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bakuliwrites · 1 year

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Devotion- Cicero x Listener

Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI)

Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim

Relationship: Cicero x Listener

TW: mention of some blood (nothing too violent though), smut, fluff

Summary: He worships her, every piece of her. All of his Listener must be worshipped, as ordained. Cicero, sweet Cicero, eager to please. Eager to serve. His lips on hers, his hands roving, searching, exploring. Venerating. He dies inside her, and it is glorious. He would die a thousand times in her, as many times as she wanted. Immolating in her light over and over and over again. Cicero is unsure of this new Listener, but his feelings are muddled and confusing. What will happen when the Listener is forced to choose to take or spare his life?

A/N: I have been trapped in an airport the past two days and am shamelessly writing smut in the terminal. I don't care, I'm so bored and thirsty for this mad jester. I had to do what I had to do, and if writing smut in the middle of the goddamn airport is what I want, then it's what's happening. As I write this, my flight has been delayed yet again. I'm losing my mind. As always, thank you for reading! Any likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I've loved Cicero for a long time. I know he's not everyone's cup of tea, but I've been desperately wanting to write for him. He's a favorite Elder Scrolls character of mine for sure. Thank you again! Hope you are all having a great end to the year! Lots of love <3

Read here in this post or over on my AO3.

Silence. Deafening, deafening silence. For so many eons it feels as if all Cicero has heard is laughter and silence. Echoing endlessly in his mind, filling it to the brim, pounding against his skull. He wonders, sometimes, as he lays awake at night if the silence and the laughter will be enough to rupture his skull. If they’ll pour out into the world and drown everyone with the jester’s final words to him. And then here she is, listening. Always listening. Hearing the very words he has longed to hear for over a decade now.

And she’s so ignorant with it all. A rube. A newcomer into this underground society, stepping into his territory, granted with a blessing that should rightfully be poor, loyal Cicero’s. Cicero, who lives in abject silence, forced to watch as a stranger is gifted with the boon of Her voice. Mother always knows what’s best. He wouldn’t dare question Her, and he wouldn’t dare question Her authority on gracing a new Listener with the Gift. He’ll be loyal. Oh so loyal, as Cicero always is. But it does not stop him from hating her. Oh, he’ll serve her, faithful and devoted as he is. If this is what the Night Mother wants, he won’t question. He will only do as he is told. But he doesn’t have to like it.

These months, he’s watched the new Listener with scrutiny. Watched as she’s gained the favor of the other members in Falkreath, as she’s wormed her way into the good graces of that harlot, Astrid. He doesn’t trust anyone here. There’s no reason to, not when they question the ultimate authority of Mother. Especially that Astrid. But the Listener…

Well, Cicero isn’t so sure yet. Her kindness made itself apparent when she helped him on the road just outside Whiterun. He recognized her face immediately when he arrived at the sanctuary. She still had that look of bewilderment and awe that fledgling assassins always have. That he once had in his early days in Cheydinhal. Over the months, he watched the Listener’s dazzlement fade and be replaced with the acceptance of life, such as it is. Yet, there was a certain brightness in her that never seemed to fade. A gentility and strength. She’s been genial with Cicero, but he can glean little else from her. Is she a traitor or an ally? Someone he can trust to upkeep the authority of the Night Mother? Or someone who seeks to tear down everything he holds dear?

The Listener speaks little to Cicero. She speaks little to anyone, really, opting to keep to herself on her downtime. She usually works alone, her skills honed enough to take on even the most difficult of contracts. It’s admirable, really, watching her work. He’s had the pleasure of witnessing her train with the others. From the corner of the room, his dark eyes fall on her, observing every swift motion, every swipe of her blade. And every once in a while, she catches his eye and a spark of something curious lights the facets of her irises. Heat blooms across dear Cicero’s cheeks. How confusing. How strange. Best not to think about it, he reasons, returning to his duties.

“Do you ever have time to train, Cicero?” she asks him one day, innocent curiosity softening her features.

“Oh ho ho!” he returns, confusion muddling his already muddled mind, but he wouldn’t dare let her see that, “Cicero has no time to train. Not when the Night Mother needs tending! Cicero has no need. He takes no contracts. Keeps to himself. Does what he needs to for our Sweet Mother.”

