“And should I not expect a simple morsel of your regard, or am I not worth even a crumb from your table?”
An incredulous laugh bubbled up from your throat. You watched his expression grow mulish at the sound, before shaking your head. “You’re serious about this.”
_______________________________
Winter’s chill covered the city in a thin, gossamer sheet of ice. Moonlight glinted and sparkled off rooftops and lampposts, icicles like sharp fangs dangling from their eves and arms. Snow flurried down and slipped beneath your hood as you skirted along the slippery street toward the Wet Wick.
Even Eridia, the city that never sleeps, seemed to settle in for a night indoors - the streets empty but for a few hurrying travelers, some carrying boxes and satchels, eyes darting around and arms guarding their packages. You drew more than a few wary looks with the black cloak and sword strapped to your hip.
When you turned the corner and spotted the familiar sign trembling above the door, you sagged a little with relief. Finally. After three back to back jobs hunting down monsters, your body ached for the sweet release of a bath and sleep.
As you’d expect, the end of year festivities in Eridia enticed people to congregate: packed markets with sumptuous food and exotic ingredients, vendors hawking jewelry and luxuries for gifts, buskers singing, dancing, and playing instruments all along the street. And congregating people drew not only more business and fanfare into the city, but monsters along the trade routes and Soulless within the alleys. You and Mhin had been running into each other so frequently in between exterminations that you’d set up an informal coffee break in the early evening at a local strudel stand.
The bell jingled merrily as you stepped over the threshold. A wave of warm, ale-steeped air embraced you, soothing the chill across your cheeks. A small crowd of people remained in the Wick, a huddle of Hounds here, a sleeping drunk there. The musician drowsily strummed on his lute as he sat on the edge of the stage, listing toward the young man watching him moonily from a nearby table.
The bartender glanced up, caught sight of you, and lifted a brow.
You thought for a second before nodding. A bath could wait a little longer - the open armchair by the fire was calling.
By the time you reached the bar, a glass of whiskey awaited you. You grabbed it, took a fortifying, burning sip, before making your way toward the fire. As you grew closer to the two wingback armchairs, two leather boots came into view propped up on the rug. A hand draped over the edge, gloved fingers holding the rim of a twin whiskey glass.
Your gaze drew up the stout, black leather and golden buckles, thick thigh muscle encased lovingly within the material, before you forced yourself to look away, your mouth suddenly dry.
Leander stirred when you dropped into the armchair opposite him. His dark eyes caught yours for a moment, the firelight flickering from within their depths, before a smile turned the corner of his mouth. “Wondered when you’d come back. I almost gave up and turned in.”
You shot him a look, not dignifying that lie with a response. Even without knowledge of his insomnia, you knew for a fact that Leander would not have casually shrugged off your absence. He had likely planned to wait until midnight, then send a call out to the Hounds to find you.
His protective nature, once he had decided to include you in his ‘pack,’ warmed your heart and at times frustrated you to no end.
Leander grinned, his cheek propped up on his palm. “You’re right - who am I fooling? How could I sleep without you there to warm my bed?”
“I suppose that explains why you don’t.” You snorted, taking a larger sip and relishing the sweet taste in your mouth, the burn down your throat.
“Yet,” he murmured, his deep voice warming your blood faster than any alcohol, before he changed topic. “How’d the jobs go?”
“Fine.” Your schedule had been so full of exterminations, the cycle of monsters so repetitive, that you’d grown almost bored with it all. “There was a small adjustment on the last one - requester had noted one Soulless, but we found four - but nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“We?”
“Mhin and I.” A yawn broke through your words, a weight of sleep settling in your chest. You nestled a little deeper in the armchair and leaned your head against the leather side. “They were working the same street, so we teamed up. Then I skinned a zalamander, sold it to the leatherer, and here I am.”
Leander hummed, staring at your wrist. “That bracelet’s from them, I suppose.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes.” You lifted your arm. A thin silver band gleamed in the firelight, etched with runic symbols of protection. It’d been a surprise - a welcome one - when, face aflame, they’d shoved a satchel into your hand and shot off into the night, stammering all the while. You glanced up at Leander’s face and promptly sighed. “Don’t.’
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.” Your eyes narrowed on him, knowingly. “Lock those dragon eyes away.”
Those same eyes bore into yours, covetous and secretive, emerald depths glowing ever so slightly effervescent.
“Mhin’s terrible about gifts. You know it. They literally threw it at me before vanishing into the night, like a vampire fleeing a rosary.” You looked away and drank the rest of your whiskey, the ice kissing your lips. “Said they didn’t like to owe people.”
“And why did they feel a debt was owed?”
“I gave them and Kuras a couple loaves of spiced walnut bread. Remember, from last week?”
“Ah.” A long moment passed, then Leander slowly uncurled from the armchair and leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. He held your gaze over the bridge of his fingers, his mouth hidden from view. “And you say I shouldn’t feel envious?”
You frowned. “Over bread?”
“Mhin, Kuras. Ais. Even Vere has received a gift from you this winter.”
“You mean the dagger he literally stole from me after I tried to stab him with it?” Certainly an unintentional gift that you very much held a grudge over. It was an enchanted dagger with a blood-thinning curse - cuts from the blade would prove particularly difficult to heal. You could only hope he chose to ‘regift’ it at some point. Probably in a dark alley, when you least expected it.
Leander’s eyes narrowed. “I know that scarf around Morhan’s neck was from you.”
You glanced at the bartender before replying, a little defensive, “After so many free drinks, it seemed rude not to give him something.”
He huffed, glaring into the fire.
You sat up, drowsy warmth fading at his tone. “You literally ate two of those loaves by yourself at breakfast that day. You wouldn’t even share with your men.” Indignant, more than a little confused, you wondered where this was all coming from, when - “Wait. Are you… jealous?”
“And should I not expect a simple morsel of your regard, or am I not worth even a crumb from your table?”
An incredulous laugh bubbled up from your throat. You watched his expression grow mulish at the sound, before shaking your head. “You’re serious about this.”
The flicker of hurt, barely there and quickly concealed, sobered you up immediately.
With a long, heavy sigh, you sat the glass down on the floor and rose from the chair. He straightened at your approach, his jaw clenched before dropping completely when you nudged him back with a hand on his shoulder and braced a knee on the cushion, leaning over his lap.
One of Leander’s hands settled on your hip as he tipped backward, lifting his chin to stair up into your face. Your gaze trailed over his strong jaw, high cheekbones, proud nose - the thick fan of lashes around his gorgeous green eyes. You cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking the jagged edge of his scar, heat pooling in your stomach.
You smiled. “Go to bed.”
He listed closer, his fingers searching for the hem of your shirt. “Come with me?”
Your thumb rose higher, brushing the dark circles under his eyes. “It’s been two days at least. You need the rest. Actual rest.”
“I spoke true, earlier. I would sleep much better with you in my arms,” he said, his voice low and deep. Maybe, after hours of decidedly sleepless activities. His gaze dipped slightly to your lips, before rising once more. Then he stilled. “Two days?”
You licked your lips, delighting at the way his eyes immediately paid fervid attention to them, before craning your neck to say, just beyond his mouth, “Had you returned to your rooms since, you would not be sulking over gifts at all.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in as Leander rose, attempting to capture your lips in a kiss. Then the hazy longing cleared as his eyes brightened in understanding. “You…”
Two days prior, you had snuck into his room and laid a wrapped parcel on his nightstand. A gold spyglass, enchanted with the ability to see through walls, across vast distances, and to map the stars. Compact enough to hand on his belt or in the pocket of his coat. Engraved with the symbol of the Bloodhounds. It had cost several days wages, but luckily you had enough to spare after the busy season.
Smirking, you kissed him quick and sweet before sliding out of his grasp. He was a couple seconds too late to trap you, missing your waist but catching your hand. Leander tugged you closer and held your gaze as he placed a slow, equally sweet kiss on your knuckles. “Well, now you have to come. You must be present so that I can convey my gratitude immediately and … appropriately.”
‘Appropriately’ undoubtedly meant enthusiastically, carnally, and relentlessly.
Heat burned in your cheeks, but you held fast to your intentions. “I won’t be complicit in your insomnia.” At his pout, you mused, “rest well tonight, and perhaps I could be persuaded tomorrow…”
“I’ll hold you to that,” and to me, his eyes seemed to say.
“I’m counting on it.”
Finally, you tugged your hand free and headed toward the stairs, his gaze like a heated caresse on your back.
When you had removed your coat and prepared to undress for a bath, you noticed a box on your pillow. Beneath the wrapped lid and silk ribbon, nestled in a velvet cushion, laid a new, enchanted dagger. It had a supple leather handle and a large, oval emerald set into the pommel.
You lifted the dagger and brought the blade to your face. Pure silver. Runes etched into the spine forming the cornerstone of a curse: paralysis and blood-thinning.
You paused for a long moment, hot down to your bones, before turning on your heel and heading to the door.
Leander could get that night’s sleep tomorrow instead.
__________________________
a/n: comments and kudos appreciated! happy holidays!
series: sweet poison (scenario-based collection of character imagines)
originally posted on ao3
masterlist
Prologue
You’re an idiot for drinking that. An absolute idiot.
