days but there was nothing much he could do.

Both he and Tullius were hauling ass, trying to follow these orders as they were commanded.

In the book, each day had a set of major tasks they needed to complete first thing in the morning, and after came the minor tasks personalized to his title and responsibilities.

No doubt, the Dragonborn was an extremely organized person almost to a fault. Fuck- they'd even put in notes in the margins to remember to eat!

Half the time he didn't. Half-heartedly, he hoped these friends of the Dragonborn wouldn't chop his head off because of it.

Either way, he was following a strict plan every day. The major tasks took hours usually, mostly consisting of talking to certain people or moving troops to a certain area, raiding a certain place, etcetera. 

The mere thought of tomorrow made him groan: how long could he keep doing this?

It was nearly midnight, anyway, and the timetable laid out for the day suggests he do paperwork at this time, going through Jorleif's pile of citizen problems that apparently only he could solve.

After this, at approximately one in the morning, he could go to sleep. Even so, he'd be back up at 7, and it usually took him quite some time to fall asleep each night.

He scratched his forearm, the heat of the room once more overwhelming him despite the fact he'd thrown off his shirt and now his chest was bare. Scars uncovered.

Genuinely, he didn't know how he felt. Sure, he might have been bitching a bit at the loss of freedom, but it wasn't like he ever got a lot of sleep anyway. When he did, the sleep was not restful.

Ulfric had tried many, many ways to attempt to sleep, and none of them ever worked. The last time he slept more than 7 hours was when he was 29; he remembered it vividly. 

He, a few years out of Thalmor hands, had decided he wanted to go to a brothel. However, he'd gotten so drunk he couldn't tell left from right, and wisely decided to only sleep with a whore.

Only sleep. Not fuck, no, just sleep in the same bed.

Slept like a gods-be-damned baby.

Ulfric, if he was behind honest, couldn't even remember the last time he had a good round or two with a woman.

Pathetic. He knew this word well when describing his sex life.

Galmar, however (the rugged fucker), still got plenty of attention somehow. The bastard played on women's strings like a damn lute, and soon enough, he'd get an innkeeper for the night and she'd be back for more if she ever saw him again. Ulfric didn't understand how he did it! 

Sure, he had his fair share of starers, but he couldn't risk being killed by an assassin disguised as a whore. Half the time it was a money thing too.

Also, the many times he'd almost walked into the brothel the last two decades, his main fear was accidentally getting a fucking bloodsucker in his side, clingy and neigh impossible to get rid of.