sobbing for a hundred years

the cat that swallowed the pigeon ★

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford/Alistair Theirin
Summary: a twist on alistair & wynne’s banter, if cullen had been the recruited warden.
Rating: NSFW (nudity + brief mention of manly bits)

He’s not looking. Not really. He’s not looking—let alone staring—at the man standing tall in the middle of a pond, naked, limned golden and ethereal by the half-moon, strong arms and strong hands cast upon supple skin. He’s not looking, and his gaze certainly doesn’t waver, slip, at the sight of waves rippling around firm hips, splashes of water dotting his flesh in crystal light. He’s not looking, and he doesn’t notice the limpid beads running down his back, his flank, damp strands of hair curled around his nape, and he doesn’t note, even vaguely, the prominence of his collarbone under the long line of his throat, the smooth planes of his chest or the overall broad of his shoulders, jaw gruff from unshaven stubble. He doesn’t see anything and it’s just as well, because he’s here for a reason—gathering wood, for one—and he doesn’t have time to stop and gawk. He doesn’t have time for glimpses of taut muscles or sharpened lines across a tight stomach because who does that and he’s not creepy, even as his gaze falters, cheeks warmer and furtive glances towards blond curls, damp as well between strong thighs, and he sees but he doesn’t, cheeks hotter and mesmerized glances, the shape of his s-shaft, thick, nestled there but not quite a-asleep and—


Maker’s breath, and he jumps and he bites his tongue and he groans, all the wood he’s gathered pooling at his feet. Wynne stands poised behind him, elegant in the midst of trees, and he gestures towards her, abrupt, quick, his pulse wild against his ribs.


“And just why are we whispering, pray tell?”

“We’re not whisp—” he whispers, clicks his tongue and clears his throat, indignant as he frowns, and he says, much louder, certain to be heard, hoping to be heard: “We’re not whispering! We’re just… gathering wood, I’m gathering wood, and oh! Look at that, someone in the pond, I hadn’t seen him. Had you? Seen. Him.”

And he catches another glimpse—Warden Rutherford—lower underneath the surface now, waving, at him, and he flushes and he crouches, hands idle in the heap of dry branches on the ground, a muffled noise in his throat.

Wynne, on the other hand, still stands calm beside him, a lopsided sweep curling her lips.

“Well, I most assuredly see him now,” she says, and there’s a laugh on her tongue and the flush across his face brightens drastically, fingers stiff around the branches.

“We should… go,” he grouses, and he stands back up and she doesn’t move, arms crossed over her chest.

“Why now? You didn’t seem quite as hurried as you look now before I came.”

“And w-why are you here? Are you stalking me? You’re stalking me. Like an old… sneaky… stalking thing.”

“Oh, I merely came to see what was taking you so long, dear. Now I know.”

“And you’re smirking. Why are you smirking. You look suspiciously like the cat who swallowed the pigeon.”


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What she told him IN CANON

- he supports her unconditionally, even when she’s not honest with him
- he inspires her
- he sets the bar really high
- he puts her needs above his own and doesn’t resent her for it
- he expects her to do the right thing but forgives her when she doesn’t

Everything about this whole speech proves that she basically sees him as an angel on earth, who catches her when she falls, and who inspires her to be a better person because it’s what he is. Spencer Hastings is fucking impressed by Toby Cavanaugh. She’s the one with all the prizes and trophies, but he’s the one she wants to be like when she grows up. 

  • Me: I'm just not really a crier. Idk I just don't cry easily
  • Someone: hey how many minutes are in a year?
  • Me: *sobbing* five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes. Five hundred twenty five thousand moments oh dear