You’re spilled across the floor, head swimming, burning from the inside as though you’d swallowed a star. The velvet rug brushed soft and cloying against your prickling skin as you squirmed, your heart pounding in your ears and beating an insistent rhythm in your groin.
Cooing at you from the table, her cat’s eyes curled in satisfaction, Morgana asked, “Something the matter? You look positively feverish.” She twirled a curly black lock around her finger.
Bitch.
Paintings of naked people - bathing in springs, dancing around a fire, having an orgy in front of a temple - swirled into one colorful blob as you turned on your side, fisting the rug. You attempted to pull yourself to where you remembered the door but stalled a couple inches in, weak as a newborn kitten and stifling a moan as your body rubbed on the carpet.
“Now, now, where’s the fire? Stay a while.” She rose from her chair and stood over you, her arms crossing under her full chest. “You’re clearly hot under the collar. The thought of you wandering the streets like this concerns me deeply.”
You glared up at her, using every ounce of willpower not to writhe on the floor like a worm on a hook. Your hand felt clumsily around your hip for the dagger.
“I’ll take that,” she chirped, snatching the weapon from your belt and tossing it behind her. “Can’t have you nicking that lovely skin.” Her heel braced on the other side of you, straddling your back. Her hands tugged the shirt from your waist before dragging warm palms up your back, her nails scratching on the return journey.
You bit your lip to stifle a moan rocketing through your chest, as every nerve in your body vibrated with electric pleasure. Your hips pressed hard into the floor, growing ever desperate for friction even as you struggled to focus.
Morgana sunk her hand into your nape, drawing your hair back from your face. When she leaned down to brush her painted lips against your ear, goosebumps erupted down your neck. “We’ll start with the bandages, shall we?”
______ prologue end _________
Glass shattered and noise erupted somewhere below.
Morgana’s hand paused.
A moment passed as you both listened, the shouting incomprehensible but growing louder by the second, and then several sets of feet thundered up the steps nearby. Two young women pushed through the door, swatting at the curtains, sweat shining through their glittering makeup. “Mistress!”
“What?”
The first girl to enter took in the scene - you pinned to the floor like a hapless moth caught in a web, the proprietress poised over you swathed in midnight silk, a gleaming black widow - and blanched, her hand covering her mouth. The other woman shoved her to the side, her face set in a mulish frown. “It’s those damn hounds again.”
Morgana took a slow, deliberate breath through her nose before her grip loosened. Your head dropped to the floor, the impact barely registering from within the layer of peach fuzz sensation that had spread across your body. She rose to her feet and stepped over you toward the door.
“I suppose I was a little too gentle last time.” She flicked her wrist to summon purple, dripping flames to her fingers. Each drip sizzled as it hit the floor, eating away at the sumptuous rug. “We will endeavor to make an impression this time.”
You twisted onto your cheek and angled your chin, struggling to keep her in sight.
Morgana looked over her shoulder, her full lips curling into a smirk. “Make yourself comfortable, darling. I’ll be back~” she sang before strutting through the curtains and vanishing from sight, the young women following at her heels.
You waited until the footsteps grew distant before wriggling toward your dagger tossed carelessly against the eastern wall. Each brush of the carpet pushed and tugged at your clothing, tortuous friction that sang sweetly. Tingles spread down the back of your arms and legs. Your chest inched along, nipples compressed to the floor and rubbing with every movement, two bright points of pleasure, burning and aching.
Crossing two feet felt like a mile. You paused, a soft moan slipping out with every other gasping breath. Clumsy, weakened fingers stretched across the floor, flicking the handle of the dagger, spinning it a little further away. Frustration clawed at your throat, grit your teeth.
Then a creak of old hinges broke through the frantic pulse in your ears.
You held your breath and listened. The door opened, inch by inch. Silk curtains shifted beneath a breeze. The faint tread of boots whispered over the carpet.
Morgana? One of her guards? A patron wandering beyond his room, happening upon a lone woman, alone and drugged docile?
With what felt like herculean effort, you lurched for the dagger and grabbed it. You didn’t have the strength to fight your way out - yet - but you could stab them as they drew close, once their guard had lowered.
A shadow fell over you.
Thinking fast, you lunged toward their ankles, aiming to sever the heel and force them to the ground, to stab the throat before they could call for help -
The blade met the sturdy leather of dragonhide boots.
“Careful with that,” a familiar voice chuckled overhead. “Not that I’m opposed to you taking me down to the floor and having your way with me, but cut tendons would throw a wrench into this rescue mission.”
Leander crouched over you, one knee braced on the floor. His hand wrapped around your wrist, holding the dagger in place but loose enough to suggest he might entertain the attempt if you pushed. His sly grin cut across his face, a knife of white beneath a thick black hood. Emerald eyes glowed from within the shadow.
“Fuck,” you sighed, drooping onto the floor, almost limp with relief. “It’s you.”
“Your hero’s arrived,” he said, a decidedly smug twist to his smile. “Shall we escape into the night, or is there more digging that needs done?”
A small huff forced itself out your throat. “Already waist deep in it,” you grumbled, nose pressed to the floor. “Anymore, and I’ll dig myself to an early grave.”
“Hmm?” A gloved hand stroked the hair back from your face, the leather smooth and smelling faintly of smoke. A shiver radiated from the place where his fingers touched bare skin, then burned as though your very blood crowded to the surface to meet him.
You glared back as best you could, face aflame, hoping to hide the arousal still roiling through your body like a tempest through sheer fury alone.
Magic sparked in Leander’s eyes. The smell of ozone and dirt slipped through the fog of incense as he took a deep inhale, his gaze shooting toward the table, where the empty cup still sat on its side. He crossed the room and swiped a finger through the spilled liquid. “Oh,” he murmured, his face strangely blank as his eyes returned to your face, lingering on the flush spreading across your cheeks and neck.
You bit the inside of your cheek, humiliation sitting like a knot at the back of your throat. “Not a word.”
Leander’s jaw clenched, the vibrant irises of his eyes flaring, before one of his patented, inscrutable smiles slid over his face. “Of course, my lady.” He rubbed the liquid between his fingers, craning his neck to take a whiff of the vapor.
“Will we need to stop by the clinic?” You swallowed, dreading the thought of showing up on Kuras’ doorstep, sweating and weak with artificial lust.
Leander’s gaze cut toward you at the words, briefly sweeping across your sprawled form, before veering away. “No. I have everything you’ll need.” He wiped his hand on the edge of a silk shawl before returning to your side. “Anything I should grab for later?”
You licked your dry lips. “Jewelry box. False bottom.”
“On it.”
As Leander cracked the lock with a snap of magic, you tried to push yourself into a sitting position. After straining hard against jelly-like muscles, suppressing the trapped moan in your throat, you managed to lay on your back. Mortifying still, but at least a fraction more dignified than curled in the fetal position.
“That fight downstairs?”
“Hounds are creating a distraction,” he said, amused.
A thread of unease cut through the arousal. “Morgana seemed pissed.”
“Figured she’d be, but I sent only veterans in. They’ll cause significant trouble with the least amount of damage.”
“So that loud shattering earlier wasn’t the front window full of priceless stained glass falling to pieces on the street?”
“‘Least’ doesn’t mean ‘no.’ They messed with one of our own. We’ll return the favor.”
You grit your teeth. Heat pushed behind every inch of your skin. You prayed that was sweat dampening your thighs because the alternative was too much to think about without spontaneously combusting on the spot. “I came here willingly.”
The shuffling of papers paused.
Then Leander spun around, tucking the clutch of documents into an inner pocket of the coat, before stopping at your side to loom over you. “And this? You just strolled in, bought the room farthest from the crowd - from any chance of help - and dosed yourself with Fever Dream?”
Well. You certainly hadn’t thought it was a premium aphrodisiac in the tea - you’d assumed it would be a mild poison or sleeping potion you’d fight off. “You didn’t have to come.” You turned your head to the side, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t want to involve you all in my - in my problems.”
With a short chuff, Leander kneeled down and braced his arm on the other side of your waist. He waited until you reluctantly looked at him, leaning over you with a soft smile, before saying, “I promised I’d help you. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me.” His eyes gleamed from within the shadow of his hood. “Best get used to that.”
Sweat trickled down your neck. The heat radiating out of your body could melt iron. His proximity made it worse, his cloak sliding from his shoulders, draping to the floor, trapping the heat between you. You’re struck by the wild urge to sink your hands into the soft brown hair at the nape of his neck, draw him in, to pull that wicked mouth down and -
“I see yet another flea-bitten mongrel has wandered into my house,” a voice purred from the door. “Leander. How good of you to drop by,” Morgana said, with all the enthusiasm of a woman who just discovered her puppy had peed on the expensive rug.
“Morgana.” He returned, his voice cold, offering a hair-raising smile. “I asked after you with the magistrate the other day. Turns out there are Soulless I’m not allowed to hunt.”
What. Your eyes widened. What’s happening?