Silence. Such deafening silence. But she smiles softly.

“Well, if you ever want to train, I’m always looking for new partners,” the Listener concludes before gliding off through the snaking corridors of the sanctuary. Cicero is left to stew in annoyance and confusion. Doesn’t she understand his role as Keeper? Doesn’t she understand that he doesn’t train anymore? Why does she ask him such things?

This isn’t the last time she asks this question, and ones like it. Cicero is busy, he returns, but should the Listener require other services, he’s a drop of a hat away.

***

She brings him gifts sometimes. Sweet rolls and honey nut treats, little flowers she stops to pick on her journeys across the continent.

“I thought the Night Mother might like these,” the Listener offers, handing him a small bouquet of nightshade, their purple petals flowering out from their dark centers.

“Oh, yes!” Cicero greets, finding himself delighted by the offer despite his distrust of this woman, “Mother will most certainly love these! Thank you, thank you!”

He places the flowers at Mother’s feet and watches as the Listener passes him a tender beam, before disappearing once again into the shadows. Cicero is even more suspicious. Is this her clumsy attempt to gain his favor? To lull him into a false security? This isn’t the first time he’s dealt with traitors and usurpers, false prophets and charlatans. But the Listeners words were the sacred words:

Darkness rises when silence dies.

And she’d said it with such conviction. Surely, the Night Mother wouldn’t lead him astray.

“No, no. Musn’t question Mother. She knows all,” he mumbles to himself as he sweeps up the area in front of Mother’s coffin. He sweeps furiously, fragments of the booming laughter in his head falling to the floor, shattering into pieces and littering the ground with the final moments of the jester. He sweeps them away, but he just ends up breathing them in again, endless dust, endless laughter, endless silence.

He wonders when the Night Mother will speak to Her Listener again. Wonders if he stood beside the Listener, pressed his ear to her, if he could hear the echo of Mother’s voice in her. If the Listener bleeds, will she bleed the Voice? In her final moments, would her death rattle exhale Mother’s words? Would he finally hear? He wonders if he pressed himself to her, tight and close, if her whole body would act as a shell at the beach, echoing Mother’s voice like the powerful waves of a dark sea.

***

“Dear Cicero?” her gentle voice sounds from the doorway, halting his endless humming. He whips around to look at his Listener and freezes. Cicero hates when she prances about in her nightclothes. They’re billowy and thin. Revealing, in a modest sort of way. He can see the silhouette of her curves, outlined underneath her nightgown by the dull light of the sanctuary. The pinpoints of her nipples peek through the fine cloth, and her bosom rises and falls gently with each breath. Silence abates in him for a beat. The laughter ceases for a moment. It’s been a long time since he’s felt- since he’s felt whatever this is. And then she calls him, “Dear Cicero,” and it drives him mad. Mad, mad, mad.

“Yes, my Listener?” he returns, ever loyal. Always ready to serve.

“May I join you? I can’t sleep and- I’d like some company,” she goes on sheepishly, eyes bright and searching. Cicero obliges. Loyal Cicero would never deny such an innocent request, but he wonders why she doesn’t ask Nazir, or Gabriela, or Festus. Why him? He’s wary, but he won’t fight it.

So she huddles up in a chair beside him while he works, while he tends to Mother and talks aloud to himself. The Listener says nothing. She sits in silence and watches curiously as the Keeper goes about his duties. Occasionally, she chuckles at a limerick or song Cicero lets slip from his ever chattering mouth. Her laugh is musical. Her laugh is grating. He hates it. He loves it. Cicero doesn’t know what he thinks.

Eventually, Cicero looks over and she’s fallen fast asleep, head resting against the chair back, knees huddled to her chest. She looks so terribly uncomfortable and yet, so utterly peaceful. Silence abates, laughter ceases. As if he can’t help himself, Cicero brushes back a strand of her hair, gloved fingers lingering for a moment on her cheeks. There is something lovely about this Listener, in all her silence and shroud of mystery. In her small kindnesses and attempts to befriend him. Perhaps Cicero is too cold. Perhaps he’s not cold enough.

