#leander fluff

leander is painfully aware of his reputation; knows that you've heard rumours of how the corner room you currently occupy in the wet wick was once exclusively for him and his one-night-stands, vere's little quips of him getting some action with a stranger or two in dark alleys, and he hasn't exactly been subtle with the way he looks at you in the candlelight when you're huddled together in one of the booths. he knows that you're no fool, that you're not deaf to the warnings to stay away from him lest you fall too deep into his spell of dark magic—

but you stay anyway.

perhaps it is because he is one of the few to offer you some semblance of comfort in the unfamiliar streets of eridia without asking for anything else, or because he is the only one capable of touching your bare hands and remain sane enough to see the exact shade of your pretty eyes, but whatever the reason, he finds himself unable to care. he finds himself doing a lot of uncharacteristic things since you've come around, actually.

leander does not believe in god, has never even entertained such thoughts of a divine entity existing with the sort of life he's led since birth, but he thinks that despite your curse, you are the closest thing to an angel he's ever met. leander feels bad about it, really; the thoughts that plague his mind when he lets you trace the grooves and scars of his calloused hands, your darkened fingertips ghosting upon the skin of his forearm like a dancer from the amaryllis district. he feels guilty, as if he's taking advantage of your trust like this, even if you're the one who's touching him, but it's outweighed by that something that leander still can't name even after all those nights of laying awake in night or nursing his nth bottle of rum in the wet wick at some ungodly hour of the night; something about how you touch him like he's the only solid thing in the world, the look in your eyes when you find your fingers wandering over to the scar on his face.

there is no such thing as heaven or hell, just the monsters (soulless and mortal) that linger in the space between, but your touch is divine, and for the first time in his life, leander wants nothing more than to repent for his sins, to whisper his confessions against the warm dark-gold of your knuckles as if he could find some semblance of forgiveness in your skin.

sum: Leander challenges you to a game of Summoner's Court...with bets on the line.

Leander Prewett x F!Reader

tags/warnings: no use of y/n, betting

a/n: just a much needed (very short) fluff fic for one of my favorites, Leander :)

Word count: 504

After seeing your victory against Natsai Onai in Summoner’s Court on the first day of Charms class, Leander knew he had to challenge you eventually. He waited his turn for his moment to shine, watching you defeat Sebastian in Defense Against the Dark Arts class, brew a perfect Edurus in Potions, and even watching you use the Chinese Chomping Cabbages in Herbology.

He waited out by the Summoner’s Court field, awaiting your arrival. His hands were shaking, half from nerves of you and half from nerves at the thought of him losing this game. It all depended on this.

He saw you flying by on a broomstick out of the corner of his eye. “Oi!” he shouted. “Touch ground for a second!”

You saw your eager friend awaiting your arrival on the ground, so you swooped down and landed flawlessly beside the field. “Hello, Leander! What can I do ya for?”

He laughed, trying to hide his slight blush at your appearance. Your hair was disorderly from the wind from flying your broom, your eyes were glowing, and your cheeks were slightly rosy from the cool wind blowing in your face. He cleared his throat; “How about a challenge in Summoner’s Court? I saw you beat Natsai, and I was impressed. It seems you have the natural wits about you.”

You giggled and frowned, pretending to think really hard before you said, “Well…” you took a step closer to Leander. “What’s in it for me?”

He cleared his throat again, trying to distract himself from your looks. “I say the winner has the loser owe them a favor.”

“So, if I win, you’ll do my essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“And if I win…” Leander took a step closer to you, braving himself for his words. “...I get to take you to the Three Broomsticks.

“On a date.”

Your eyes went slightly wide at his words, not expecting him to say such a thing. Despite yourself, you smirked and stuck out your hand. “It’s a bet.”

Leander met your hand with a firm grasp and shook it. It’s settled. This was the most important game of his life.

--------------------

He can’t believe you beat him—with a perfect score. “Must’ve just been luck,” he remarked.

You gave him a playful punch to the arm. “Or maybe I’m just better than you.”

He laughed, still annoyed with his loss. “So…that essay…”

You grinned at him. “Actually, I know we set a bet, but I think I would rather change my deal…if that’s okay.”

Leander looked up at you, one eyebrow up. “What’s that, then?”

You smiled at him, your cheeks definitely red from more than just the wind. “I say you owe me a butterbeer. Pick me up tomorrow at five?”

Leander’s eyes went wide and his smile spread from ear to ear. “Yes! Five. That will work perfectly.”

You giggled at his excitement. Before you left, you hugged him goodbye, but lingered a second longer to whisper in his ear, “then it’s a date.”

“Among the monarch's most intimate inner circle was their Master of Whispers (...) sharp and cunning, the mastermind of an intricate network of spies and informants that ran through the high aristocracy within the walls of the palace, down to the most slimy backwaters of the kingdom's outskirts. The truth of LEANDER’s threat, however, laid within his charm (...) it is said that not even his most beloved Eminence trusted him.”

Leander was devoted— as devoted as a man of such skill in less than legal information brokering could be, at least. Often times you wondered whether he was worth trusting; so much information he laid out at your feet like a suitor would bestow upon you with golds and jewels and fine silks, and just as much he kept away from you. Perhaps it was unwise to bestow upon the fickle position of Master of Whispers to a man who shared your bed, but never his own secrets-- or perhaps you thought too much of him. You did, after all, cradle your own secrets to your chest.

“To one such as the monarch, who clung onto their religion as if it were drywood amidst the furious seas, KURAS was a strange sort of salvation in himself (...) rumoured to be otherworldly, golden-eyed and infinitely wise not only in his knowledge of forgotten, they claimed him a lost eldritch being, shunned by the highest deities of the sky. Others said that he was a deity himself. But what deity hid in the shadows of the throne and kissed the feet of the mortal that sat upon it?”

Amidst the fickle serpents' game of politics and war, there was a superficial solace to be found in the religion you were raised in as a child. From that faith, your devotion extended to a gift from the gods laid at your door, the golden-eyed angel that you were not quite sure existed till they bestowed him to you. Strangely enough, he treated you with the same sort of reverence— as an acolyte might to their own deity. Yours was a strange relationship, a push-and-pull of prayer and religious guilt. Both of you hid your unholiness within a facade of worship and idolatry. You did not know why he has come, but you knew he saw you for what you were and bent the knee anyway. Be not afraid, he said. And so you were not, blindly so.