“Cute.” She brushed her lustrous hair behind her ear, the ruby teardrop swaying against her jaw. “Remove yourself from my customer. She paid to have the pleasure of my hands on her, not the grubby paws of the gutter ‘hero.’”
“Did she? And are you always forced to poison your customers to keep their coin?”
“Poison, my,” she simpered, “Someone’s hackles are raised.” Her painted lips twisted with amusement. “Recreational potions are one of our most popular services. Many of our patrons feel it enhances the experience.”
“I confess, I had not understood the appeal before now.” Leander’s head tilted slightly. “But I too would want to be drugged out of my senses before you touched me.”
Oh shit. Clearly, there was history here. Your grip on the dagger tightened.
“So defensive. I always assumed you got off on pointless acts of righteousness, but this is a little much.” She sneered, then her eyes turned calculating as they flickered between you. The sultry verve in her posture vanished, her back straightening from its attractive slouch. “I see. She’s one of yours? I should have known - You love chasing tail and picking up strays.”
Better a stray than a stone cold bitch, you thought sourly.
“More dog metaphors. How original. Whoever said a whore’s mouth had only one use clearly never met you.”
Damn, Leander. A sudden, wholly inappropriate rush of heat flooded your body. Stunned, jaw slightly ajar, you could only stare at the mocking smile on his face as more footsteps pounded up the landing.
Three people broke through the curtains - large, muscled guards dressed in leather armor, swords swinging from their belts. Morgana lifted a delicate finger toward them. “Put them down.”
You jerked, trying to force your body into motion as they strode forward, grim-faced and belligerent. Panic rising, you looked back at Leander.
His hand rose, unhurried, as though waving to a friend. With an arrogant grin, he snapped his fingers.
Every light in the room went out.
The moment darkness descended, two arms wrapped around you, tugging you easily against a sturdy chest and securing your legs around his waist. Shouting erupted across the room while Leander hauled you off the floor and turned on his heel toward the back wall.
The world spun. You struggled to lock your arms around his neck as you’re jostled, acutely aware of the press of your bodies together, the heady combination of magic and smoke filling your lungs.
His arm left your waist for a moment. Blinding light flashed across the room, illuminating the furious faces of Morgana and her guards - then the sound of more glass shattering erupted at your back.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, hot mouth at your ear.
Leander jumped from the window.
Wind billowed through your hair and clothes, briefly stealing the inferno burning within your skin. You clutched him as close as your flimsy strength would allow, shoving your face against his shoulder as you braced for impact.
A heart beat passed, light as air. Then another. Then another, without your combined bulk splattered across the ground like a pancake.
You slowly lifted your face.
Luminous green magic swirled through the air, wrapping loving hands around Leander as he walked through the sky. Morgana’s Locket grew further and further away with every graceful leap, the guards spilling out of the front door like ants upon the street.
You sagged against him, more than a little relieved even as a sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “Quite an exit. Won’t they come knocking at the Wick next? You’re not exactly subtle.”
“Barkeep knows how to clean house.” His arms held you closer, one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other tucked snugly at your waist. A shudder ran down your spine. “Morgana won’t cause a public scene. At most, I’ll receive an exorbitant bill for the windows we broke, and the stalemate will continue.”
You winced before sighing. Yet another debt you owe him. “...I’ll pay you back.”
Leander laughed, his breath hot against your ear. “Let’s not talk of debt between us.” His voice dipped low and quiet, as though sharing a secret. “How are you feeling?”
“....”
He hummed softly, the sound vibrating from his chest to yours. Your nipples hardened.
“Sounds like a stiff drink’s in order.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “On me.”
Leander taps his thumb against his glass, staring into the amber liquid. “A rare catch requires good bait, timing, and most of all: patience,” he murmurs.
Thinking of you in his rooms: naked, those long limbs and lithe muscles submerged beneath the hot water, your hands stroking his soap along your skin, your hair wet and draped around your shoulders, clean and soft and smelling of his herbs and oils…
He’s an excellent fisherman, but at this moment, he finds his patience tested to the limits.
________________________________
“See, this wouldn’t be near as irritating if you hadn’t moved out.”
Lingering on the threshold of the Wick, sopping wet with sticky, putrid slime, you shoot him a withering glare. “Watch it. Haven’t cleaned my sword yet.”
Grinning cheekily, Leander lifts his hands in surrender, his sculpted arms bunching beneath the skin tight mesh of his shirt. “Just sayin’.” His coat folded over his arm and boots sticking, he walks to the bar and speaks to the bartender.
You debate making the trek back to your flat on three streets over. Your skin burns where the rank slime seeps through your clothing, exuding a thin, sulfuric gas that twists your stomach. The thought of walking through the city like that fills you with nausea and dread. “That dingonek would’ve gutted you from ass to chin. See if I step in next time.”
“For which I’m, as always, eternally grateful,” Leander cuts in smoothly, leaning against the bar and looking you over. “I think this every time we head into battle, but it continues to ring true. Your swordwork is certainly… something to behold.”
It’s another mark against the cruelty of the universe that, despite holding fast barely a foot from you, Leander had managed to leave the fight without a single scratch on him - he hadn’t ducked under the neck of the furious, armored reptile, piercing the hide of the throat and thus getting caught in the spray of acidic bile as the blade tore through its venom glands.
No, he walked away with the lightest sheen of sweat on his chiseled jaw and thick neck, windswept from the rush of the battle, towing a highly sought-after pelt of massive lizard monster back to Eridia like some heroic warrior - and he has the audacity to quip and smolder at you.
You level him an unimpressed look.
He lifts a gloved hand and spins the golden key around his finger. “My doors always open to you, of course.”
And every other simpering fan in the place , you think wryly, before snatching the key out of his hand. “I’m gonna use all those fancy soaps and oils you’ve got in there. Always wanted to smell like the lovechild of an apothecary and a brothel.”
Leander swallows once, his mouth hanging open for a moment twisting into a smirk. “Help yourself.”
“Gonna steal your clothes too.” The venom had eaten away at the fibers of your pants and shirt - there’d be no salvaging them. You pause, gripping the key and checking his expression for permission. Leander’s notoriously generous, to a fault, even - despite that, you still try not to take more than you give back.
Inscrutable, emerald eyes flash bright for a heartbeat before glancing away. His tongue darts out to swipe across his lower lip before his hand taps on the bar, signaling a request for his usual shot of whiskey. In moments, Rodrick slides a glass across the polished surface, placing the drink perfectly in his waiting palm.
Leander takes a quick drink before meeting your gaze again. Though the flare of magic had withdrawn, a dark edge still lingers in his eyes.
“Be my guest.” His jaw clenches, a vein jumping along the hard edge, but he smiles like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I insist, even.”
You pause and narrow your gaze. That’s a little….suspicious. “Now I don’t want to,” you mutter, grimacing as that lying smile breaks into laughter.
“I’m afraid Rod here might insist too,” Leander adds, dispelling the strange tension and running a hand through his hair. “The smell alone will send customers running to the wastelands.”
One such customer stumbles to the back alley exit a few steps from the bar and just barely opens it in time for the torrent of vomit that spews from his mouth.
You stare for a moment before turning back to Leander, whose eyes are now full of mirth.
“Well, I’d hate to put off the fine, noble patrons of this tasteful establishment.” With a roll of your eyes, you stride off toward the interior of the inn toward the suite at the end of the hall, ignoring the weight of his gaze on your back.
A door with a familiar crest stands at the end of the hall and opened to a set of comfortable, homey rooms. Gorgeous oak furnishings carry the varied goods and knicknacks that comprise Leander’s existence: leather bound journals on the desk alongside bottles and ink pens, a trunk propped open with the hilt of a sword, a floor length mirror in the corner half-covered with another coat, a dresser with cologne and books stacked on top. More books are heaped on his bedside tables and tucked under in neat columns. Soft, green blankets cover the bed, matching the curtains drifting beside a cracked window.
You pause on the threshold before carefully stepping out of your boots and leaving them in the hall to keep from tracking the slime inside. You drop your coat on top for good measure and step inside on bare feet.
The archway to the bathroom is tucked in the corner. You tiptoe toward it, conscious of the putrid slime clinging to your clothes and hair before finally reaching the tile floor. The fey lamps alight when you step inside, casting the room in a golden glow.
After twisting the knobs on the massive claw-foot tub, water barrels through the pipes and steam fills the bathroom.
You crack the window to let it escape and then strip down, mourning the loss of the clothes. The shirt you can handle the sacrifice - the pants are - were - a favorite.
In the mirror over the sink, you check the damage to your hair. Congealed blood and drying monster venom sticks your hair in clumps. It’ll be a bitch to wash out. Bottles of various shapes and colors gather on two shelves around the vanity. You read a couple labels before finding a cleansing solution with rosemary, sage, and detoxifying oil. It’ll have to do.
Sighing, you decide to focus on getting the worst of it out now and finishing the job at home after a meal and a tall pint of beer.
“Still out here, huh.”
Leander’s brow lifts pointedly, eyeing Rodrick over the rim of his glass.