“Poor, tired Listener shouldn’t sleep in such discomfort,” he mutters, carefully lifting her from her chair. She stirs, but does not wake, sighing softly and snuggling up in his arms. Heat blooms along Cicero’s cheeks as he carries her towards her chambers. Gently, the Keeper tucks the Listener into her bed and leaves behind only a single nightshade on her bed stand. For a moment, Cicero knows peace. Momentary peace, a mind clear for once, before confusion takes over again. Maybe he hates her. Maybe he's infatuated. It all feels the same. That same deep cutting emotion. Friend or foe? Enemy or ally? Cicero has learned not to trust, but Mother wouldn’t lead him astray. No, Mother would never lead him astray. Right?

***

Sometimes, at night, when Cicero dares to sleep, he dreams of her. Of the Listener, beckoning him into her bed. Temptress, siren. His lustful dreams fill his core with a heat he’s not felt in years. Her naked form greets him, pulling him closer. She takes him in the sanctity of her bedroom, in his, in every room of the sanctuary. He worships her, every piece of her. All of his Listener must be worshipped, as ordained. Cicero, sweet Cicero, eager to please. Eager to serve. His lips on hers, his hands roving, searching, exploring. Venerating. He dies inside her, and it is glorious. He would die a thousand times in her, as many times as she wanted. Immolating in her light over and over and over again.

He wakes in a confused sweat, regretting falling asleep, and continues his duties. He tries desperately to push these lustful fantasies from his mind. But it’s so terribly difficult when she brushes past him, when she gifts him flowers and sweets. When she smiles at him and asks how his day has been. When she speaks to him like he’s a person, and not just the ghost of a jester long dead.

***

Wrack and ruin. That devil Astrid is up to no good. Cicero knew never to trust her, he rages as he stumbles through the snow. Charlatan, pretender, imposter. And that damned sheepdog chasing after him, wounding him. Well, Cicero gives as good as he gets. Better, even. That stinking wolfman can’t chase after him now, not after the slash dear Cicero’s given him.

Dawnstar is a wreck, but it’s better than nothing. Cicero clutches his injured abdomen, crimson seeping between his fingers as he staggers down the stairs and retreats into the inner rooms. He’s always known he wouldn’t get any sympathy, any understanding from any of Astrid’s underlings. But the Listener… Now they’re an entirely different matter. Will she believe that liar Astrid? Side with that devil? Or will she find sanity in madness? In Cicero’s conviction? In their beloved Night Mother?

Protected by an army of ghostly assassins, a feral troll, and layers of branching corridors and locked doorways, Cicero awaits his fate. For hours, it feels, he shivers in the depths of the abandoned Dawnstar sanctuary, pressing his hand to his wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. He needs some amount of strength if the Listener chooses to end him. He’s not going without a fight.

And then, after what feels like eternities of silence and of laughter, he hears the door to the sanctuary open, a distant creak . And he laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

“Listener! Is that you? Oh, I knew you'd come. Send the best to defeat the best. Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn't slay sly Cicero,” he calls out, waiting eagerly for a response. But he’s met with what he’s always met with: silence. No matter, he thinks to himself. He doesn’t need them to respond to make this entertaining. No, if he’s going to go out, he’s going out with a bang and a laugh.

He can hear them moving through the corridors, swiftly putting down the specters that haunt and protect this sanctuary. Cicero knows it’s the Listener. He can feel it in his bones. And their silence does little to assuage his fears. His death is coming. It’s imminent.

“Oh, but this isn't at all what Mother would want. You kill the Keeper or I kill the Listener? Now that's madness,” he trails off. He doesn’t want to have to plead, but he will. Though he can’t hear Mother’s voice, he knows this isn’t what She would want. All Mother wants is to keep Her family together. Not see it destroyed. Not again. No, Cicero doesn’t want to be left alone again.

