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.”