“Well, it’s been half a wick. Usually you’d have slipped into the hall by now, not to be seen again until dawn.” He’s wiping a clean glass down with a rag, hip braced on the back counter during a lull in drink orders. His mustache twitches below a knowing gaze.
“Not this time,” he answers simply.
“Oh?” Rod inspects him before nodding slowly. “Oh… I see. Playing the long game? That’s rare for you.”
Leander taps his thumb against his glass, staring into the amber liquid. “A rare catch requires good bait, timing, and most of all: patience,” he murmurs.
Thinking of you in his rooms: naked, those long limbs and lithe muscles submerged beneath the hot water, your hands stroking his soap along your skin, your hair wet and draped around your shoulders, clean and soft and smelling of his herbs and oils…
He’s an excellent fisherman, but at this moment, he finds his patience tested to the limits.
What a catch you are. All slick and smooth and tempting. A siren.
He thinks of your bare body rising from the ocean, water trailing in rivers down your skin, dripping from your hair, opening that hot little mouth to reveal sharp teeth and a massive tail drifting in the deep, hooking claws into his flesh to drag him down, all that sharp, deadly beauty….
What a way to die.
Leander lifts the glass and tips the rest of the whiskey down his throat in a burning, sweet rush. Then he shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair, wiping them down his face for good measure, and when he opens his eyes again it’s to find a fresh glass waiting in front of him.
“Good man.”
“Patience should be rewarded,” Rodrick quips back before glancing above his shoulder for a moment. A smirk hides beneath his bristly mustache. “Seems the night has proven very rewarding for you indeed, hound.”
Leander follows his gaze. The glass lands on the counter with a thunk .
Gonna steal your clothes too .
You’d warned him. He’d known. He thought he was prepared.
You’re striding toward the bar, your hair still damp and sticking to your face and shoulders. Skin flushed and dewy from the bath, you look so - unguarded - so much more vulnerable without your armor and cloak, sword strapped to your hip, the gloves over your hands. That sight alone would have stolen his breath, but oh ….
You’re wearing his shirt.
The black mesh that once molded over his body now hangs loose on you, the fabric draping over your hips and hovering at mid-thigh. The neckline gapes open too, exposing the ridges of your collar bones, a tantalizing view of your neck and chest. You’d even nicked one of his leather jackets - the midnight leather swallowing you up so completely that you’re rolling the ends of the sleeves up to find your hands.
Rodrick clears his throat nearby.
Leander’s jaw snaps shut. His mouth is dry.
Not prepared. Not prepared at all .
“Hey,” you greet them, and a cloud of distinctly familiar smells infuses the air.
Herbs. Mint. Rosemary. Leather. A hint of his cologne that lingers on all his clothes.
Ye Olde gods, have mercy on this sinner .
A strange, garbled sound escapes his mouth before he wrestles back control of his body. “Drink?” he asks, desperately ignoring how breathless his own voice sounds. “My treat.”
You don’t seem to notice. To Rodrick, you say, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
This close, he can see a drop of water coalescing behind your ear and trailing down your neck, journeying down warm flesh until it wicks into the shirt collar.
You turn toward him. Leander wrenches his gaze up.
“Think the punctured venom glands will depreciate the carcass’s value?”
“What? Oh. Probably, but not by much.” He clears his throat, tries to look anywhere else for a moment, before his gaze is inevitably drawn back to the way his shirt clings to your front, dipping between the valley of your chest, the full shapely mounds tucked behind the wings of his jacket.
He’s never going to wear that jacket again without thinking of you.
“The other set of glands was intact. If it’s a problem, we’ll just sell it to Kuras. He’s always in the market for monster venom.” He dropped more of his weight on the counter, leaning a little closer to you.
“I’ll take over negotiating in that case. Kuras run’s circles around you at the bartering table.”
Leander laughs, hears the strained quality of his own voice, and quickly stops. “What can I say, the good doctor can be very persuasive. Think you can do better?”
Your mouth curls into a smirk, mischief alight in those dark eyes, your face framed by the damp strands of your hair, all wrapped up in his clothes, his scent, and his brain grinds to a halt.
Tilting your head, you say in a low voice, “I know I can.”
Leander looks at you and believes it. If this vision stood opposite him in the market, he’d fold like a palace of cheap cards in a hurricane.
Rodrick returns and hands you a glass of whiskey. He pauses behind the counter as you tip it back and swallow it all down, then asks, “Another?”
“In a bit. I’m gonna head back to my place and get dressed.”
Snapping out of a sudden, intense fantasy of licking trails of whiskey off your neck, Leander sits up. “Right now?” He flicks a look over you, heat licking his insides.
“Mm. I’m not about to sit on those stools like this.”
Like this ? He glances down. Thin chausses meant to prevent chafing from armor hide away your skin. It’d be a little cold, perhaps - he could offer to warm you up personally if that was the problem - but it’s not that unusual for hunters to wear them in place of everyday pants.
You notice the confusion and, to his surprise and delight, blush . “Back in half a wick. You’re buying dinner. Steak.”
With that, you stalk off into the pub, draped in his jacket, as his hounds and other patrons part ways around you.
“Sure, happy to…oblige….” he trails off, leaning off the stool to keep you in sight as long as possible, before the front door closes on your shadow. “Steaks on the menu tonight, Rodrick?”
“It is now. Make peace with your coin purse.”
Leander slowly turns back around and looks at the empty glass. I’m not about to sit on those stools like this . But you were wearing pants, however thin, so…
He slowly lifts his head as the realization slams into him like a runaway carriage.
“Where’s the fire,” you asked, surveying the empty Wick as the barkeep wiped down a mug with a ratty towel. Even in the late morning, you could usually find a group or two of hounds eating an early lunch or sleeping off a hangover in the corner booth.
“Wall Day.”
“What?”
“Once a month, the Bloodhounds perform a sweep of the monsters surrounding the city walls.” Barkeep yawned. She set the glass down and hooked the kettle with a finger. After refilling your tea, another mug appeared and she poured herself one.
You paused, staring into the murky tea as steam drifted across your nose and cheek. Most monsters lingering outside the walls were Soulless, drawn to the city by the immense, compressed aura of the souls living within. Still, there were other monsters - natural beasts of the land that sometimes wandered too far outside their natural habitat.
The armored dingonek for one. Massive reptilian lizard with venom and a nasty temper. Then the wildewolves that roamed the wastes in packs. Rumors of a naga had passed around the bar not too long ago too.
Leander’s confident, cheery smile drifted across your thoughts, before you shoved it to the back of your mind. He would be fine. You’re not worried about him. A mage of his caliber, he’d incinerate most any monster with a snap of his fingers. It’s the others you’re worried about. Most bloodhound members were human who knew their way around a weapon of some kind, but their strength lied in their numbers.
Their fearless leader did have a reckless streak, though. He’d dared to touch your cursed skin, regardless of the consequences.
“Do you know where they start? What direction they go in?”
Barkeep’s brow lifted, her gaze knowing and amused. “East. Chasing the sun.” She watched as you tossed the mug back, scalding your throat in the process, and slid a coin over the counter. “They’ll be back any minute. Not much point in joining them now.”
“Don’t have any plans today.” Not exactly true - you’d intended to grab another job out of the guild hall, possibly stop by Leander’s clinic and offer your time to grind herbs or organize his files - but this seemed more… time sensitive.
“Mmhm.” Barkeep’s smirk was just visible over the rim of the mug.
“It’s not because…”
“Sure, sure.”
Your lips pressed together, prickles of heat blooming on your cheeks. “...don’t say anything?” You slid another coin over the counter.
Without a word, she slipped the coins off the counter and into the till. Barkeep winked before striding off to the kitchens, adding that vegetable soup would be on the menu that night.
With a grumble of thanks, you slid off the stool and checked your coat, cataloging your weapons with a touch and checking your spare potion. That should be enough for a simple culling of nearby denizens. You started toward the exit when the doors of the bar were thrown open.
Three men stumbled inside, one with his arms thrown over the others. Two bloodhounds carried Leander’s weight forward, speaking under their breath with hurried tones. Your stomach dropped at the sight of him.
The massive nub of a black talon jutted out from his side, spearing through his clothes. Blood seeped from around the talon, slipping in rivulets down his thigh and falling to the floor in a trail of ruby drops. Leander’s face was twisted in pain, his eyes glowing green - using magic to halt the flow of blood to that area as much as he was able.
“The fuck are you bringing him here for?” you asked, sprinting forward, heart hammering in your chest. “He needs a doctor - take him to Kuras!”
Leander’s head jerked up at the sound of your voice. He smiled wanly, his face pale. “Finally awake? You missed out on all the fun.”
The men propped him up on a seat for a moment, hovering around him with panicked faces. “We took’m there first! The doctor wasn’t in!”
You blanched. Gritting your teeth, you shifted through your options in a panic before turning on your heel. “This way.”
Heaving their leader between them, the hounds hurried to follow, sweat pouring down their faces.
“What happened?” you snapped, holding the door to the back rooms as they passed through.
“Griffin,” Leander hissed, jostled by the tight squeeze through the door. “Got the better of me.”
“Clearly.”
He shot you a pained half-smile through the messy fringe of his hair. “Wish I’d had you to guard my back.”