“All right, so Cicero attacked that harlot, Astrid! But what's a fool to do, when his mother is slandered and mocked? Surely the Listener understands!” he begs. She’s moving so fast. He’s hardly gotten a chance to steel himself for the battle to come. Surely the Listener wouldn’t kill poor Cicero. She gives him gifts, asks for his company. Smiles at him, talks to him. Like he’s just as much a person as she is. As anyone else is. Not like some madman. Surely this kind Listener wouldn’t end his life so cruelly? Surely the two of them wouldn’t rip this family apart? Because he’ll be as much a part of this tragedy as she is.

The doors creak open and there she is. Relief and fear flood the Keeper’s heart. The Listener appears in the doorway, a shadow opposite the flickering light of the fire in the hearth behind him. Cicero smirks.

"And now we come to the end of our play. The grand finale."

Damn her, she still won’t talk. Her brows are furrowed, eyes lit with anger and mouth set in a deep frown. He’s never seen her look so upset. This is it, Cicero thinks. The end of the Keeper. The end of the Listener. He’s disappointed his Mother so deeply. How will She ever forgive him?

"You caught me! I surrender! Ha ha ha ha,” he chuckles before dissolving into a coughing fit.

“There’s only one cure for your madness, Cicero,” she finally, finally, speaks, but it stings him, “ Me. ”

And then something wild sparks in him. Something fiery and warm. A devilish grin pulls at the corners of Cicero’s lips. His eyes meet the enigmatic gaze of his Listener.

"Oh, I like that!” Cicero purrs, before loudly adding, “Very good, very good! Creative! But killing me would be a mistake! Oh yes. You would displease our Mother, hmm? For she's your Mother too, isn't she... Listener? Walk away! Let poor Cicero live! Tell the pretender Astrid you did the job! Stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero! One little itty bitty lie!"

“You want me to lie to my superiors?” the Listener returns, something unreadable crossing her face as she strides purposefully towards the crumpled up Keeper. He gulps, unsure of her tone.

“You, my dear Listener, are Astrid’s superior,” he reasons, trying to maintain the grin on his face, though finding it difficult in this moment of uncertainty. The Listener steps ever closer. Cicero grips the knife at his side. This is it. It’s the end for one of them. He’s failed his Mother so spectacularly.

And then, something strange happens. As she approaches, the Listener kneels down, features softening, brows relaxing and eyes filling with sorrow.

“You’re hurt, dear Cicero,” she breathes, looking at the crimson blooming through his clothes. She gently removes his hand from his wound, inspects the injury, and tugs off her gloves. She hovers her hand over the slash in his abdomen, Cicero watching with growing curiosity and confusion. A spell, radiant and warm, emanates from her palm.

“I know that you are wary of me,” she begins, her voice quiet, “But like you, I hear a voice long dead. Long passed on. I know about the jester, Cicero. I know about your life before.”

“You- know about the jester?” he offers, wincing as his flesh repairs itself, stitches itself back together with the help of her restorative powers.

“We are both Listeners, in our own ways. Heeding the calls, the orders, the perplexing whims of the past,” she continues, gazing into his eyes, some strange understanding glittering in her irises, “We do not always choose who we hear. But we do not have to be alone in our suffering. Or our boons. Whatever forms those take.”

“I am loyal to the Night Mother, Cicero,” she assures, pulling her hand away, satisfied with the closure of his injury. Good as new, Cicero thinks, poking at the newly healed flesh, flabbergasted by this odd Listener.

“And I am loyal to you,” she goes on, “And should you need more proof, I would be glad to give it. Ask me to cut my hand, to bleed as a pact. Ask of me anything to prove to you that I can be trusted, and I will do it. You have shown me nothing but loyalty and kindness, dear Cicero. Your devotion is admirable. I know you have struggled to believe I am an ally. I have tried to show you, in my own clumsy way. But I assure you, I am with you. I am at your side, now until the end of us.”

Silence. And then laughter. Endless laughter. Oh, how silly he’s been! How utterly silly, foolish Cicero has been! The halls of the Dawnstar sanctuary echo with Cicero’s maniacal laughter. What utter foolishness, imbecilic and doltish. This Listener, in all her kindness, would never betray him. Would never betray the Night Mother. She’s offering up sacrifices to prove it, and here Cicero has been, doubting her. And more confusingly, dreaming of her. Visions of adoring her, of knowing her and her knowing him, fill Cicero’s mind.