Turning to hide the flush that threatened to rise in your cheeks, you stormed down the hall ahead of their huddle and threw open the door to your rooms. Leaving it gaping into the hall, you straightened the sheets on the bed and dropped to the floor by your trunk. Kuras had given you a small medi-kit shortly after your arrival in Eridia, with a pat on the head and an earnest if soft request that you bring any serious injury to his clinic.
Boots and bodies shuffled behind you as they finally reached your door.
“On the bed,” you ordered, tugging the kit and opening the contents onto the table by the window.
“Can’t tell you how long I’ve hoped to hear those words from your mouth,” he sighed, then grunted as his men lowered him onto the mattress as gently as they could.
You paused as the words sunk in before shooting an incredulous look at the two hounds. “Did you give him drugs on the way?”
“Uh. No.”
Then why would he - “Oh, just delirious with pain then.”
Leander let out a thin, wispy laugh. “Just delirious.”
When you turned around, bandages and numbing agent in hand, his men avoided your gaze. “What should we do?”
“Do either of you have any experience with first aid?”
“...Not me.”
“Nor I.”
You shot Leander a pointedly flat look. His smile thinned. “Been meaning to address that sooner or later.”
“Too bad it’s apparently ‘later’ than a griffin punching a hole in your abdomen.” To the hounds, you said, “Go back to Kuras’ clinic. The moment he returns, bring him here. Anything I can do will only be a temporary fix.”
They bolted out of the door, managing to look both uncomfortable and relieved at the same time.
When you turned back to your would-be patient, Leander’s eyes had fallen shut, his jaw tight. Sweat poured from his temples. His skin, already pale, looked sheet white. His magic might have slowed the bleeding, but you doubted it had done anything for the actual pain of the injury. Swallowing around a dry throat, you brought the whole kit over to the bed and crawled up beside him, each movement ginger and slow to keep from jostling him.
The shirt would have to be cut away. A shame, as Leander invested in magi-armor fabric - thin and smooth as silk, but strong enough to withstand any number of perforations. Exceptionally expensive. The kind you’d acquire from a Hightown armory.
You whispered a silent apology before lifting the scissors from the kit and slowly cutting the fabric away from his skin. More chiseled muscle bared with every section you removed. Occasionally his stomach would flinch at the brush of your knuckles against him. The rest of him had survived the battle fairly unscathed. Without the fabric soaking up his blood around the wound, you could get a better look at the damage.
“Magi-armor took the worst of it, from what I can tell.” You didn’t dare tug around the wound itself, but the talon seemed to have punctured through only at the tip of the claw. Horrid, undoubtedly excruciating, but not nearly as bad as it could have been.
“Figured. Otherwise my organs would be griffin baby food by now.” Leander squinted through his lashes at you, his smile strained.
You lifted a small bottle of dull yellow liquid. “Want this?”
He read the label through hazy eyes before a short bark of laughter rattled through his chest. “Devil’s claw. The irony.”
“You know what they say. Hair of the dog. Or in this case, claw of the griffin that hooked you.”
“No white willow?” At your grimace, he nodded. “I’ll take it.”
Scooting closer on the bed, you uncorked the bottle and brought it to his mouth. You lifted the back of his head with one hand, just enough to swallow down the potion, before letting him down again. Without thinking, your hand brushed the hair back from his face, smoothing back the sweaty fringe.
Leander’s eyes closed for that brief second, his chin tilting up like a cat, before opening once more to fix you with an inscrutable look.
You brought your hand back, flustered. Why did you do that?
Clearing your throat, you said, “I won’t even attempt to do something about that - the talon’s holding your gut in place, at least. Kuras never strays from his clinic long, so…” Help should come fast. Your gaze trailed down his body, taking in the nicks and torn fabric in places. “I could treat other things while we wait.”
“Thanks.” His voice raspy, Leander’s head lolled slightly as the concentrated devil’s claw began to take effect, soothing his pain.
Worried he might fall asleep, you nudged him on the arm. “Nothing wrong with your head, right? Apart from the usual.”
“Ha ha,” he echoed, a true laugh slipping in and evoking an immediate wince as his torso moved. “No. Just the usual.”
With that, you began carefully pulling away pieces of fabric from his trousers, dabbing a cleansing solution on any cuts or abrasions you found. “These pants are headed for the trash.”
“You can take’m off for me, if you want.”
Your hand slipped with the edge of his thigh, nearly sending you face first into his crotch. “I’ll leave that to the fallen angel and psuedo-family figure.” Righting yourself, you perhaps dab a little too enthusiastically on the next cut below his knee.
“I deserved that.”
“Mhm.”
You smoothed a numbing salve across his injuries, pressure as delicate as you could make it in light of the pain he must be in. Occasionally a shiver would work its way through his body. You checked his forehead to make sure the devil’s claw hadn’t dropped his temperature, avoiding his gaze with your hand on his brow.
“Your bedside manner,” he started, his tongue appearing to swipe across his dry lips. “It’s good.”
“I’ve wondered what would get you to talk less. Mortal wounds. Noted.”
“I’m serious.” Leander panted shallowly, staring up at you. “...water?”
With a quick nod, you climbed gingerly off the bed and grabbed a small kettle from the top of the dresser. You cleaned it quickly and thoroughly before returning with a fresh, cool well. He turned his head and drank from the spout, small sips to keep from upsetting the wound. When a drop escaped from around his lips, the curl of your fingers automatically caught it before it could sink into his collar.
On accident, you looked up and met his gaze. Your cheeks heated.
“I should - I should go see if those hounds are back yet. Maybe they forgot which room to go to.”
“No, wait.” Before you could vault off the bed, Leander’s hand caught yours. His skin burned, feverish and clammy. “Stay,” he asked, low and hopeful. “Please?” Silvery green eyes begged from a flushed, sweaty face, and it shouldn’t work, it shouldn’t give you terribly inappropriate thoughts given the situation, but -
Damn it.
“...sure you don’t want a whiskey?”
His mouth curved into a half-smile, strangely gentle and knowing. His thumb slowly stroked over the ridges of your knuckles, his callouses like cat’s tongue on your skin.
When Kuras arrived ten minutes later, his full surgeon’s bag in hand, the doctor paused just by the foot of the bed. You initially thought he was inspecting the massive talon in Leander’s abdomen, before realizing his gaze was fixed slightly beyond that: where his hand was still wrapped around you.
Leander’s wounded look at your sudden leap from the bed seemed somehow more genuine than the one he’d worn after arriving at the Wick earlier.
*
“Now that we’re alone… I have taught you how to heal such a wound.”
“Hmm.”
“Was it worth half an hour of excruciating pain?”
“Every second.”
________________________________
a/n: comments and likes are appreciated! thank you for reading!
“You can tie me up first if it makes you feel better.”
After a moment’s contemplation, you slowly nodded. “Okay.”
Leander’s grinning face went slack, his jaw dropping. His hands paused in the middle of removing the leather gloves from his fingers. “I - wait, what?”
“Let’s tie you up first. I think that would be safest, for both of us.” You glanced back at the Wet Wick. “Would they have a room we could use for a short while?”
His mouth moved soundlessly for a moment, his cheeks flushed, before he asked, “You… want to tie me up?”
“Mm.”
“Oh. Uh. Hold on, let’s - ”
You led the way back into the Wick.
A dozen heads seemed to turn around as you stepped through the doorway. Hesitating, you glanced through the crowd but when no one met your gaze again you approached the bar. The din of the crowd pressed against you, laughter and the clinking of glasses ringing in your ears. Somewhere in the middle of the room, Leander caught up to you and trailed behind.
The barkeeper refilled a glass and looked up, her dark eyes flickering over you first, then Leander with something akin to boredom. “What can I get ya?”
“Do you have a room we could borrow?” you asked, mentally counting what little coin you had left in your purse. “We’d only need it for a short time.”
“Oh?” Her gaze swept you from head to toe, taking the measure of you, before she shot a narrow-eyed look at Leander. “A short time? I’d have thought this one would warrant more than that.”
Leander flushed and cleared his throat, his expression sheepish, but you cut in before he could speak.
“He’s been more than generous with his time,” you said, not wanting the barkeeper to think less of Leander on your behalf. “It’s at my humble request. I’d be happy to pay a fair wage.”
A thin, polished brow arched high. She seemed to digest that for a moment, then shrugged. “To each their own.” She reached under the bar and slid a key across the counter. “Your usual room’s open.”
You turned to Leander. “Oh, do you live here?”
The barkeeper snorted.
With a quick, strained laugh, Leander placed his hand on your back and guided you toward the stairs. “Not quite, but you know how it is. Late nights, plenty of drinks, good friends. I’m a regular.” His face was turned back toward the counter, exchanging a look with the barkeeper you couldn’t quite see except for the grin on her face.
“I see.”
Old, beautiful oak wood and iron finishings molded the second floor of the Wet Wick. A long hallway stretched into the back of the building, a new door fixed every few paces and labeled with their own knocker. As you walked, you took note of the emblem’s etched into the surface: a hissing badger, a sleeping squirrel, a dog with its nose and tail poised in the air. They’re well-made and charming, in a strange way.
“Animal motifs?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m curious to see what lies on your usual door.”
Leander’s boot caught on the floor, and he stumbled. His hand swept through his hair, a grin spreading on his lips. “Ah ha ha, don’t read too much into it. Barkeep’s got a twisted sense of humor.”
By then, they’d reached the end of the hall. One door took up the corner, its front and trim cast from a dark, glossy rosewood and decorated with more delicate filigree. This one too had a crest on the front, though much larger and finer than the rest. Initially, you mistook the shape for a large rat with a long tail - then you recognized it.
“A mongoose?” you asked, leaning closer. A narrow head grew out from the furred body, with gleaming gold eyes and a protruding fang, its tail curling high as though warding off predators. You considered that for a moment before glancing at his neck, where the golden earring of the sword and the snake, eating itself, rested. “Because of…”
He unlocked the door with a flare of his wrist. “Like I said. Twisted sense of humor.” He held the door open and gestured you in. “After you.”
You paused before the threshold, instinct rising like a wary wolf and baring its teeth in the back of your mind at the thought of entering a closed room with a stranger. A powerful stranger at that. A mage with abilities similar if not greater than her former teacher. A man nestled in the heart of his territory, surrounded by his pack.
That mental beast of vigilance had hunted you - dogged your footsteps through the journey to Eridia. Always wary. Always watching, waiting for the knife to swing on your back.
Forever you would look at every shadow with fear, every person with suspicion. After all, Mericka had been your teacher and companion, your guide in this volatile world - if even she could plunge the knife and turn it, why not a stranger?
Still, you had to try. Otherwise, how could you move forward?
Several people seemed prepared to vouch for Leander. The mysterious doctor, Kuras. The barkeeper. The unknown dozens of people who worked as part of the Bloodhounds. This - trusting him - was a calculated risk.
“Is this the room reserved for the rich and famous?” you asked, surveying the spacious room with a table, chairs, dresser, and a large bed in the center of the wall. Two bedside tables were draped in a green velvet cloth and topped with antique feylamps that cast the room in a golden, slightly greenish glow. A tapestry was draped over the wall and undulated under a breeze invading from the window opposite the door. Its many threads and colors depicted a map of the city itself.
“I’m about as famous as it gets for the Wet Wick,” Leander said, amused, as he closed the door and crouched down to untie his boots.
You hastened to follow. It’d be rude to dirty the floor for this, when there might be guests using the room later.
With boots and jackets hung by the door, you lingered just by the foot of the bed. “So… ropes?”
When you turned to look at him, your breath caught in your chest. Beneath the coat, the layers of shirt were skin tight and sleeveless. Taut muscles bunched beneath the black fabric but bared his arms, leagues of smooth skin threaded with the occasional vein. The scar that peeked over his jaw spread down his left arm, the edges jagged but faded, like ink across the thick bicep and forearm.
You blinked and forced yourself to look away. It’d be rude to stare.
At your question, Leander’s brows arched, but he clapped and said, gamely, “Jumping right in! Brave one, I see. Well, I appreciate a woman who knows what she wants.” He headed for the bedside table and began rummaging through the top drawer.
You’re the brave one . Your hands twisted together, your gut tightening.
“Luckily, I’ve always got the essentials on hand.”
“Rope counts as an essential for your nightstand?”
Leander’s shoulder twitched, and when he glanced over to you, his face was slightly rosy. “Well, you never know where the night will turn.”
You mused over that before nodding. In a sprawling city like Eridia, full of monsters and magic, you supposed the likelihood of getting ambushed while asleep was high. It’d be useful to have rope nearby to subdue your attackers for interrogation.
“Here we go!” Leander turned. In his hands was a pile of silk.
You stared at the fabric. “You’re… quite kind to your prisoners.”
Leander’s lips parted, his eyes searching for something in your face, before a single, awkward laugh escaped. “Not into that?”
“No. I mean,” you hastened to explain as his eyes widened, “It’s not that, just… It’s a good thing, I suppose. Just surprising. Will that truly be able to subdue a fully grown man?”
“Oh, yeah.” He grinned as he looked down at the silk, the slippery material almost dripping from his wrists. “It’ll hold.”
He spoke with such confidence that you assumed he must know from experience. You stepped closer and inspected the bundle. “Is there an enchantment on it? To make it binding?”
Leander met your gaze. The soft fringe of his hair fell across his brow, the ends caught in the fan of his lashes. “There could be. Do you want that?”
The quiet held between you for a moment. “That might be for the best,” you murmured, though you would understand his caution. After all, you were just as much stranger to him, as he to you. That he would even allow you to tie him up spoke volumes on his courage.
He leaned closer, and his next words brushed across your face. “So sure your touch will drive me to madness?” His eyes held you to the spot, the clear, emerald depths gleaming, identical to the magic that had conjured lilies from thin air in the pub below.
Your throat felt exceptionally dry. You swallowed, your gaze trailing across the strong nose and olive skin, his gold earring swaying from his ear, before lingering on the edge of the scar that cut up his jaw. “Yes,” you whispered.
A hum rose from within him, rumbling like the early boiling of dragon’s roar. “More and more,” he said, almost in your ear. “I’m starting to believe it.”
A shudder slipped down your spine.
With a quick breath, you stepped back. You cleared your throat and said, fighting the tremble that threatened to slip into your voice, “You should.”
Leander rolled his shoulders, the bones cracking, before his winsome grin returned, if a bit more subdued. “We’ll see. So,” he gestured to the bed, “how do you want me?”
You walked around the bed, grabbing the headboard and the frame to test the give of the wood. Luckily, the headboard seemed to have been nailed to the wall. Likely to prevent thieves from stealing such high quality pieces. There was even a decorative window of wooden spokes embedded across the length of it. “We can improvise with these.” You grabbed one and tugged hard, but luckily the wood held fast.
Leander’s lips pressed together as though fighting the urge to say something.
“Or not - think they’ll break?”
“Oh, no, they’ll be fine. They were,” he paused, his cheek hollowing, “practically made for that purpose.”
For tying rope ? You pondered that for a second before setting that aside to consider later. Perhaps weavers used the spokes to create custom throws and bed sheets.
Leander sat on the end of the bed before laying down and sliding over, his head nestled on the feather pillows. His arms stretched out to the corners of the bed, his muscles shifting beneath the shadow of his shirt. He somehow seemed even broader spread across the bed like this, the thick duvet holding him snug.
“How’s this?” He reached back and hooked his fingers through the spokes, tugging until his back lifted an inch from the bed, the muscles of his arms and abs flexing, straining.
Your heart was beating strangely fast as you considered him. Must be nerves.
“Hmm. It’d be a more effective hold if your arms were tied together. Less flexibility or leverage to maneuver.”
“Like this?” He lifted his arms above the crown of his head, his elbows loose by his ears.
“Yes. Same with your legs.”
As he shuffled into place, you picked up the bundle of silk from the bed and rubbed the fabric. There’s more to the texture than the silk you’d felt in the past - the old but well-cared for square that your teacher had spread on the altar - a sort of roughness that sparked beneath your fingertips. The strengthening charm, you’d bet.
You tied first his legs before moving up to his arms, Leander docile beneath you. As you leaned over his face, working the silk around his wrists and spokes into a double-looped mooring knot you’d learned from fishermen in your childhood, he shifted slightly. You glanced down.
He was watching you from below, his chin tipped back. His dark hair had fallen back onto the sheets, exposing his face to the warm glow of the feylights, their flickering embers dancing in the corner of his eyes. His lips were parted, his skin flushed once more.
You froze, realizing your position. “Sorry, almost finished.”
“Take your time,” he replied, sounding a little breathless.
You glanced down again with concern, looking at his chest. Could the position be restricting his ability to breathe? The shirt had seemed flexible, if rather tight. You’d better pick up the pace.
With a tug, you secured his arms and sat back to give him space. “How does that feel? Too tight? Not tight enough?”
Leander licked his lips and peered up at you from heavy-lidded eyes, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Just right.”
You stared back, bemused by his attitude. “You’re being awfully gracious about all this. Most people would balk at the idea of a stranger with a dangerous curse tying them to a bed.”
“I’m not most people,” he said, “and it’s not the first time I’ve been tied up by a beautiful stranger.” Leander rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck while you attempted to digest that statement before he continued. “Well, I’m ready for you. Shall we?”
You hesitated. “...are you sure?”
“That I want your hands on me?” He grinned. “Never been more sure of anything.”
“This isn’t a joke, Leander.”
He released a long, heavy sigh before shifting his hip to nudge your thigh. “All of this,” he began, gesturing to his tied up body with a flutter of his fingers, “is for your sake, not mine. Well, maybe a little for mine, but not how you’d think,” he conceded with a quick grin but held your gaze.“Listen to me. I’m confident in my abilities. I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
A film of luminescent magic swept over his body, as thin and glossy as a spider’s web. He tilted his head to the side, his cheek brushing his arm.
“So,” he continued, his voice dropping deep and soft. “Touch me.”