“Your imprudent Cicero has been so utterly foolish, dear Listener,” he chuckles ruefully, “You’ve proven your devotion to our Mother well enough. Cicero is the one who needs to prove his devotion.”

Her fingers sweep a limp strand of Cicero’s copper hair out of his face, and he takes the opportunity to gently grasp her hand in his. He holds it by his cheek, a silent “thank-you” for sparing his life. Her pulse is quick, fluttering. Her cheeks are flushed and rosy. When he lets go of her, she does not withdraw, instead tenderly caressing the angle of his cheek with the soft pad of her thumb.

“Your devotion is unmatched, dear Cicero,” she whispers. A breathless tension hovers weighty in the air. A tension that has existed from the moment he set eyes on her. And she, him. Cicero’s outfit is hot, so hot, suddenly, when moments ago he was shivering from blood loss and the chill of winter. No, his devotion hasn’t been showcased nearly enough. Cicero’s Listener must know how utterly, completely, entirely devoted he is.

And so show her, he shall. His lips press against hers, hungry, yearning, desperate. And she is equally as needy. Her fingers tangle in his hair, grip the short ones at the nape of his neck, knock off the cap that rests atop his head.

“My dear Listener, my devotion to you is body and soul,” he proclaims, ripping off the bodice of her armor as she makes quick work of his trousers and shirt. She gasps into him, filling Cicero’s lungs with her warmth. He breathes her in like smoke, letting her ignite him. Destroy and rebuild him. Silence abates. Laughter ceases. The Listener is his sole focus. His loyalty is unsurpassable.

Her skin is warm. So warm. So much warmer than he expected. Warmer than the cold flesh he’s been tending to this last decade or so. It’s been so long since he’s felt anyone’s touch, anyone’s warmth. So long since he could give any part of himself to another, other than as the role of Keeper, and Keeper alone. So long since he’s received. And her touch is so gentle. This savage assassin, brutal and cold, yet so tender and sweet with poor, dear Cicero.

“My dearest Cicero,” the Listener coos, trailing kiss after kiss along his jawline, suckling at the tender flesh of his neck. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, digs his fingers into the supple flesh of her ass.

“My sweet, loyal Cicero,” she praises, nails tickling the sensitive flesh of his thighs.

“My Listener,” is all he can manage to utter, voice cracking as she sinks her teeth into his neck. Gods, he welcomes her markings, her claims on his body. She is his Listener and he is her Keeper. Bound to one another in a union that no one else in the whole world could ever understand.

As Cicero’s hands rove over her body, his eyes drink her form in. He traces the branching veins underneath her skin, each wiry sinew of her muscles, the fibrous tendons of her arms. He can feel the pulse of warm blood flowing through her. Feel the thrum of her heart beating, strong and powerful, behind her ribcage. He lays his lips to the pert bud of one of her nipples and loses his mind at the sound of her keens and gasps.

“Such a pretty voice, my Listener,” he purrs, “You should sing with dear Cicero more.” To this, she gives a twittering laugh. He’s forgotten what a pleasant laugh sounds like and basks in the glory of it. His mind quickly abandons this thought as her hand cups him, massaging and insistent. Gods, he’s so sensitive. It’s been so long. So very long. He won’t last much longer if this keeps up.

Her fingers wrap around his dick, stroke up and down in a languorous fashion. He swallows up her gasp as he swipes a finger along her cunt. She’s so wet already, ready for him. Husky grunts and tiny mewls fill the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire, as she picks up her pace and he dips two fingers into her heat. He pumps, rhythmic and slow, each motion an attempt to show her that Cicero lives to please her. To venerate and worship his beloved Listener.

“Cicero,” she whimpers, breath fanning softly against his lips, her breathing shallow and rapid. She’s close. He can feel her walls quaking around his slick fingers, and he’s not far off either. Her free hand grips his back, digging her fingernails into his flesh, a silent plea for him to fill her. And fill her he shall. Cicero would do anything for his Listener. He would lie prostrate at her feet if she asked him to. Stand guard over her until the very stars in the sky fizzled to nothing but dust.

Cicero withdraws his fingers from her, frowning at the little whine she gives at leaving her empty.