Your heart pounded in your chest, anxious, racing. His eyes were as calm and bright as the surface of a pond, without a trace of fear.
With a sinking feeling, you looked down. If you ignored the bandages, your hands could almost look normal. The size. The shape of them. You hadn’t been born with tentacles or massive talons or nails as sharp as knives. Maybe that would have been easier.
What made them grotesque far transcended their appearance.
With trembling fingers, you pulled the end from the bandage around your wrist and began unwinding. Each new layer revealed more of the skin beneath, dark and stormy like a bruise, threaded with strange cracks of hardened gold, until you’d dropped the last of the bandages from your black fingernails.
You flexed your fingers idly, dread sitting like a stone in the pit of your stomach. When you glanced over, Leander was watching eagerly.
“Interesting…” Then, with another warm smile, he gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the golden pin on the front of his shirt. “We match.”
You huffed before swallowing around the weight in your throat. “Where should I…” you trailed off, avoiding his gaze.
He hummed thoughtfully, sounding far more at ease than he should be. “Since I can’t hold your hand properly like this, how about my arm?”
You paused, wondering if you should do this on your feet for a faster escape, but in the end you simply twisted your hips until your leg pressed against the side of the bed.
Leander laid perfectly still and relaxed, as though he were out on the grass tracing shapes from clouds on a summer afternoon, rather than subjecting himself to potential insanity. The arm closest to you eased further into the bed as he settled in. His right one, where the edges of that scar reached around to the more tender flesh of his inner arm.
You checked his eyes again, searching for any hint - however tiny or hidden or cowed - of fear, concern, anything. He only smiled back.
You took a long, steadying breath, your heart in your throat. Then you reached out with a shaking hand until a point just beside his elbow. Retreating for a moment’s panicked indecision, you repositioned closer to the middle of his forearm.
You stared at your own fingertips, enduring that familiar loathing and fear down to your marrow. Please. Please, don’t hurt him . You prayed whatever powers that Leander believed in were steadfast and watching.
Then, you let your fingertips drop to his skin for a single moment, before immediately yanking them back to your chest.
His body twitched, the bed creaking at the sudden movement. That luminescent web of magic flared, rippling across his skin for a brief, bright wave, before vanishing. His eyes were closed, his face blank.
“...Leander?” Pulse pounding, barely daring to breathe, you waited.
Then as his mouth slowly twisted into a smile, one eye peaked open. “Is that all?”
You watched with bated breath, still on the edge, still waiting.
Leander tossed his hair back from his face and stretched his arm out toward you, encouragingly. “Come on, you’ve got me all wrapped up like this - it’d be a shame if you stopped there.” His voice lowered, rich and sweet as honey: “Keep going.”
Inch by inch, your shoulders began to sink. The tension in your body ebbing away with every word - every confusing, vaguely ridiculous word. You suddenly felt your body again, as though you’d been adrift as a spirit before getting sucked back into your mortal flesh: the sweat sticking to your back, the ringing fading from your ears, your heart beating against your ribs.
Your lungs pinched, forcing you to suck in a quick breath, and the relief seemed to burst over you.
“Leander, you’re - “
“Just fine.” His eyes softened, more of that genuine warmth seeping through the cracks of his charismatic facade. “That’s one hell of a curse. Nothing I can’t handle, though.” Leander gestured once more with his chin. “C’mon. Try again?”
Inexplicably but hopelessly tempted, you reached for him again, still wary, your eyes darting from your hand to his face. You let your hand fall until your whole palm was pressed against him, skin to skin, checking his expression all the while.
He’s flushed around the cheeks and collar, but there’s warmth and humor and life in his face.
You could hardly believe it, but it’s there.
You smoothed your hand up his arm carefully, in awe at the feeling of his body heat against your bare skin. Fingertips pressing in here and there, tracing the curvature of muscle and bone, your thumb lingering on the pulse just beneath his glove, his heart thumping beneath your touch.
You’d touched people before - even been intimate and embraced others - but always through the veil of the bandages. You’ve spent the past few years on the cusp of giving up all hope that you could ever have this.
Now, at the threshold of your final desperate chance, the very day after you’d made your peace with death as you laid bleeding out in a swamp, at the claws of a vicious monster - you’ve found it.
You traced your hand back down his arm, following along the path of a vein, your other hand gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles strained white. The feeling was unlike anything you’d ever known.
Leander’s hushed voice broke through the dream-like trance you’d fallen into. “Am I the first person you’ve been able to touch like this?”
Caught between embarrassment and abject longing, you admitted, “So far.” Idly, your fingers continued to delicately trace his scars, the raised edges contrasting vividly against his smooth skin.
His lips parted, the look in his eyes inscrutable, before he said, his voice slightly rough, “Anything you want.”
You froze.“What?”
“Touch anything you want,” Leander said again, his cheek nestled against his arm. “I’m all yours.”
Your hand stilled as the bold, frankly outlandish offer sunk in.
For having only known you for a few hours at best, Leander was proving to be very generous with his time, his skills, his magic, and - apparently his body too. You’re even a little concerned at the prospect - as he himself had said about the Senobium, things that seemed too good to be true usually were. But was the truth here that Leander was creating a trap, or that he was by nature generous to the point of endangering himself?
Still. You licked dry lips as you fought with yourself. No one had ever offered a second touch before. No one else had survived the first.
Feeling your morals losing the battle against utter temptation, you asked, “... you wouldn’t mind?” You knew you shouldn’t - truly he’d been generous enough, you shouldn’t take any more than that. But you wanted to, more than a little desperately.
“Not a wick.”
Treading with caution, you braced one knee on the bed and rose over him. You reached forward until both hands stopped, poised above his wrists. Being able to touch another person with one hand - that had been barely more than a dream. Both seemed like utter fantasy. With a small breath for fortitude, you gingerly laid both hands on his skin.
A breathless laugh escaped you as you stroked gently down, the sensation electric for all it was a barely-there touch. Once you’d reached just above his armpit, you trailed them back up again, this time with the lightest scratch of your nails.
Goosebumps chased your fingers up his arms. Leander seemed to shudder under you.
His eyes narrowed on your face for a long moment before he clenched them shut. “You’re really not doing this on purpose, are you,” he said, the words more like a pained truth than a true question.
You frowned, unsure what he meant. You started to pull away, but the moment your hands left him, his head whipped up.
“Wait, that’s not - Ignore me.” When still you hesitated, Leander attempted to shuffled closer, his back lifting from the bed as though intending to close the distance himself. The bedframe creaked ominously, something wood letting out a hissing wheeze. “Keep touching! Do with me as you will. Don’t stop on my account, please.”
“Ah, you shouldn’t move so much - your wrists - “ When you glanced up, his hands were turning purple from the tight pull of the silk rope.
Without thinking, you leaned forward and tried to unravel the knot as quickly as possible amidst the shaking of the bed, only for Leander to grow suddenly still underneath you. You paused in your struggle to unravel the mooring knot and looked down.
His face was just inches from yours. You froze, staring into his shocked green eyes, the thick fan of his lashes, his flushed skin and full, parted lips. He held your gaze for a moment before glancing down at your mouth, then back, and something about the way he looked at you snapped a curl of fire through you, like a lit match sparking on a line of gunpowder.
Purely on instinct, you grabbed the headboard and pushed yourself back, almost tumbling off the bed in your haste. “Sorry, sorry,” you hastened to apologize, burning from head to toe. “That was - an accident.”
On the bed, Leander was silent for a moment, still angled toward the ceiling. Then he sighed. “...I know.”
You turned away to hide your face, working furiously to get yourself under control. You couldn’t believe how thoughtless you’d just been. Here Leander was, sacrificing his time and safety and comfort to help you, and you just - smothered him in the process? And to almost -
The sight of his lush, parted mouth flashed through your mind.
Immediately you began silently reciting the Register of Alchemical Ingredients , fighting for distraction. By the time you’d reached spirit of nitre, your once teacher’s voice echoing in your head, you turned around and cleared your throat.
“I apologize again if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
Leander’s brows rose, but he shook his head. “Not at all. Well - “ He glanced down his body before avoiding your gaze. “No harm, no foul. Want to continue?” He’s smiling, his eyes crinkling, but soon frowned when you shook your head.
“It’s probably for the best that we stop here.” Clearly, you’d need to prepare for the next opportunity. If there was one, either with Leander or someone else. You felt dizzy with this new opportunity, this freedom you’d been searching for all your life. Even so, you couldn’t lose all sense of respect like that.
You untied him, from the side of the bed and well out of his personal space. As Leander slowly sat up and rubbed his wrists, the skin now bright red and raw, you felt a pinch of irony well bittersweet in your chest. You took a seat next to him and pulled a small vial of salve out of your pocket. He’d already begun tugging his gloves off and offering his hands at the sight, an eager smile on his face.
It’s enough to make you genuinely fond of him already.
“It’s funny. We restrained you in case you lost control, and then I…well,” you trailed off, delicately holding his wrist and smoothing the salve across the angry marks. To have bruises this dark, even with silk…. “I should have been more considerate of you.”
“I disagree. If anything,” he said in a low voice, just above a whisper, “you could’ve been greedier.”
For what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon, you glanced at his mouth again, your blood heating at the sight of that whiskey sweet smile spreading across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Still could be, if you want,” he continued, leaning in, his shoulder bumping into yours. The swing of his earring caught the glint of the feylamps, the light flickering down the length of the sword.
You got to your feet and tucked the salve back into your pocket, along with your other meager belongings. “I couldn’t impose.” He looked a second from arguing the point, until you met his gaze solemnly over your shoulder. “Thank you, Leander. I can’t express how much this meant to me.”
Then, you smiled.
It was undoubtedly an awkward, cracking thing - you couldn’t remember the last time you’d attempted more than a half-smile or a short laugh. This one seemed to fill your cheeks up.
You had a moment to witness Leander’s jaw drop, before you hurriedly turned and began gathering your things. It’d be rude to overstay your welcome, after all.
Your eagerness to get back out into the city had nothing at all to do with the way his mouth kept popping up in your mind or the way your hands ached with the desire to touch him again.
________________________
“How about you, sparrow? I did say I’d buy you a drink earlier.”
“No, no, no, my treat. ”
“If anything, I should treat you, Leander.”
“Oh? ”
“As an apology for the rope burns.”
“..."
“...”
“...”
“It’s, uh. Both exactly what you’re thinking and not.”
You’ve just finished wiping down the bar when Leander hoists himself up onto the counter and looms over you, winsome white grin in place. “What’s on tap, gorgeous?”
Your hand twitches toward the counter cupboard where, tucked away like a secret, they’d planted a lever to expel irritants from the bar in a gust of wind. In your mind’s eye, you watch as he’s thrown out into the crowd with a yelp, that infamous ego taken down a peg.
Knowing Leander, he’d probably throw out his hand, summon a whirl of luminous magic to form steps under his feet, and turn it all into a show. That, or he’d enjoy the humiliation. Though you took all gossip with a grain of salt, most lies held a glimmer of truth.
With a titanic force of will, you grab a fresh glass instead. “Same watered-down swill as the day before.”
At his perch a few seats away, Ais smirks. “Should you say that? Seems bad for business.”
You shrug. “I just serve it. You’re the regular - you tell me.”
“Seems the service is of the same quality as the drink,” sighs Vere from his position draped over Ais’s broad shoulder. “You get what you pay for.”
“And you get whatever Leander pays for,” you say, sliding a pint of amber beer across the counter, the glass only just stopping beside a thick, leather-coated thigh. “Paying customers can talk shit, freeloaders can eat it.”
A massive, furry tail curls over the counter in a river of fire. “As if I’d pay to drink what amounts to gutter piss.”
Without looking, you jerk a thumb over your shoulder. “Door’s that way. We’ve got a suitable gutter out back, just for patrons like you.”
Out of the corner of your sight, bright pink eyes flash around slit pupils.
“Easy, sparrow,” Ais murmurs, his hand lazily stroking along Vere’s neck. “You know what they say about the cat and the canary.”
You looked up and met his stare. “What? I’m curious .”
“Now, now, let’s not fight,” Leander intervenes as usual, propping his boot on his knee and taking a long drink. He licks the froth from his lips and grins. “It’s been ages since we last met here.”
“Three days,” you say under your breath.
“A single moment away from your side is an eternity,” Leander replies without an ounce of shame, ignoring the sounds of aborted vomiting at his back with the ease of a man used to frequent mockery.
“If only.” You snap the rag in your hand at his back. The clap draws several gazes. “Now get off the counter, heathen.”
A dusting of pink blooms on his cheeks. Green eyes dance with laughter as he slides from the counter and drops onto a barstool instead. “Yes ma’am.”
You look at him for a long moment before pouring yourself a shot and downing it. Whiskey slides smooth and sweet down your throat and pools with tingling warmth in your stomach.
Ais taps the counter. “Pour me some of that.”
Blinking slowly under the heady rush, you roll your head to meet his gaze. “On your tab.”
“On his tab,” he said with a jerk of his chin to Leander.
“Hey, now - “ Leander starts before dropping his head when you slide the shot without a word across the counter to that expectant hand, the glass clinking against his silver rings. “Maybe I need to get back there, handle the rest of the night’s drinks,” he suggests, a sheepish look dogging his smile.
“That one’s on the house.”
Leander’s jaw drops.
Vere’s eyes narrow. “And why’s that?”
“Owner’s orders.” You glance at Ais before shrugging. “Don’t have the details. You’ll have to ask them."
They turn toward him, one incredulous, the other suspicious. Ais releases a long, slow sigh before tipping the glass back. He seems unlikely to dive into the story of how the Wet Wick’s owner has been prompted to this generosity.
“Seriously? Yanoka hasn’t given me a single glass of water on the house for years,” Leander bemoans before lifting a brow, “and you immediately threw that on my tab?”
A wicked laugh hides within Ais’s red eyes. “I’d hate to impose on her too much.”
Vere snickers and steals a few sips of his whiskey.
With a put-upon look, Leander turns back to you. “With friends like these….”
“You’ve got your pick of fawning friends,” you droll back, after refilling another woman’s glass. You’d be willing to bet any patron in the packed bar at that moment would happily simper at his side, laugh at his terrible jokes, and swoon for every shallow compliment. “That you keep coming back to these assholes says more about you than them.” Still, you top off his glass with a quick splash of the good whiskey.
“Right back at ya, sparrow.”
“I’m paid to be here.”
Leander gives you a grateful smile before drinking deep. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his neck. He runs a hand through his hair and drops his chin in the palm of his hand. “As happy as I am to see you out here, I wish I could order a serving of your roast.”
“Seems like you’ve had a good serving already,” Vere quips with a smile. He uncurls himself and stretches his neck with a soft creak of leather.
“I wouldn’t mind some either.” Ais adds, his face deadpan. The last time you’d been the night’s cook, he’d ordered three times his body weight in roasted chicken, vegetables, and pudding. It’d been on the frightening side of impressive, as most things were with Ais.
You cut to the quick. “No can do. We’re short-staffed tonight.”
“I can bartend for a while,” Leander offers, as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. As if you hadn’t watched him buy the entire tavern a round of drinks just to distract from Ais getting into a brawl with a drunkard.
You grimace. “Hell no. We’re trying to make profits here.”
Vere’s perusing the top shelf with greedy eyes. “Oh? Fooled me.”
“I promise to be good.” At your dubious look, Leander turns up the charm and says, “ very good.”
“No.”
“What can I say to convince you?” He says, leaning forward, his muscles bulging from beneath his skin-tight shirt. A slow, seductive smile curves across his lips, his eyes growing half-lidded. “Come on, gorgeous. I’m so… hungry ,” he adds, his voice lowering to a rumble. It should have been impossible to hear amidst the roaring din of the tavern - he must have infused the words with magic, carried them right to your ear.
A shiver ghosts along your spine.
You turn away to hide the flush that rises in your shirt and face, settling a patron’s tab in the meantime. Once you’ve had a moment to force down the feeling, you shoot him a look over your shoulder. If he wanted to play, he’d find you weren’t an easy mark.
“I’ll do it. If,” you say, cutting into the smug delight on his face, “you agree to settle Vere’s tab for the night.” Your gaze flickers over to the monster in question.
At some point during the negotiation, a bottle of wine had found its way into the fox’s hands: the glass dark green and old, its label lined in gold filigree and elegant script. His claws tapped a sweet tune down the neck as he tossed his hair over his shoulder and stared into Leander’s eyes, daring him to refuse.
The mage blushes, blanches, and then sighs. “... you drive a hard bargain.”
You cock your hip. “You can always say no.”
“Can I?” he asks softly.
Before you have a chance to write the question off as glib, you catch the look in his eyes. Flat. Empty. Resigned.
A chill slips down your back, despite the sweltering heat. You pause by the bar, taking in the strange stillness of his handsome face. All the laughter seems to have vanished from his expression. “Leander?”
After a second, he blinks, as though surfacing from a deep sleep. “...hmm?” Something in your face must startle him, because in the next breath Leander’s straightened up to his full height, chest pushed forward, charismatic smile fixed firmly in place. The picture of a heroic mage. “Throw in a slice of that honey roll, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
You hesitate, trying to decide if you’d imagined it - that brief moment of despair on his face - before tucking it away in the back of your mind, to mull over in the safe, dark void of your room. A quick, shared look with Ais tells you that you weren’t the only one to notice.
“Fine,” you sigh, grabbing a plain, black apron from under the counter and tying it around your waist.
Leander whoops before vaulting over the counter and nearly crowding you against the cabinet. “A barkeep after my own heart,” he croons, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
“Yeah, yeah, just - try to keep us from going in the red while I’m gone.” Hiding the flush on your cheeks, you stride toward the kitchen. On the way you shoot a warning look at Vere, who holds your gaze and pops open the bottle with a flick of his thumb. “Try not to destroy the building.”
“No promises~”
If you tuck an extra flank of roast under the heaping mountain of steaming, saucy vegetables on Leander’s plate an hour later, no one seems any the wiser.