“Hush, dear Listener,” he coos, drawing her in close, “I won’t leave you empty for long. Worry not. Dear Cicero isn’t that cruel.”

His lips press kiss after kiss down her abdomen. He feels her body shiver as he reaches her heat. Cicero’s eyes glimmer with mischief in the firelight, and hers with that ever-present inquisitiveness. She is a vision from any angle, but this one especially. Her breasts rise and fall with each labored breath. She is open to him and he will respect this with every fiber in his being. Now, to worship his Listener as she deserves. Cicero dives into her folds, tongue lapping her up. Her moans are enough to send him into a whole new kind of madness. A welcome, drunken madness. His tongue darts in and out of her entrance, nose bumping against her inner thighs. He grips her legs, tight to keep her in place, but not so tight as to injure her. The feeling of her fingers carding through his hair alone could make him finish.

He lays her on her back, atop his discarded clothes. The floor is cold, hard, and covered in layers of ash and grime. He wouldn’t dare lay her down on this filth. Cicero wouldn’t dream of letting his precious Listener scramble around in the dirt. Cicero will take it all. All the pain of kneeling on the rough stone flooring, fragments digging into his skin. He’ll take the markings and the layer of dark soot that will stain his fair skin. For his Listener. All for her. And he would have it no other way.

This act is sacred. Her pleasuring him, him pleasuring her. This is a reverence he has never known. His tongue swirls around her clit and she breathes his name, a hymn in this temple of night and shadow. She tenses as she comes closer and closer to undoing, her legs shaking in his grasp.

“I want us to finish together, my darling, Cicero,” she begs, and thus he shall oblige. He withdraws from her, licking his lips, lapping her up, luxuriating in the taste of her. She smashes her lips against his, sloppy and desperate. Cicero positions his Listener on his lap, lining her entrance up with his hardened cock.

The scent of iron hangs heavy in the air, his own blood mingling with soot and smoke. His hands grip the supple flesh of her ass and thighs. He kneads and massages as she lowers herself onto his erection, so painfully slow. He handles her carefully. Not like porcelain, no. The Listener is not fragile. Far from it. But he treats her like a fine, ceremonial sword: something elegant and sacred, but sharpened and ready to dole out damage when needed.

“Are you ready, my Keeper?” she questions, eyes dark with lust, cheeks flushed with arousal.

“Cicero is always ready,” he growls. With this, she rocks her hips against his. Sheathed inside of her, Cicero knows what it feels like for the first time to be unioned with the Listener. This bond is beyond anything else he will ever know.

She grinds faster into him, his tip hitting her deep, making her whimper joyously, aching and longing. He’ll gladly let her milk him for all he’s worth. Anything his Listener wants, he’ll oblige. His core tightens, releases, tightens. Her nails dig into his back, his knees into the floor. He’ll be so sore tomorrow, but he cares not. He’d do it again, and again, and again if she wanted. In the enveloping shadows, the Keeper and the Listener come undone for one another. Cicero spills into her, giving all that he has. She tightens around him, walls pulsing, drawing from him everything she needs. Everything he needs. He cries out her name, and she his, prayer-like and hallowed. This sanctuary has become a temple for devotion, for ultimate veneration and reverence. To the union of the Keeper and the Listener.

As they settle, Cicero runs his fingers through her hair, presses kiss after kiss to her cheeks, to her lips, to her temples. Her fingernails tickle his arms, his chest, his cheeks. Is this what peace feels like? He knows the laughter, the silence will return. But for now, he and his Listener can bask in this new silence. This tranquil, unadulterated silence. When he pulls out from her, he lays his lips to hers, an apology for having to separate them. Cum drips down her thigh and he’s swift to help her tidy up.

“My Keeper. My dear Cicero,” she whispers, beaming tenderly as she leans her forehead against his.

“My dear Listener. My beloved Listener,” he returns, drawing her in, letting her rest in his protective embrace. He will protect her, love and cherish her, always and forever. Cicero’s devotion is unmatched, except perhaps by his dear Listener’s devotion to him. He knows the Night Mother will approve of this union. Surely, certainly, wholly and absolutely.

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